Marie Grubbe Page 16
But then for a second her confidence betrayed her, and she blushed and lowered her eyes.
Had Sti Høg taken her then, received that kiss as more than a princely gift, he would have lost her forever. But he knelt in silence before her, pressed her hand gratefully to his lips, drew back respectfully, bowed deeply, head bare, neck bowed. And she strode away proudly, away from the grotto, away into that darkness.
* * *
19 Friend of choice morsels and exquisite debauchery, come and quench your thirst and your melancholy in Muscat wine. François Maynard, Epigramme, Oeuvres 1646.
20 Adorable Venus, queen of hearts, I pray that you accept from your humble slave this poor innocent lamb crowned with flowers…
21 The original is in German. Die Waldlust (Longing for the Woods) was performed at Frederiksborg Castle in 1663. The author is unknown. Marie Grubbe is mentioned among the performers, but the description of the dance is Jacobsen’s own.
22 From Giovanni Battista Guarini’s (1538–1612) Il pastor fido, ‘The Loyal Shepherd’. ‘Of stature she is rather tall than short, of appearance merry, her hair is blonde with a reddish hue.’
XII
In January 1664 Ulrik Frederik was appointed Governor of Norway, and in the beginning of April of that year he made his way there, along with Marie Grubbe.
The relationship between them had hardly improved. Their lack of understanding and affection for one another was something that they both recognised, and this expressed itself in the very formal way in which they would treat one another.
During the first year after they had moved into Aggerhus, the life that they lived was such that Marie certainly did not wish for any change. But Ulrik Frederik felt differently, for he had again fallen in love with his wife.
It was a winter afternoon, towards dusk, and Marie Grubbe was sitting alone in the small parlour, known as far back as anyone could remember as ‘the box’.
It was a raw day, grey and dark, and full of wind. Heavy flakes of sleet clung to the corners of the small windowpanes, covering much of the greenish glass. Rain-chilled gusts of wind came whirling down between the high walls and hurled themselves blindly, as if having lost all sense, hammering on the gates and the doors, disappearing suddenly into the air with hoarse, dog-like howls. Mighty blasts of wind came hooting down that roof, throwing themselves straight at windowpane and wall, their blows like waves, only to cease all at once. And the breath of the wind found other places. It roared in the chimney so that the flames ducked in fear and the whitish smoke curled itself in panic into a wave’s crest, heading for the opening to the fireplace, ready to hurl itself into the room. But in the next instant it was whirling, light, thin and blue, up through the chimney, and the flames went shouting after it, jumping and leaping, and sending out their crackling sparks by the handful in quick pursuit. And only then did the fire really begin to burn. Humming comfortably, it spread itself wide over cinders, ashes and embers, boiled and sizzled with delight inside the marrow of the white birch, purred and sang, a cat the colour of fire, merrily letting its sparks and flames slide sneakily round the noses of dark knots and burning faggots.
Red, warm and bright, the fire’s merry breath streamed out into the tiny room. In a shimmering fan of light, it played on the parquet floors, chasing off the harmless darkness of dusk that concealed itself in fright as trembling shadows on either side of scrolled chair legs, retreated into corners or made itself long and thin behind projecting cornices, and flattened itself underneath a big chest of drawers.
Then, with a roar, the chimney seemed suddenly to suck in the light and the warmth. Darkness spread boldly across the entire floor, every square, every oblong as far as the very fire, but in the next moment the gleam of light was back again, and, chasing them across the floor, it made the shadows of dusk flee in all directions. In close pursuit it followed them up and down walls, past the shiny brass latch. Nowhere was safe. Yes, there darkness sat making itself small against the wall and the ceiling, like a cat in a tree, while the gleam of light down below went chasing and jumping about like a dog at its foot. Not even among the glass and goblets on the tall chest of drawers was the darkness safe, because the red ruby glass, the blue goblets and the green flutes lit flames of many colours, helping the gleam of light find its way.
And outside the wind continued and the darkness grew, but inside a fire blazed and light danced, and Marie Grubbe sang. She would sing what words she remembered or just hum the tune. She had a lute in her hand, but she was not playing. Only now and then would she pluck the strings and entice a few long clear notes.
It was one of those comforting little songs that make pillows seem softer and rooms warmer, one of those soft, rippling tunes that seem to sing themselves along in their comforting wistfulness, swelling the singer’s voice so charmingly, making it sound so full and round. Marie was sitting right in the fire’s glow, the reddish light playing around her, her singing carefree and delightful as if she were caressing herself with her own voice.
Suddenly the low door opened, and Ulrik Frederik’s tall bent figure appeared through the frame. Marie immediately stopped singing.
“Oh, madame,” exclaimed Ulrik Frederik in a voice of gentle reproach, his gestures pleading. “Had I known that my presence would in any way discomfort you…”
“Oh no, I only sang to keep my dreams awake.”
“Dreams de plaisir?” he asked, bending over the firedogs in front of the chimney piece and warming his hands over the shiny red copper balls.
“Dreams of youth,” Marie replied, letting her hands run across the strings of the lute.
“Yes, in old age we’re all the same!” he said, looking at her with a smile.
Marie became silent, but suddenly she said, “One can be quite young and yet have old dreams.”
“How sweet the perfume of musk is in here! But does my humble person grace your old dreams, my lady? Dare I ask…”
“Dear me, no.”
“Yet there was a time…”
“Among other times.”
“Yes, my lady, among all those other times there was once a wonderful time when I was so very, very dear to you. Can you only remember a twilight hour about eight days after our wedding? It was windy and snowy…”
“Just like now.”
“You were sitting by the fire…”
“Just like now.”
“Yes, and I was lying at your feet and your dear hands were playing with my hair.”
“Yes, then you loved me!”
“Oh, just like now! And you – you bent down over me, you were crying till the tears were running down your cheeks and you kissed me and looked at me so tenderly and so full of feeling, as if in your heart you were saying a prayer for me, and then suddenly – can you remember? Suddenly you bit me in the neck.”
“Yes, dear God, how much I loved you, my husband! When I heard your spurs ringing on the stairs then my blood rang in my ears, I shook from head to foot and my hands became as cold as ice. And when you entered and held me in your embrace…”
“Mercy, my lady.”
“Oh, but those are only dead memories about an amour which has long been extinguished.”
“Extinguished? Nay, my lady it burns hotter than before.”
“No, it has been completely covered by the cold ash of too many days.”
“But it will rise from those ashes like the phoenix, more wonderful, more fiery than before! Tell me, isn’t that true?”
“No, love is like a delicate flower: if the chill of a frosty night withers its heart, why then it is destroyed from top to bottom.”
“No, love is like a weed given the name of the Rose of Jericho. If the season is parched, it will dry out and curl up, but if along comes a mild and delicious night, rich in dew, then all its leaves unfold as green and as fresh as ever before.”
“Perhaps… but there are many kinds of love.”
“Certainly there are. Ours was just that kind.”
“Tha
t yours was such, you tell me now, but mine was never such… never.”
“Then you have never loved.”
“Haven’t I loved! I shall tell you how deeply I have loved… at Frederiksborg…”
“Oh, madame you show no pity!”
“No, no that isn’t it at all. It was at Frederiksborg… Oh how little you know how much I suffered there! I saw that your love for me was not as before. Yes, as a mother keeps watch over her ailing child and notices every small sign, I watched your love with fear and trepidation. And when I could see from your cold looks how pale it was, felt from your kisses how weak its pulse, why then it was as if I were going to die of pain and agony. I wept for that love many a long night. I prayed for it as I would for a precious child that by the hour dies and dies. And in my distress I sought help and advice, a cure for your sick love and whatever secret remedies I heard of, all kinds of love potions. I mixed them hopefully in the face of doubt and poured them into your morning drinks and evening wine. I laid out your handkerchief for three waxing moons and read the marriage psalm over it, and on the inside of your bedstead I painted with my own blood a cross of thirteen hearts, but to no avail, dear husband, for your love was sick to death. Mark, that is how you were loved.”
“But no, Marie, my love is not dead, it has risen again. Listen to me, dear heart. Listen to me. I was struck blind with utter madness, but now, Marie, I am kneeling at your feet begging and praying. Oh, then my love was like a fickle child, but now it has reached manhood; allow yourself to be held in its safe embrace and I swear by Almighty God and my honour that I will never let go of you again.”
“Hold your tongue, what use is that!”
“Believe me, Marie, do.”
“By God I do! I do believe you, there is not a shred or shadow of doubt in my mind. I believe you completely, I believe that your love is strong and mighty, but what about mine? That love you strangled with your own hands, that love is dead, and however much your heart shouts, it will never wake it again.”
“But no, listen, Marie! You are a woman… I know that there are women who when they love a man, even if he kicks them away, will come back again and again. Their love is proof against all wounds.”
“Yes, my dear husband, that is true, and yes I confess to being such a woman, but you, you are not the right kind of man.”
*
May God hold his protecting hand over you, dearest beloved sister, and may he bestow on you in generous plenty all that might benefit your life and soul. I wish so from my heart.
Dearest sister of my heart, my only loyal friend from when I was a child, I will now describe to you what fine fruit I have reaped from my elevation in rank, cursed from its very first day, for it has, as God shall be my witness, only done me harm and given me tribulations in full measure.
Truly it was the very opposite of an elevation, as I shall now tell you, my dearest sister, though this is something of which you are probably already very much aware. For I cannot believe that my sister did not surmise from her beloved husband that the relationship between myself and my fine spouse, even when our home was in Sjœlland, was very cold. Here at Aggerhus that state of affairs continued for some time, but his present behaviour towards me would make a strange tale indeed, though much to be expected of that kind of fine squire. But I care not a jot for his disgusting attentions, they awaken nothing in me, as I have long felt such meagre affection for his person that it would not sustain the breath of a sick duckling, and he can, for all I care, run madly after the hangman’s wife should that please him, as long as he does not come near me – which he does – and in such a manner that it would be difficult to decide whether he was fired by madness or possessed by the devil.
It all started when he came to me one day with fair words and fine promises that everything should be good between us again, but he is so hateful to me and so contemptible. I expressed quite clearly to him that I consider myself altogether above him. That was when all Hell broke loose, for as they say, when the devil is cold he makes Hell hot, and he immediately lit some fine fires for me, bringing to the castle a crowd of filthy whores and harlots whom he entertained with food and drink in abundance, yes with costly cream desserts and exquisite dishes, as if a princely banquet and my finely woven damask tablecloths, which I inherited from our dear mother, were to be spread out along with my silk cushions with tassels. But that came to nothing, because I put it all behind lock and key, and so he had to borrow from where he could to decorate the benches and tables.
My dearest, dearest sister, I will not tire you anymore with accounts of the goings-on of this vile company, but is it not shameful that such a pack of harlots, who in all justice ought to have their skin flayed at the town’s whipping posts, should be seated at the best place in the hall of the king’s viceroy? I believe that it’s so unheard of and so deplorable that if it ever came to his majesty’s notice – which I hope with all my soul it will – he would give my good Ulrik Frederik a talking to that he wouldn’t find at all pleasant.
His prettiest trick I haven’t yet mentioned. It’s quite new, and I only discovered it a day ago when I had sent for a lace merchant that he might bring me some Dutch silk lace that I wanted round the hem of a blouse. I received the reply that should I send money, then the merchandise would certainly follow, but the viceroy had forbidden him from selling me anything on credit, and I received the same message from the milliner whom I had also sent for, so that I presume I have sound credit nowhere although my dowry has contributed many thousands and thousands of rigsdaler. That is all for now. I leave all in the hands of God, and may he bring good tidings from you.
Your ever faithful sister,
Marie Grubbe
Aggerhus Castle, December 12th 1665.
To her ladyship, Ane Marie Grubbe, wife of Sti Høg, his majesty’s judge on Laaland, my dearest beloved sister, by hand.
*
I wish with all my heart that God keep you, my dearest beloved sister, now and always, and I shall say a special prayer that you will be of good cheer and not let yourself be so utterly despondent, for to each one of us has been given a lot full of sorrow, and we swim and bathe in nothing but misery.
Your communication, my dear sister, reached me unscathed and unopened, and with a sinking heart I read what treatment your spouse subjects you to, and it is a great wrong for his majesty’s viceroy to do as he does. But do not be too hasty, my lamb, for you have good reason for patience, since you have been given such an elevated position that it would be a shame to lose it, and you should be anxious to preserve it, for if your spouse has taken to revelry and is wasting the estate, at least it is his own that he is wasting. My rogue of a husband has found the means to spend both his own and mine, and it is a disgrace that a man, who should be keeping safe what God has entrusted for our keeping, is instead utterly wasting it. I only wish that God would well and truly separate us, by whatever means, as it would be a great mercy to a poor woman, more than I could thank him for. It might as well be the case, for we have not this past year been together as husband and wife. The Lord be thanked and praised should this continue, and so my dear sister can well deduce that my bed too has not been spread with silk, but my dear sister might bear in mind that her lord will probably behave and come to his senses, and that he won’t spend everything on wicked whores and disreputable folk, and since his position gives him a fine income, she should not worry her little heart with his contemptible dissipation, or his licentiousness for that matter. God will look after all things for the better, I trust. May you prosper, my duck, and I wish you a thousand good nights.
Your loyal sister as long as I live,
Ane Marie Grubbe
At Vang, 6th February 1666
To her ladyship, Lady Gyldenleu, my good friend and sister, written with loving kindness.
*
May God hold his protecting hand over you, dearest beloved sister, and may he bestow on you in generous plenty all that might bless your life and soul –
I wish so from my heart.
My dearest beloved sister, there is an old saying that no one is so mad that they do not stop to draw breath between Christmas Eve and Boxing Day, but that certainly does not hold true here, for my mad lord has not come to his senses again, but he is ten, no, a thousand times madder than before. What I have described is just child’s play to compare with what is happening now, which is beyond all measure. You must know, dear sister that he has been to Copenhagen and brought back one of his harlots, Karen by name. He immediately gave her an apartment in the castle, and she is in all things mistress and rules in everything while I am made to stand outside the door. My dear beloved sister, you must show me this favour and see if our dear father will take up my case should I flee this place, which he surely will, for no one can view my unhappy position but with great pity, and that which I am subjected to is so insufferable that I can only think that I do right by refusing to bear it. Not long ago, the day of the Assumption, I went for a walk in our orchard, and by the time I returned, the door of my bed chamber had been bolted from the inside, and when I asked what that piece of knavery signified, I received the reply that this chamber and the one next to it was wanted by her, Karen, and my bed had been moved up to the West Hall ,which is as cold as a church when the wind blows and full of draughts. The floor is decaying, creating great holes. But if I were to fully describe all the mockery I have been subjected to, then my letter would be as long as an Easter sermon, and if things continue in this way, then I can hardly vouch for my sanity. I trust all things to God and may he always bring me good news from you.
Your loyal sister forever,
Marie Grubbe
Aggerhus Castle, 2nd September 1666
To her ladyship, Ane Marie Grubbe, wife of Sti Høg, his majesty’s judge on Laaland, my dearest beloved sister, by hand.