The Fisher Maiden/Chapter XI

After that day the priest spent but little time with the family; partly because he was busy getting ready for Christmas, and partly because he was engaged in studying whether the drama was allowable or not. The mere sight of Petra produced dismay and confusion in his mind.

While the priest, therefore, sat in his study, either writing his sermons or poring over a volume of Christian ethics, Ödegaard devoted his time to the ladies, between whom he was constantly making comparisons. Petra had a most changeable nature, and was never the same person. Whoever would learn to know her would have to study her as diligently as he would study a book. Signe, on the other hand, was most refreshing in her unvarying cordiality; her movements were never unexpected, for her very nature was reflected therein. Petra’s voice had every color of tone; it was both shrill and gentle, and possessed every degree of intensity. Signe’s was peculiarly pleasing, but ​it lacked flexibility,—excepting to her father, who, in a masterly manner, was able to discriminate its slightest variations. Petra’s mind was occupied by but one thing at a time: if it chanced to be attracted by different things at the same moment, it was merely to observe, never to offer any help or interference. Signe, on the other hand, had an eye for everything and everybody, and divided her attention in such a way that she scarcely seemed to be bestowing it on anything. Whenever Ödegaard spoke of Signe to Petra, the latter talked like a hopeless lover; but when he mentioned Petra to Signe, Signe became very reticent. The two girls often talked together, without restraint, but they conversed only about indifferent matters.

To Signe, Ödegaard owed a great debt of gratitude; for to her he was indebted for what he called his “new self.” The first letter he received from Signe in his great sorrow seemed like a soft hand laid on his brow. She related so cautiously how Petra had come to them, misunderstood and persecuted, and explained with so much delicacy how her coming must have been the result of a Divine interference, “that no life might be blighted,” that it sounded like a distant call in the forest when one has gone astray and knows not which way to take.

​Signe’s letters followed him wherever he went, and were the threads which bound him to life. She expected that every line would lead Petra directly to his arms, but the result was just the reverse; for the letters revealed the fact that nature had intended Petra to be an artist. This central point in her genius, which Ödegaard himself had vainly sought, Signe was unconsciously, but none the less constantly, keeping in view, and as soon as he realized this fact he saw both her mistake and his own, and it made him a new man.

He took good care not to tell Signe what her letters had taught him. The first word should not come from Petra’s friends, but from her own lips, in order that there might be no undue haste. But from the moment when he made this discovery, Petra had appeared to him in a new light. Why, of course, these ever-changing impulses, each felt in full power, but all a series of mutual contradictions, what were they but the beginning of an artist’s life? The task must be to gather all these impulses into one grand whole, else all would be mere patchwork and her life a failure. She must not, therefore, be permitted to enter too early an artist’s career! Her wishes must be ​met with silence as long as possible, nay, if necessary, with opposition.

Occupied in this manner with Petra’s future, she became, before he was aware of it, the sole object of his thoughts; but he was working for her advancement and not to secure her for himself. He now began to study carefully everything connected with art; he looked into the life of artists and particularly into that of actors. He found much that must shock a Christian, and saw that there were many and great abuses. But did he not find them everywhere about him? Were they not in the church, too? Though hypocrites might be found among the priests, still their calling was a high and noble one. When the work for truth, which is going on everywhere, shall be felt in life and in poetry, will it not reach the stage also?

He gradually gained confidence in the case he had in hand. It afforded him great pleasure to learn from Signe’s letters that Petra rapidly progressing, and that Signe was just the one to help her. He had now come home to visit and thank this guardian angel, who was not at all conscious of what she had been to him.

But he had also returned to see Petra once ​more. How far had she advanced toward the goal? The word had been spoken. He could therefore freely talk with her about her future. It was a pleasant thought to both of them, for it enabled them to avoid speaking of the past.

Meanwhile, they were soon interrupted by guests from the city, both invited and uninvited! Still matters had so far developed that a single well-improved opportunity would be sufficient to clear away every obstacle—and this opportunity was afforded by the arrival of the guests. A large party was invited to meet them, and immediately after dinner, while the gentlemen were together in the study, the conversation turned upon the drama; for the chaplain of the diocese had seen a work on Christian ethics lying open on the priest’s table, and had there discovered the terrible word “theatre.” An animated discussion followed, and in the midst of it the priest came in. He had not been present at the dinner-table, having been called away to see a sick person. He was in a grave mood, he refused to eat, nor did he join in the conversation. But he filled his pipe and listened. As soon as Ödegaard noticed that the priest was sitting quiet and paying attention, he also took part, but his efforts to present his views were for a long time fruitless, ​for the chaplain had a way of exclaiming, whenever a conclusion was to be drawn from the proofs already presented: “I object!” and so the proofs themselves had first to be proved. The consequence was that the discussion went backwards instead of forwards. The debate had already passed from the theatre to navigation, and now in order to settle a point in regard to navigation, it had gone into agriculture.

But at this juncture Ödegaard appointed the priest as chairman. Several other priests were present and a sea-captain. The latter was a small black-haired man with a very corpulent form. He walked on a pair of legs which beat the floor like as many drumsticks. Ödegaard gave the chaplain the floor in order that he might have an opportunity of presenting in a connected statement his objections to the theatre. Accordingly the chaplain began:—

“Even upright men among the heathens were opposed to the drama. Plato and Aristotle objected to it on the ground that it corrupted the morals. I admit that Socrates occasionally went to the theatre, but if anybody, from that fact, draws the conclusion that he approved the drama, then I deny it; for we have to see many things that we do not approve. The first Christians were zealously ​warned against the stage. Read Tertullian! Since the drama has been revived in modern times earnest Christians have both spoken and written against it. I may refer you in this connection to Spener and Francke, and to such writers on Christian ethics as Schwartz and Schleiermacher.”

“Listen!” exclaimed the captain, who recognized the last name.

“The two latter,” continued the chaplain, “admit that dramatic literature is allowable, and Schleiermacher goes so far as to think that a good play may be performed by amateurs before a private company, but he totally condemns acting as a profession. The life of an actor is so full of temptations that it is our duty to shun it. But is not the stage a temptation to the spectators? To be moved by feigned suffering, to be stimulated by fictitious examples of virtue (a danger we can better guard ourselves against when we read), leads us to believe that it is ourselves we see represented. It weakens the will and destroys all energy. It awakens a morbid appetite for hearing and seeing strange things and makes us the slaves of a sickly fancy. Is not this true? Who are the people that mostly attend the theatre? Are they not idlers, who want to be amused, ​sensualists, who must have their baser appetites gratified, vain men and women, who desire to parade themselves before the gaping multitude, visionary people, who fly hither and thither from the realities of life, which they have neither the strength nor perseverance to battle with? There is sin before the curtain as well as behind it! I never knew earnest Christians to have any other opinion on the subject.”

“You really frighten me,” said the captain. “If I have been in such a pitfall, every time I have been at the theatre, then the deuce take me; if”—

“Fy! captain,” said a little girl, who had entered the room, “you must not swear, for if you do, you will go to hell.”

“You are right, my child, you are right.”

But Ödegaard took the floor:—

“Plato made the same objections to poetry as to the drama, and what Aristotle’s opinion was is doubtful. I therefore pay no attention to them. But the first Christians did well to keep away from heathen theatres, so I may safely pass them by, too. That earnest Christians in modern times have had scruples in regard to the drama, even when it was produced in a Christian community, I can understand, for I have myself been in doubt on the subject. But ​if it be granted that it is proper for the poet to write a drama, then it must be proper for the actor to act it; for what else does the poet do but act it mentally when he writes it with enthusiasm and passion? and we know that, according to Christ’s own words, he who sins in his thoughts is guilty. When Schleiermacher says that the drama must only be acted privately by amateurs, then he asserts that the talents which God has given us are to be neglected, while the Creator designed that they should be developed to the greatest possible perfection; for to that end they were given. We are all actors every day of our lives, when we in jest or in earnest mimic others or make their opinions our own. This talent of imitating predominates in some persons, and then I would like to know whether he would not be the sinner who neglects to develop it. He who does not follow his calling becomes unfit for other work, leads an unsettled and disordered life, in short he falls a far easier prey to his passions than if he followed the calling pointed out to him by his faculties. Where work and pleasure are one, temptations are excluded. But, it is claimed, the calling of an actor is in its very nature full of temptation. Well, there are many kinds of temptation. To my mind ​that calling is most apt to lead us into temptation which induces us to think ourselves righteous, because we bring a message from the Righteous One, which deludes us to believe we have faith, because we preach faith to others, or, to speak more plainly, to my mind the priest’s calling presents the greatest temptations of all.”

Then followed a noisy interruption.

“I object,” cried the chaplain.

“He is right,” said some one else.

“Order!” demanded the priest, who presided.

“I object,” repeated the chaplain.

“He is quite right!” was shouted by an other.

“Order!” insisted the president.

“I never heard before that priests were worse than actors,” interposed the captain.

This caused great laughter, and a shout came from all sides:—

“That is not what he said.”

The captain: “I say he did, the deuce take me, if”—

“There! There! captain, the devil will soon be after you,” said the little girl.

“You are right, my child, you are quite right,” he answered.

Ödegaard resumed the broken thread of his remarks:—

​“The danger of having our emotions excited, of acquiring a morbid appetite for hearing passionate and fanciful declamations, and of appropriating to ourselves the character of models in virtue is certainly present in the church no less than at the theatre.”

The statement again caused great clamor and confusion, which awakened a curiosity among the ladies to learn what was the matter. They opened the door, and when Ödegaard saw Petra among them, he said with more emphasis:—

“I admit that there are actors whose emotions are excited on the stage, and who when in church are no less deeply moved, and yet continue to be as wicked as ever. I am free to admit that there are on the stage many idle babblers, who would have been absolutely worthless in any other profession, while on the stage they fill a place for which they are adapted. But, as a rule, actors are like sailors, frequently placed in the most trying positions; for the moments preceding the début are apt to be terrible! Actors frequently become the instrument of some grand work in the hand of Providence; they are often brought face to face with unexpected, grand, and sublime scenes. All this fills their hearts with fears and aspira​tions and with a sense of unworthiness, and we know that Christ chose his companions among publicans and penitent women. I accord no license to actors. The greater I deem their mission in the land—and the fact that a country produces so few really great actors is sufficient proof of the greatness of the task—the greater is their guilt if they permit themselves to be governed by rancorous feelings or to degenerate into loose frivolity. But there is no actor who has not been taught by a series of disappointments how insignificant is applause and flattery, although the majority pretend to have faith in both. Thus we see their mistakes and faults, but we do not sufficiently understand their own relation to them, and everything depends on that.”

As Ödegaard resumed his seat, several gentlemen took the floor, and every one of them began to speak at the same time, when a voice was heard at the piano in the adjoining room, singing,—

and all the gentlemen hastened into the parlor.

It was Signe who was singing, and the guests knew of nothing more beautiful than her Swedish ballads. One song followed another, and now when these finest popular melodies to be ​found in the whole world, the most faithful expression of the soul of a great people, had produced an elevating effect upon the auditors, who listened with expectant rapture, Ödegaard rose and requested Petra to recite a poem. She must have anticipated it, for a scarlet blush overspread her face. But she immediately came forward, though she trembled and had to lean on the back of a chair for support, and then with a countenance pale as death, she began:—

The poem was recited with a trembling voice, but with dignity and without the slightest trace of affectation. Her audience stood electrified, for a ray of sublimity, beautified by all the gorgeous colors of the rainbow, was beaming upon them. Not a word was spoken and no one dared stir; but the captain was no longer able to restrain himself. He sprang to his feet, and, puffing and gesticulating, he exclaimed:—

“I do not know how the rest of you feel, but ​for my part, when I am surprised in this manner, then the deuce may take me, if”—

“Captain! there you swore again,” said the little girl, pointing at him with a menacing finger; “the devil will come and take you right away.”

“Well it makes no difference, my child; let him come, if he wants to, for now, the deuce take me, I must have a national song.”

Without any other special urging, Signe took her seat at the piano, and the whole company joined, with merry voices, in the following song:—

Here Signe rose from the piano, approached Petra, put her arm about her waist, and drew her into her father’s study, which was empty.

“Petra, shall we be friends again?”

“Oh, Signe, then you do at last forgive me!”

“I could do anything now! Petra, do you love Ödegaard?”

“Good heavens, Signe!”

“Petra! I have thought so ever since the first day,—and I supposed that he was now at length come to—all that I for two years and a half have thought or done for you, has been done with this object in view, and father has been of the same opinion. I am sure he has talked with Ödegaard about it before this.”

“But, Signe!”—

“Hush!”

Signe laid her hand on Petra’s lips, and has​tened out of the room. Somebody had called her. The guests were asked to sit down to tea.

There was wine on the table, because the priest had been absent from dinner. During the supper the host sat very quiet and very earnest, as if there had been no guests at the table. But when the others were about to rise he tapped his wine-glass and said:—

“I have a betrothal to announce!”

All fixed their eyes on the young ladies, who sat side by side scarcely knowing whether they should sink under the table or retain their seats.

“I have a betrothal to announce!” the priest repeated, as if finding it difficult to make a beginning.

“I am free to confess that at first I was not in favor of it.”

All the guests looked at Ödegaard, in great amazement, but their astonishment knew no bounds when they saw him quietly looking at the host.

“To tell the truth, I did not think the bridegroom worthy of the bride.”

Here the guests became so embarrassed that no one dared look up, and the courage of the young ladies having failed them long ago, the priest had only one countenance to speak to, ​and that was Ödegaard’s, who meanwhile was enjoying the most blissful composure.

“But now,” continued the priest, “now that I have become better acquainted with him, the result is that I am not sure that she is worthy of him, so much has he grown in my estimation. The groom’s name is Art, the great Histrionic Art, and his betrothed is Petra, my foster-daughter, my beloved child. May your union be a happy one! I tremble at the thought, but what God has joined together let not man put asunder. The Lord be with you, my daughter!”

In a trice Petra had crossed the floor and thrown herself into the priest’s arms.

As none of the guests resumed their seats, they all, of course, left the table. But Petra approached Ödegaard, who led her away to the farthest window-corner. He had something he would say to her, but she would not let him speak before she had said,—

“To you I owe it all!”

“No, Petra!” he answered; “I have only acted the part of a good brother. It was wrong of me to wish to become more; for had that happened your whole career would have been a failure.”

“Ödegaard!”

​They were holding each other’s hands, but their eyes did not meet. After a little while he let go of her hands and turned away. But she threw herself upon a chair and wept.

The next day Ödegaard left the parsonage.

Toward spring Petra received a large letter, bearing a huge official seal. It frightened her, and she took it to the priest, who opened and read it. It was from the mayor of her native town, and its contents were as follows:—

“Pedro Ohlsen, who died yesterday, left the following will:—

“‘The property which I leave, of which there is a complete inventory in my account book, which will be found in the blue chest which stands in my room in the house of Gunlaug Aamundsdatter near the mountain, to which room the aforesaid Gunlaug has the key, and she alone is acquainted with the whole matter,—I hereby bequeath (provided the said Gunlaug Aamundsdatter gives her consent, which she cannot do unless she permits that the condition herewith inclosed and which she alone, as the only one who knows the facts, can perform, be fulfilled) to Jomfru Petra, the daughter of the aforesaid Gunlaug Aamunds​datter, provided said Jomfru Petra thinks it worth while to remember an old, sick man, to whom she has been kind, though she was not aware of it, for it was not possible for her to know it, and to whom she has been a joy in his closing years, wherefore he has deemed it proper to do her a small favor in return, which he trusts she will not despise. May God be merciful to me a poor sinner!

“I therefore take the liberty of inquiring whether you will apply directly to your mother in regard to this matter or whether you wish to have me attend to the business for you.”

The next day brought a letter from Petra’s mother, written by the priest Ödegaard, the only person to whom she could confide these matters. The letter stated that she gave her consent and fulfilled the required condition, which was that she should inform Petra of Pedro’s relation to her.

These tidings and the bequest awakened peculiar emotions in Petra’s breast. It seemed as if all her hopes and aspirations were now to be realized. It was another indication that her time for leaving the parsonage was near at hand.

​Thus old Per Olsen had fiddled at weddings and dances, Per Olsen and his son and grandson had in various ways toiled and labored, for the purpose of aiding Petra in her career as an artist. The sum was not large, but it was sufficient to give her a start in the world and hasten her progress.

Like a ray of sunshine into her mind came the thought that now her mother could come and live with her. She would now be able to be a joy to her mother every day and thus atone for all the sorrow she had caused her! She sent her a long letter by every mail, and could hardly wait for the answer. When it came it proved a great disappointment, for Gunlaug thanked her, but thought it would be better for “each to remain in her respective place.” The priest now promised to write, and when Gunlaug received his letter she could no longer resist their entreaties. She had to tell her guests and acquaintances that her daughter was to be something great somewhere, and that she had sent for her to come and live with her. This turned the matter into a very important subject of gossip in the town. It was discussed on the piers, in the ships, and in every kitchen. Gunlaug, who up to this time had never mentioned her daughter, henceforth talked of noth​ing else than “my daughter Petra,” and no one henceforth talked on any other topic to Gunlaug.

The time for Petra’s departure was drawing near, but Gunlaug had not yet given a decisive answer, and this was a source of great trouble to the daughter. On the other hand, she received a solemn promise from the priest and Signe, that they would both come to the city and be present at her first appearance on the stage.

The snow was beginning to disappear from the mountains, and the meadows were gradually growing green. The life which is awakened by the coming of spring in the fields among the mountains is as full of energy as the longing was deep. The people become more elastic in their walk; they do their work with more alacrity, and their hearts are filled with a longing to travel and find out what there is beyond the lofty mountains that shut them in on every side. Although Petra, too, was filled with yearning, she still loved the place and everything in it more than ever now that she was to leave. It seemed as though she had neglected her surroundings heretofore, as though she now for the first time appreciated their ​beauties. Having only a few days left to remain, she and Signe walked about, bidding adieu to everybody and everything, and taking a parting look at the places which had become so endeared to them. Then it was announced to them by a peasant that Ödegaard was up at the Öygards and that he was about to come down and pay them a visit. The announcement greatly excited both the girls, and they ceased their rambling walks in the neighborhood.

But when Ödegaard came he was more cheerful and happy than he had ever been seen before. His errand in the parish was to open a popular high school and to manage it himself in the early stages until he secured a suitable teacher. Later he designed to set other projects afoot. In this way he would pay, he said, a part of his father’s debt to the parish, and his father had promised to come and live with him as soon as the school building was finished. Both the priest and Signe were more than pleased with this accession to the neighborhood. Petra, too, felt happy, but still it seemed strange to her that he should take up his abode in the place just as she was leaving it forever.

It was the priest’s desire that they together should celebrate the Holy Communion the day ​before Petra’s departure. Thus a quiet solemnity pervaded the last days of her stay, and when they talked it was in a subdued tone. All seemed imbued with this sentiment, and Petra spoke with emotions of profound seriousness, as her eyes rested for the last time upon the scenes around her. Thoughts of her past experiences crowded into her mind. She was making up her account with her former self. Hitherto she had never looked into the past, but only into the future. Now her whole life stood before her from her childhood up to the present moment; the first enchanting Spanish ballads again sounded in her ears; the many mistakes she had made and all the confused aspirations of her childhood and youth were one by one taken up and reviewed, just as one would examine old patterns. If there was anything she happened to forget there would be something at hand to serve as a reminder; for each object was in her mind closely associated with some thought or other. Especially did the piano recall a number of associations that almost overwhelmed her. She would sit down by it without being able to play a note, and if Signe played she could scarcely remain in the room. She was happiest when alone. This Ödegaard and Signe understood, and respected ​her feelings. Everybody regarded her with a sad kindliness, and the priest never passed her during these days without stroking her hair.

At length the day came. The atmosphere was hazy and the sky was half covered with clouds. The snow was melting on the mountains and the fields were growing more and more green. The four persons remained each in his own room until the hour came for them to go together to the church. Besides them there was no one present except the deacon and a priest who had been invited to officiate, as Signe’s father was to partake of the Holy Communion. But the latter had determined to preach the communion sermon himself, for he had some words of encouragement to say to his foster-child, whom he was soon to lose. He spoke as he was wont when they on some birthday or church festival were sitting at his own table. Time would soon show, he said, whether the period which she now was closing in prayer to God for mercy had laid a good foundation for her future. No person becomes perfectly true in all his relations before he has found his right calling. Hers was a teacher’s calling, and he who labored earnestly and honestly and preserved his character free from stain, would reap the greatest and most lasting harvest. It ​was true, he said, that God also often employed unworthy instruments; and in a higher sense we were all unworthy; but He accomplished his ends by making use of our aspirations and desires. There was, however, one kind of teaching which no man could find in his desires alone, and he hoped she would try to attain to it; we must all aim at the highest and greatest perfection. He gave her a most cordial invitation to come and visit them often, for the very object of Christian fellowship is that it shall help and strengthen our faith. If she should stray from the right path she would be most apt to find compassion in her old home, and should she be unable to understand her mistake, they would be able to warn her with more affection than anybody else.

After partaking of the sacrament they returned as they had come, and the remainder of the day each one spent in solitude; but Petra and Signe sat much of the night together in Petra’s room.

The next day Petra was ready for her journey. At the parting meal the priest bade her the most tender farewell. He agreed, he said, with her friend in this, that she ought to begin her career with the preparation she now had, and begin alone. In the struggle which was ​before her she would find how good it is to know that in one spot on earth there was a small band on whom she could with certainty rely. Only to feel sure that she was constantly remembered in their prayers,—she would find how much help there is in that.

After thus taking leave of Petra he addressed a word of welcome to Ödegaard. To be united in love in a common work was, he remarked, the most beautiful beginning of mutual affection. By this toast the priest surely did not have in his mind that which in his words brought the blush first to Signe’s cheeks and then to Petra’s. Whether Ödegaard turned red in the face, they did not know, for neither dared look at him.

But when the horses stood before the door, and the three friends had formed a circle about the young girl, while all the servants were gathered around the carriage, Petra whispered, as she for the last time embraced Signe,—

“I know that I soon shall hear important news from you. May God bless you!”

An hour later she saw only the snow-capped mountain-tops, which pointed out to her where the parsonage stood.