Mary - Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson (bookstand for reading TXT) 📗

the boat.

"Are you not coming?"

"No, no! Thanks all the same!"

Off went the boat. Not till now did Klaus look at Marit, whom Mrs. Dawes in her long letters had described as the most beautiful girl she had ever seen. He stared, he bowed, and approached her, reeking of tobacco, his big, smiling, open mouth disclosing unclean teeth. He offered his arm. But Marit, who was wearing a long sleeveless cloak which reached to the ground, pretended not to see this. Klaus was offended, but escorted her up to the others, saying as they arrived: "Here I come with the queen of the ball." This displeased her, and every one else, so the beginning was unfortunate. Joergen, whose place it was to do so, hastened forward to take her cloak and hat; but she bowed slightly and passed on. There was style in this! As soon as she was out of hearing, comment began. Her bearing in passing them, her face, carriage, gait, the dazzlingly white skin, the sparkling eyes, the arch above them, the shape of the nose--everything was perfect, and made a perfect whole. It was all over with Joergen Thiis. He himself was a tall, slender man of the Krog type, but with eyes peculiar to himself. At present these were fixed on the door through which Marit had disappeared. He was waiting on the steps.

And when she came out again and stepped forward to take his arm and be conducted down to the others, she was a sight to see--in a short dress of light sea-blue silky material, with transparent silk stockings of the same colour, and silvery shoes with antique buckles. The company were unanimous in admiration, and were still expressing it as they trooped in to take their places at the tables. Nor was the subject dropped there; Marit's beauty became the talk of the town. To think that these regular features and bright eyes, and that white, white skin should be framed in such a glory of red hair! And the whole was in perfect keeping with the tall figure, the slight forward inclination of the shoulders, and a bosom which, though not fully developed yet, nevertheless stood out distinct and free.

The arms, the wrists, the hips, the legs!--it became positively comical when a group of young men were heard maintaining with the utmost eagerness that the ankles were more superb than anything else. Such ankles had never been seen--so slender and so beautifully shaped--no, never!

Joergen Thiis forgot to speak; he even for a considerable time forgot to eat, though, as a rule, he liked nothing better. He followed Marit about like a sleep-walker. She was never to be seen without him behind her or at her side.

Her father and Mrs. Dawes had, on account of the ball, come in to the town house. They were awakened at dawn of day by loud talking and laughter outside, ending with cheers; the whole company had seen Marit home.

Next day the relations and friends of the Krog family came to call. The elder people who had been at the ball considered Marit to be the most beautiful creature they had ever seen. At nine o'clock in the evening old Klaus had rowed into town and trudged round for the express purpose of getting some of his friends to come out and see her.

In the afternoon Joergen presented himself in uniform, with new gloves. He had taken the liberty of calling to ask how Miss Krog was. But nothing had as yet been heard of that young lady.

When she did make her appearance, her mind was not occupied with yesterday, but with something quite different. This Mrs. Dawes felt at once. The queen of the ball told nothing about the ball. She contented herself with asking if they had been awakened. Then she went and had something to eat. When she came back, her father told her that Joergen had called to ask how she was. Marit smiled.

"Do you not like Joergen?" asked Mrs. Dawes.

"Yes."

"Why did you smile, then?"

"He ate so much."

"His father, the Amtmand, does the same," remarked Krog, laughing. "And he always picks out the daintiest morsels."

"Yes, exactly."

Mrs. Dawes sat waiting for what was to come next; for something was coming. Marit left the room; in a short time she appeared again with her hat on and a parasol in her hand.

"Are you going out?" asked Mrs. Dawes.

Marit was standing pulling on her gloves.

"I am going to order visiting-cards."

"Have you no cards?"

"Yes, but they are not suitable now."

"Why not?" said Mrs. Dawes, much surprised. "You thought them so pretty when we bought them, in Italy."

"Yes--but what I don't think suits me any longer is the name."

"The name?"

Both looked up.

"I feel exactly as if it were no longer mine."

"Marit does not suit you?" said Mrs. Dawes.

Her father added gently: "It was your mother's name."

Marit did not answer at once; she felt the dismay in her father's eyes.

"What do you wish to be called, then, child?" It was again Mrs. Dawes who spoke.

"Mary."

"Mary?"

"Yes. That suits better, it seems to me."

The silent astonishment of her companions evidently troubled her. She added:

"Besides, we are going to America now. There they say Mary."

"But you were baptised Marit," put in her father at last.

"What does that matter?"

"It stands in your certificate of baptism, child," added Mrs. Dawes; "it is your name."

"Yes, it is in the certificate, no doubt--but not in me."

The others stared.

"This grieves your father, child."

"Father is welcome to go on calling me Marit."

Mrs. Dawes looked at her sorrowfully, but said no more. Marit had finished putting on her gloves.

"In America I am called Mary. I know that. Here is a specimen card. It looks nice; doesn't it?"

She drew a very small card from her card-case. Mrs. Dawes looked at it, then handed it to Anders. Upon it was inscribed in minute Italian characters:


Mary Krog.

Anders looked at it, looked long; then laid it on the table, took up his newspaper, and sat as if he were reading.

"I am sorry, Father, that you take it in this way."

Anders Krog said once more, gently, without looking up from his newspaper: "Marit is your mother's name."

"I, too, am fond of Mother's name. But it does not suit me."

She quietly left the room. Mrs. Dawes, who was sitting at the window, watched her going along the street. Anders Krog laid down the newspaper; he could not read. Mrs. Dawes made an attempt to comfort him. "There is something in what she says; Marit no longer suits her."

"Her mother's name," repeated Anders Krog; and the tears fell.



THREE YEARS LATER

Three years later, in Paris, on a beautiful spring day after rain, Mary and her relation, Alice Clerc, drove down the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne towards the gilded entrance gate. The two had made each other's acquaintance in America, and had met again a year ago in Paris. Alice Clerc lived in Paris now with her father. Mr. Clerc had been the principal dealer in works of art in New York. His wife was a Norwegian lady of the Krog family. After her death he sold his enormous business. The daughter had been brought up in art surroundings, and her art training had been thorough. She had seen the picture-galleries and museums of all countries--had dragged her father as far as Japan. Their house in the Champs Elysees was full of works of art. And she had her own studio there; she modelled. Alice was no longer young; she was a stout, strong person, good-natured and lively.

Anders Krog and his companions had this year come from Spain. The two friends were talking of a portrait of Mary which had been sent from Spain to Alice, and afterwards to Norway. Alice maintained that the artist had plainly intended to produce a resemblance to Donatello's St. Cecilia--in the position of the head, in the shape of the eye, in the line of the neck, and the half-open mouth. But, interesting as this experiment might be, it took away from the likeness. It was, for instance, a loss to the portrait that the eyes were not seen; they were cast down, as in Donatello's work. Mary laughed. It was on purpose to have this resemblance brought out that she had sat for it.

Alice now began to talk about a Norwegian engineer officer whom she had known since the days when she went to Norway in summer with her mother. He had seen Mary's portrait at the Clercs' house, and had fallen in love with it.

"Really?" answered Mary absently.

"He is not the ordinary man, I assure you, nor is it the ordinary falling in love."

"Indeed?"

"I am preparing you. You will of course meet at our house."

"Is that necessary?"

"Very. At least I shall be made to pay for it if you don't."

"Dear me! is he dangerous?"

Alice laughed: "I find him so, at any rate."

"O ho! that alters the situation."

"Now you are misunderstanding me. Wait till you see him."

"Is he so very good-looking?"

Alice laughed. "No, he is positively ugly. Just wait."

As they drove on, the Avenue became more crowded; it was one of the great days.

"What is his name?"

"Frans Roey."

"Roey? That is our lady doctor's name--Miss Roey."

"Yes, she is his sister, he often talks of her."

"She is a fine-looking woman."

Alice drew herself up. "You should see _him_. When I walk with him in the street, people turn round to take another look at him. He is a giant! But not of the kind that run to muscle and flesh. No, very tall, agile."

"A trained athlete, I suppose?"

"Magnificent! His strength is what he is proudest of and delights most in displaying."

"Is he stupid, then?"

"Stupid? Frans Roey?----" She leaned back again, and Mary asked no more.

They had been late in setting out. Endless rows of returning carriages passed them. The three broad driving-roads of the Avenue were crowded. The nearer they came to the iron gate where these three meet in one, the more compact did the rows become. The display of light, many-coloured spring costumes on this first day of sunshine after rain was a unique sight. Amongst the fresh foliage the carriages looked like baskets of flowers among green leaves--one behind the other, one alongside of the other, without beginning, without end.

At the iron gate they came close to the undulating crowd of pedestrians. No sooner were they inside than a disturbance communicated itself from right to left. The people on the right must see something invisible to the others. Some of them were screaming and pointing in the direction of the lakes; the carriages were ordered to drive either to the side or into the cross-roads; the agitation increased; it was soon universal. Gendarmes and park-keepers rushed hither and thither; the carriages were packed so closely together that none of them could move on. A broad space in the centre was soon clear for a considerable distance. All gazed, all questioned ... there it came! A pair of frantic horses with a heavy carriage behind them. On the box both coachman and