Marie Grubbe Page 11

  Suddenly the light seemed to lift from leaves and branches, as if in flight from a rain-sodden darkness. There was no rustling in the bushes, the horse’s hooves made no noise; she was riding across a wide clearing in the wood. On either side the trees made a dark, heavy wall around her. Above, a threatening black sky with frayed grey clouds scudded across, while in front of her was the blue, black, sinister surface of the mist-curtained Sound. She pulled the reins tight, and the exhausted animal stopped willingly. Ulrik Frederick dashed past in a wide circle, turned round and was soon at her side.

  Immediately, like a heavy grey rain-soaked curtain, a squall began to move slowly diagonally across the Sound. The icy wet breath of a storm blew through the swaying grass, whistled past their ears, hitting the tops of distant trees with the sound of foaming waves. Huge flat hailstones rained down on them in white sheets and lay like rows of pearls in the folds of her dress, splattered off the horses’ manes, jumped and rolled round in the grass, as though swarming out of the earth.

  They rode through the trees and headed for the beach to seek shelter, and soon they found themselves outside the low doors of The Watering Hole Tavern. A stable boy took the horses and a tall, bareheaded innkeeper showed them into the lounge where, he said, there was already a guest.

  This turned out to be Half-Pint, and he rose im-mediately as they entered, offering with a humble bow to vacate the room for his lordship, but Ulrik Frederik begged him graciously to remain.

  “Stay,” he said, “and make us merry in this god-forsaken storm. You must know, dear heart,” and he turned to Marie, “that this insignificant dwarf of a man is the well-known fool and Falstaff of ale houses, Daniel Knopf, an expert in all the liberal arts, dicing, fencing, drinking, masquerades and the like, otherwise known as a good and honest burgher of the fine city of Copenhagen.”

  Most of Ulrik Frederik’s compliments escaped Daniel, so absorbed was he in watching Marie Grubbe and in trying to think of some witty words of congratulations, but when Ulrik Frederik woke him from his reverie with a firm slap to his broad back, his face became flushed with indignation and embarrassment, and turning towards him angrily, he said with his coldest smile, suppressing his emotions, “we aren’t yet sufficiently drunk, colonel.”

  Ulrik Frederik laughed, nudged him and shouted, “Oh you confounded rogue! Are you, you knave, going to put me to shame as a liar and braggart, who has no proof for his boastful words? A pox on you! Is that right? Have I not dozens of times praised your tricks to this noble lady so that she has time and time again expressed the greatest longing to see and hear your much famed, fantastic impersonations? Can’t you give a performance of Cornelius, the blind bird-catcher, and his melodious fowls or play that trick with the sick cock and the clucking hen?”

  Marie added her support and said with a smile that what Colonel Gyldenløve said was true, that many a time she had longed to discover what sports and games full of wit and refinement could keep young lords so well entertained in dirty taverns for most of the day and for nights on end, and she begged Master Daniel that he satisfy her longing and did not make himself too precious.

  Daniel bowed respectfully and said that, although his humble tricks were more of the sort suited to lend tipsy lords an excuse to bawl and bellow even more loudly than to tickle the imagination of a fine and noble maiden, he would start at once. It should never be said that he had ever been asked or commanded by her ladyship to do anything that he had not with all speed carried out.

  “Look here,” he said in a completely different voice, throwing himself down at the table and sticking out his elbows. “I am now an entire party of your betrothed’s noble and most intimate friends.”

  He took a heap of silver coins out of his pocket, put them on the table, pulled his hair down over his eyes and let his lower lip hang down, witless.

  “The De-vil ta-ke me,” he drawled, rattling the coins as if they were dice. “I’m not the eldest son of the honourable Erik Kaase for nothing! What? Are your lying oaths going to put me to shame? I threw a ten, Hell devour me, it was a ten I threw with a rattle of those dice. Haven’t you got eyes in your head, you dog? Listen to me, haven’t you got eyes in your head, you skin and bones lamprey? Or shall I open your belly with my Toledo cutlass, and let your lungs and liver have something to look at too? Shall I? Shall I, you blockhead?”

  He jumped up and pulled a face.

  “You dare challenge me,” he was hissing in a Swedish accent. “Do you know who you are challenging, you drunkard? The devil take me, or I’ll cut you.”

  “No, no,” he shouted in his own voice. “That was a pretty jest to start with. And now…”

  He sat himself down, put his hands on the edge of his knees, as if to make room for his stomach, and made himself fat and heavy in the face. Thoughtfully, but much too slowly, he began to whistle the Ballad of Roselil and Sir Peter. Then he stopped, rolling his eyes with a lustful and lecherous yell.

  “My parrot, my little parrot.” He began whistling again, now finding it difficult to shape his mouth into an ingratiating smile. “My little sugar doll,” he was shouting. “My little honey bee. Come to me, my sweet, come to me. Will the kitty have a lick of wine? A sweet, sweet lick of wine from a tiny cup?”

  His voice changed again. He leaned forward in the chair and winked with one eye while combing with crooked fingers a long invisible beard.

  “Stay now,” he said, coaxing. “Now stay here, lovely Karen, and I’ll never leave you, and you must never, ever leave me.” His voice became brittle with tears. “We will never leave each other, my dear, dear heart, never in this world! Estates, gold and glory, the honour of noble blood and a fine birth be gone, I curse you! You are nothing but scum and dregs. Fine noble ladies and maidens, be gone I say! You are a thousand times better in my eyes, darling thing that you are. Just because they have seals and coats of arms, does that make them any better? You have a seal too, you do! That red mark on your white shoulders that Master Anders burned with his red-hot iron, that is a true mark of noble blood. I would spit on my coat of arms to plant a kiss on that mark, I would, that’s how much I care for coats of arms. For is there in all of Sjælland a noble woman as fair as you? Is there, no there is not, not a bit of it.”

  “That’s… that’s… that’s a lie, you know.” He began to shout in yet another voice jumping up and moving his hands across the table. “My Mistress Ide, you know – you clown – she has a figure, you understand what I mean – body – she has a body, you fool, do you hear me…”

  At this point Daniel was just about to let himself fall back into his chair when Ulrik Frederik quickly grabbed it, and he fell down and rolled along the floor. Ulrik Frederik laughed madly, but Marie jumped up quickly and stretched out her hands as if to help Daniel up. Half-lying, half-kneeling, the little man grabbed hold of her hand and stared at her with a look of gratitude and devotion that it would take her a long time to forget.

  Then they rode home, and none of them suspected that this chance meeting at The Watering Hole Tavern might lead to anything beyond what had taken place.

  IX

  The General Assembly of the Estates of the Realm,14 which began in Copenhagen just as harvest was over, certainly attracted large numbers of the Danish nobility, all of them intent on protecting their rights, as well as enjoying themselves after a busy summer. Nor were they averse to attempts at dazzling the people of Copenhagen, who had been quite vociferous since the war, with their wealth and splendour, as a small reminder that the distinction between the gentlemen of the realm and the rabble without rights still stood firm, despite the privileges of the king, the courageous deeds and glorious victories of the commoners, and all the ducats breeding in the coffers of the merchants.

  There were crowds of richly dressed noblemen and ladies in every street as well as their uniformed grooms and fine horses, with their colourful caparisons and silver-clasped harnesses, and there was great entertainment and feasting in all the homes of the nobility; till l
ate into the night the sound of the fiddle could be heard from light-filled halls to inform the dozing people of Copenhagen that here the noblest of the land were enjoying stately dances over parquet floors and ancestral goblets foaming with wine.

  But all this passed Marie Grubbe by. No one would invite her, partly because many of the aristocracy felt that some of the Grubbes, because of their connection to the king, were more on his side than on theirs, partly because the old aristocracy nourished a real hatred of the more recent, quite numerous nobility above them that was made up of the king’s natural children and their relations. Consequently, Marie was ignored for two reasons, and the court, which was very withdrawn during the General Assembly, offered no consolation.

  In the beginning she found it all quite hard, but when there was no relief it awoke in her an easily aroused defiance, and this led naturally to her drawing closer to Ulrik Frederik, loving him all the more because she felt that it was on account of him that she was being wronged. And this feeling became even stronger, so when, on the 16th of December 1660, they were quietly married, there were excellent prospects that she and the Master of the King’s Hunt (the title and status given to him by the grace of the victorious royal house) would live happily together.

  The marriage had taken place quietly in spite of previous intention, for it had long been decided that the king would celebrate their marriage in the royal castle, just as Christian IV had done for Madame Rigitze and Hans Ulrik, but at the last moment there were misgivings, and there was the feeling that because of Ulrik Frederik’s previous marriage and divorce, it was better done this way.

  So now they were married and settled, and time flew and all was well. Then, time slowed down, it crept along, and as usually happens when Leander and Leonora15 have been together for half a year or so, the spirit is sometimes absent from Leander’s love, although Leonora may love him more passionately and more deeply than when they were engaged. For while she is like the child to whom old stories seem new, however often they hear them, with the same surprises and the same ‘happily ever after’, Leander is so demanding that he tires without novelty. The moment he is not completely drunk, he is stone cold sober. The reckless, sustaining joy of his intoxication that gave him the self-confidence and certainty of a demi-god leaves him. He is worried, he begins to think, and he discovers doubt. He looks back upon the troubled course of his passion, heaves a sigh and yawns. And he is full of longing, he feels like someone who has just returned home after a long journey in strange lands, and sees again all those deeply familiar and long forgotten places lying there in front of him, and as he looks he is filled with an idle wonder at his long absence from this familiar world.

  It was in this kind of mood that Ulrik Frederik found himself one rainy September day.

  He had brought in his dogs to amuse himself, had tried to read, and had played a game of dice with Marie. The rain was pouring down, it was not the weather for going out, and so he had retreated into a room he called his armoury with the intention of polishing and looking over his treasures. Then he had remembered a box of weapons which he had inherited from Christian Gyldenløve, had it brought down from the attic and was now sitting there weighing each piece of his inheritance in his hands.

  There were ceremonial foils, blue baked with gold inlay, polished to a silver sheen and covered in matte engravings, and hunting knives, heavy-bladed and single-edged, slender and flame-supple, needle-sharp and triple-edged. There were plenty of Toledo foils, light as reeds and pliant as willow with hilts of silver and jasper agate, chased gold and golden gemstone inlay. One among them, with a hilt of etched steel, had been stuck through a small belt of silk, embroidered with roses and ramblers set with red-glass pearls and green-floss silk. Either it was a bracelet, a simple bracelet, or, as Ulrik Frederik thought, a garter, and the foil had been stuck right through it.

  “They’re from Spain,” thought Ulrik Frederik, for that was where the dead man had served for nine years in the army. Oh yes, he too should have been in the foreign service of Carl Gustav, but then there had been war, and now he would probably never get out and have adventures, and he was scarcely twenty-three years old. Always to live here at this small, dull court, twice as dull now that the nobility stayed at home.

  He would engage in some hunting, take care of his estate, and then by the grace of the king he would become a member of the Privy Council and knight, to keep good relations with Prince Christian and retain his office. Now and then he would be sent on a dreary embassy to Holland, before growing old, getting rheumatism, dying and being buried in the Church of Our Lady. That was the glorious path set out for him.

  Now they were fighting in Spain, there was glory to be won, a life to be lived where that foil and belt came from. No, he had to speak to the king. It was still raining, and it was a long way to Frederiksborg, but there was nothing for it, he could not wait, it had to be done.

  The king liked his suggestion. He said yes immediately, contrary to habit and to the great surprise of Ulrik Frederik, who had been riding the whole way telling himself everything that made it difficult, unreasonable, impossible – and now the king had said yes. He could leave at Christmas and by that time, no doubt, the right steps could be taken, and the answer from the King of Spain would have arrived.

  The answer came at the beginning of December, but Ulrik did not get to leave before April; there was so much that had to be done before that happened, money to be obtained, people to be equipped, letters to be written. At long last, he left.

  Marie Grubbe was not very happy with this journey to Spain, and yes, Madame Rigitze did make her realise that it was necessary that Ulrik Frederik travel abroad and win fame and glory so that the king could reasonably do something for him. For though his majesty was an absolute lord, he was still very sensitive to what people went around saying, and then the nobles were so difficult at present, so perverse that they would most probably view anything the king did in the worst possible light.

  But she had a woman’s innate fear of saying goodbye, and there was a lot to fear. For even if Marie could ignore the perils of war and the long arduous journey, and find consolation in the thought that a king’s son would undoubtedly be kept safe, she could not but worry that their life together, which they had begun so well, could by a separation of perhaps even more than a whole year, be broken off in such a way that it would never return to the way it had begun. Their love was so new, its roots so short, and now, just as it was beginning to grow, why should it be exposed to all kinds of harshness and danger? Why, it was like an attempt to utterly destroy it, and this short marriage had certainly taught her that the kind of relationship that she had thought during her engagement was such an easy thing, the kind in which husband and wife go their separate ways, was only a miserable and bleak existence, and here was the beginning of that, superficially at least: God forbid that should happen, but to open the door to such a separation was really to tempt fate.

  And then, too, she was very jealous of that easy-going, Catholic female riff-raff to be found down there in the farflung Kingdom of Spain.

  *

  Frederik the Third, who like many princes and noble lords of that time was an eager practitioner of alchemy, had given Ulrik Frederik the task of looking up in Amsterdam the famous alchemist, the Italian Burrhi,16 and of finding out whether he would come to Denmark, dropping hints that both the king and the wealthy Christen Skeel of Sostrup would make it well worth his while if he should take the trouble to come.

  So when Ulrik Frederik reached that city in June of 1662, he got Ole Borch, a student who knew Burrhi well, to take him to the alchemist. Burrhi was then in his early fifties, a little below average height, well on the way to becoming fat, light on his feet and with a good posture. He was a little yellow of complexion, with black hair and a slim moustache, round cheeks, a full chin, a hooked, somewhat plump, nose and small blinking eyes surrounded by countless fine and deep wrinkles, which stood out from the corners of his eyes like fans, m
aking him appear both cunning and good-natured at the same time.

  His outfit comprised a black velvet coat with huge sleeves and silver buttons covered in black crêpe, black breeches, black silk stockings and shoes with big black peonies. He seemed exceedingly fond of lace, for he wore lace on his chest and on the tips of his neckerchief, and thick lace ruffles hung from his cuffs and his breeches. His hands were white, fat, chubby and small, and so thickly covered in strange, fat gold rings that his fingers were splayed apart. Even on his thumb there were thick rings, shining with jewels. As soon as he sat down he hid his hands in a large skin muff, even though it was a summer day, because he always had cold hands, he said.

  The parlour into which he led Ulrik Frederik was large and spacious, with a vaulted ceiling and high, tall, narrow-arched windows. A large round table stood in the middle of the floor surrounded by wooden chairs, on the seats of which were soft pillows of red silk with long, heavy tassels in each corner. The surface of the table was inlaid with a large sheet of silver, on which the twelve signs of the zodiac, the planets and the most important star signs had been drawn in black enamel. A string of ostrich eggs was hanging from the rose in the vaulted ceiling. The floor had been painted in grey and red checks, and just by the door a triangle of used horseshoes had been inserted into the floorboards. A large coral tree stood below one window, a dark, carved wooden chest with brass fittings below the other. In one corner had been placed a life-sized wax doll representing a Moor, who held a dried palm leaf in his hand. Along the walls lay pieces of tin and copper ore.