Marie Grubbe Read online

  She turned pale with rage and then red with shame as she looked at him. Almost a stranger after such a long separation, he had forced himself on her, demanding her love as his right, arrogantly sure of her soul’s devotion and her feelings, in the way one expects to find one’s furniture where it stood when one went away. He was certain that he had been missed, that sighs of longing and desire had flown from her trembling lips towards him while he was far away and that the aim of all her desires was his broad embrace.

  When Ulrik Frederik got up he found her half-sitting, half-lying on a long bench in the blue room. She was pale, the features of her face relaxed, her eyes downcast and the injured hand was lying feebly in her lap, wrapped in a lace handkerchief. He tried to grab it, but she offered him her left hand, slowly holding her head back with a painful smile.

  Ulrik Frederik smilingly kissed the hand she offered him, made a few jokes about his condition the night before, saying as an excuse that all the time he had been in Spain, he had never been really drunk, because Spaniards did not really know how to drink, and besides, if he were honest, he preferred the fake Alicante and Malaga wine they served in Johan Lehn’s tavern or Bryhan’s to the real, sweet devil’s drink you got down there.

  Marie was silent. The table was set for lunch and Ulrik Frederik asked whether they should not eat. Marie did not want anything. She said she was sorry, but he would have to eat alone, she had no appetite and her hand hurt so much, he had really sprained it.

  So she let him know how guilty he was, and finally he asked to see the poor hand and kiss it, but Marie hid it quickly in a fold of her dress, her eyes on him like those of a tigress defending its helpless cub. He kept entreating her, but to no avail, before he sat down at the table laughing, and he ate with an appetite that all too obviously displeased Marie. And he could not sit still, having to run to the window every minute to look out at all those familiar street scenes which struck him as so new and strange, and soon, by all this running about he had succeeded in scattering most of the things on the table all over the room. His beer was in one window, while the breadknife in another, his napkin hung on the lip of a vase on a gilded circular table, and a pastry was lying on a small table in the corner.

  Finally he had finished, and he went and sat himself by the window where he was for a long time, looking out and talking to Marie, who from her couch only gave an occasional answer and most of the time said nothing at all.

  At last she rose and went over to the window where he was sitting. She sighed, looking sadly into the air.

  Ulrik Frederik smiled and twisted his signet ring round and round his finger intently.

  “Shall I blow on the poor injured hand?” he asked in a plaintive, sympathetic voice.

  Without a word, Marie tore the lace handkerchief off her hand and continued to stare into the air.

  “It’ll catch the cold, poor thing,” he observed casting a quick upward glance.

  Marie was resting the injured hand against the windowsill in apparent aimlessness, stretching out her fingers as if on a clavichord, moving them back and forth, away from the sun and into the shadow of the windowpane.

  With a pleased smile Ulrik Frederik watched that exquisite, pale hand moving. So lithe and supple, it was like a cat playing and moving about on that windowsill, crouching as if ready to pounce, turning this way and that, arching its back, running towards the bread knife, playing with the handle, running back, slowly sneaking up on the knife again, curling round the handle with a supple grasp, then lifting the blade, holding and letting it shine in the light before it suddenly flew up with the knife…

  Immediately the knife descended on his chest, but he warded it off with his arm, and the blade cut through his long lace cuffs into his sleeve, and he thrust it to one side and down onto the floor, jumping up with a scream of terror, knocking over the chair. Everything happened in one short second, as if it were all part of one single movement.

  Marie was deathly pale. She was pressing her hands close to her chest. Her glance, stiff and full of terror, was fixed on the spot where Ulrik Frederik had been sitting. Then her eyelids closed, and a shattering, dead laughter forced itself through her lips. She slowly began to sink down onto the floor, without a sound, as if guided by invisible hands.

  While she was playing with the knife, she had suddenly noticed Ulrik Frederik’s lace shirt was open, revealing his chest, and at that moment a sudden, irrational desire had risen within her to strike that white breast with that cold, shiny steel, and she did it, not because she wanted to kill or even to hurt him, but perhaps just because the knife was cold and his chest warm, or because her hand was frail and feeble, his chest tough and tenacious, but mainly because she could not stop herself. Her will had no power over her mind, or her mind no power over her will.

  A pale Ulrik Frederik stood there, supporting himself against the lunch table with the flat of his hands. He was trembling so much that the table shook and the plates were rattling against one another. Fear was not part of his nature and courage was not something he lacked, but this had come so unexpected, and was so insanely beyond understanding that he could only think of the shape lying there lifeless and silent on the floor by the window with a ghostly dread. Burrhi’s words about a danger flashing in a woman’s hand echoed in his mind, and he sank down on his knees and prayed. All rational certainty, all reasonable security seemed to have vanished from this mortal life, and all human wisdom too. It was Heaven itself that ruled, the power of unknown spirits that guided, unearthly powers and signs that decided. Why else should she have wanted to kill him, why, Almighty God, why? Because that was what had to happen, inevitably.

  He picked up the knife almost furtively, broke the blade and threw the bits into the empty fireplace.

  Still Marie did not move.

  Perhaps she was wounded? No, the knife was clean, and there was no blood on his sleeves, but she lay there so still, deadly still. He rushed over to her and picked her up in his arms.

  Marie sighed, opened her eyes, looked around in a stiff and dead way, looked at Ulrik Frederik and threw her arms around him, kissing and caressing him, but she did not say a word. She was smiling so happily and cheerfully, yet there was a questioning fear in her glance, she was looking across the floor as if seeking something, and suddenly she grabbed Ulrik Frederik by the wrist, feeling his sleeve, and when she saw that it was torn and the cuff slashed, she screamed in horror.

  “Oh, but I did do it!” she shouted in anguish. “Oh God in Heaven, I beg and beg you please keep me sane! But why don’t you ask any questions?” she said, turning to Ulrik Frederik. “Why don’t you hurl me from you like a poisonous adder! But, I swear by God, that I have no fault or blame in what I’ve done; it just came upon me, there was something that was forcing me, I swear to you by the highest oath, there was something that was guiding my hand. But you don’t believe me? How could you…” And she cried and moaned.

  But Ulrik Frederik did believe her. For this utterly confirmed his own thoughts, and he consoled her with kind words and caressed her, although he felt a secret horror of her as a sad and senseless tool in the power of some dark and hostile spirit. And this horror would not let go of him, however much Marie tried day after day to win his confidence with all the guile of a quick-witted woman. For if she had earlier, on that first morning, sworn in her heart that she would let Ulrik Frederik show her every kindness, would test the dregs of his patience before allowing him to have her back, now her behaviour promised the opposite. Every look was a prayer, every word a humble promise, and in a thousand small things, in clothes and manner, in clever surprises and sensitive gestures, she revealed to him every minute of the day the depth of her love and her longing, and had she only had to overcome the memory of the events of that lunch, then she would have won.

  However, she had greater enemies.

  A poor prince, Ulrik Frederik had left a country where a powerful nobility did not regard the illegitimate children of a king as in any way above
them. Absolute monarchy was still in its infancy, unlike the idea that the king was merely first among equals. That halo of a demi-god which was later to surround the absolute monarch with its rays, had only just been lit. It burned faint and feeble, blinding no one.

  Such was the country from which Ulrik Frederik had made his journey to join the army and court of Philip IV of Spain, where he was showered with gifts and honours, was given the title of Grand d’Espagne and treated as an equal of Don John of Austria, because the King of Spain chose through him to pay homage to Frederik III. The King of Spain felt that by showing him generous grace and favour, he was giving his approval to the change in the nature of government in Denmark and acknowledging King Frederik’s successful attempt to take his place among the absolute monarchs.

  Elated and intoxicated by all this glory, which quite changed his opinion of his own importance, Ulrik Frederik quickly came to the view that he had acted in an unforgivably foolish way when he had taken the daughter of a humble nobleman to be his wife, and during his journey home his mind was full of conflicting thoughts: making her pay for his own rashness, elevating her, divorcing her, all mingled in one confused stream. Now his superstitious fear that she endangered his life made him decide that until he knew what to do, he would treat her with cold ceremony and reject all her attempts to awaken and bring to life again their former idyllic relationship.

  Frederik III, who was not at all an imperceptive observer, soon noticed that Ulrik Frederik was no longer pleased with his marriage. Understanding the reason why, he would use every opportunity to shower Marie with signs of his grace and favour, hoping in this way he might raise her in Ulrik Frederik’s affection and esteem, but it was no use. It only created an army of jealous enemies round the king’s favourite.

  *

  That summer, as usual, the royal family stayed at Frederiksborg. Ulrik Frederik and Marie came too, as they were involved in helping with the creation of all kinds of festivities and pageants surrounding the engagement of the Elector of Saxony to Princess Anna Sofia.17

  For the time being the court presence there was quite small, to be increased by the end of August when the rehearsals for the entertainments were to begin. It was therefore very quiet, and they passed the time as best they could. Ulrik Frederik spent most days fishing or hunting, the king was busy with his carpentry or in his laboratory, which he had had constructed in one of the small towers, while the queen and the princesses were embroidering for the festivities.

  Marie used to take her morning walk along the avenue that led from the wood to the small deer park. Her Turkey-red gown was brightly defined against the black soil and the green leaves in the avenue as she progressed on her walk.

  Her well-shaped, black felt hat, simply adorned with a string of pearls and a single silver mounted gemstone gleaming on the upturned brim, rested lightly on her abundant hair, piled high. Her waistband was tight and smooth, her sleeves narrow as far as the elbow, from where they hung down with deeply slashed, mother-of-pearl clasps across the slits, lined with silk which was the colour of her face. Her arms were covered by closely-worked lace cuffs. The material of her dress, trailing slightly at the back, was fastened high on either side and fell short in rounded folds at the front, revealing a skirt with black and white diagonal stripes with just enough length to allow a glimpse of black embroidered stockings and pearl-clasped

  She stopped close by the gate, breathed into the hollow of her hand, holding it first in front of one eye, then the other; next she tore off a twig, placed the cool leaves on her hot eyelids, but still one could see that she had been crying. She proceeded through the wicket gate, went up towards the castle, and came back and took a side path.

  She had hardly disappeared among the dark green hedges of box tree before a curious and frail couple appeared at the top of the avenue: a man walking slowly, with difficulty, as if he had just recovered from a serious illness, was leaning on a woman in an old-fashioned cape with a wide, green brim covering her eyes. The man wanted to walk more quickly than he could, and the woman was holding him back, tripping along and complaining gently.

  “Now then!” she said. “Try taking your legs with ye, ye are flying along like a loose wheel on a crooked road. Sick limbs should be treated as such. Walk calmly now! Isn’t that what the wise old woman in Lynge said? What’s this tottering about on legs that have no more strength in them than some bits of old thread?”

  “Lord help me what kind of legs I’ve got,” moaned the sick man and stopped, his knees shaking. “Now I’ve completely lost sight of her.” Full of longing, he looked up towards the gate. “Completely out of sight! And there are to be no excursions, so the steward says, not today, and tomorrow is so far away.”

  “But time, it’ll pass, Daniel dear, and ye can get some rest today, then ye’ll be so much stronger tomorrow, and we will follow her all through the woods, all the way to the gate, yes we will, but now we’re going home, where you can lie down on a soft couch with a good jug of ale, and we’ll play shoes. In her hand she carried a fan of swan feather and the feathers of ravens. verkehring.18 Reinnoldt, who pours the wine, will be coming, once the fine folk have finished dining, and then ye can ask for news, and we can have a good game of cards till the sun goes down behind the hills. Yes we can Daniel, yes we can.”

  “Yes, we can,” mocked Daniel. “Yes, we can. You with your cards, your games and your verkehring! But the inside of my head is burning, as if with molten lead, and my mind has all gone. Just help me onto the roadside so that I may sit for a while… Where is my sense, Magnille? Have I got any sense? I am like a mad fly in a bottle, don’t you think? By Jesus! Is there any sense in a misbegotten, misshapen, wretched, wretched hunchback of a man allowing himself to be devoured by a mad love for the wife of a prince, where is the sense in that Magnille? To wear my heart out with longing for her, to gasp for breath like a fish on dry land for just a glimpse of her figure, to let my mouth make memories from the dust she has trod, where is the sense in that? Oh, but if it were not for my dreams, Magnille, those dreams when she bends down over me and places her white hand on my painful breast or lies there so still, breathing so quietly, so cold and abandoned, with no one but me to protect her. Or when I catch just for a small moment a glimpse of her whirling by, white, white as a naked lily! But that’s only dreams, smoke and nonsense, sad bubbles of air.”

  They started walking again until they got to the gate. Daniel leaned on it with his arm and stared among the hedges.

  “In there!” he said.

  There the deer park stood silent in the sunlight, the flint and gravel on the path reflected the quivering light, while flying cobwebs shone in the air, and from the beech trees the dry leaves that had covered the buds fell twirling down, and high above, against a blue sky, the castle’s white doves played, with sun-gold nimble wings.

  A happy dance tune sounded faintly from a distant lute.

  “Such a fool,” whispered Daniel. “Can you believe, Magnille, that someone who owns one of the most precious diamonds in all of India should consider it of little worth and pursue shards of painted glass! Marie Grubbe and Karen Fiol! Has he got any sense? And they’re all thinking now that he’s out hunting, they’re thinking that because he lets the game-keeper do the shooting and he comes home with braces of cuckoo and snipe, when in fact he’s fooling about with a bought woman, a harlot. Fie, fie, by the rivers of Hell what a filthy business! And he is so jealous of that saucy wench that he hardly dares let her out of his sight for a day, but…”

  There was a rustling in the bushes, and there behind the gate stood Marie Grubbe.

  Turning round at the bottom of the garden, she had walked along the enclosure for elks and Esrom camels19 and from there to a summerhouse close to the gate. She had overheard what Daniel had been saying to Magnille.

  “Who are you?” she asked. “And were the words you spoke true?”

  Daniel was trembling so much that he could barely keep himself upright by the gate.


  “Daniel Knopf, my lady, the mad Daniel,” he replied. “Don’t mind his talk which has run off his tongue, truth and lies all mingled together, brain chaff and loose talk, loose talk and nothing else.”

  “You lie, Daniel.”

  “Yes, dear God, I’m lying, truly I am, for here, my lady,” and he pointed to his forehead. “In here it is like at the fall of Jerusalem, all confusion. Will you curtsey, Magnille, curtsey politely and tell my lady, Madame Gyldenløve, how mad I have become, don’t be ashamed. Dear God, we’ve all got our weaknesses and foibles. Speak, Magnille, speak! We’re all only as mad as the good Lord made us.”

  “Is he really mad?” Marie asked Magnille.

  Confused Magnille bent down, grabbed a fold of Marie’s skirt from between the bars of the gate, kissing it. She looked very frightened. “No, no, he’s not, thanks be to God.”

  “She too…” Daniel drew a circle in the air. “We take care of one another, we two mad folk, doing what we can, not the best of luck, but by God’s grace, the mad have eyes, they find their way with each other’s help, they find their way to the grave, but no bells will ring, hey-ding-a-ling. But thank you for asking so kindly, thank you and God be with you.”

  “Stay,” said Marie Grubbe. “Your madness is all play-acting. You must tell me everything, Daniel, or I’ll think you are their go-between.

  “I’m a poor mad soul,” whimpered Daniel.

  “May God forgive you, Daniel, it is a shameful game you’re playing. I would have thought of you as someone much, yes, much better!”