The Scene.
When the herring has for a long time frequented a coast, by degrees, if other circumstances admit of it, there springs up a town. Not only of such towns may it be said, that they are cast up out of the sea, but from a distance they look like washed-up timber and wrecks, or like a mass of upturned boats that the fishermen have drawn over for shelter some stormy night; as one draws nearer, one sees how accidentally the whole has been built, mountains rising in the midst of the thoroughfare, or the hamlet separated by water into three, four divisions, while the streets crook and crawl. One condition only is common to them all, there is safety in the harbour for the largest ship; there is shelter and calm, and the ships find these enclosures grateful, when with torn sails and broken bulwarks, they come driving in from the North Sea to seek for breathing space.
Such a little town is quiet; all the noise there is, is directed to the quay, where the boats of the peasants are moored, and the ships are loading and unloading. The only street in our little town lies along the quay, the white and red painted, one and two-storied houses follow this, yet not house to house, but with pretty gardens in between; consequently it is a long broad street, which, when the wind is landward, smells of that which is on the quay.
It is quiet here,--not from fear of the police, for, as a rule, there is none,--but from fear of report, as everybody knows everybody. If you go along the street, you must bow at every window, for there sits an old lady ready to bow again. Besides you must bow to those you meet, for all these quiet people are thinking what is becoming to the inhabitants in general, and to themselves in particular. He who oversteps the bounds where his standing or position is placed, loses his good reputation; for you know not only him, but his father and grandfather and you seek out where there has been a tendency in the family before to that which is unbecoming.
Many years since to this quiet little town came the well esteemed man, Peer Olsen; he came from the country, where he had lived as a small stall keeper and by playing the violin. In this town he opened a little shop for his old customers, where besides other wares he sold brandy and bread. One could hear him going backwards and forwards in the room behind the shop, playing spring dances and wedding marches; every time he passed the door he peeped through the glass pane, when, if he saw a customer, he finished up with a trill, and went in. Trade went well, he married and got a son, whom he named after himself, yet not Peer but Peter. Little Peter should be what Peer felt HE was not, an educated man, so the lad was sent to the Latin school. Now when those who should have been his companions, thrust him out of their play because he was the son of Peer Olsen, Peer Olsen turned him out to them again, as that was the only way for the boy to learn manners. Little Peter, therefore, feeling himself forsaken at the school, grew idle, and gradually became so indifferent to everything, that his father could neither thrash smiles nor tears out of him, so the father gave up struggling with him and put him in the shop. How astonished then--was he not? when he saw the lad give to each customer what he asked for, without a grain too much, never even touching so much as a raisin himself preferring not to talk, but weighing, counting, entering, without any change of countenance, very slowly, but with scrupulous exactness. His father's hopes began to revive, and he sent him with a fishing smack to Hamburg, to enter a Merchant's College, and to learn fine manners; he was away eight months, that must surely be sufficient. When he came back he had provided himself with six new suits of clothes, and on landing he put one suit on the top of another, for "things in actual wear are exempt from duty." But thickness excepted, he made about the same figure in the street next day. He walked straight or stiff with his arms perpendicular, shook hands with a sudden jerk, and bowed as if without joints to be at once stiff again; he had become politeness itself, but everything was done without uttering a word, and quickly, with a certain shyness. He did not sign his name Olsen any more, but Ohlsen, which led the wits of the town to ask, "How far did Peter Ohlsen get in Hamburg?" Answer: "As far as the first letter." He even went so far as to think of calling himself Pedro, but he had to brook so much annoyance for the h's sake, that he gave it up and signed himself P. Ohlsen. He extended the business, and though only twenty-two, he married a red-handed shop girl, for his father had just become a widower, and it was safer to have a wife than a housekeeper. That day year he got a son, who that day week was named Pedro. When worthy Peer Olsen became a grandfather, he felt an inward calling to grow old. Therefore he left the business to his son, sat outside upon a bench, and smoked twist tobacco from a short pipe; and when one day he began to grow tired of sitting there, he wished he might soon die, and even as all his wishes had quietly been fulfilled, so also was this.
If the son Peter had inherited exclusively the one feature of his father's character, aptitude for business, the grandson Pedro seemed to have inherited the other exclusively--talent for music. He was very slow in learning to read, but quick in learning to sing, and he played the flute so exquisitely that one might easily perceive he was of a refined and susceptible nature. But this was only a trouble to the father, as if the boy should be brought up to his own busy exactness. Then, when he forgot anything, he was not scolded nor thrashed as the father had been, but he was pinched. It was done very quietly, and with a kindness one might almost call polite, but it was done on every possible occasion. Every night when she undressed him, the mother counted the blue and yellow marks, and kissed them, but she offered no resistance, for she was pinched herself. For every tear in his clothes, (the father's Hamburg suits made up again,) for every blot on his copy-book she was to blame. So it was constantly: "Don't do that, Pedro!" "Take care, Pedro!" "Remember, Pedro!" He was afraid of his father, and his mother wearied him. He did not suffer much from his companions, as he cried directly, and begged them not to spoil his clothes, so they called him, "Withered stick!" and took no more notice of him. He was like a weak featherless duckling, limping after the rest, and waddling to one side with the little bit he could catch for himself, nobody shared with him, and therefore he shared with nobody.
But he soon observed that it was different with the poorer children of the town; for they bore with him because he was better dressed than themselves. The leader of the flock was a tall powerful girl, who took him under her special protection. He never tired of looking at her, she had raven black hair, all in one curl that was never combed except with the fingers; she had deep blue eyes, short brow; the expression of her face acted simultaneously. She was full of activity, and excitable; in the summer, bare-footed, bare-armed, and sunburnt; in the winter, clad as others in summer. Her father was a pilot and fisherman, she flew about and sold his fish; she rigged his boat, and when he was out as a pilot she went fishing alone. Every one who saw her turned to look again, she was so self-reliant. Her name was Gunlaug, but she was called "The Fisher Girl," a title she accepted as if by rank. In games she took the weaker side; it was a necessity of her nature to have something to care for, and now she cared for this delicate boy.
In her boat he could play his flute, that had been banished at home because they fancied it drew his thoughts from his lessons. She rowed him out into the fiord; then she took him with her on her longer fishing expeditions; and by-and-bye also on the night fishing. At sunset they rowed out into the light summer stillness, when he would play his flute, or listen to her as she told him all she knew about the mermen, dragons, shipwrecks, strange lands and black people, as she had heard it from the sailors. She shared her viands with him as she shared her knowledge, and he received all without giving anything in return, for he had no provisions with him from home, and no imagination from the school. They rowed till the sun went down behind the snowcapped mountains, then they drew to shore on some rocky island, and kindled a fire, i.e. she gathered branches and sticks, while he looked on. She had bundled along a sailor's jacket of her father's and a rug for him, and in these he was wrapped. She kept up the fire, while he fell asleep; she kept herself awake by singing snatches of psalms and songs; she sang in a full clear voice until he slept--then softly. When the sun rose again on the other side, and as a harbinger, cast his pale yellow rays before him over the mountains, she awoke him. The forest was still black, the fields were dark, but changing to a brown red and shimmering, until the ridge top glowed, and all the colours came rushing. Then they pushed the boat in the water again, cut through the waves in the sharp morning breeze, and were soon aground with the fishermen.
When winter came and the fishing tours were given up, he sought her in her own home; he often came and watched her while she worked, but neither of them spoke much; it was as if they sat together and waited for the summer. When summer came, however, this new object in life was unfortunately also gone; Gunlaug's father died; she left the town, and, at the suggestion of the schoolmaster, the lad was placed in the shop. There he stood together with his mother, for his father, who little by little had taken the colour of the grains he weighed, had to keep his bed in the back room. From there he must yet take part in everything, must know what each especially had sold, then appeared not to hear, till he got them so near that he could pinch them. And one night when the wick had become quite dry in this little lamp, it went out. The wife wept without exactly knowing why, but the son could not pinch a tear. As they had sufficient to live on, they gave up the business, swept away every reminder, and converted the shop into a parlour. There the mother sat in the window and knitted stockings; Pedro sat in the room on the other side of the passage, and played his flute. But as soon as the summer came he bought a light little sailing-boat, drove out to the rocky island and lay where Gunlaug had lain.
One day as he was resting among the ling, he saw a boat steering directly towards him; it drew up by the side of his, and Gunlaug stepped out. She was exactly the same, only full grown and taller than other women. Just as she saw him, she drew to one side a little quite slowly; she had not thought about his being grown up too.
This pale thin face she did not know; it was no longer delicate and fine; it was inanimate. But, as he looked at her, his eye caught a brightness from the dreams of the past; she went forward again; with every step she took, a year seemed to fall from off him, and when she stood beside him, where he had sprung up, then he laughed as a child and spoke as a child; the old face seemed like a mask over the child; he was certainly older, but he was not grown.
Yet, though it was the child she was seeking, now, when she had found it, she knew not what further to do; she smiled and blushed. Involuntarily he felt, as it were, a power within him; it was the first time in his life, and in the same minute he grew handsome; it lasted, perhaps, scarcely a moment, but in that moment she was caught.
She was one of those natures that can only love that which is weak, that they have borne in their arms. She had intended to be in the town two days; she stayed two months. During these two months he developed more than in all the rest of his youth; he was lifted so far out of dreams and drowsiness as to form plans; he would leave, he would learn to play! But when one day he repeated this, she turned pale; "Yes,--" she said, "but we must be married first." He looked at her, she looked wistfully again, they both grew fiery red, and he said: "What would people say?"
Gunlaug had never thought over the possibility of his doing other than agree to what she wished because she acceded to every wish of his. But now she saw that in the depths of his soul he had never for a moment thought of sharing anything else with her than what she gave. In one minute she became conscious that thus it had been the whole of their lives. She had begun in pity, and ended in love to that which she herself had tended. Had she been composed but for a single moment! Seeing her gathering wrath, he was afraid, and exclaimed: "I will!"----She heard it, but anger over her own folly and his paltriness, over her own shame and his cowardice, boiled up in such fervid heat towards the exploding point, that never had a love beginning in childhood and evening sun, cradled by the waves and moonlight, led by the flute and gentle song, ended more wretchedly. She seized him with both her hands, lifted him, and from the very depths of her heart gave him a good sound thrashing, then rowed straight back to town, and went direct over the mountains.
He had sailed out like a youth in love about to win his manhood, and he rowed back as an old man to whom that was a thing unknown. His life held but one remembrance, and that he had miserably lost, but one spot in the world had he to turn to, and thither he never dare come again. In pondering over his own wretchedness, how all this had really come about, his energy sank as in a morass never to rise again. The boys of the town, observing his singularity, soon began to tease him, and as he was an obscure person whom no one rightly knew, either what he lived on or what he did,--it never occurred to any one to defend him, and soon he durst no longer go out, at all events, not into the street. His whole existence became a strife with the boys, who were perhaps of the same use as gnats in the heat of summer, for without them he would have sunk down into perpetual drowsiness.
Nine years after, Gunlaug came to the town, quite as unexpectedly as she had left it. She had with her a girl of eight years, just like herself formerly, only finer, and as if veiled by a dream. Gunlaug had been married, it was said, and having had something left her, had now come to the town to establish a boarding house for seamen. This she conducted in such a way, that merchants and skippers came to her to hire their men, and sailors to get hired; besides, the whole town ordered fish there. She was called "Fish-Gunlaug," or "Gunlaug on the Bank"; the appellation "Fisher Girl" passed over to the daughter, who was everywhere at the head of the boys in the town.
Her history it is that shall here be related; she had something of her mother's natural power, and she got opportunity to use it.
The many lovely gardens of the town were fragrant after the rain in their second and third flowering. The sun had gone down behind the everlasting snow-capped mountains, the whole heavens there away were fire and light, and the snow gave a subdued reflection. The nearer mountains stood in shade, but were lightened by the forests in their many coloured tints of autumn. The rocky islands, that in the midst of the fiord followed one after another, just as though rowing to land, gave in their dense forests a yet more marked display of colours, because they lay nearer. The sea was perfectly calm, a large vessel was heaving landward. The people sat upon their wooden doorsteps, half covered with rose bushes on either side; they spoke to each other from porch to porch, or stepped across, or they exchanged greetings with those who were passing towards the long avenue. The tones of a piano might fall from an open window, otherwise there was scarcely a sound to be heard between the conversations; the feeling of stillness was increased by the last ray of sunlight over the sea.
All at once there rose up such a tumult from the midst of the town as though it were being stormed. Boys shouted, girls screamed, other boys hurrahed, old women scolded and ordered, the policeman's great dog howled, and all the curs of the town replied; they who were in-doors must go out, out; the noise became so frightful that even the magistrate himself turned on his door-step, and let fall these words: "There must be something up."
"Whatever is that?" assailed the ears of those who stood on the doorsteps from others who came from the avenue.--"Yes, what can it be!" they replied.--"Whatever can that be?" they now all of them asked anyone who was passing from the centre of the town. But as this town lies in a crescent shape in an easy curve round the bay, it was long before all at both ends had heard the reply: "It is only the Fisher Girl."
This adventurous soul, protected by a mother of whom all stood in awe, and certain of every sailor's defence, (for, for such they got always a free dram from the mother,) had, at the head of her army of boys, attacked a great apple tree in Pedro Ohlsen's orchard. The plan of attack was as follows: some of the boys should attract Pedro's attention to the front of the house by clashing the rose bushes against the window; one should shake the tree, and the others toss the apples in all directions over the hedge, not to steal them--far from it--but only to have some fun. This ingenious plan had been laid that same afternoon behind Pedro's garden; but as fortune would have it, Pedro was sitting just at the other side of the hedge, and heard every word. A little before the appointed time, therefore, he got the drunken policeman of the town and his great dog into the back room, where both were treated. When the Fisher Girl's curly pate was seen over the plank fencing, and at the same time a number of small fry tittered from every corner, Pedro suffered the scamps in front of the house to clash his rose bushes at their pleasure,--he waited quietly in the back room. And just as they were all standing round the tree in great stillness, and the Fisher Girl barefooted, torn, and scratched, was up to shake it, the side door suddenly flew open and Pedro and the Police rushed out with sticks, the great dog following. A cry of terror arose from the lads, while a number of little girls, who in all innocence were playing at "Last Bat," outside the plank fencing, thinking some one was being murdered within, began to shriek at the top of their voices; the boys who had escaped shouted hurrah! those who were yet hanging on the fence screamed under the play of the sticks, and to make the whole perfect, some old women rose up out of the depths, as always when lads are screaming, and screamed with them. Pedro and the policeman, getting frightened themselves, tried to silence the women; but in the meantime the boys ran off, the dog, of whom they were most afraid, after them over the hedge,--for this was something for him--and now they flew like wild ducks, boys, girls, the dog and screams all over the town.
All this time the Fisher Girl sat quite still in the tree, thinking that no one had observed her. Crouched up in the topmost branch, through the leaves she followed the course of the fray. But when the policeman had gone out in a rage to the women, and Pedro Ohlsen was left alone in the garden, he went straight under the tree, looked up and cried: "Come down with you this minute, you rascal!"--Not a sound from the tree.--"Will you come down with you, I say! I know you are there!"--The most perfect stillness.--"I must go in for my gun, and shoot up, must I?" He made pretence to go.--"Hu-hu-hu-hu!" it answered in owlish tones, "I am so frightened!"--"Oh to be sure you are! You are the worst young scamp in the whole lot, but now I have you!"--"Oh dear! good kind sir, I won't do it any more," at the same time she flung a rotten apple right on to his nose, and a rich peal of laughter followed after. The apple caked all over, and while he was wiping it off, she scrambled down; she was already hanging on the plank fence before he could come after her, and she could have got over if she had not been so terrified that he was behind, that she let go instead. But when he caught her she began to shriek; the shrill and piercing yell she gave frightened him so that he let go his hold. At her signal of alarm, the people came flocking outside, and hearing them she gained courage. "Let me go, or I'll tell mother!" she threatened, her whole face flashing fire. Then he recognised the face, and cried: "Your mother? Who is your mother?"--"Gunlaug on the Bank, Fisher Gunlaug," replied the youngster triumphantly; she saw he was afraid. Being near sighted, Pedro had never seen the girl before now; he was the only one in the place who did not know who she was, and he was not even aware that Gunlaug was in the town. As though possessed, he cried: "What do they call you?"--"Petra," cried the other still louder.--"Petra!" howled Pedro, turned and ran into the house as if he had been talking to the devil. But as the palest fear and the palest wrath resemble each other, she thought he was rushing in for his gun. She was terror-stricken, and already she felt the shot in her back, but as, just at this moment, they had broken the door open from outside, she made her escape; her dark hair flew behind her like a terror, her eyes shot fire, the dog which she just met, followed howling, and thus she fell on her mother, who was coming from the kitchen with a tureen of soup, the girl into the soup, the soup on the floor, and a "Go to the dogs!" after them both. But as she laid there in the soup, she cried: "He'll shoot me, mother, shoot me!"--"Who'll shoot you, you rascal?"--"He, Pedro Ohlsen?"--"Who?" roared the mother.--"Pedro Ohlsen, we took apples from him," she never dare say anything but the truth.--"Who are you talking about, child?"--"About Pedro Ohlsen, he is after me with a great gun, and he'll shoot me!"--"Pedro Ohlsen!" fumed the mother, and with an enraged laugh she drew herself up.--The child began to cry and tried to escape, but the mother sprang over her, her white teeth glistening, and catching her by the shoulder, she pulled her up.--"Did you tell him who you were?"--"Yes!" cried the child, but the mother heard not, saw not, she only asked again twice, three times:--"Did you tell him who you were?"--"Yes, yes, yes, yes!" and the child held up her hands entreatingly. Then the mother rose up to her full height:--"So he got to know!--What did he say?"--"He ran in after a gun to shoot me."--"He shoot you!" she laughed in the utmost scorn. The child, scared and bespattered with soup had crept into the chimney corner, she was drying herself and crying, when the mother came to her again:--"If you go to him," she said, and took and shook her, "or speak to him, or listen to him. Heaven have mercy upon both him and you! Tell him so from me! Tell him so from me!" she repeated threateningly, as the child did not answer directly, "Yes, yes, yes, yes!" "Tell him so from me!" she repeated yet once more, but slowly, and nodding at every word as she went.
The child washed herself, changed her dress, and sat out on the steps in her Sunday clothes. But at the thought of the terror she had been in, she began to sob again.--"What are you crying for, child?" asked a voice more kindly than any she had heard before. She looked up; before her stood a fine looking man, with high forehead and spectacles. She stood up quickly, for it was Hans Odegaard, a young man whom the whole town revered. "What are you crying for, my child?" She looked at him and said that she had been going to take some apples from Pedro Ohlsen's garden, together with "several other boys;" but then Pedro and the policeman had come, and then--; she remembered that the mother had made her uncertain about the shooting, so she durst not tell it; but she gave a deep sigh instead.