Mary, Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson [book series for 10 year olds .txt] 📗

The sister, however, managed to give another direction to the girl's thoughts. She said: "You ought to be married to each other first." Marit looked at her and replied: "Yes, you are right. Of course we must be." And this thought began to occupy her mind so much that her grief became less acute. Anders had not been asked; but there was no necessity that he should be.

Then came the first letter from Hans. After telling about his uncle's funeral--how he had made all the arrangements, and what they were--he offered to take over his uncle's business and property.

Anders placed unlimited confidence in his brother; the offer was accepted; hence the journey was given up as needless. As soon as the necessary investigations and valuations had been made, Hans named his figure, and asked his brother if he would not invest this sum in the business. The bank deposits and other securities were sent over at once. These alone produced a sum sufficient not only to pay Anders' debts, but also to allow Marit to make all the improvements at Krogskogen which she fancied. Anders wished her to keep the whole fortune in her own hands, but she ridiculed the idea. So he went into partnership with his brother, and was thenceforth, according to Norwegian ideas, a very wealthy man.

Some months after their marriage a change came over Marit. She gave way to strange impulses, seemed unable to distinguish clearly between dream and reality, and was possessed by a desire to make changes in everything that was under her care, both at home and in their house in town. The people who rented part of the latter had to move. She wished to have the house to herself.

Much of her husband's time was occupied in carrying out her plans, more in watching over herself. His gratitude did not find much expression in words; it was to be read in his eyes, in his increased reverence of manner, and above all in his tender care. He was afraid of losing what had come to him so unexpectedly, or of something giving way. His humility led him to feel that his happiness was undeserved.

Marit clung to him closer than ever. Two expressions she never tired of repeating: "You are my father--and more!" and: "You have the most beautiful eyes in the world; and they are mine." Gradually she gave up many of her wonted occupations. In place of them she took to reading aloud to him. From her childhood she had been accustomed to read to her father; this practice was to be begun again. She read American literature, chiefly poetry--read it in the chanting style in which English verse is recited, and carried conviction by her own sincerity. Her voice was soft; it took hold of the words gently, repeated them quietly, as if from memory.

Then came the time when they went every day together to the hot-house. The flowers there were the harbingers of what was growing within her; she wished to see them every day. "I wonder if they are talking about it," she said.

And one day, when winter had given the first sign of departure from the coast, when they two had gathered the first green leaves in the border beneath the sunny wall, she fell ill and knew that the great hour had come. Without excessive previous suffering, and with her hand in his, she bore a daughter. This had been her wish. But it was not her lot to bring up her child; for three days later she herself was dead.



THE NEW MARIT

The doctor long feared that Krog, too, would die--of pure over-exertion. During his long solitude he had been unaccustomed to give as much of himself, or to receive as much, as life with Marit demanded and gave. Not until she died did it become apparent how weak he was, how little power of resistance was left him. It took months to restore the feeble remnant so far that he could again bear to have people about him. They told him that the child had been taken to his sister's. They asked him if he would like to see it. He turned away almost angrily. The first thing that seriously occupied his thoughts when he grew stronger was the disposal of his business. About this he consulted with a relation, a cross-grained bachelor, generally known as "Uncle Klaus." Through him the business was sold; but not the house in which it was carried on; this was to remain exactly as it was, in remembrance of Marit.

Anders Krog's first walk was down to the chapel and the grave; and this told upon him so terribly that he became ill again. As soon as he recovered, he announced that it was his intention to go abroad and to remain abroad. His sister came to him in alarm: "This cannot be true. You surely do not mean to leave us and your child?"

"Yes," answered he, bursting into tears; "I cannot bear to live in these rooms."

"But you will at least see the child before you go!"

"No! no! Anything rather than that!"

And he left without seeing her.

But it was, naturally, the child that drew him home again. When she was about three years old she was photographed, and that photograph was irresistible. Such a likeness to her mother, such childlike charm, he could not stay away from. From Constantinople, where he received it, he wrote: "It has taken me nearly three years to go through again the experiences of one. I cannot say that I am in complete possession of them all yet. Many more are certain to recur to me when I see the places again where we were together. But the deeper life and thoughts of these three years have at least taught me no longer to dread these places. On the contrary, I am longing to see them."

The meeting with the new Marit was a joy. Not at once, for she naturally began by being afraid of the strange man with the large eyes. But this made the joy all the greater when she gradually, cautiously, approached him. And when she at last sat upon his knee with her two new dolls, a Turkish man and woman, and shoved them up against his nose to make him sneeze, because "auntie" had sneezed, he said, with tears in his eyes: "I have had only one meeting that was sweeter."

She came, with her nurse, to live with him. Their first walk together was to her mother's grave, on which he wished her to lay flowers. She did it, but was determined to take them away with her again. All their efforts were in vain. The nurse at last picked others for her; but these she would not have; she wanted her own. They were obliged to let her take them and to make her lay the new ones on the grave. Anders thought: This is not like her mother.

The attempt was repeated. Mother's grave was to have fresh flowers every day, and Marit was to lay them there. Anders divided the flowers into two bunches; he carried the one and she the other. She was to leave hers and have his to take home again. But this plan succeeded no better; indeed, worse; for when they were ready to leave the churchyard, she insisted that he, too, should take his flowers back with him. He was obliged to give in to her. Next day he tried something different. She carried flowers to her mother's grave, and he gave her sweets to induce her to let them lie there. Yes, she would give up the flowers in exchange for the sweets, which she put into her mouth. But when they were ready to go, she was determined to have the flowers too. He was quite cast down.

It then occurred to him to tell her that Mother was cold; Marit must cover her up. She thereupon proposed that Mother should come home to her own bed. Her father had told her that the empty bed beside his was Mother's; now she constantly asked if Mother were not coming soon. She could not come, he said; she must lie out there in the cold. This produced the desired effect. Marit herself spread the flowers over the grave and let them lie. On the way home she repeated several times: "Mother is not cold now."

Anders wondered what she understood by "Mother." He wished her to be able to recognise her mother's portraits, but before showing her them, exercised her eye with pictures of animals and things. From these he proceeded to photographs of his sister, of himself, and of others whom she knew. When she was quite familiar with them, he produced the earliest photograph of her mother. There was no difficulty; she was shown several, and quickly learned to distinguish them from all others. In the afternoon, when she had been laid down to sleep, she asked to have "Mother" in her arms. Anders did not understand immediately, and she became impatient. Then he brought the first photograph of her mother. She took it at once, clasped it in her arms, and fell asleep. Not until she was four years old, and saw a mother in the kitchen tending her sick child, was he sure that she understood what a mother is; for then she said: "Why doesn't my mother come and undress me and dress me?"

In the end father and daughter became fast friends. But the greatest pleasure of all came when she was old enough for him to tell her about Mother. About Mother, who had come across the sea to Father, bringing little Marit with her. The walks which he had taken with Mother, the two took together--every one of them. He rowed her as Mother had rowed him; they went to town together as Mother and Father had done. There she sat in the chairs which Mother had bought and sat in. At table she sat in Mother's place; in conservatory and garden among the flowers she was Mother, and helped as Mother had done.

What a clever, beautiful child she was! She had her mother's red hair and brilliantly white skin, her large eyes, and the same delicate, long line of eyebrow. Possibly she would also have the same aquiline nose. The hands with the long fingers were not her mother's, nor was the figure. That very slight forward bend at the joining of head and neck was like her father's. She had not her mother's prettily squared shoulders; Marit's sloped, and the arms descended from them in a more even line. Anders could not resist going up every evening to look at her when she was being undressed. The mixture of the masculine and feminine Krog types, which had hitherto been so uncommon, but which her mother had to a certain extent represented, was complete in her. She grew tall, her eyes large, her head shapely. Her father could not get her to associate with other children; it bored her. They did not transport themselves quickly enough into her imaginary world, which was certainly a curious one. The fields were a circus--her father had told her about Buffalo Bill's. The Indians galloped across the plain; she herself, on a white horse, leading. The ridges were boxes, and they were full of people. This the other children could not see. Nor could they understand the travel-game on the table, which her father had taught her to play.

When she was nearly seven, she compelled her father, who was a good cyclist, to buy her a bicycle and teach her to ride it. But this was the drop which caused