Good mothers are hard to find in literature. Often, stories feature mothers who are deceased, a beatific light from afar, a selfless and beautiful woman never fully known. Other times, in stories as in life, mothers are absent, negligent, selfish, and unkind. Perhaps such mothers are simply women who happen to have children, not really mothers in the full sense.
Because, of course, there are mothers who haven’t given birth to any children of their own. If having biological offspring doesn’t necessarily make one a mother and one can be a mother without physically giving birth, what is motherhood?
A marvelous example of a good mother in literature, rare as it is, comes from Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Secret Garden. Susan Sowerby is introduced as the mother of Martha, a hired girl at Misselthwaite Manor, and Dickon, a boy who is one with the moor, a whisperer of small creatures and plants. Mrs. Sowerby is also the mother of 10 other children, a great brood of ruddy-cheeked, cheerful young ones running about outside and tucking into scanty but nourishing meals.
There’s a temptation to assume that a mother of twelve would be pulling her hair out and constantly aggrieved. Sometimes, however, the mother of many is more at ease in her role of self-sacrifice than the mother with just a couple children to care for. As Tacy’s mother in Betsy-Tacy sagely remarks, she as a mother of so many would have to be scolding constantly if she started nitpicking her children; it is her Protestant neighbor, Betsy’s mother, with three children to keep track of who is high strung and frequently harping on her kids. Something of a similar nature can be seen in Susan Sowerby, a woman who appears utterly unflappable.
The aspect of Mrs. Sowerby’s persona that is most striking is the nurturing generosity. The motherless children in the story, Mary Lennox and Collin Craven, are surrounded by adults who do not have children. Yet, these grown-ups, relatively unencumbered as they are, are incapable of meeting the children’s obvious need. Mrs. Sowerby, occupied as she is scrounging up food for such a great many children of her own, manages to find the time to express genuine concern for the children and draw them out of themselves.
It’s understandable why the other adults are so repulsed by the sickly, disagreeable Mary and Collin. Absent the nurturing love of their own mothers, they come into the world wounded and alone. While in the post-modern age we’re tempted to focus on explaining and pitying the unlikeable kids, the reality is that they are legitimately unpleasant people. Whether or not their condition is their fault, they are people that others want to avoid.
Mrs. Sowerby confidently tells the other adults the path to personal liberty for the unhappy Mary and Collin. She is convinced, as only a thorough-going Victorian could be completely, in the miraculous healing power of the outdoors. By spending time outside, the children will develop an appetite and be refreshed and enlivened by the air. Interiorly, the children gain independence and the space to encounter other people and see themselves as they are: disagreeable and unlikeable. Only when confronted with this ugly fact can Mary and Collin each choose to change.
And they do. But not with after a harsh confrontation or direct lecture. Rather, it is through the warm and nurturing umbrella of Mrs. Sowerby’s care that the children have the opportunity to grow. Long before Mary (and the reader) meets Mrs. Sowerby, she has a strong sense of who she is and longing to be with her. That is largely because Mrs. Sowerby’s virtues are so readily apparent through her children Martha and Dickon. If you meet a child who adores babies, chances are his mother is the type who will jump at the chance to entertain a restless infant while eating with another family. Children at all ages to varying degrees mirror the behavior they have seen, none more powerfully than what they have seen from their mothers.
It would seem that a woman with so many children could not have time or attention for more cares. Yet, for the mother the people she cares for are not a mass of people but each person is an individual. With so many responsibilities and mouths to feed, Mrs. Sowerby still manages to send food to Mary and Collin so they can conceal their growing strength.
Mary and Collin are starving—in body but much more so in their souls. Their development has been stunted, as their mothers, through death and petty selfishness, never showed them selfless care. Without an example of someone who gave themselves for another, the children remained trapped in themselves, suffering and incapable of relieving their own suffering, incapable of caring for the suffering of others. Mrs. Sowerby offers nourishment in all their senses.
When she appears in the secret garden, she embodies the mother all the children need. From The Secret Garden:
Unexpectedly as she had appeared, not one of them felt that she was an intruder at all. Dickon’s eyes lighted like lamps.
“It’s mother—that’s who it is!” he cried and went across the grass at a run.
Colin began to move toward her, too, and Mary went with him. They both felt their pulses beat faster.
“It’s mother!” Dickon said again when they met halfway. “I knowed tha’ wanted to see her an’ I told her where th’ door was hid.”
Colin held out his hand with a sort of flushed royal shyness but his eyes quite devoured her face.
“Even when I was ill I wanted to see you,” he said, “you and Dickon and the secret garden. I’d never wanted to see any one or anything before.”
After their much longed-for meeting, the children spend time with Mrs. Sowerby basking in a maternal warmth that nurtures their growth. For the meeting, “She had packed a basket which held a regular feast this morning, and when the hungry hour came and Dickon brought it out from its hiding place, she sat down with them under their tree and watched them devour their food, laughing and quite gloating over their appetites. She was full of fun and made them laugh at all sorts of odd things. She told them stories in broad Yorkshire and taught them new words. She laughed as if she could not help it when they told her of the increasing difficulty there was in pretending that Colin was still a fretful invalid.”
Much like other good mothers portrayed in literature, Mrs. Sowerby is full of songs and laughs, levity that makes the mundane meal special and interesting. When the children confide their belief in magic, Mrs. Sowerby identifies it with the “Big Good Thing” behind all goodness in the world. She tells Collin, in her “broad Yorkshire,” “Never thee stop believin’ in th’ Big Good Thing an’ knowin’ th’ world’s full of it—an’ call it what tha’ likes. Tha’ wert singin’ to it when I come into th’ garden.”
A mother is someone whose everyday selflessness can make us all believe in that Big Good Thing, bringing to life those around them with the realization of gift found in particularity.
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