Marie Grubbe Read online

  He stopped for a moment, took off his hat and let his fingers playfully slide across its thick plumage.

  “But,” he continued in a low voice as if speaking to himself. “This sense of pleasure in beauty, splendour, whatever you can give a name to, in the deepest stirrings of the soul, in one’s most secret impulses and thoughts which no human being can really himself grasp – all of which only occupies others when they’re idle and want some small diversion or complete debauchery – this is medicine and precious balsam for their souls. This is the only kind of honeyed flower that life has to offer, and it is from such that they must suck their daily nourishment, and that is why they look for flowers on the tree of life, where it would never occur for others to look, under dark leaves and on dry boughs… for what would the others know of the delights of sorrow or despair?”

  He smiled contemptuously and became silent.

  “But why,” asked Marie, looking indifferently away. “Why do you call them melancholy when only the joys and delights of this world are in their thoughts, and not what’s dark and sad at all?”

  Sti Høg shrugged his shoulders and seemed about to get up, as if he were tired of discussing the subject and wanted to break off the conversation.

  “But why?” repeated Marie.

  “Why,” he exclaimed impatiently and with contempt in his voice. “Why, because all the joys of this world are so weak and ephemeral, so false and imperfect. Every pleasure, the moment it appears, loses its leaves like a tree in autumn, because in life every desire, however wonderful or splendid in its beauty, and at its peak of youthful fruitfulness when it takes you in its vigorous embrace is immediately devoured by the cancer of death, just as it touches your mouth, you can feel it shivering in the clutches of decay. Does that offer real pleasure? Must not that thought invade every moment of shimmering happiness like red rust? Yes, like a harmful hoar frost, does it not nip in the bud the rich feelings of the soul and blight them, root and all?”

  He jumped up from the slope and continued speaking, looking down at her and gesticulating wildly.

  “You ask why they are called the companions of melancholy, when all pleasure, the moment it is seized, must fill one with disgust and horror, when all euphoria is only joy’s last, most painful breath, when all beauty is beauty that fades, and all happiness, is happiness that bursts!”

  He began walking back and forth in front of her.

  “Is that what made you think of a convent?” asked Marie, looking down with a smile.

  “Yes, madame, it is. I have imagined myself many a time in the seclusion of a lonely room in a monastery or being kept a prisoner in a high tower, where I would sit alone by a window and keep watch on the vanishing light and the growing darkness, while solitude, quiet and silent, yet strong and vigorous, would steal its way into my soul and pour its soporific draught into my blood. Oh, but I’m well aware that this is just fantasy and deceit. Never would solitude gain its power over me, I would be full of passionate and burning desire, I would be insane with longing for life and all that it means to be alive… but you don’t understand a word of what I have been saying. Let us go, ma chère! It’s going to rain any moment, now that the wind has dropped.”

  “But it is clearing! Look how the light is filling the entire horizon!”

  “The air may be clearer, but it feels very close.”

  “I disagree,” said Marie, getting up.

  “With respect, I swear you’re mistaken.”

  Marie ran down the hill.

  “A man’s will is his Heaven,” she shouted back. “Now come and enter yours!”

  When they had reached the bottom, Marie turned away from the castle and Sti Høg followed at her side. He seemed lost in his own thoughts and did not make any attempt to continue the conversation.

  “Listen,” said Marie suddenly. “You really do think well of me, Sti Høg. But I don’t understand anything about the weather and I don’t always follow other people’s discourse.”

  “I believe you do.”

  “But I didn’t quite understand what you were saying.”

  “Do you mean that?”

  “Now you are making me angry.”

  “Sticks and stones…”

  “You can believe it or not, but I am, God knows, familiar with that hard, quiet sadness that can steal over you without any apparent reason. The Reverend Jens used to say that it was a kind of homesickness for Heaven, which is the real country of all Christian souls, but I hardly believe that. You feel such a want, such a need, and there’s no hope alive that will bring any comfort. No, no, what a sea of tears I’ve often cried! It’s such a heavy, inscrutable and consuming feeling – the heart sickens, and one is so overcome that one wishes one had never been born. But it’s never been the frailty of happiness or the frailty of the world that’s been oppressing my thoughts. I didn’t feel that this was what I was mourning over, not once! No it was something quite different… yes something… it’s so utterly impossible to give that grief a name, but it has occurred to me that it was most like the grief you feel for a well-concealed defect of nature, some intrinsic damage to the soul, one that makes you so completely different from other people and in all things quite inferior… no, it’s so difficult to express in words, to hit the mark. Listen: life and this world, why, in my eyes they’re things of such unspeakable beauty and wonder that to be part of them must make one so proud and so infinitely happy; whether in good fortune or in sorrow, that signifies nothing as long as suffering and happiness are completely real, not a pretence like in a masquerade or one of those plays at Lent. I would that life should seize such a strong hold of me that I would be either so crushed, or lifted so high, that I would have no space left in my soul for any thoughts for anything – except for that which was lifting me or that which was crushing me. I would melt into my sorrow or burn with my joy. Oh, you will never understand!

  “If I were carried in a triumphal chariot like a Roman general, then I would exalt in that victory, and feel the euphoria, the honour, the shouts of the people, the sound of the horns, everything in one resounding ring. That’s how I would feel. Not like someone who, full of sad vanity and cold pride, as the chariot is rolling along, is thinking deeply inside himself just how proudly he shines in the envious eyes of the mob, how impotently jealousy’s wave licks his feet, while his is the pleasure of the soft crimson on his shoulder and the cool crown on his brow. Do you understand, Sti Høg, that is what I think it means to live, that’s the life I hungered for, but I was conscious that such things could never happen to me, and it occurred to me that it might be my own fault in some way I couldn’t understand, that I had committed some sin against myself or led myself astray. I don’t know, but it seemed to me that the origin of my bitter pain might be that I had plucked a string that must not sound, and by its tone something within me had been torn so that time couldn’t heal it, and I would never find my vigour again to force open the door of life – no, I would have to stand outside, listening to the music at the party, unasked and unwanted, like a crippled maid.”

  “You!” exclaimed Sti Høg surprised, before his facial expression changed suddenly and he continued in a completely different tone. “No, no, I can see clearly now what’s happened.” And he shook his head. “Good God, how easily people can deceive themselves in such matters. It’s so rarely that our thoughts travel down this road that we know neither path nor stile; lost we run along happily, and as long as we only catch a glimpse of something that could resemble a track, we’re ready to swear that this is the king’s highway. Or am I wrong, ma chère? Haven’t we both, in our own way, as we sought an explanation for our melancholy, gone ahead and crowned the first thought that occurred to us, as if it were the best and only real explanation? Listening to what we have both said, one would think that I go around weighed down by the thought of the transience of this world and of the mutability and ephemeral nature of all things in it. And that you, my dear sister-in-law, are completely persuaded that you are
a sad wallflower on whom the door has been closed, the light extinguished, and that you have almost lost any hope. But that is hardly true at all! When we start talking about such things, we become so easily drunk on our own words that we ride every thought we happen to mount as hard as we can.”

  The rest of the party were coming down the path, and they joined them on the way to the castle.

  *

  It was half past eight in the evening of the 26th of September when the sound of cannons and shrill trumpets playing a festive march announced that both their majesties, accompanied by his grace, Prince Johann George of Saxony, and his mother, the princess, would be leading the crowd of the most distinguished men and women of the realm from the castle down through the garden to see the masque that was just about to begin.

  A row of pitch torches cast a glaring red light onto the red garden walls, lending the yew and box hedges a blush of bronze and making everyone’s cheeks burn with a deep glow of health.

  A double row of guards in scarlet uniform carried tall candles wreathed in flowers high into the dark air. Finely-wrought lanterns, ember bowls and vessels, ornate candelabra were placed both low on the ground and high among the yellowing leaves of the trees to keep the darkness at bay and clear a shining path for the magnificent procession.

  The light danced in gold and silver threads, and was reflected in polished silver and steel, gliding in golden streaks down silk gowns and silk trains. Soft as reddish dew, its breath fell on dark velvet, and in white sparks it descended like stars on diamonds and rubies. Shades of red competed with yellow, while those of clear sky blue enclosed brown. Sea green colours cut bold streaks of light through white and blue violet; coral red disappeared between shades of black and lilac, and yellow-brown, pink and steel grey whirled together. Light and dark, one hue and another, all merged into a happy wave of colours.

  It all vanished quickly and then only a few rich plumes nodded white in the fading light.

  It was then time for the masque, called Longing for the Woods.

  The scene was indeed a wood. Crown Prince Christian played a hunter, telling of his joy at his easy hunter’s life in the leafy woods. Wandering ladies sang softly about the smell of violets, children played hide and seek among the trees and picked berries in small, pretty baskets, and cheerful citizens praised the clear air and the bright grapes, while two ridiculous old maids pursued a handsome peasant lad with amorous gestures. Then the goddess of the woods, Diana the maid, floated across the stage, her character assumed by her Royal Highness Anne Sofie. The Elector Palatine got to his feet in raptures, throwing her a kiss with both hands while the whole court applauded. The goddess of the woods proceeded to deliver a monologue, and her royal suitor, the Elector Palatine, overwhelmed with joy and gratitude, pressed the royal hand of her father and her mother to his lips. Hardly had the goddess disappeared before a peasant and his wife stepped forward and sang a duet about the happiness of love. One cheerful scene followed another in quick succession: three young gentlemen decked themselves out and frolicked in the open air, four officers made merry, two peasants returned from the market in high spirits, a gardener’s boy and then a poet sang a song, and finally six people played a lively tune on a medley of jolly sounding instruments.

  The final scene followed, in which there were eleven shepherdesses, their Royal Highnesses, the Princesses Anna Sofie, Frederica Amalie and Vihelmina Ernestina, Lady Gyldenløve and seven beautiful noble ladies. With great elegance they performed a simple country dance in which Lady Gyldenløve was being taunted and teased; absorbed in thoughts of love she refused to join them in their cheerful minuet, and they mocked her character because she has relinquished her freedom and submitted her neck to the yoke of love. But then she stepped forward and in a dainty pas de deux with Princess Anne Sofie, she revealed to her the rich ecstasy and rapture of her love.

  All then came forward, dancing merrily, weaving in and out among each other in complicated turns, while an invisible choir behind the stage accompanied by lush string music sang their praise:

  “Glorious nymphs, goddesses though of clay,

  Whose beauty blinds every hero of the day,

  To whom even the gods submit their power,

  Show in this dance your beauty’s finest flower.

  Let your feet weave the floor nimble as air

  For such flight they are made, born free from care.

  The speed of your limbs will mark you divine,

  And make us all worship at your shrine.”21

  That was the end of the masque, and everyone dispersed into the park, strolling among illuminated flower beds or relaxing in grottos made for pleasure, while page boys, dressed as Italian or Spanish fruit vendors, offered wine, cakes and confectionery from woven baskets carried on their heads.

  The actors also mingled with the crowd and were complimented on their art and talent, but everyone agreed that, apart from Crown Prince Christian and Princess Anne Sofie, no one had acted as well as Lady Gyldenløve; both their majesties and the Electress of Saxony gave her great praise, and the king was of the opinion that even Mademoiselle de la Barre could not have performed that role with more grace or convincing gestures.

  They continued their celebrations long into the night on paths full of lights and in reception rooms facing the park where the sound of the flute and the fiddle enticed people to dance and the food and drink, piled high on the groaning tables, to revelry. The festivities even stretched into the lake, and the sound of merry laughter floated into the garden from lantern-covered gondolas far out on the water.

  Everywhere there were people, most stopping where the light was brightest and the music playful, but even where darkness reigned alone and the notes were half lost among whispering leaves, merry wanderers and silent couples could be found. Even in a distant grotto, furthest to the east, there was a lonely visitor. But he was feeling dejected. A small lantern in the green branches which overhung the grotto cast a shifting light on his sad expression and dejected brow. It was Sti Høg.

  “…È di persona

  anzi grande, che no; di vista allegra,

  di bionda chioma, e colorita aliquanto.”22

  He was whispering to himself. He had not spent the last four or five weeks constantly in the company of Marie Grubbe without being unaffected. She had utterly beguiled him. He longed only for her, dreamt only about her. She was his hope and his despair. He had been in love before, but never like this, never so yielding, so soft and so without confidence.

  It was not that she was the consort of Ulrik Frederik, nor that he himself was married to her sister, that deprived him of hope, but he lacked a natural confidence where love was concerned. “My puppy love,” he thought bitterly. It had so little of desire and so much of fear and worship, and yet looking at it differently, it did have so much desire. It was a feverish and wistful desire which drew him towards her, creating an unhealthy longing to live with her, share her memories, dream her dreams, suffer her sorrow and share her wistful thoughts. She had been so beautiful in the dance, but ever more the distant stranger. Those curved and dazzling shoulders, that rich bosom and those slender limbs all conspired to frighten him; all that physical beauty that lent her an even richer perfection filled him with fear, made him tremble. Not having the courage to let himself be captivated by it, he feared his passion, feared that rising, high-heaven burning fire that was smouldering inside. For that arm on his neck, those lips pressed against his – that was madness, foolish mad dreams. And as for that mouth…

  “Paragon di dolcezza!

  …bocca beatà,

  …bocca gentil, che può ben dirsi

  Conca d’Indo odorata

  Di perle orientali e pellegrine;

  E la porta, che chiude

  Ed apre il bel tesoro,

  Con dolcissimo mel porpora mista.”23

  He rose from the bench for a moment, as if in pain. And he clung again to his servile longing for love. He imagined throwing himself in the dust befor
e her feet, and sought refuge in his love’s hopelessness, keeping the image of her indifference in front of his eyes… and then… there was Marie Grubbe standing in front of him in the arched entrance to the grotto, bright against the darkness beyond.

  She had been in a curiously exhilarated mood all evening; she felt so secure, so full of power and vigour. The sound and splendour of the celebrations, the applause and worship of the crowd, she had strode across it as if it were a purple rug spread out for her foot to step on. For she was so completely enthralled and intoxicated by her own beauty. It was as if her blood shot in rich shimmering rays from her heart, becoming the smile on her lips, the light in her eyes and the lovely sound of her voice. Satiated with worship, her mind felt calm. A cloudless clarity marked her thoughts, and there was a rich unfolding of the soul; a feeling of ecstasy, power and harmony.

  Never had she been as lovely as now, with fortune’s reckless smile on her lips, and in her look and air, the proud calm of a queen; how she stood there in the arched entrance to the grotto, bright against the darkness. She looked down at Sti Høg, met his hopeless gaze of worship, and she bent down towards him, placed her white hand in pity on his head and kissed him. She did not do so out of love. Rather, she kissed him in a moment of serene benevolence, like a king giving a loyal servant a ring as a sign of his royal favour and mercy.