The Fisher Girl

VI.

THE SOUND OF THE CLOCK.

Petra had been in her room, when the shouting, whistling, and hallooing had begun the first evening. She sprang up as if the house had been on fire, or as if everything were coming down upon her. She ran about in her room as if whipped with burning rods; it burnt through her soul; her thoughts ran impetuously after an outlet;--but down to the mother she dare not go, and they were standing in front of the only window! A stone came flying through, and fell upon her bed; she gave a cry and ran into a corner behind a curtain, and hid herself among her old clothes. There she sat crouched up together, burning with shame, trembling with fear, visions of unknown horrors passed before her, the air was full of faces, gaping, mocking faces, they came quite near, it rained fire round about them;--oh, not fire, but eyes; it rained eyes, large, glowing and small, sparkling; eyes that stood still, eyes that ran up and down,--Jesus, Jesus, save me!

Oh, what a relief, when the last cry died away in the night, and it was quite dark, and quite still. She ventured out, threw herself on the bed, and buried her face in the pillow, but she could not turn away from her thoughts; the mother would come powerfully and threateningly forward, as thunder clouds gather over the mountains, for what would the mother not suffer for her sake! No slumber came to her eyelids, nor peace to her soul, and the day came, but no alleviation.

She went backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, thinking only how to escape, but she dare not meet her mother, neither dare she go out as long as it was day, and at night they would come again! Yet wait she must, for before midnight it was still more dangerous to flee. And then where to? She possessed nothing, and she knew not any way; yet there must be merciful hearts somewhere, even as there was a merciful God. He knew that the evil she had done was not done in wickedness, He knew her penitence, and He also knew her helplessness. She listened for her mother's steps below, but she did not hear them; she trembled to hear her on the stairs, but she did not come. The girl, too, must have left, for no one came up with her meals. She did not venture to go down, nor to go to the window, for some one might be standing outside waiting for her. The broken pane let in the cold air, in the morning, and still more when night came. She had made up a small bundle of clothes, and dressed herself to be ready; but she must wait for the furious crowd, and then go through whatever came.

There they are again! The whistling, the shouting, the throwing of stones, worse, far worse than the night before; she crept into her corner, folded her hands, and prayed and prayed. If only her mother did not go out to them, if only they did not break in! Then they began to sing, a base lampoon, and though every word cut her with knives, she was yet obliged to listen; but no sooner had she heard that the mother was mixed up with it, that they had been guilty of so shameful an injustice, than she sprang up, she would speak to the dastardly pack from the window, or cast herself down among them;--but a stone, and yet another, and then a whole hailstorm flew through the window, the bits of glass whizzed, the stones rolled about the room, and she crept back again. The perspiration stood upon her forehead, as though she were beneath a burning sun, but she no longer wept,--no longer felt afraid.

Gradually the noise subsided; she ventured forth, and was going to the window to look out, but she trod upon the bits of glass and drew back, then she trod upon the stones, and stood still that she might not be heard; for she must steal quietly away. After waiting a full half hour, she put off her shoes, took up her bundle, and softly opened the door. It pained her to think that after causing her mother all this sorrow, she must leave her without a farewell; but fear overpowered her; "Farewell mother! farewell mother!" she whispered to herself at each step she took down the stairs: "Farewell mother!"--She stood at the bottom, breathed a few times heavily to get air, and then turned towards the passage door. Some one seized her arm from behind, she gave a slight scream, and turned,--it was her mother.

Gunlaug having heard the door open, at once divined her daughter's intention and waited for her here. Petra felt that she could not pass without a contest. Explanation would not help; whatever she said, it would not be believed. Well, if it came to a struggle, nothing in the world could be worse than the worst, and that she had already experienced. "Where are you going?" the mother asked in a low tone. "I must flee!" she answered with a beating heart--"Where to?"--"I do not know;--but I must get away from here!"--She held her bundle faster and went on. "No, come with me," said the mother, holding her arm, "I have provided for it." Petra released herself, as if from too tight a grasp; breathed out as after a conflict, and gave herself up to her mother. The latter led the way into a little room behind the kitchen, where a light was burning, and there was no window;--here she had been hid whilst the tumult raged. The room was so narrow that they could scarcely move in it; the mother took up a bundle rather smaller than Petra's, opened it, and took out a set of sailor's clothes. "Put these on," she whispered. Petra at once comprehended why she should do it, but that the mother assigned no reason, touched her. She took off her own things and put on these; the mother assisted her, and in doing so, the light fell full upon her face; Petra saw for the first time that Gunlaug was old. Had she become so in these days, or had Petra not observed it before? The child's tears trickled down over the mother, but she did not look up, and so nothing was said. A sou'wester was the last thing to put on; when all was ready, the mother took the bundle from her, and blew out the light, "Now come!"

They went out into the passage, but not through the street door; Gunlaug unfastened the back door, and locked it again after them. They passed through the trampled garden, over the uprooted trees, and the broken fence, "You may as well look round," said the mother, "you will never come here again."--She shuddered but did not look. They went by the upper path, along the edge of the forest, where she had passed half her life; where she had had that evening with Gunnar, those with Yngve Vold, and the last with Odegaard. They trod in withered leaves; it was a cold night, and she shivered in her unaccustomed dress. The mother turned towards a garden; Petra knew it again, though she had not been, there since that day when as a child she had attacked it; it was Pedro Ohlsen's. The mother had the key of it and locked them in.

It had cost Gunlaug much to go to him in the forenoon, it cost her much to go now with the unhappy daughter, to whom she herself could no longer give a home. But it must be done, and that which must be done Gunlaug could do. She knocked at the side door, and almost directly they heard footsteps and saw a light within. Shortly after, the door was opened by Pedro himself in travelling attire, looking pale and nervous. He held a dip in his hand, and he sighed when his eye fell upon Petra's face, swollen with weeping; she looked up at him, but as he did not dare to know her, she did not venture to recognise him. "This man has promised to help you to get away," said the mother without looking at either of them, and going up the steps she went into Pedro's room on the other side of the passage, leaving them to follow. The room was very small and low, and the peculiar close smell that pervaded it, made Petra feel faint; for more than a day now she had neither tasted food nor slept. From the middle of the ceiling hung a cage with a canary bird; they had to go round to avoid knocking against it. Some heavy old chairs, a ponderous table, and two great closets, touching the ceiling, were squeezed into the room, making it still less. On the table lay some music, and on that a flute. Pedro Ohlsen shuffled about in his great boots, as if he had something important to do; a weak voice sounded from the back room: "Who is that?--Who has come in?"--upon which he trailed still quicker round the room, mumbling: "Oh it is--hm, hm, ... it is--hm, hm," and so in where the voice came from.

Gunlaug sat by the window, with both her elbows upon her knees, and her head in her hands, looking fixedly into the sand that was strewn upon the floor; she did not speak, but every now and then she drew a heavy sigh. Petra stood by the door, leaning against the wall, with both her hands over her bosom, for she felt ill. An old time piece was hacking the hours asunder, the tallow candle on the table was running down, with a long wick. The mother was wishful to give some excuse for their being here, and said: "I knew this man once, long ago."

Nothing more, and no reply. Pedro did not return, the candle continued to waste, and the old clock to hack. The feeling of faintness overpowered Petra more and more, and through all, the words were continually sounding in her ears, "I knew this man once, long ago!" The old clock began to go to it: "I-knew-this-man-once-long-a-go." Afterwards, whenever she came into a close atmosphere, this room was always before her, reminding her of the faintness and of the clock's "I-knew-this-man-once-long-ago!"

When Pedro came in again he had got on a woollen cap, and a cloak of ancient date, fastened up over his ears. "Now, I am ready," said he, and drew on his mittens, as if he were going out in the coldest winter weather. "But we must not forget"--he turned round,--"the cloak for--for--" he looked at Petra, and from her to Gunlaug, who took up a blue coat hanging over a chair back, and helped Petra on with it; but when it came close under her nose, it smelled so strongly of the room, that she begged for fresh air; the mother saw that she looked ill, and opening the door, she led her quickly into the garden. Here she drew a few long draughts of the fresh autumn air. "Where am I going to?" she asked, when she began to come round.--"To Bergen," replied the mother, helping her to button the coat; "it is a large place, where no one knows you." When she was ready, Gunlaug stopped in the doorway: "You will have 100 specie dollars with you; if you don't get on, you still have something to fall back upon. He lends you them, he here,"--"Gives, gives," whispered Pedro, who passed them and went out into the street.--"Lends them," repeated the mother, as though he had said nothing: "I shall repay him."--She took a handkerchief from her neck, tied it round Petra's, and said: "You must write as soon as it goes well with you, not before."--"Mother!"--"He will row you on board the vessel lying out there."--"Oh, heavens, mother!"--"Well, then there's nothing more. I'm not going any further."--"Mother, mother!"--"Now God be with you. Farewell!"--"Mother, forgive me, mother!"--"And don't catch cold on the sea."--She had got her gradually outside the garden gate, and now shut it.

Petra stood looking at the closed gate; she felt about as wretched and lonely as it is possible for a human being to do,--but just at that moment, out of the misery, the injustice, the tears, sprang up an anticipation, a hope; as a gleam of fire, kindled and extinguished, blazing up and dying out again, but for one moment shining sublimely; she opened her eyes, the brightness was gone, and again she stood in darkness.

Quietly through the deserted streets of the little town, past the closed doors and leafless gardens, past the barred houses, where the lights were no longer burning,--she dragged herself after him, who with bent figure shuffled on, without any head, in the great boots, and cloak. They came out into the avenue, where they trod again in withered leaves, and saw the ghostly branches that seemed stretching out their arms to come after them. They scrambled down over the mountain behind the yellow boat house; he baled out the water, and then rowed her along the coast that now looked like one black mass, with the clouds laying heavily upon it. Everything was blotted out, fields, houses, woods, mountains, she saw nothing more of that which, until yesterday, from a child she had had daily before her eyes; it had shut itself up like the town, like the people, that night that she was driven away, and she got no farewell.

A man was pacing up and down the deck of the ship that was laying at anchor, waiting for the morning breeze; as soon as he saw them laying to, he let down the steps, helped them on board, and made a signal to the captain, who soon joined them. She knew them, and they knew her, but simply as an ordinary matter, she was told all that it was necessary for her to know; namely, where she was to sleep, and what she was to do if she wanted anything, or was sea-sick. She was ill, indeed, almost directly she got down, so on changing her dress she went up again. Here she found the smell of--oh, chocolate! She felt an immoderate hunger, and just then out of the cabin, came the same man that had received them, with a whole bowl full, and plenty of cakes; it was from her mother, he said. While she was eating, he told her further, that a box with her linen, flannels, and best clothes had also been sent on board by her mother, besides several good things to eat. On hearing this, a very vivid remembrance of her mother rose up before her, an exalted image, such as she had never before had, but which she retained the rest of her life. And above the image rested a hope, sure and yet sorrowful in prayer, that she might yet give her mother some joy for all the sorrow she had caused her.

Pedro Ohlsen sat beside her when she sat, and walked beside her when she walked; he was perpetually occupied in getting out of her way, and for that reason, was continually getting into it, as the deck was covered with goods. She could see only his great nose and his eyes, and not even these distinctly, but he gave the impression of having something on his mind, which he wished to say and could not. He sighed, he sat down, he got up, he went round her, sat down again, but never a word came forth, and she did not speak. At last he was obliged to give it up; he drew out a huge leather pocket book, and whispered that the 100 species were within, and a little besides. She held out her hand and thanked him, and in doing so she came so near his face, that she observed his eyes were moist and were anxiously following her. For, with her, he was in truth losing all that was left to his desolate life. He would like to have said something that might yield him a kind remembrance, when he should be no more; but it was forbidden him, and though he would have said it nevertheless, he could not manage it, for she did not help him! Petra was too tired, and she could not just then banish the thought that he had been the cause of her first sin against her mother. She could not bear it much longer, it grew worse instead of better the longer he sat, for people are easily annoyed when they are tired. The poor creature felt it, he MUST go, and so at last he got whispered, "farewell," and drew his shrunken hand out of the mitten; she laid hers warm within it, and then both arose. "Thank you,--and give my love to mother!" she said. He gave a sigh, or rather a sob, and with two or three more such, he left her, turned and went backwards down the ladder. She went to the railing, he looked up, nodded, and then rowed slowly away. She stood till he was darkness in the darkness, then she went below; she was so tired she could scarcely stand, and although she felt ill directly she went down, she had scarcely laid her head upon the pillow and said the first two clauses of "The Lord's Prayer," before she slept.

Till that same hour, the mother was sitting up by the yellow boat-house; she had followed them slowly all the way, and sat down behind the boat-house just as they were rowing from land. From that same spot, Pedro Ohlsen had in former days rowed out with her; it was a long time ago, but she could not fail to remember it now, when he rowed the daughter away.

As soon as she saw him coming back alone, she arose and went; for then she knew that Petra was safely on board. She did not take the road home, but went further over: there, in the darkness, she found the path that led over the mountains, and that she took. Her house stood empty and desolate for more than a month, she would not return to it, before she had had good news from her daughter.

But this gave time for the voice against her to be put to the test. All low natures feel an exciting pleasure in uniting to persecute the strong; but only as long as these offer any resistance; when they see that they quietly suffer themselves to be maltreated, a feeling of shame comes over them, and he who will cast another stone is quickly put down. In the present instance, they had been hoping to see Gunlaug come fuming out to them in a rage, perhaps calling upon the seamen to take up arms in her defence, and thus have a regular street fight. But as she did not shew herself, on the third night the people were scarcely to be restrained; they declared they would go in after her, they would turn the two women out into the streets, and chase them away from the town! The windows had not been mended since the previous night, and amid the shout of hurrahs, two men crept through to open the door,--and in rushed the crowd! They looked in all the rooms, upstairs and down, they broke open the doors, destroyed everything that came in their way; they sought in every corner; last of all in the cellar, but neither mother nor daughter were to be found. As soon as this discovery was made, an instantaneous hush fell over the people; they who were in, stole out one after another, and hid themselves behind the rest, and shortly after, the plot of ground in front of the house was left desolate.

There were soon found those in the town, who said that this had been an undignified mode of proceeding against two defenceless women. They discussed the facts of the case so thoroughly, that at last it was the unanimous opinion, that whatever the Fisher Girl had done, Gunlaug was certainly not to blame for it, and she had therefore been treated very unjustly.

She was very much missed in the place; drunken brawls and tumults began to be the order of the day; for the town had lost its police. They missed her tall figure in the doorway as they passed by; the seamen especially felt her loss. There was no place like hers, they said; for there each had been dealt with according to his merit, had had his own place in her confidence, and her help in any difficulty. Neither sailors, nor captains, neither masters, nor mistresses, had understood her worth, until now when she had gone.

Therefore it was a cause of general rejoicing, when it was reported that Gunlaug had been seen sitting in her house and cooking as before. Every one must see for himself that the window panes were really put in again, the door repaired and the smoke coming out of the chimney. Yes, it was true! There she was again!--They crept on the other side of the hill to see better; she was sitting in front of the baking stone, she looked neither up nor down, but her eye followed her hand and her hand was busy; for she had come back to regain what she had lost, and first of all the 100 specie, that she owed Pedro Ohlsen. At first they contented themselves in this way, with merely peeping in at her, their consciences pricked them, so they dare not do more. But by degrees they came,--first the wives, the friendly, kind ones; yet they got no opportunity to speak of anything but business; for Gunlaug would hear nothing more. Then came the fishermen, then the merchants and captains, and last of all, on the first Sunday, the sailors. It must have been by agreement, for in the evening, just at one time, the house was so overflowing with people that not only were both rooms full, but the tables and chairs that stood in the garden in summer, had to be brought in, and set in the passages, in the kitchen, in the back room. No one who saw this assembly would suspect the feeling with which the people were sitting there; for the very moment that they crossed her threshold, she had taken her quiet command over them, and the decision with which she dealt to each his due, kept down every inquiry, every welcome. She was the same; only her hair was no longer black, and her manner a little more quiet. But when their spirits began to rise, they could no longer contain themselves, and every time that Gunlaug and the girl went out of the room, they called out to Knud the Boatman, who had always been Gunlaug's favorite, to drink her health when she came back. But he did not get courage to do it, till he was a little warmer in the head; at last, however, when she came in to collect the empty bottles and glasses, he got up, and said, "That it was a right good thing she had come back;--for there wasn't the least doubt, that----that it was a right good thing she had come back!" The others thought it was very well said, and they rose up, and shouted: "Yes, it was a right good thing!" and they in the passage, and in the kitchen, and in the other rooms, also rose up to join in the decision; the boatman gave her the glass and cried, "Hurrah!" and the others shouted "Hurrah!" enough to lift the roof and carry it up to the skies. Soon one of them acknowledged that they had done her shameful injustice, then another swore to the same, and soon the whole house were condemning themselves that they had done her the most shameful wrong. When at last there was a lull, because they wanted a word from herself, Gunlaug said that she must thank them very much; "but," continued she, as she once more gathered up the empty bottles and glasses,--"as long as I don't mention it, you needn't do so." When she; had gathered up what she could carry, she went out and came in again for the remainder, and from that hour, she held undisputed sway.

VII.

THE FIRST ACT.

It was evening and quite dusk when the vessel cast anchor in the harbour of Bergen. Petra half stupified from sea-sickness, was led in the captain's boat, through a multiplicity of ships large and small, till at last they emerged at the quay, which was covered with ferrymen, the narrow alleys leading to it swarming with peasants and street boys.

They stopped before a neat little house, where at the request of the Captain, an old woman gave Petra a most kind reception. She stood in need of rest and sleep, and both of these she obtained. Lively and well, she awoke next day at noon, to new sounds and a new dialect, and when the blind was drawn up, to a new landscape, new people, and a new town. She had become new herself she thought, as she stood before the looking glass,--that face was not the old one. True, she could not define the difference, and did not understand that at her age, trouble and sorrow have a refining, spiritualising influence; but seeing herself in the glass, made her think of the last nights, and trembling at the remembrance, she hastened to make herself ready to go down to the new life awaiting her. There, she met her hostess, and several ladies, who, after eyeing her profoundly, promised to do what they could for her, and began by taking her round the town. Having several things to buy, she ran up for her pocket book, but she felt ashamed to take the thick clumsy old thing down stairs, so she opened it, to take out the money there. Instead of 100 specie dollars she found 300! That must be Pedro Ohlsen again, who against her mother's will and knowledge had given her money. She had so little understanding about the worth of things, that the greatness of the sum did not astonish her; neither did it strike her therefore, to seek further for the cause of such great benevolence. Instead of a glowing letter of thanks with questions indicating a suspicion of the truth Pedro Ohlsen got a letter sent down from Gunlaug, and addressed to herself, wherein the daughter with undisguised annoyance, betrayed her benefactor, and asked what she was to do with the gift thus clandestinely made her.

Petra's first impression of the town, was entirely ruled by the power of the elements. She could not divest herself of the feeling that the mountains stood so close over her, that she must take care. She felt burdened every time she looked up to them, and then again, an inclination prompted her to stretch out her hand and knock at them; sometimes she felt as though there were no outlet at all. There stood the mountains, sunless and dark, the clouds hung close over them, or were chased hurriedly away; wind and rain vied incessantly with each other. But on the people around her was no burden resting, she was soon happy among them; for there was in their busy activity a freedom, ease and gaiety, which, after what she had passed through, she felt to be as smiles and welcome.

When the next day she remarked at the dinner table, that she liked to be where there were a number of people, they told her that she should go to the theatre, for there she would meet with many hundreds in one house. Yes, she would like that; the ticket was taken, the theatre was near at hand, and at the appointed time, she was taken there, and shewn to a seat in the first tier of the gallery. There she sat among many hundred happy people, in a dazzling light, surrounded by brilliant colours, and conversation breaking in upon her from all corners, with the noise of ocean.

Petra had not the slightest idea of what she was about to see. She knew nothing but what Odegaard had told her, and what by chance she had heard from others. But of the theatre Odegaard had never spoken; the sailors had merely talked of one where there were wild animals and horse-riders, and to the lads it never occurred to talk about the play, even if those from the school knew a little about it; for the little town had no theatre of its own, not even a house that was called such; travelling menageries, rope-dancers, and harlequins used to exhibit either in booths, or in the open field. She was so ignorant, that she did not even ask any questions, but was sitting boldly expecting something wonderful, e.g. camels or apes. Taken up by this idea, by degrees she began to see animals in all the faces around her, horses, dogs, foxes, cats, mice, and so amused herself. Meanwhile the orchestra had assembled without her being aware of it. She jumped up in a fright, for a short sharp burst from trombones, drums, trumpets, and horns, opened the overture. She had never in her life heard more music at one time, than a couple of violins and perhaps a flute. This pealing grandeur turned her pale, it partook of the nature of a cold, dark, heavy sea, she sat in dread for the next lest it should be still worse, and yet she did not wish it to be over. By and bye softer harmonies arose, vistas that she had never even dreamt of, opened before her; melodies lulled her thither, life and merriment floated in the air, the whole march rose upwards as on wings, it went softly down, it gathered again powerfully, it parted quiveringly and sprightfully,--till a sombre gloom fell over all; it was as if it were whirled away in a crashing waterfall. Then arose a single tone like a bird on a wet branch by the deep; sadly and timidly it began, but the air above it, cleared as it sang, a gleam of sunshine came,--and again the long blue vista was filled with that wonderful wave and fluttering behind the rays of the sun; when this had lasted a moment, lo! it subsided in gentle peace; the exultant host withdrew further and further, nothing was to be seen but the rays of the sun oozing and fusing through the air,--over the whole of the endless plain, only sun, over all light and stillness,--and in this blessedness it died away. Involuntarily she arose, for she felt it was over. Oh marvel! there went the beautiful painted wall in front of her straight up through the roof! She was in a church, a church with pillars and arches, beautifully decorated; the organ was pealing, and people advancing towards her, in a strange garb, and they were talking,--yes, talking in church, and in a language she did not understand. What? They were talking also behind her: "Sit down!" they said, but there was nothing there to sit upon, and the two in church continued to stand too; as she looked at them, it came clearly to her mind, that the dress was the same as that she had seen in a picture of St. Olaf,--and there they were calling St. Olaf's name!--"Sit down!" sounded again from behind her; "sit down!" cried a great many voices,--"there is perhaps something behind as well," thought Petra, turning round. A sea of angry threatening faces met her gaze;--"there's something wrong here," she thought, and wanted to get away; but an old woman who sat next to her, pulled her gently by the dress: "Come, sit down, child," she whispered, "you know they behind cannot see!" She was in her place in a moment; for to be sure: that is the theatre, and we are looking on,--the theatre! she repeated the word, as if to recall herself. Then she was in the church again; notwithstanding all her endeavours, she could not understand the speaker; but when she fairly discovered that he was a young, handsome man, she began to understand a word now and then, and when she heard that he was in love, and love was his theme, she understood most of all. Then a third came in, who, for an instant, drew her attention away, for she knew from drawings that he must be a monk, and a monk she had a great desire to see. He trod so softly, was so quiet, yes, he must in truth be a godfearing man; he spoke slowly, distinctly, she followed every word. But the next minute, he turned and said exactly the opposite of what he had said before,--heavens! he's a scoundrel, he's a scoundrel! he has the look of it! And this young handsome man cannot see it! he might at all events hear it! "He is deceiving you!" she whispered, half aloud. "Hush!" said the old lady. No, the young man does not hear, he withdraws in good faith, they all go, and an old man comes in alone. How is this? When the old man speaks, it is just as if the young one was speaking, and yet it is the old man, ... oh! look there! look there! a shining procession of girls, all in white, two and two they pass silently through the church; she saw them long after they had gone by,--and a similar impression from her childhood hovered in her memory. One winter she had gone with her mother over the mountain; making their way in the new fallen snow, they had startled a covey of ptarmigans, that with one accord, flew up in front of them; they were white, the snow was white, the forest white,--long after, all her thoughts rose white before her, and now the same thing again. But one of these maidens robed in white, steps forth alone, with a wreath in her hand, and kneels, the old man has knelt also, and she talks to him, he has brought messages and a letter for her from foreign lands, he brings it out,--her face tells clearly, it is from one she loves, oh! how delightful, they all seem to love here! She opens it,--it is not a letter, it is full of music,--yes, see, yes, see! he himself is the letter, the old man is the young one, and he is the one she loves! They embrace, heavens, they kiss each other,--Petra felt she grew scarlet, and hid her face with her hands, while she watched further;--listen, he is telling her that they will soon get married; and she laughingly pulls his beard, and says he has grown a barbarian, and he says she has grown so lovely, and he gives her a ring, and promises her scarlet and velvet, gold slippers, and a golden belt; he merrily takes his leave, and goes to the king to arrange about their wedding. His betrothed looks after him, and her eye glistens, but turning round without him, all seems so empty!

There slides the wall down again. Over now? just as it began? Blushing, she turned to the old lady: "Is it over?"--"No, no, child, it is the first act. There are five such, yes indeed there are," she repeated with a sigh: "There are five such."--"About the same?" asked Petra. "What do you mean by that?"--"The same people come in again, and it all goes on further?" "Then you have never been at a comedy?"--"No."--"Well, in many places there is no theatre, it is so expensive." "But whatever is this?" asked Petra anxiously, staring as if she couldn't wait for a reply: "Who are these people?"--"A company that Director Naso has, a first class company; he is very clever."--"Does he invent it?--or what is it? Pray do tell me!"--"Dear child, do you really not know what a play is? Where are you from?" But when Petra thought of her native place, she thought also of her shame, her flight, she did not speak and dare not ask any more questions.

The second act came, and with it the king, then she really got to see a king too! She did not hear what he said, she did not see whom he talked to, she was observing the king's dress, the king's manners, the king's bearing; she was first recalled, when the young man came in again and now they all withdrew to bring in the bride! So she must wait once more.

Between the acts, the old lady bent over towards her: "Don't you think they play beautifully?" she said. Petra looked up astonished at her. "Play,--what do you mean?" She id not see that everybody round about was looking at her, and that the old woman had been deputed to ask her, nor did she hear that they sat and laughed at her. "But they don't speak like we do?" she asked, as she did not get any reply. "They are Danes of course," said the lady and began to laugh herself. Then Petra understood that the good woman was laughing at her many questions, and was silent; she looked stedfastly at the curtain.

When it went up again, she had the great pleasure of seeing an archbishop. It was now the same as before; she was lost in the sight and did not hear a word of what he said. But then came music, oh so softly, so far away, but it was coming nearer; female voices were singing, and the play of flutes and violins, and an instrument, it was not a guitar, and yet like many guitars, but softer, fuller, loftier in its tone, the entire harmony poured in in long waves,--and as if all were a blending of colouring, came the procession, soldiers carrying halberds, choristers bearing censors, monks holding candles, the king wearing his crown, and the bridegroom arrayed in white, at his side,--then the white robed maidens strewing flowers and music before the bride, who was attired in white silk, and wore a red wreath: at her side walked a tall lady with a purple train adorned with gold crowns, and a little sparkling crown on her head, that must be the queen! The whole church was filled with their song and colours, and all that now happened, from the bridegroom leading the bride to the altar where they knelt, the whole company kneeling with them,--to the archbishop coming in pomp with his brethren, were only fresh links in the tinted music chain.

But just as the ceremony was about to take place, the Archbishop waved his staff, and forbade it; their marriage was against the holy scriptures, here on earth they could never be united,--oh heavens have mercy,--the bride sank down, and with a piercing cry, Petra, who had risen, also fell!

"Water, bring water!" cried those around her.

"No," replied the old lady, "there is no need, she has not fainted!" "No need," they repeated, "silence!"----"Silence!" they cried from the parquet, "silence in the gallery!"--"Silence!" answered those above.--"You must not take it so much to heart; it is only fiction and nonsense altogether," whispered the old lady; "but Madame Naso plays wonderfully."

"Silence!" now exclaimed Petra herself; she was already deep in the acting, for the devilish monk had come forward with a sword, the two lovers had to hold a handkerchief and he rent it asunder between them,--as the church rent, as grief rent, as the sword over the gate of paradise rent that first day. Weeping maidens took the red wreath from the bride, and replaced it with a white one; thereby she was sealed to the cloister for life. He to whom she belonged in time and eternity, he should know her to be alive, yet lost to him, know her to be within, yet never see her; now dilacerating the farewell they took, there was no greater suffering upon earth than theirs!--

"Mercy," whispered the old lady, when the curtain fell: "don't be so foolish; you know it is only Madame Naso, the director's wife." Petra stared at the old lady, she thought she must be crazy and as the latter had long thought the same of her, they continued to look a little askance at each other, but did not speak any more.

Petra could not follow the scene when the curtain rose; the bride within the convent, and the bridegroom day and night in doubt without the walls, was what she saw, she suffered their suffering, she prayed their prayers; but that which took place before her eyes, passed unheeded by. An ominous silence fell over all, and this brought her to herself; the church seemed to grow larger, the twelve strokes of the clocks sounded in empty space; it rumbled under the arches, the walls shook, St. Olaf had risen from his tomb, and wrapped in a winding sheet, tall and awful, a spear in his hand, he strode along: the sentinels flee, the thunder peels, the monk is pierced by the outstretched lance; then all is darkness, and the apparition disappears. But where the lightning struck, the monk lies as a heap of ashes.

Without being aware of it, Petra had caught fast hold of the old lady, and grasped her so tightly, that she alarmed her, and seeing Petra's increasing paleness, she exclaimed: "Why my dear child, it is only Knutsen; that is the only part he can play, he speaks so broad."--"No, no, no," said Petra, "I saw flames round about him, and the whole church shook beneath his tread!"--"Be quiet there!" was heard from several quarters; "Out with those who can't be quiet!"--"Silence in the gallery!" cried the parquet; "Silence!" replied the gallery.--Petra had crept together as if to hide herself, but she soon forgot them altogether; for see! there are the lovers again, the lightning has opened their way, they will escape! They have found each other, they embrace; Heaven protect them!

Then a tumult arises, a sound of voices and trumpets, the bridegroom is torn from her side, they are fighting for their country, he is wounded, and dying he greets his bride, ... Petra first understands what has happened, when the bride enters softly, and sees him dead! It is as if the clouds of grief would gather over a single spot, but a glance dispels them: the bride looks up from the dead man's side, and prays that she too may die! The heavens open at her glance, the lightning flashes, the bridal hall is above; let the bride in! Yes,--already she can see within; for her eyes shed a blessed peace, like that upon the mountain tops. Then the eyelids close: the battle had a higher solution, their constancy a brighter crowning; she was now with him.

Petra sat a long time still: her heart was lifted in faith, and the strength of the Highest filled her soul. She rose up, above all that was small, above fear and pain, rose with smiles to all,--were they not brothers and sisters; the evil that separates was not present, it was crushed under the thunder. They laughed at her in return, that was the girl that had been half mad at the play;--but in their smiles, she saw only a reflection of the victory she herself had gained. In this confidence, that they were smiling in participation with her joy, her face bore so radiant an expression, that they could not resist it, and they smiled her smile in return; she passed down the broad stairs between the people who made way for her on both sides, returning joy for her joy, and beauty for the beauty which beamed upon them. There are times when our souls shine forth in such resplendence, that we shed a brightness on all about us, though we ourselves cannot see. The greatest triumphal procession in the world, is this, to be led, upheld, and followed by one's own refulgent thoughts.

When, without knowing how, she arrived at home, she asked what it had all been. There were some present, who were able to understand her, and give her a satisfactory reply; and when she had got a real appreciation of what the drama was, and of what great actors had in their power, she rose and said: "There is nothing greater than this upon earth, and this I must be."

To their astonishment she put on her things and went out again; she must be alone, and in the open air. She went away from the town, and out to the adjacent promontory,--the wind was high, and the sea lashed up beneath her;--the town on both sides of the bay lay enveloped in a light mist, behind which the innumerable lights with all their endeavours could do no more than lighten the fog they could not lift.

This was the image of her soul.

The great darkness, in its damp surge beneath her feet, gave warning of an impenetrable deep; it behoved her to sink down thither, or rise in the attempt to lighten it. She asked herself why she had never before felt these thoughts, and she answered, because it was the moments only that had power over her, but then she felt that she had also power over them. She saw it now: as many moments would be given her, as there were flickering lights yonder, and she prayed God that she might perfect them all, that so His love might have kindled no light in vain.

She rose, for the wind was icy told; she had not been long away, but as she went home again, she knew whither she was going.

The next day she stood at the director's door. Hot words were heard from within; one of the voices seemed to her like the bride's of yesterday; in another key, to-day, to be sure, but still it made Petra tremble. She waited a long time, but as it would not stop, at last she knocked. "Come in," said a man's voice angrily. "Oh!" screamed a lady, and as Petra entered, she saw a flying terror in a night dress, and with dishevelled hair, disappearing through a side door. The director, a tall man with blear eyes (which he hastened to hide with a pair of gold spectacles), was pacing backwards and forwards in agitation. His long nose so ruled his face, that all the rest was there for the nose's sake, the eyes stuck out like two gun barrels behind this rampart, the mouth was a trench before it, and the forehead, a light bridge over to the forest, or barricade of felled trees.--"What is it you want?" he stopped short; "is it you that wishes to join the chorus?" he asked hurriedly. "'The chorus,' what is that?"--"Ha! so you don't know that; what is it you want then?"--"I wish to be an actress."--"An actress indeed,--and don't know what a chorister is! But you speak the dialect?"--"'Dialect,' what is that?" "Eh! so you don't know that either, and will yet be an actress, well, well; yes, that's like the Norsemen. Dialect means, that you don't talk like we do."--"Yes, but I've been practising all the morning."--"Have you, indeed? Come, come, let me hear!" Petra took an attitude, and said with exactly the same accent as the bride of yesterday: "I greet you my love. Good morning!"--"I say, you are possessed, are you come here to make a fool of my wife!" A peal of laughter was heard in the adjoining room, the director opened the door, and without a trace of remembrance that but a moment since they had been fighting for life and death: "Here is a Norwegian hussy," he said, "caricaturing you, pray come and see her!" A lady's head with untidy, refractory black hair, dark eyes, and large mouth, peeped in and laughed. And yet Petra hastened towards her; for it must be the bride,--no, her mother, she thought as she drew nearer. She looked at the lady, and said: "I am not sure if it is you, or if it is your mother!" whereupon the director also laughed. The head had retreated, but laughed in the side room. Petra's embarrassment was clearly depicted in her face and attitude; it attracted the director's attention, he looked at her, and taking a book, said as though nothing in the world had happened: "Take this, my girl, and read, but read as you talk yourself."--She did so. "No, no, that is not right, read Norwegian,--Norwegian, I say!"--and Petra read, but the same as before. "No, I tell you, it is altogether wrong. Do you understand what I mean? Are you stupid?"--He tried her again and again, then took the book from her and gave her another: "See, that is the opposite, it is comic, read that!"--"Yes, Petra read, but with the same result till she wearied him out."--"No, no!" he cried, "for heavens sake give over,--what do you want with the stage, what the deuce is it you want to act?"--"The play I saw yesterday."--"Aha! To be sure! well, and then?"--"Yes," said she, feeling a little bashful, "I thought it was so delightful, yesterday, but I have been thinking today it would be still more delightful if it had a good ending, and I would give it that."--"Eh, that is it? Well, to be sure! There's nothing to hinder; the author is dead. Of course, he is no longer correct, and you, who can neither speak, nor read, will improve his works;--yes, that is Norwegian!" Petra did not understand the words, she understood only that they went against her, and she began to fear. "Will you let me?" she asked softly.--"Certainly, Lord preserve us, there's nothing to hinder, be so good!--Listen," he said in a different tone, as he went close up to her, "you have no more idea of the drama than a cat; and you have no talent for either the comedy or the tragedy; I have tried you in both. Because you have a pretty face, and a fine figure, I suppose people have put it into your head that you could play much better than my wife, and so you will take the first part in my 'répertoire,' and make alterations to begin with;--yes, that is the Norwegians, they are the people that can do it."--Petra could hardly breathe, she struggled and struggled; at last she ventured to say: "Will you really not allow me?" He had been standing looking out of the window, and was certain she had gone; he now turned round in surprise, and was struck with her emotion, and the wonderful strength with which it was pourtrayed in her whole being; he looked at her a moment, then suddenly seizing the book, he said with a voice and manner as if nothing had happened before: "See, take this piece here, and read it slowly, let me hear your voice. Come now!" But she could not read, for she could not see the letters. "Don't be afraid!" At last she began, but coldly, without any spirit; he bade her read it over again with more feeling; but it was still worse, so he quietly took the book from her: "I have tried you in all ways," he said "so I have no responsibility. I assure you, my good girl, if I were to send my boots upon the stage, or I were to send you, the impression would be just the same--viz., a very remarkable one. So that must end the matter!" But as a last endeavour, Petra ventured entreatingly: "I believe though I understand it, if only I get----" "Yes, to be sure,--every fishing village understands it a great deal better than we; the Norwegian public is the most enlightened in the world."--"Come now, if you won't disappear, I must!" She turned to the door, and burst into tears. "I say," this violent outburst had thrown a new light on the subject; "I say, I suppose it isn't you that made such a disturbance in the theatre last night?"--She turned round, fiery red; "Yes, to be sure, I know you now, Fisher Girl! I was in company with a gentleman from your town after the play, he 'knew you well.' Ha! so that is why you wanted to get on the stage; you would try your tricks there,--I understand!--Listen: My theatre is a respectable establishment, and I defy all attempts to transform it. Go! Will you go, I say!"--and Petra went, sobbing fearfully, down the steps, and out into the street. She ran crying past all the people, and a lady at mid-day, running and crying in the street created, as may be imagined, a great sensation. People stopped, the dogs ran after her, and more followed. The whirr behind her reminded her of those awful nights in the attic chamber, she remembered the faces in the air and ran faster. But the remembrance grew more vivid with every step, the noise behind her increased, and when she arrived at the house and shut the street door, reached her room and locked herself in, she threw herself down in a corner to defend herself from the faces; she struck them off with her hands, and threatened them, then sinking down exhausted, she wept more quietly,--and was saved.

The same day towards evening, she left Bergen and started for the country; she did not know where to, but she would go where she was not known. She went in a carriole, the driver boy sitting on her trunk strapped on behind. It rained fast, she sat crouched together under a great rain hat, and looked uneasily at the mountain above her, and then at the precipice below. The forest before her was a dense mass of fog, teeming with spectres; the next moment she would enter it, but the fog was parting at every step she took towards it. A mighty rumbling that grew stronger and stronger increased the feeling that she was entering upon an unknown region, where everything had its own meaning and some dark and mysterious connection, where man was only a nervous traveller, who had yet to discover whether or not he could get further. The rumbling came from several waterfalls, that in the wet weather had grown up to battle, and now hurled themselves precipitately from rock to rock with a terrific crash. Now and then they passed over narrow bridges; she could see the water boiling and seething in the hollows below. Soon the road began to bend and wind down the mountain; here and there lay a cultivated field, and a few turf houses stood together; then again it turned up towards the forest and rumbling. She was wet through, and shivered, but still she would go further, as long as the day lasted,--further also the next day, ever deeper in, till she came to a place she dare trust herself to. Thereto He Himself would help her, the Almighty, who now led them through the darkness and the storm.