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.