Mary

by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson

She stood looking at him for a moment. Then—"May I come in?"

"Of course you may—but first"——looking at his hands and shirt-sleeves, "first I must——."

"I can go in alone," said she frankly.

"Of course—please do! Go in by the front-door. I'll send the maid—" and he hurried towards the kitchen.

She ran round to the front of the house and up the steps. Turning an enormous key, an old work of art (as was also the iron-work on the door), she stepped into the hall or entrance room. Here there was plenty of light. Marit drew a little. She had learned to use her eyes. She saw at once that all these cupboards, large and small, were of excellent Dutch workmanship, and that the room was larger than it seemed; the furniture took up so much space. On her left an old-fashioned carved staircase led up to the second storey. The door straight in front of her led to the kitchen, she concluded, assisted by her sense of smell; and when the maid-servant issued from it she knew that she had guessed rightly. Through the open door she saw a floor flagged with marble, walls covered with china tiles decorated in blue, and, upon the shelf which extended round the walls, brightly polished copper vessels of many different sizes—a Dutch kitchen.

In the hall she stood upon carpets thicker than any her feet had ever trodden. And quite as thick were those on the stairs, secured with the hugest of brass rods. "The people in this house walk on cushions," she thought to herself; and the idea immediately occurred to her that the house was an enormous bed. Afterwards she always called it "the bed." "Shall we go back to bed now?" she would say, laughing. On both sides of the hall she saw doors and pictured to herself the rooms within. To her left, that is, on the right side of the house, she imagined first a smaller room, and beyond it, nearest the sea, a large room, the whole breadth of the building. And she was correct. To her right she imagined the house divided lengthwise into two rooms. And in this also she was correct. Nor was it surprising that she should be, for her father's house on the shores of Lake Michigan was planned in imitation of this. Upstairs she pictured to herself a broad passage the whole length of the house, with moderate-sized rooms on both sides of it. The carpets were extraordinarily thick down here, but she was certain that they were at least as thick upstairs, real cushion carpets. In this house there were no noises. Its inmates were quiet people.

The servant had opened the door to the left. Marit went into the great room and examined all its pictures and ornaments. It was terribly overcrowded, but all the things in themselves had been well chosen, many of them by connoisseurs—that she saw at once. Some of the paintings were, she felt certain, of great value. But what occupied her most was the thought that not until now had she understood her own old father, although she had lived with him all her life—alone with him; she had lost her mother early. Of just such a quantity of rare and precious things was he composed—in a somewhat confused fashion, which prevented his being appreciated. She felt as if he were standing by her, smiling his gentle, kindly smile, happy because he was understood.

And there he was, sure enough! Through the open door she saw him on the stair. Younger, yes! But that was of no consequence; the eyes were only the brighter and warmer for that. He came towards her with the same walk, the same movement of the arms, the same slight stoop and circumspect carriage. And when he looked at her, and spoke to her, and bade her welcome in her father's gentle, subdued manner, she was conscious in him of the profound respect for the individual human being which, in her estimation, characterised her father beyond any one she had ever known. Her father's hair was thinner, his face was deeply lined, he had lost some of his teeth, his skin was shrivelled. The thought filled her eyes with tears. She looked up into the younger eyes, heard the fresher voice, felt the grasp of the warmer hand. She could not help it—she threw her arms round Anders Krog's neck, laid her head on his breast, and wept.

This settled the matter. There was no resisting this.

Soon afterwards they both got into the boat in which she had come. It was Marit who rowed round the point. Both for his own sake, and because of the bathers, who saw them, he had made some feeble attempts to take the oars. But from the moment when she threw her arms round his neck, he was powerless. He knew that he would henceforth do the will of this girl with the glory of red hair. He sat gazing at her freckled face and freckled hands, at her superb figure, her fresh lips. At the edge of her collar he caught a glimpse of the purest of white skin; there was something in the eyes which corresponded exactly with this. He had not seen his fill when they landed. Nor could he get enough on the way up to his sister's farm—not enough of her soft voice, of her gait, of her dress, of the smile which disclosed her teeth, nor, above all else, of her frank, impetuous talk; all these things were alike bewildering.