RECONCILIATION.
From that day the dean was very little with his family; for one thing,
he was occupied with Christmas, and for another, he had not arrived at
any conclusion, whether or not the drama was lawful for the Christian;
if Petra but showed herself, he fell into a revery.
While the dean therefore was sitting in his study either with his
sermons or some work on Christian ethics before him, Odegaard was with
the ladies, whom he was constantly comparing. Petra was versatile,
never alike; he who would follow her, must study as in a book. Signe,
on the contrary, was so winning in her unvarying cordiality, her
movements were never unexpected; they were the reflection of her
being. Petra's voice had all colours, sharp and mild, and every
intermediate grade. Signe's possessed a peculiar harmony, but was not
changing--except to the father, who understood to distinguish its
tones. Petra was with one at a time; if she were with more, it was to
observe, certainly not to help. Signe had an eye to all and everybody,
and divided her attention without its being observed. If Odegaard spoke
about Signe with Petra, he heard a hopeless lover's complaint; but if
he talked about Petra with Signe, the words were very few. The girls
often talked together, and without constraint; but it was only upon
indifferent subjects.
To Signe, Odegaard owed a debt of gratitude; for it was to her he owed,
what he called his "new self." The first letter he received from her in
his great distress, was like a gentle touch upon his forehead. So
carefully she told how Petra had come to them, misunderstood and
persecuted, so delicately she added, that the accident of her arrival
might be the guidance of God, "that nothing should be rent in pieces;"
it sounded like a distant horn in the forest, as one stands and wonders
which direction to take.
Signe's letters followed him where he travelled, and were the thread he
held by. She thought in every line to lead Petra straight to his
embrace, but in reality she was doing just the opposite; for through
these letters, Petra's taste for art rose up before him; the key note
to her talents, which he had sought for himself in vain, Signe, without
knowing it, had constantly in view,--and as soon as he understood this,
he saw both his own and her mistake, and thereby became as a new man.
He watched himself narrowly in writing to Signe about that which her
letters had taught him. The first word must not come from Petra's
friends, but from Petra herself, that nothing should be hastened before
its time. But now he also saw Petra in a new light. These moments
constantly chasing one another, each one individually felt in full
power, but regarded ad infinitum, opposed to each other, what could
they be but the foreshadowing of an artist life? And the work must be
to unite them into a complete whole; otherwise it would be only
patchwork, and life itself unreal. Therefore: not too early to enter
upon her career! Reticence as long as possible, yes even opposition.
Thus occupied, before he was aware of it, Petra had once more become
the constant occupation of his mind, but with a DIFFERENT object. He
studied art from every point of view, and especially artists, most of
all, the artists of the stage. He saw much to appall a Christian, he
saw the enormous abuses, but did he not see the same around him, even
in the church itself? Though there were hypocritical ministers, the
calling was still the same, great, eternal. If the search after truth
wherever begun, gains power in life and poetry, should it not also
reach the stage? Having assured himself on this point, he was glad to
see from Signers letters, that Petra was developing her mind, and that
Signe was the right one to help her. And now he had returned to see and
thank the gentle guide, who knew not herself what she was to him.
But he had also come to see Petra again. How far had she got now? The
word had been spoken, he could therefore talk freely with her about it;
this was a relief to both, for thus they spoke not of the past.
In the meantime they were interrupted by guests from town, invited and
uninvited! The affair was already so far advanced, that a single well
employed opportunity must make all clear,--and this the guests brought
with them. A large party was invited to meet them, and when after
dinner, the gentlemen were together in the study, the conversation
turned upon the stage; for a chaplain had seen a work on Christian
ethics open upon the dean's table, and his eye had caught the appalling
word: Theatre. This led to a hasty discussion, in the midst of which
the dean entered; he had not been present at dinner, having been called
away to a dying bed; he was very serious, and neither ate, nor took any
part in the conversation; but he filled his pipe and listened. As soon
as Odegaard observed this, he joined in the conversation himself, but
for a long time he tried in vain to explain his views, for the chaplain
had a habit of exclaiming every time a link in the chain of evidence
was about to be adduced: "I deny it!" and then that which was about to
be a proof, must itself be proved; consequently the matter was always
going backwards; from the theatre, they had already passed to
navigation, and now to get something proved in that, they were just
going over to agriculture.
This was too much, so Odegaard elected himself chairman. There were
several ministers present besides the chaplain, there was also a
captain, a little swarthy man, with an immense abdomen, and a pair of
small legs that went stumping one after the other. Odegaard called upon
the chaplain to state his objections to the theatre. He began:
"Good men of even heathen times were opposed to the drama, Plato,
Aristotle, because it was ruinous to morals. Socrates it is true,
sometimes visited the theatre, but if any one concludes from that, that
he approved of it, I deny it; one must see much of which one does not
approve. The early Christians were expressly warned against the play,
vide Tertullian, and since the revival of the drama in later times,
earnest Christians have spoken and written against it, I name such men
as Spener and Francke; I name a writer on Christian ethics, as Schwarz,
I name Schleiermacher. ('Hear! hear!' cried the captain, for this name
he knew.) The two latter admit dramatic representations to be
allowable, and Schleiermacher even thinks that in a private company and
by amateurs, a good play may be performed, but he condemns the actors
on the stage. As a profession, it presents so many temptations to the
Christian, that he MUST avoid it. And is it not also a temptation to
the spectator? To be moved by fictitious suffering, to be elevated by a
fictitious paragon of virtue, such (which in reading one can better
defend oneself from,) entice us to believe, that we are ourselves what
we see before us, our energy and force of will are weakened by it, it
drags us down into the mere wish to see and hear, making us visionary.
Is it not so? Who are the frequenters of the theatre? Idlers in search
of amusement, voluptuaries who will be stimulated, vain people who wish
to be seen, visionaries who flee hither to escape the actual life
against which they dare not contend. Sin behind the curtain, sin before
it! I have never heard sincere Christians say anything else."
The Capt.: "I am beginning to tremble for myself; if I have been in
such a den of wolves each time I have attended the theatre, the
devil----" "Fie captain," said a little girl who had come in with them,
"you mustn't swear, or else you'll go to hell!"--"Aye my child, yes,
yes."--Then Odegaard rose to speak:
"Plato raised the same objections against poetry as against the stage,
and Aristotle's opinion is doubtful,--therefore I will leave them
alone. The early Christians did well to abstain from the HEATHEN
play,--I will also leave them alone. That earnest Christians in modern
times should have their scruples about the theatre, I can well
understand; I have had them myself. But if one admits that a poet has
liberty to write a drama, then an actor has liberty to play it, for in
writing, what other does a poet do than play it--in his thoughts, with
ardour, with passion, and 'whosoever looketh after a woman to lust
after her,' &c.--you know the words of Christ Himself. When
Schleiermacher says, that the drama may only be played privately and by
amateurs, it is the same as to assert, that the talents God has given
us, shall be neglected, whereas the meaning really is, that they shall
be developed to the highest possible perfection; and to this end have
we received them. We are all acting every day, when we imitate others
in joke or earnest. Where, in any single instance these powers outweigh
all others, I really wonder if such a one ceased to cultivate them, if
it would not soon be shown that THIS was sin. For he who does not
follow his proper calling, becomes unfit for another, leads an
unsettled wavering life,--in short becomes a far easier prey to
temptation. Where work and inclination fall together, much temptation
is locked out. Now if you say the calling is in itself too full of
temptation, well, every one feels it differently. To ME that
calling possesses the greatest temptation that dupes one to believe
he is righteous himself, because he bears the commands of the
Righteous,--dupes him to believe he himself is believing, because he
speaks to the belief of others, or more plainly said: 'To me the
ministerial calling has the greatest temptation of all.'" (Great uproar:
I deny it! Yes! Silence! I deny it! It's true! Silence!) The Captain:
"Well I never heard before that the pulpit was worse than the stage!"
Laughter and cries from all: "No, he never said it was." Captain: "Yes,
the deuce----" "No, no, captain, the devil will be coming!"--"Well, my
child, well, well!" And Odegaard took up the thread:
"All the temptation of being excited in a moment, of sinking down into
the mere wish to see and hear, of taking the models of virtue, and
without trouble appropriating their life as ours, this verily is also
present in the church!" (The same clamour again.)
The ladies could no longer hear this uproar, without finding out what
it was. Now the door was open. Odegaard seeing Petra among them, said
with emphasis: "It is true there are actors who get excited upon the
stage, then rush to church, and get excited there,--and still they are
the same. But in general actors, in common with seamen, are so often
placed in the direst extremity, (for the moment before they enter must
be awful!) and so often come face to face with the great, the
unexpected, are so often called to be instruments in the hands of the
Lord, that they bear in their hearts a fear and longing, a strong
feeling of unworthiness; and this we know, that Christ preferred to be
with publicans and penitent women. I give them no charter; verily the
greater their work, the greater their guilt if their work leads them
into rashness, or degenerates into loose frivolity. But as there is no
actor, who has not learnt, by a series of disappointments how worthless
applause and flattery is, although the most behave as though believing
in it,--in the same way we see their mistakes and faults, but we
do not know so well their own relation to them, and on that it
depends--considered from a Christian point of view."
Several rose, and began to speak all together, but--
"Fourteen years surely I must have been--"
sounded in from the piano, and they streamed into the room; for it was
Signe who was singing, and Signe's Swedish melodies and the way in
which she sang them, were most delightful. One song followed another,
and as the first melodies of the land, faithful messages from the heart
of a great people, had had an elevating effect, and they were now
standing in anticipation, Odegaard rose and asked Petra to recite a
poem. She must have been conscious of it, for her face was crimson. She
stepped forward at once,--though she trembled so that she was obliged
to hold fast by the back of a chair,--turned very pale and began:--
He could not get leave to go to sea,
His mother was weak, his father was old,
The farm was increasing a hundred fold:--
"Why should he with the Vikings roam?
Here he has all he can wish for at home."
But the youth in the clouds, as they onward sped,
Saw armed hosts to the battle led;
And the youth would pine when he saw the sun,
'Twas the King in state after victories won.
He pondered the sagas of ancient days,
He forgot his work in the Vikings' praise.
There came a morning, away went he,
To the outermost isle by the open sea,
To see the breakers come dashing in,
And list to the distant battle's din.
It was a day in the early spring,
When the voice of the storm is on the wing:
"Earth shall not ice-bound slumber longer!"--
A sight he saw,--his will grew stronger.
They lay a ship, in a steel grey cove,
Resting after a stormy raid,--
In sooth she seemed better inclined to rove,
Though her sail was bound and her anchor laid,
For the sail and the mast were going to and fro,
And the vessel was frothing scum with her bow.
On board they were having a little rest,
To eat and to sleep was their present behest;--
Up from the cliff they heard one calling,
--The words of a fool they seemed, thus falling,--
"Dare no one steer in a storm so strong,
Then give me the rudder;--ah! I long!"
Some looked up to the rocky brow,
Others nor cared to see just now;
None of them rose from the mid-day fare,
Down came a stone and felled two men there.
Up they sprang from deck and cheer,
Threw down the platters,--seized bow and spear;
Up whizzed the arrows,--while unprepared
He stood on the cliff and his will declared:
"Chieftain with grace wilt yield thy vessel,
Or longest thou first to strive and wrestle?"
To listen to such was but time to waste,
In answer a spear was hurled in haste,
It hit him not; and calmly he said:
"None wait for me in the halls of the dead,
But thou who afar the sea hast ploughed
Canst hasten home, or hie thee thither.--
All that under thee thou hast bowed
Must pass to me; so came I hither!
For me thou gatheredst, to me it falleth;
My time hath come, for me it calleth."
The other laughed from his height in scorn:
"Verily if thou indeed so longest,
Come prove thee to be my warrior strongest!"
"That can I not, I'm a _chieftain_ born.
I must command for I know my way;
The new can never the old obey."
But for the answer in vain he listened
Then down he sprang, his eyes they glistened:
"Ye warriors! your chieftain the duty owes
To prove to whom Odin his favour shows.
Then heroes! serve ye the one he aideth.
Shame to him that his yoke evadeth!"
Red in wroth grew the chieftain's face;
Sprang in the sea and swam to land;
The other leapt hastily down to the strand
And took him up in his strong embrace.
But the chieftain saw in the light of his eyes,
That his soul was of noble and lofty guise.
"Throw him arms across for none he weareth,"
On board he cried;--"if the day beareth
Thee victory, say that himself he gave
The sword that brought him a hasty grave."
The struggle waxed warm on the mountain side,
Each blow fell back with an echoing bomb;--
The wrothful "Dragon" snuffed in her fume,
Felled was her champion in his pride.
There rent a scream the mountains o'er,
Each man would revenge the mighty wrong;
From stem to stem there rose a throng,
And soon they stood on the rocky shore.
Then up the dying man swung his hand
To give amongst them his last command:
"A man must fall when his work is done;
The end of a hero song is grand;
Make him your chieftain,--a worthy one."
His lips grew white, his strength was past,
They hastened up as he breathed his last;
For him was a place of honour stored,
Thereto he pointed,--at Odin's board.
The new commander made no delay,
He sprang on a stone and the order gave:
"First raise a mound o'er the hero's grave,
And mind ye the noble deeds of his day.
But e'er the night shall the anchor be weighed,
Nor e'en by the dead must our journey be stayed."
The beacon was raised, the sail was spread,
The Dragon soon over the waters sped;
A song of remembrance clang o'er the wave
To him they had left in the island grave,--
An ode of welcome rang in the ear
Of the youth who stood at the helm to steer.
And just as his home was near in view,
And all were rushing down to the strand,
With cries of wonder to see the hand
That was steering Oger's sea-worthy shoe,--
Fell the evening sun upon sail and shield,
And red o'er the height by the battle field.
The vessel he steered so near the land,
That frightened they cried: "The ship will strand!"
He turned her round with a lurch and heave,
And he smiled upon them: "_Now_ have I leave?"
The poem was said tremblingly, solemnly, without a trace of
affectation. They stood as if a ray had shot up among them from the
earth, in all the splendours of the rainbow. No one spoke, no one
moved;--but the captain could no longer control himself, he sprang
up, puffed, stretched himself, and said: "Well I don't know how
it is with you; but when I am taken in this way, the deuce take me
if--"--"Captain, there you swore again," said the little girl, and held
up her finger threateningly; "the devil will come this very hour and
take you!"--"Well, it is all the same my child, let him come, for now I
must, the deuce take me, must have a patriotic song!" And so he began
with a voice so terrific, that one would have thought the great stomach
gave pressure as organ bellows--and the rest with him:--
I will watch our land,
I will build up our land
I will further its cause in my prayers, in my home,
I will increase its gains,
And its wants seek with pains
From the boundary out to the driving sea foam.
There is sunlight enough,
There are corn fields enough,
If we pull but together there's plenty of stuff.
Midst the labour and strife
There's poetical life
To raise up our land if our love's strong enough.
To search and to save
We went far o'er the wave,
In the countries around rise our watch towers of yore;
But our ensign to-day
Waveth further away,
And it waveth in vigour as never before.
And our future is great,
For the three cloven state
Shall be joined again, shall herself be once more.
Then whate'er you can spare
Let the neediest share,
And a gathering river shall treasure the store.
Scandinavia's ours,
And we'll value her powers,
What she was, what she is, what she shall be again,
And as love has its birth
In the dear homely earth,
From the seed corn of love shall she spring up again.
Signe came and put her arm round Petra, and drew her into the study
where no one was. "Really," she said, "you have so captivated me that I
must:----Petra, shall we be friends again!"--"Oh, Signe, then at last
you forgive me!"--"Yes, now I can, however things turn! Petra, do you
not love Odegaard?"--"Heavens, Signe!"--"Petra! I have thought it from
the very first day,--and now at last he has come to----All that I have
thought and done for you in these two and a half years has been with
this in view, and father has thought the same; I believe he has already
spoken to Odegaard about it."--"But Signe----!" "Hush," she put her
hand to Petra's lips and ran away, there was some one calling; it was
tea time.
There was wine on the table, as the dean had been absent from dinner;
he had been very grave all the afternoon, and now sat as though no one
were present, till they were about to leave the table, when he tapped
on his wine glass, and said: "I have a betrothal to announce!"--Every
one looked at the young girls who were sitting together, and these
neither of them knew whether to fall from their chairs or remain
seated.
"I have a betrothal to announce," repeated the dean, as though he found
it difficult to proceed. "I must confess that at first it was not just
what I wished."--All the guests looked at Odegaard in astonishment, and
their amazement knew no bounds when they saw him sitting quietly
looking at the dean.--"To speak plainly, I thought that he was not
worthy of her."--The guests here became so embarrassed that no one dare
longer look up, and as the girls had not ventured to do so at all, the
dean had but one face to talk to, and that was Odegaard's, who
meanwhile was enjoying perfect composure. "But now," continued the
dean, "now, when I have learnt to know him better, it has ended in my
doubting whether she is worthy of HIM, so noble does he appear to me;
for it is Art, the great dramatic Art betrothed to Petra, my foster
daughter, my dear child; may it go well with you! I tremble at the
thought, but that which belongs together must go together. God be with
you, my daughter!" In a moment she was in his arms.
As no one sat down again, the whole company naturally left the table.
Petra went up to Odegaard, who drew her into the furthest window; he
had something to say to her now, but she must first say: "I owe it all
to you!"--"No, Petra; I have been only a kind brother; it was a great
sin of mine that I wished to be more; for if it had happened it would
have hindered your whole career."--"Odegaard!" They held each other's
hands, but did not look up; a moment after, he left her.
The day following Odegaard left the deanery.
* * *
Just after Christmas, Petra received a letter with a large official
seal; she felt quite nervous and took it in to the dean to open. It was
from the magistrate in her native town, and read thus: "Whereas Pedro
Ohlsen, who yesterday departed this life, has left a will as follows:
'That which I leave behind me, which is exactly noted down in the
account book, that is in the blue chest, standing in my room at Gunlaug
Aamund's on the bank, and of which the said Gunlaug has the key, even
as she alone knows the whole matter,--I wish,--if she, Gunlaug Aamund,
gives her mind thereto, which she need not do unless she likes, to
fulfil the condition which I have named, which she alone who is the
only one who knows it, can fulfil,--that it should pass to Miss Petra,
daughter of the said Gunlaug Aamund, that is to say, if Miss Petra
thinks it worth while to remember a decrepit old man, to whom she has
done good though she did not know it, as she could not do, and who has
been his only comfort in his last years, wherefore he has thought to
give her a little joy in return, which she must not despise. God be
merciful to me a sinner.
Pedro Ohlsen.'
I beg to ask if you will communicate with your mother respecting it, or
you wish me to do it."
The next mail brought a letter from the mother, written by Pastor
Odegaard, the only one in whom she dare now confide; it contained the
information that she was willing to fulfil the requirement, namely to
inform Petra who Pedro was.
This information and the legacy gave Petra a peculiar feeling; it
seemed as if everything were now putting itself to rights; it was
another reminder of her departure.
Then it was for her artist life that old Peer Ohlsen had fiddled his
money together at weddings and dances, and son and grandson in
different ways, by little and little added thereto. The sum was not
great but it was sufficient to bring her further out into the world,
and thus more quickly forward.
The thought rose as sunshine before her, that now she could repay her
mother, her mother should come to her, every day she could give her
some happiness. She wrote a long letter to her every post day, she
could scarcely wait for the answer, and when it came it was a bitter
disappointment, for Gunlaug thanked her, but observed, "that each was
best in his own place." Then the dean promised to write, and when
Gunlaug got his letter, she could no longer contain herself, she must
tell her sailors and other acquaintances, that her daughter was going
to be something great, and wanted her to go to her. Thus the matter
became a very important topic in the town, it was discussed on the
quay, in the boats, and in all kitchens. Gunlaug, who up to this time
had never named her daughter, now spoke of nothing but "my daughter
Petra," even as no one spoke of anything else to her.
But still though it grew near to the time of Petra's departure, Gunlaug
had not given her consent, which grieved the daughter much. It was
expressly promised her on the contrary, both by the dean and Signe,
that they would be present when she should make her first appearance.
The snow began to disappear from the mountains, the fields to grow a
little green. She had only a few more days at the deanery, and she and
Signe went round and bade farewell to all and everything,--especially
to the places they mutually held dear. Then they were informed by a
peasant, that Odegaard was up at Oygarene, and would soon be coming
down to them. The girls both grew very shy, and ceased to go out.
When Odegaard came, he was lighthearted and happy as never seen before.
His errand in the district was to establish a free high school, and at
first, till he got a teacher, he meant to conduct it himself;
afterwards he would carry out other plans. In this way he would repay
he said, some of the debt his father owed to the district,--and his
father had promised to come to him as soon as the house was ready. It
was to be near the deanery. The dean, as well as Signe, was exceedingly
pleased at the prospect; Petra too, but she felt it a little strange,
that he should settle down there just as she was leaving.
The dean wished that the day before Petra's departure they should
partake of the Lord's supper together. So a quiet solemnity fell over
the last days, and when they spoke it was in a half whisper. In these
days the dean never passed by Petra without stroking her hair, and at
the holy ceremony in church, at which with the exception of an
officiating clergyman and the sexton, there were none present but
themselves, he spoke particularly to her, and spoke as he would do at
their own table on a birthday or holiday. It would now soon be shown,
he said, whether the time that in prayer for Divine grace she this day
brought to a close, had laid a good foundation. No man's life is really
perfected before he reaches his right vocation. Our work is revealed to
us, and he who comes with truth, and holds himself worthy, will reap
the greatest and most lasting harvest. It is true the Lord often makes
use of the unworthy also, even as in a higher sense we are all
unworthy. He makes use of our longings. But there is a vocation that no
man can discover from his longings alone, and that he supposed she was
aiming at; every one must strive to reach the highest. He bade her come
frequently to see them, for it is the intention of the church that
companionship in faith should help and strengthen. If she had erred,
she would here always meet with sympathy, and if she herself understood
not that she had strayed, they would most affectionately tell her.
The next day at the parting meal, he bade her the most tender farewell,
"He was of her friend's opinion," he said, "that she ought to begin her
career ALONE. In the struggle she would meet, she would find that it
was good to know, that in one place there lived a few on whom she could
rely; only to know with certainty that they were constantly PRAYING for
her,--she would see that it would help!"--After the adieu to Petra, he
turned with a welcome to Odegaard. "To be united in love to one and the
same is the most beautiful introduction to love one another." The dean
certainly never thought in this greeting, of that which first made
Signe red, then Petra; and if Odegaard; they did not know, for neither
of them ventured to look at him.
But when the horses were at the door, and the three friends stood
around the young girl, and all the servants round the carriage, Petra
whispered, as for the last time she embraced Signe: "I know I shall
soon hear important news from you; may God bless it!"
An hour after she saw only the white pinnacles that showed where the
place lay.