Marie Grubbe - Jens Peter Jacobsen (best english novels for beginners .txt) 📗
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servant. Marie was in Lucie’s confidence and was pleased and grateful
for it, but Lucie was not in her confidence. She could not tell her
troubles to the maid. Nor could she bear to have the fact of her
unfortunate position put into words or hear a servant discuss her
unhappy family affairs. She would not even brook a word of criticism
against her aunt, though she certainly did not love her father’s
kinswoman and had no reason to love her.
Rigitze Grubbe held the theories of her time on the salutary effects
of harsh discipline, and she set herself to bring up Marie
accordingly. She had never had any children of her own, and she was
not only a very impatient foster-mother but also clumsy, for mother
love had never taught her the useful little arts that smooth the way
for teacher and pupil. Yet a severe training might have been very good
for Marie. The lack of watchful care in her home had allowed one side
of her nature to grow almost too luxuriantly, while the other had been
maimed and stunted by capricious cruelty, and she might have felt it a
relief to be guided in the way she should go by the hard and steady
hand of one who in all common sense could wish her nothing but good.
Yet she was not so guided. Mistress Rigitze had so many irons in the
fire of politics and court intrigue that she was often away for days,
and when at home she would be so preoccupied that Marie did with
herself and her time what she pleased. When Mistress Rigitze had a
moment to spare for the child, the very consciousness of her own
neglect made her doubly irritable. The whole relation therefore wore
to Marie an utterly unreasonable aspect and was fitted to give her the
notion that she was an outcast whom all hated and none loved.
As she stood at the window looking out over the city, this sense of
forlornness came over her again. She leaned her head against the
casement and lost herself in contemplation of the slowly gliding
clouds.
She understood what Lucie had said about the pain of longing. It was
like something burning inside of you, and there was nothing to do but
to let it burn and burn—how well she knew it! What would come of it
all? One day just like another—nothing, nothing—nothing to look
forward to. Could it last? Yes, for a long time yet! Even when she
had passed sixteen? But things did happen to other people! At least
she wouldn’t go on wearing a child’s cap after she was sixteen; sister
Anne Marie hadn’t—she had been married. Marie remembered the noisy
carousing at the wedding long after she had been sent to bed—and the
music. Well, at least she could be married. But to whom? Perhaps to
the brother of her sister’s husband. To be sure, he was frightfully
ugly, but if there was nothing else for it—No, that certainly was
nothing to look forward to. Was there anything? Not that she could
see.
She left the window, sat down by the table thoughtfully, and began to
write:
My loving greeting always in the name of Our Lord, dear Anne Marie,
good sister and friend! God keep you always and be praised for His
mercies. I have taken upon myself to write pour vous congratuler
inasmuch as you have been fortunately delivered of child and are now
restored to good health. Dear sister, I am well and hearty. Our Aunt,
as you know, lives in much splendor, and we often have company,
chiefly gentlemen of the court, and with the exception of a few old
dames, none visit us but men folks. Many of them have known our
blessed mother and praise her beauty and virtue. I always sit at table
with the company, but no one speaks to me except Ulrik Frederik, whom
I would prefer to do without, for he is ever given to bantering and
raillerie rather than sensible conversation. He is yet young and is
not in the best repute; ‘tis said he frequents both taverns and
alehouses and the like. Now I have nothing new to tell except that
today we have an assembly, and he is coming. Whenever I speak French
he laughs very much and tells me that it is a hundred years old, which
may well be, for Pastor Jens was a mere youth at the time of his
travels. Yet he gives me praise because I put it together well, so
that no lady of the court can do it better, he says, but this I
believe to be but compliments, about which I care nothing. I have had
no word from Tjele. Our Aunt cannot speak without cursing and
lamenting of the enormity that our dear father should live as he does
with a female of such lowly extraction. I grieve sorely, but that
gives no boot for bane. You must not let Stycho see this letter, but
give him greeting from my heart. September 1657.
Your dear sister,
MARIE GRUBBE.
The honorable Mistress Anne Marie Grubbe, consort of Stycho Hoegh of
Gjordslev, my good friend and sister, written in all loving-kindness.
The guests had risen from the table and entered the drawing room,
where Lucie was passing the golden Dantzig brandy. Marie had taken
refuge in a bay window, half hidden by the full curtains. Ulrik
Frederik went over to her, bowed with exaggerated deference, and with
a very grave face expressed his disappointment at having been seated
so far from mademoiselle at the table. As he spoke, he rested his
small brown hand on the windowsill. Marie looked at it and blushed
scarlet.
“Pardon, Mademoiselle, I see that you are flushing with anger. Permit
me to present my most humble service! Might I make so bold as to ask
how I have had the misfortune to offend you?”
“Indeed I am neither flushed nor angry.”
“Ah, so ‘tis your pleasure to call that color white? Bien! But then I
would fain know by what name you designate the rose commonly known as
red!”
“Can you never say a sensible word?”
“Hm—let me see—ay, it has happened, I own, but rarely—
Doch Chloe, Chloe zurne nicht!
Toll brennet deiner Augen Licht
Mich wie das Hundsgestirn die Hunde,
Und Worte schaumen mir vom Munde
Dem Geifer gleich der Wasserscheu—”
“Forsooth, you may well say that!”
“Ach, Mademoiselle, ‘tis but little you know of the power of Eros!
Upon my word there are nights when I have been so lovesick I have
stolen down through the Silk Yard and leaped the balustrade into
Christen Skeel’s garden, and there I’ve stood like a statue among
fragrant roses and violets till the languishing Aurora has run her
fingers through my locks.”
“Ah, Monsieur, you were surely mistaken when you spoke of Eros; it
must have been Evan—and you may well go astray when you’re brawling
around at night-time. You’ve never stood in Skeel’s garden; you’ve
been at the sign of Mogens in Cappadocia among bottles and Rhenish
wineglasses, and if you’ve been still as a statue, it’s been something
besides dreams of love that robbed you of the power to move your
legs.”
“You wrong me greatly! Though I may go to the vintner’s house
sometimes, ‘tis not for pleasure nor revelry but to forget the gnawing
anguish that afflicts me.”
“Ah!”
“You have no faith in me; you do not trust to the constancy of my
amour! Heavens! Do you see the eastern louver-window in St. Nikolaj?
For three long days have I sat there gazing at your fair countenance,
as you bent over your broidery frame.”
“How unlucky you are! You can scarce open your mouth but I can catch
you in loose talk. I never sit with my broidery frame toward St.
Nikolaj. Do you know this rigmarole?
‘T was black night;
Troll was in a plight,
For man held him tight.
To the troll said he:
‘If you would be free,
Then teach me quick
Without guile or trick,
One word of perfect truth.’
Up spake the troll: ‘In sooth!’
Man let him go.
None on earth, I trow,
Could call troll liar for saying so.”
Ulrik Frederik bowed deferentially and left her without a word.
She looked after him as he crossed the room. He did walk gracefully.
His silk hose fitted him without fold or wrinkle. How pretty they were
at the ankle, where they met the long, narrow shoe! She liked to look
at him. She had never before noticed that he had a tiny pink scar in
his forehead.
Furtively she glanced at her own hands and made a slight grimace—the
fingers seemed to her too short.
Winter came with hard times for the beasts of the forest and the birds
of the fields. It was a poor Christmas within mud-walled huts and
timbered ships. The Western Sea was thickly studded with wrecks, icy
hulks, splintered masts, broken boats, and dead ships. Argosies were
hurled upon the coast, shattered to worthless fragments, sunk, swept
away, or buried in the sand; for the gale blew toward land with a high
sea and deadly cold, and human hands were powerless against it. Heaven
and earth were one reek of stinging, whirling snow that drifted in
through cracked shutters and ill-fitting hatches to poverty and rags
and pierced under eaves and doors to wealth and fur-bordered mantles.
Beggars and wayfaring folk froze to death in the shelter of ditches
and dikes; poor people died of cold on their bed of straw, and the
cattle of the rich fared not much better.
The storm abated, and after it came a clear, tingling frost which
brought disaster on the land—winter pay for summer folly! The Swedish
army walked over the Danish waters. Peace was declared, and spring
followed with green budding leaves and fair weather; but the young men
of Sjaelland did not ride a-Maying that year, for the Swedish soldiers
were everywhere. There was peace indeed, but it carried the burdens of
war and seemed not likely to live long. Nor did it. When the May
garlands had turned dark and stiff under the midsummer sun, the Swedes
went against the ramparts of Copenhagen.
During vesper service on the second Sunday in August, the tidings
suddenly came: “The Swedes have landed at Korsor.” Instantly the
streets were thronged. People walked about quietly and soberly, but
they talked a great deal; they all talked at once, and the sound of
their voices and footsteps swelled to a loud murmur that neither rose
nor fell and never ceased but went on with a strange, heavy monotony.
The rumor crept into the churches during the sermon. From the seats
nearest the door it leaped in a breathless whisper to someone sitting
in the next pew, then on to three people in the third, then past a
lonely old man in the fourth on to the fifth, and so on till the whole
congregation knew it. Those in the centre turned and nodded meaningly
to people behind them; one or two who were sitting nearest the pulpit
rose and looked apprehensively toward the door. Soon there was not a
face lifted to the pastor. All sat with heads bent as though to fix
their thoughts on the sermon, but they whispered among themselves,
stopped for a tense moment and listened in order to gauge how far it
was from the end, then whispered again. The muffled noise from the
crowds in the streets grew more distinct: it was not to be borne any
longer! The church people busied themselves putting their hymnbooks in
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