Marie Grubbe Read online

  “Is that true, is that honestly what you mean?” he shouted eagerly, his eyes shining with happiness. “Why, then I have regained my senses, and you may ask, you may ask me anything at all!”

  “Were those words true…”

  “Gospel truth, but…”

  “Are you sure? You are not mistaken?”

  Daniel smiled.

  “Is… is he there today?”

  “Has he gone hunting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, aye.”

  “What,” began Marie after a short silence, “what kind of person is she, do you know?”

  “Small, my lady, she’s quite small, round and red like an apple, full of tattle and good cheer, a laughing mouth and a busy tongue.”

  “What kind of people are hers?”

  “Two, or two and a half years ago she was married to a French valet de chambre who left the country and left her in the lurch. She didn’t remain long there before she took to living with a destitute harpist, set off for Paris and then Brussels, where she’s been living until she returned to our country this year around Whitsun. In other respects, she’s naturally intelligent, has pleasing manners, except when she’s drunk. That’s all I know.”

  “Daniel,” she said, and paused uncertain.

  “Daniel,” he replied with a subtle smile. “Daniel is as faithful to you as your right hand, now and forever.”

  “Would you help me? Could you find… could you find a coach and a coachman I can trust, the moment I send for it?”

  “To be sure. In less than an hour there will be a coach in Herman Blytækker’s field, by the old shed. You may trust me, my lady.”

  Marie stood still for a moment, as if in thought. “We shall meet again,” she said finally, giving Magnille a friendly nod as she left.

  “Is she not the treasure of all beauty, Magnille?” exclaimed Daniel, his eyes dancing happily along the path from which she had disappeared. “And so noble in her pride,” he added triumphantly. “Oh, she would kick me out of her way, contemptuously place her heel on my neck, treading me gently into the most humble dust, if she knew how Daniel dares to dream of her person. On fire, so beautiful, so glorious! It stung my heart to see her use me as her confidant, me! Bending low the lofty palm of her pride. But there is joy in this feeling, Magnille, a heavenly joy, my little Magnille!”

  And away they tottered, leaning on one another.

  Daniel and his sister had come to Frederiksborg for the following reason: after the scene in the inn, Half-Pint had conceived a mad passion for Marie Grubbe. It was a poor fantasy of a love that did not hope, demand or expect anything except barren dreams, nothing more. And that little bit of reality that he needed to colour the dream with a faint shadow of life he found in abundance in the occasional sight of her which chance might provide, a glimpse up-close or as she passed by in the distance. But when Gyldenløve went on his journey and Marie never went out, his longing increased, growing and growing till it was sending him out of his mind, finally making him take to his bed.

  When he rose again, weak and shattered, Gyldenløve had returned, and through one of Marie’s servants who was in his pay, he discovered that the relationship between Marie and her husband was not good. This revelation gave his impossible infatuation fresh nourishment and growth, the exuberant, unnatural growth, which belongs to fantasy.

  Before he had gotten sufficiently over his illness to stand unaided, Marie left for Frederiksborg. He had to follow her. He could not stay. He said that he wanted to visit the wise woman in Lynge to be cured and that his sister Magnille must come along so that she could get advice about her bad eyes at the same time. Friends and relatives thought this quite sensible and they drove Daniel and Magnille to Lynge. Here he discovered Gyldenløve’s relationship with Karen Fiol, and taking Magnille into his complete confidence, told her about his strange love, told her that for him the light and the breath of life were only there if he was near Marie Grubbe, and he begged her to accompany him to Frederiksborg so that he could be close to the person who so completely occupied his thoughts.

  Magnille indulged him, they rented a place in Frederiksborg, and had now for many days been following Marie Grubbe at a distance on her lonely morning walks. And then they had happened to meet.

  * * *

  17 Frederik III’s eldest daughter.

  18 A board game.

  19 Frederik III collected rare animals.

  XI

  A few days later, some time in the morning, Ulrik Frederik was in Lynge.

  He was outside, on all fours, in the little garden in front of Karen Fiol’s house, a garland of roses in one hand, while with the other he was trying one moment to lure, the next to pull a small lapdog out of some hazel bushes in the corner.

  “Boncoeur! Petit, petit Boncoeur, come now, you little rascal. Ohhh, come now, you little rapscallion, you scamp, Boncoeur, my little dog! You cursed, stubborn beast…”

  Karen was standing in the window laughing.

  The dog did not come, but Ulrik Fredrik kept trying to lure it out, swearing all the while.

  “Ami des morceaux delicats,” sang Karen and winked. She was holding a full glass of wine in her hand.

  “…et de la débauche polie

  Viens noyer dans nos vins Muscats

  Ta soif et ta melancolie!”19

  She was very excited, quite hot, and when she sang, a few of the notes were a just a little too high.

  Ulrik Frederik finally caught the dog. Triumphant, he carried it in front of the window, and putting the rose garland firmly over its ears, offered it to Karen on his knees.

  “Adorable Venus, reine des coeurs, je vous prie accepter de ton humble ésclave ce petit agneau, couronné des fleurs…”20

  At that very moment Marie Grubbe opened the garden gate. When she saw Ulrik Frederik on his knees offering what seemed to be a garland of roses to the blushing and laughing woman, she turned pale, bent down, picked up a stone and threw it at her with all her strength. But it only hit the side of the open window so that the glass fell crashing to the ground.

  Karen leapt away with a cry. Ulrik Frederik looked anxiously through the window after her, dropping the dog in the excitement but holding onto the garland, and he remained standing there, surprised, angry and self-conscious, turning the garland this way and that in his hands.

  “Just wait,” Marie was shouting. “I didn’t hit you, but I will, I promise you I will…”

  She pulled a long, thick steel pin with a ruby head out of her hair, and holding it up like a dagger in front of her, she hurried towards the house with short, curiously comical steps, almost skipping along as though blind; she did not make for the house in a straight line but ran in strange, uncertain loops towards the door.

  Here she was stopped by Ulrik Frederik.

  “Let me pass,” she said almost whimpering. “You with your garland.”

  “For that kind of woman,” she continued, turning this way and that, looking for a way to slip in, keeping her eye on the open door. “For that kind of woman you weave garlands, garlands of roses. Yes, yes, here you play the amorous shepherd. Don’t you have a panpipe too? Don’t you have a panpipe?” she repeated, snatching the garland from his hands, throwing it on the ground and stamping on it. “And Amaryllis, doesn’t she have a shepherdess’s crook? One with a silk bow?”

  “Let me through, I tell you,” she threatened, holding the pin out as a dagger and aiming it at him.

  He grabbed both her wrists and held her tight. “Are you planning to sting once more?” he said sharply.

  Marie looked up at him.

  “Ulrik Frederik,” she said under her breath. “I am your wife in the eyes of man and God. Why don’t you love me any more? Come with me, let her behave as she likes and come with me. Come with me, Ulrik Frederik, you don’t know what a passionate love I feel for you, how bitterly I have been longing and suffering for you. Come with me, listen, come with me!”

  Ulrik Frederik did not re
ply, he offered her his arm, and followed her out of the garden, to her carriage that was standing not far off. Having helped her up, he went in front of the horses, examined the harness, fastened and unfastened a clasp, summoned the driver on the pretext that he wanted to adjust how the harness was attached to the shaft, and whispered to him as they were standing in front of the carriage.

  “As soon you find yourself in the seat, drive as fast as that jade can go. No stopping until you are home, I’m telling you… and you know me well!”

  The driver got up, Ulrik Frederik grabbed the side of the coach, as if about to mount too, then the whip whistled through the air and he jumped out of the way while the carriage sped along.

  For a moment Marie thought of making the driver stop, of taking hold of the reins herself, of jumping out, but then that calm that belongs to complete helplessness suddenly overcame her, together with a bottomless, deep and obscure loathing, a feeling of nausea and disgust, and she remained seated, calm and quiet, her eyes fixed on the distance, oblivious to the mad speed of the carriage.

  And Ulrik Frederik was back with Karen Fiol.

  That evening, when Ulrik Frederik returned, he was quite uneasy, not that he was truly worried. Rather, he was consumed by that sense of apprehension that steals over people when they are convinced that they are about to go through much that is annoying and unpleasant but unavoidable and so has to be faced.

  Marie would of course have complained to the king, who would be full of tedious reproaches, every one of which he would have to listen to in detail. Marie would robe herself in the majestic silence of disdained virtue, which he would take the trouble to ignore. The atmosphere at court would be hideously oppressive, the queen would appear tired and in pain, a distinguished pain, and her ladies in waiting, who knew nothing and suspected everything, would be sitting there silently, from time to time raising their heads to sigh gently and look at him with faint reproaches and big, forgiving eyes.

  Oh, how well he knew it all, down to that halo of high-minded loyalty and heroic self-sacrifice that would grace the small head of the queen’s pathetic chamberlain. With comic courage he would stand next to him, Ulrik Frederik, overwhelming him with politeness and comments full of deference, consolation and stupidity, while his small, watery-blue eyes and his spindly body spoke as eloquently as words. They were saying: see how everyone turns their back on you, but not I; risking the king’s anger and the queen’s displeasure, I offer consolation to the abandoned! I shall put my loyal breast between… oh, how familiar it all was, all of it, every bit of it, every detail.

  He was mistaken. The king received him with a Latin proverb, which was a sure sign that he was in a good mood, Marie rose and offered him her hand as usual, a little cold perhaps, a little more restrained, but certainly quite differently from how he had expected.

  Nor when they were alone did she hint with as much as a word to their meeting at Lynge, and this made Ulrik Frederik wonder suspiciously; he did not quite know what to think about her strange silence.

  He would almost have preferred if she had spoken! Should he tempt her to speak, thank her for her silence, indulge in remorse and repentance, and play the game that they were together again?

  He did not really dare try that, because he had noticed that she would occasionally observe him surreptitiously, such a curious look in her eyes, a calm, measuring, penetrating glance full of quiet wonder and a cold, almost mocking curiosity. There was not a flicker of revenge or hatred, not a shadow of sorrow or complaint, it was not a quivering look of repressed melancholy. Not at all!

  He lost his courage, and not a word was spoken.

  During the following days his thoughts would dwell uneasily from time to time on this, and a feverish desire to clear everything up would arise in him.

  But he did not do it, and he could not help thinking that unspoken reproaches lay there, like dragons in a dark cave, brooding over their sinister treasures which grew apace with the serpents themselves: blood-red rubies holding themselves high on orange stalks, pale opals increasing slowly, bulb by bulb, swelling and multiplying, while the bodies of the snakes quietly but unceasingly increased. Curve upon curve they would slide along, lift themselves up, coil upon coil towering above all that rich treasure.

  Yes, she must hate him, must be harbouring thoughts of revenge, for to be insulted in the way he had insulted her could not be forgotten. He began to connect her supposed desire for revenge and that curious incident when she had raised her hand against him with Burrhi’s words of warning, and so he avoided her more than before, wishing even more deeply that their lives might part.

  But Marie was not thinking of revenge. She had forgotten both him and Karen Fiol. In that moment of indefinable loathing, her love had been obliterated without trace, just as a shining bubble that bursts becomes spray, and then is nothing. Its lustre is gone, as are those flying colours it reflected in all those tiny images. They no longer exist, and the eyes they tantalised with their splendour and troubling beauty are now free, and they look around freely, gaze upon the whole world in a wide sweep, that world once reflected in the happy images of a translucent bubble.

  The number of visitors at the castle had increased day by day. The rehearsals for the masque were already in full swing, and the dancing instructors and actors, Mr Pilloy and Mr Kobberau, had been summoned, partly to teach, partly to take over the more difficult and less rewarding roles.

  Marie Grubbe, too, was performing in the ballet, and she eagerly took part in the rehearsals. Since that day at Lynge, she had become much more engaged and sociable, in every way more alive.

  Before, her relationship to her surroundings had been of quite a superficial nature; when there was nothing that seemed to be summoning her, drawing her attention or interest, she would immediately slip into her own small world and from there cast an indifferent gaze upon what lay outside.

  Now, by contrast, her life was out there; and if her circle of acquaintances had not been so occupied with all the gossip and present diversions, then they would have noticed with surprise how much her character had changed. There was a calm assurance in her movements, an almost hostile subtlety in her choice of words and an astute awareness in her expression.

  But there was no one who noticed, only Ulrik Frederik caught himself a few times admiring her, as if she were someone unfamiliar, a stranger.

  Among the visitors whom that month of August brought, there was also one of Marie’s relatives, Sti Høg, her sister’s husband.

  One afternoon, a few days after his arrival, they were standing together on a hill in the woods, from which there was a view of the town and the flat, sun-parched fields beyond.

  Huge, slowly gliding rain clouds were gathering in the sky, and from the earth rose a bitter odour of decay, as if the listless dying herbs were sighing for the moisture needed for life.

  A weak breeze, hardly enough to keep the mill down by the crossroads turning round, whistled sadly through the tree tops, and it sounded as if the sun's glow and sweltering summer were making the woods moan. The yellow grass fields, burnt dry, seemed to be exposing their barren misery to Heaven’s eye, like beggars displaying their pitiful wounds.

  The clouds were gathering closer and closer, a few large rain drops fell with sharp blows on leaves and dry stalks which, for an instant, swung aside and shook. Then suddenly all was quiet. The swallows swept low along the ground, and a bluish smoke fell in veils across the black thatched roofs of a nearby town.

  A wagon was trundling heavily along the road, and from paths and lanes at the foot of the hill muffled laughter and joyful conversations could be heard, along with the rustle of fans and silk, the bark of small lapdogs and the sound of dry branches breaking and creaking.

  The court was out on its afternoon walk. Marie and Sti Høg had separated themselves from the others and climbed the hill. Now they stood in silence, gazing breathless from their exertions.

  Sti Høg was then a little past thirty; a tall, lean man, r
ed-haired and with a long, narrow face. He was pale and freckled, and his thin, yellow-white eyebrows curved boldly above a pair of bright, pale grey eyes, which seemed tired and light-shy with their rather pink lids, and he had a way of blinking rather slowly or, perhaps more deliberately, closing his eyes for longer than other people. He had a high forehead, strongly arched and taut above the temples. His narrow, delicately curved nose was a little too long, and his chin was both too long and too sharp. His mouth was very beautiful, the colour of his lips being so fresh, and their lines so pure while his teeth were so small and white. But what made this mouth so unusual was its curiously melancholic and cruel smile, the kind that is often found among great hedonists, a smile which implies a thirsting desire and a weary disdain at one and the same time. It was at once tender and full of longing as sweet music, yet cruel and bloodthirsty as the low, satisfied growl that escapes the throat of a wild beast as it devours its trembling prey.

  That was what Sti Høg looked like then.

  “Madame,” he was saying. “Don’t you sometimes wish that you were living nicely cooped up within the walls of a convent like those you find in the south, Italy for example?”

  “Good God no! Where would I get such Catholic notions?”

  “Then are you truly happy, my dear sister-in-law? So is the cup of life glowing bright, tasting sweet on the tongue, making the blood warm and your thoughts run? Is that how it is? Never full of bitter dregs, dull and ugly? Never made hideous by those snakes and worms that are always crawling about and nibbling at things? Why then, have I mistaken the look in your eyes?”

  “How you would like to make me confess!” said Marie, and looked him in the eye, laughing.

  Sti Høg smiled, led her to a small grassy slope, and they sat down. He gave her a searching look.

  “Are you aware,” he began slowly, apparently shy and uncertain whether he should continue. “Are you aware, madame, that there exists a clandestine society that one might call the 'companions of melancholy'? It’s made up of all those who by birth have been given a different nature and temperament from others, who have larger hearts, quicker blood, more ardent longings and passions. They desire more strongly, and their yearnings are wilder, more burning than those of the common crowd of the nobility. They’re Sunday children through and through, their eyes are more open, every one of their senses perceives more subtly. They let the blood and sinews of their hearts feed on the joys and pleasures of life when others just grab them with their coarse hands.”