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Updated: May 22, 2025
Old Mattsson then began to make clear to his mother that it was impossible. He was seventy years old. But his mother's portrait merely repeated with even greater emphasis: "You must marry, Mattsson." Old Mattsson had great respect for his mother's portrait. It had been his adviser on many debatable occasions, and he had always done well by obeying it.
Round the green drying-place, where the brown fish-nets were hung out, along the cemented walls by the harbor, at the fish-tables in the market, where cod and crabs were sold, and far out in the sound among the shoals of herring, raged a storm of wonder and laughter. "So he is going to be married, he, Mattsson, who ran away from his own wedding!" Neither bride nor groom were spared.
But the worst thing for him was that no one could laugh more at the whole thing than he himself. No one could find it more ridiculous. His mother's portrait was driving him mad. It was the afternoon of the first time of asking. Old Mattsson, still pursued by talk and wonderings, went out on the long breakwater as far as the whitewashed lighthouse, in order to be alone.
Old Mattsson then asked his mother's portrait to consider what kind of a community it was they lived in. All the hundred houses of the fishing-village had pointed roofs and whitewashed walls; all the boats of the fishing-village were of the same build and rig. No one there ever did anything unusual. His mother would have been the first to oppose such a marriage if she had been alive.
"You are in a hurry with this marriage, Mattsson," said the clergyman. "Oh yes, it is best to get it done soon." "Could you not just as well give up the whole thing? You are no longer young, Mattsson." The clergyman must not be too surprised. He knew well enough that he was too old, but he was obliged to be married. There was no help for it.
Since Mattsson, the pilot, had grown old, he had conformed carefully to the conditions and customs; his house, his rooms and his mode of living were like everybody else's. On the wall over the bed old Mattsson had a picture of his mother. One night he dreamed that the portrait stepped down from its frame, placed itself in front of him and said with a loud voice: "You must marry, Mattson."
So he came again week after week for a half year, until at last the permission came. During all that time old Mattsson was a persecuted man.
The next morning old Mattsson woke in great trouble. It never occurred to him to disobey his mother's portrait; it knew of course what was best for him. But he shuddered nevertheless at the time that was now coming.
But now it was useless to set her free. A fortnight later was the wedding, and a few days after came the big November gale. One of the boats of the fishing-village was swept out into the sound. It had neither rudder nor masts, so that it was quite unmanageable. Old Mattsson and five others were on board, and they drifted about without food for two days.
When they were rescued, they were in a state of exhaustion from hunger and cold. Everything in the boat was covered with ice, and their wet clothes were stiff. Old Mattsson was so chilled that he never was well again. He lay ill for two years; then death came.
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