Mary by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson (little red riding hood ebook TXT) 📖

grows there was not hers. Wherever she made her appearance, the conversation seemed to stop, in order that another subject, suited to her, might be introduced. The globe-trotters who wandered about with her talked of incidents of travel, of the art-galleries and the music of the towns which they were visiting--occasionally, too, of problems which pursued them, let them go where they would. But of these not one affected her personally. The conventional utterances on such subjects she knew by heart. Indeed, the whole was either a kind of practice in language, or else aimless chat to pass the time.

The homage paid her, which at times verged on worship, had begun when she was still a child and took it as fun. In course of time it had become as familiar to her as the figures of a quadrille. One incident which alarmed the whole family, a couple of incidents which were painful, had been long forgotten; the admiration she received meant nothing to her--she remained unsatisfied and lonely.

A convulsive start--and Frans Roey's giant form suddenly appeared before her--so plain, so exact in the smallest detail, that she felt as if she could not stir because of him.

He was not like the rest. Was it this that had frightened her?

The very thought of him made her tremble. Without her willing it, Alice stood beside him, fat and sensual, with desire in her eyes.... What was the relation between these two?... A moment of darkness, one of pain, one of fury. Then Mary wept.

She heard a loud, dull roar, and turned in its direction. An ocean-steamer was bearing down on them--an apparition so unexpected and so gigantic that it took away her breath. It rose out of the sea without warning, and rushed towards them at tremendous speed, becoming larger and larger, a fire-mountain of great and small lights. With a roar it came and it went. One moment, and it was seen in the far distance.

What an impression it made on her, this life rushing past on its way from continent to continent, with its suggestion of constant, fruitful exchange of thoughts and labour! whilst she herself lay drifting in a little tub, which was rocked so violently by the waves from the world-colossus that she had to cling to the first support that offered.

She was alone again in the great void. Deserted. For was it not desertion that everything she had seen and heard in three continents--of the life of the nations, their toil and their pleasure, their art, their music--should have to be left behind? She had seen and heard; and now she was alone, in a dreary, stagnant waste.



AT HOME

The reality was something quite different.

She saw, the moment she set foot on land, that both old and young were unfeignedly happy to see her again. Every face brightened. Every one whom they met on the way up to the market-place recognised and greeted her with pleasure. She had not thought of them, but they had thought of her.

From the house on the market-place they were to go on later in the day to Krogskogen, with the coasting-steamer. In the interval many of their relations called, who all expressed great pleasure at seeing them home again at last. They told what a success Mary's Spanish portrait had been--in their own town, in Christiania, and then on its tour with other pictures through the country. The notices--but these she had of course read? No, she had read no newspapers, except occasionally one published at the place where they were living. "Do you read no home newspapers?" "Yes, when Father shows me them." Had not her father, had not Mrs. Dawes, told her anything? "No." Why, she was famous now throughout the whole of Norway. For this was the third portrait of her--or was it the fourth? Anyhow it was the finest. It had been reproduced in the illustrated newspapers; and also in an English art-magazine, the _Studio_. Did she not know that? "No." The young people here were very proud of her. They had put off their spring picnic and dance until she came home.

"You are to be feted!"

"I?"

"The picnic is to be at Marielyst. One steamer goes from here, and another comes from the places on the opposite side. Joergen Thiis planned it all in Paris."

"Joergen Thiis?"

"Yes. Did he not tell you about it?"

"No."

As soon as the callers left, Mary went to her father, who was unpacking some of the art treasures which were to remain in town.

"Father, is it the case that you sent my portraits to exhibitions?"

He smiled, and said: "Yes, my child, I did. And they have given pleasure to many. I was asked to send them. They wrote and asked me each time."

He spoke in such a gentle voice, and Mary thought it so considerate of him that he had not told her, and had forbidden Mrs. Dawes to tell--probably Joergen Thiis too--that she did what she very seldom did, went up to him and kissed him.

So this was what her father, Mrs. Dawes, and Joergen Thiis had so often sat whispering about. This was why the home newspapers had been kept from her. Everything had been planned--even to the proposal to travel home at this particular moment! She almost began to like Joergen Thiis.

When they left for Krogskogen in the afternoon, a crowd of young people assembled on the pier called: "Au revoir on Sunday!"

Mary was charmed with the view as they sailed along. The short half hour was spent, as it were, in recognising one old acquaintance after another. The new, or at least much altered, high road along the coast was now finished. It looked remarkably well, especially where it cut across the headlands, often through the rock. At Krogskogen it led, as before, from the one point across the level to the other, passing close to the landing-place and directly below the chapel and the churchyard.

And Krogskogen itself--how snugly it lay! She had remembered its loneliness, but had forgotten how beautiful it was. This calm, glittering bay with the sea-birds! The ripple yonder where the river flows in, the level land stretching back between the heights, and these in their robes of green! Were the trees round the house really no higher? How nice it looked, the house--long and white, with black window frames and black foundation wall. From one chimney thick smoke was rising, in cheerful welcome. She jumped on shore before the others and ran on in front. A little girl, between eight and ten, who was running down from the house, stopped when she saw Mary, and rushed back as hard as she could. But Mary overtook her at the steps. "I've caught you!" she cried, turning her round. "Who are you?" The fair-haired, smiling creature was unable to answer. On the steps stood the maids, and one of them said that the child's name was Nanna, and that she was there to run errands. "You shall be my little maid!" said Mary, and led her up the steps. She nodded to each of the women, and felt that they were disappointed because she hurried on without speaking to them. She was longing to set foot on the thick carpets, to feel the peculiar light of the hall about her, to see the huge cupboards and all the pictures and curios of the Dutch days. And she was longing even more to reach her own room. The silence of the stairs and of the long, rather dark passage--never had it played such a game of whispers with her as it did to-day. She felt it like something soft, half-hidden, confidential and close. It was still speaking when she reached the door of her room; it actually kept her from opening the door for a moment.

Ah!--the room lay steeped in sunshine from the open window which looked over the outbuildings to the ridge. Paler light entered from that looking on the orchard and the bay below, the water of which glittered between the trees. Beyond the trees were seen the islands and the open sea, at this moment pale grey. But from the hill, now in fairest leaf and flower, the fragrance of spring poured in. The room itself, in its white purity, lay like a receptacle for it. There everything arranged itself reverently round the bed, which stood in the middle of the floor. It was more than a bed for a princess; it was the princess herself; everything else seemed to do homage to it.

* * * * *


The excursion to Marielyst was in every way a success. But during the course of it a coolness arose between Mary and Joergen Thiis.

It happened thus. Joergen came on board with a tall, strongly-built lady, the sight of whose broad forehead, kindly eyes, small nose, and projecting chin brought a slight blush to Mary's cheeks, which she concealed by rising and asking: "Are you not a sister of Captain Frans Roey?"

"She is," answered Joergen Thiis. "For safety's sake we are taking a doctor with us."

"I am glad to meet you," said Mary. "Of course I have heard your brother speak of you; he has a great admiration for you."

"So we all have," Joergen Thiis declared as he left them.

Miss Roey herself had not spoken yet. But her scrutinising eyes expressed admiration of Mary. Now she seated herself beside her.

"Are you to be at home long?"

"I can't say. Possibly we shall not travel any more; my father is not strong enough now."

Miss Roey did not speak again for some time; she sat observing. Mary thought to herself: It is tactful of her not to begin a conversation about her brother.

The two ladies kept together during the sail. And they also sat beside each other when dessert was served out of doors at Marielyst and speeches were made. The success of the entertainment went to Joergen Thiis's head. One after another came round to him and drank his health; he became sentimental, and made a speech. His toast was "the ideal, the eternal ideal." Fortunate the man to whom it was revealed in his youth! He bore it in his breast as his inextinguishable guiding lamp on the path of life! Pale and excited, Joergen emptied his glass and flung it away.

This sudden earnestness came so unexpectedly upon the merry company that they laughed--one and all.

Miss Roey said to Mary: "You met Lieutenant Thiis abroad?"

"Both this winter and last," answered Mary carelessly; she was eating ice.

A young girl was standing beside them. "He is a curious man, Joergen Thiis," said she. "He is so amiable with us; but he is said to be a perfect tyrant with the soldiers."

Mary turned towards her in surprise. "A tyrant--in what way?"

"They say that he irritates them dreadfully--is exacting and ill-tempered, and punishes for nothing."

Mary turned her largest eyes upon Margrete Roey.

"Yes, it is true," said the latter indifferently; she, too, was eating ice.

When, late in the evening, after the dance, they were all trooping down to the steamer, Mary and Joergen arm in arm, she said to him: "Is it true that the soldiers under your command complain of you?"

"It is quite likely that they do, Miss Krog." He laughed.

"Is there anything