Mary

by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson

"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.