Marie Grubbe Read online

The sound of the blows made a horrible impression on the child and she walked quickly to the farm covering her ears. The door to the kitchen cellar was open and she slipped in and slammed it shut.

  That was Marie Grubbe, the fourteen-year-old daughter of Erik Grubbe of Tjele Manor.

  *

  The blue glare of twilight lay over Tjele. Dew had fallen and put an end to the bringing in of the hay. The girls on the farm were in the cowshed milking, and the farm-hands were keeping themselves busy in the wagon shed or in the saddle room. The serfs were standing in a crowd outside the gate waiting for the bell to be rung for supper.

  Erik Grubbe was standing by the open window looking out over the farmyard: slowly, one by one, the horses, free of their harnesses and halters, were emerging and heading for the trough of water. A boy in a red hat was standing in the middle of the yard by one of the stones used for securing horses, adding new teeth to a rake while, in one corner, two greyhounds were playing tag between the large whetstone and the wooden horse used for punishment.

  As time passed the farm-hands appeared more and more often at the stable doors. They would look around and disappear, whistling or singing a tune; a girl with a full pail of milk tramped across the yard with quick, tripping steps, while the serfs were beginning to assemble within the gates as if to hurry the bell for their supper. The din from the kitchen grew, with the rattle of buckets, trays and wooden plates. Finally someone made a couple of strong pulls on the dinner bell, which shook twice with a ring of rusty notes that soon died in the din of wooden clogs and doors scraping against their posts. Then the yard was empty, except for two dogs at the gate who were barking madly.

  Erik Grubbe pulled the window to, and sat down thoughtfully. He was in the winter sitting room. They used it during both winter and summer, both to dine and to sit in, and they were hardly ever anywhere else. It was a spacious room with two windows, half-panelled in tall, dark oak, with walls covered in Dutch-glazed tiles, white-edged and decorated with big, blue roses. The fireplace was made out of burnt brick, and a chest had been placed in front of it to stop any draughts when any of the doors were opened. There was also a polished oak table with two large half-moon extensions hanging down and almost reaching the floor, some high-backed chairs with hard leather seats, worn till they shone, and a small cabinet painted green hanging high on one wall. That’s all there was in the room.

  As he sat there in the gathering dusk, his housekeeper Ane, Jens’ daughter, entered, a light in one hand and a jar of milk in the other, warm as the udder it came from. She put the jar next to him. Then she sat herself down at the table, the light in front of her. She did not let go of the candlestick, but sat there, turning it round and round in a big red hand that gleamed with many rings and big stones.

  “Good Lord!” she said.

  “What’s wrong?” Erik Grubbe asked, fixing his eyes on her.

  “Good Lord, can’t I moan when I’ve toiled till there’s no strength or feelin’ left?”

  “It’s a busy time. In summer people must make the hay they use in winter to keep themselves warm.”

  “Ah, ye can talk! There’s some sense in this world, and if yah’re wanting t’ drive for a king, better yer wheel not be in t’ ditch an’ yer axle broke. There’s nobbut me t’work. T’ maids are all drabs; love and town gossip are all they care for and when they wark, it’s all crooked an’ has to be set right. An’ who’s to do that, but misself? Wulfberg is sick an’ Stine an’ Buel, those harlots, they’re standing there warkin’ up a sweat loike pigs, but no good comes of it. I could ’ave help from yer Mari, I nobbut wish ye’d talk sense to her when she’s in a plisky, but she’s too good t’ move a finger.”

  “Good God! All that talk has drained your lungs of air and fuddled brain so you can’t speak properly. You’ve no one but yourself to blame. If you had shown Marie some patience last winter, instructing her gently and showing her how to do everything properly, then you’d be having some use of her now. But you had no patience, your fiery temper made her defiant, and there you were tearing each other apart. I’m just pleased that that’s all over.”

  “Ah’m not arguing – ye fight for yer Mari, she’s yer blood. But if ye fight for yers, then ah’ll do the same for mine e’en if it angers and provokes ye. Ah’m going to tell ye there’s more stubborn in Mari than do her good in th’ world. Anyhow, that’s her problem, but she’s wicked, she is though ye deny her ill ways. Never does she leave little Ane in peace. Never! She’s at her all day long with slaps and blows and foul words. That poor bairn must be wishing she’d ne’er been born, and so do ah. Ah really do, though it’s a sad thing, God have mercy on us! Yah’re not t’ same father for both bairns, but that ah understand, that’s th’ way it sod be, that t’ sins of t’ fathers are visited on t’ children to th’ third and to th’ fourth generation, and it’s the same with the sins of t’ mother, and little Ane is only a whore’s bairn. Yes, ah say so meself – a whore’s bairn, in t’ eyes of God and in t’ eyes of men! But yah’re her father – ye sod feel some shame – yes, ah’ll speak even if ye lay hands on me loike ye did two years ago at Michaelmas: ye sod feel shame, real shame that yah’re making yer own bairn know that she’s begotten in sin, making her feel that. Ye and Mari, t’ two of ye, making her and me feel it, and if ye hit me then yah’re making her feel it…”

  Erik Grubbe jumped up and stamped hard on the floor.

  “Hell and damnation! Are you insane, woman? You’re drunk, you are, go and lie on your bed, and sleep till you sober up and come to your senses again! You deserve to have your ears boxed, you senseless woman! Not another word. Marie’ll leave, and she’ll do so tomorrow morning! I want to enjoy peace in times of peace.”

  Ane began to wail loudly.

  “Oh my Gooid, that it shud come to this, shamed in t’ eyes of the world – slandering me that ah drink! In all the time the two of us have known each other, an’ afore that, was ah ever found in t’ kitchen, t’ worse for drink? When have ye ever ’erd me letting words fly empty of sense? Where, where have ye seen me, sprawled out and filthy drunk? Some gratitude ah get. Sleep till ye sober up! Yes, ah wish to God ah might just sleep away, ah wish to God ah might sink down dead in front of ye since ye have nowt but scorn and a flaysome contempt for me…”

  Outside in the yard the dogs began to bark, and the sound of horses’ hooves could be heard beneath the windows.

  Ane quickly dried her eyes, and Erik Grubbe opened the window and asked who it was.

  “A messenger on horse from Fovsing,” replied one of the house servants.

  “Then take his horse and let him in.”

  He closed the window. Ane sat up in her chair and with her hand shaded her eyes, red from crying.

  The messenger entered, bringing friendly greetings from the Chancellor of the Diocese, Christian Skeel of Fovsing and Odden, who wanted him to know that he had received a message by courier that war had been declared on the first of June. This meant that for several reasons he had to leave for Aars, from where he might be travelling on to Copenhagen. So he wanted to know whether Erik Grubbe would accompany him for as long as their journeys would overlap. Also, they might resolve the dispute they had with those people in Aars, and on the subject of Copenhagen, the Chancellor was well aware that Erik Grubbe had more than enough to do there. In any case, Christian Skell would be at Tjele at about the stroke of four in the afternoon.

  Erik Grubbe replied that he would be ready for the journey. With that answer the messenger rode away.

  Then Ane and Erik Grubbe talked for a long time about what had to be done while he was away, and they decided that Marie should accompany him to Copenhagen and stay with his sister, her aunt Rigitze, for a year or two.

  The imminent separation had calmed them both, even if their old quarrel almost flared up again when they began to discuss which pieces of her dear mother’s jewellery and which dresses Marie should take with her. However, they came to a friendly agreement, and Ane left to go to bed early, sin
ce it would be a good thing to have as much time as possible the following day.

  Not long after, the dogs announced more visitors, but this time it was only the local vicar for Tjele and Vinge, Father Jens Jensen Paludan.

  With ‘a good evening to you’, he stepped in.

  He was a broad shouldered, strongly built man, with long limbs and a stoop. He had a hunched back too and a huge head of hair like a crow’s nest, sprinkled and tipped with grey. His face was of a strange complexion, smooth, clear and of a pale red that ill-matched his rough, gnarled features and bushy eyebrows.

  Erik Grubbe begged him to take a seat and asked him how his haymaking was going. Their conversation lingered for a while on the most important seasonal jobs and died away with a sigh over last year’s poor grain harvest.

  The priest was sitting there, stealing an occasional glance at the jug. Finally he said, “Noble blood always shows proper restraint! It always prefers nature’s drinks – they are healthier by far! Milk just from the udder is a blessing from Paradise, equally efficacious for a poor stomach or an attack of nerves.”

  “Aye, God’s gifts are all precious whether they come from the udder or the tap. You shall have a taste of a barrel of dark beer which I brought back from Viborrig last time. It’s good, and German too, even if I can’t see the customs officer’s seal.

  Mugs of beer and a big spouted yew jug with burnished silver rings appeared. They drank to each other’s health.

  “It’s a Heydenkamper! A true, noble Heydenkamper,” exclaimed the priest in a voice that shook with enthusiasm and emotion, as he leaned back blissfully in his chair. He almost had tears in his eyes.

  “You’re a connoisseur, Father Jens,” said Erik Grubbe in a wheedling voice.

  “What a connoisseur! I’m a man of the past and know nothing,” muttered the priest absent-mindedly. “But I was wondering,” he continued, raising his voice, “whether there is any truth in what I’ve been told about the brewery of the Heydenkampers. It was a mason who told me this, once when I was in Hannover, in the days when I travelled with Squire Jørgen. He said that they always begin brewing on a Friday night, and before anyone is allowed to touch anything they have to go in front of the master himself and put their hands on the big scales, and swear by blood, fire and water that they aren’t nourishing some nasty or evil thoughts that might harm the brew. He also said that on Sunday mornings when the church bells begin to sound, they’ll open all doors, windows and hatches so that the bells can chime over the beer. But the finest ceremony takes place when the ale is put aside to ferment. The master himself will arrive with a splendid coffer, from which he’ll draw thick gold rings and chains and precious gems with curious signs, and all of that will be lowered into the brew, and it does make sense that such noble treasures should give the beer a share in those secret powers which are theirs by nature.”

  “That’s a subject for speculation,” replied Erik Grubbe. “I think I have more faith in the Brunsvig hops and those other herbs they add.”

  “Now you mustn’t talk like that,” said the priest, being serious and shaking his head. “Nature has many secrets, that’s for sure. Everything, whether it’s alive or dead, contains its own miraculum, and all you need is the patience to look with eyes wide open. Oh, in the old days when it wasn’t so long ago that God had made the earth, why in those days everything was so pregnant with the Lord’s power that it overflowed with healing and all that’s good, always and in fair measure, but now that the Kingdom of the Earth has lost its beauty and freshness, and has been profaned by the sins of countless generations, now it’s only rarely and on strange occasions, at certain times, in certain places, that these powers make their presence felt. When, for instance, strange signs occur in the sky. That’s what I was saying just now to the blacksmith. We were chatting about the terrible flashes of fire that could be seen these last few nights covering half the sky. And once a messenger on horse rode past us, heading this way I believe?”

  “That is indeed the case, Father Jens.”

  “Was he a rider with good news?”

  “He came with the news that war has been declared.”

  “Dear Lord, no! Yet sooner or later it had to happen.”

  “If it had waited so long, it could have at least waited till people had brought in their harvest.”

  “It’s those people in Skaane who have made it start early, I suppose. They’re still licking the wounds from the last war, and they expect this one to bring them a sweet revenge.”

  “Well, it’s not just the people in Skaane. Those in Sjaelland always long for war because they know perfectly well that it’ll always pass them by… yes it’s a good time for dolts and knaves when those who rule the kingdom are all mad…”

  “But it’s rumoured that the marshall is very reluctant.”

  “Why the devil should one believe that! Anyway, it’ll be as much use as trying to calm a colony of ants – war is what we’ve got, and now it’s about each one of us saving his own skin, and that’ll be enough to keep everyone busy.”

  Then their talk drifted to the journey he was about to make, lingered on the awful roads, returned to Tjele, its beef cattle and winter feed, and then came back again to the journey. They had not neglected their jugs, the beer had quite gone to their heads, and when telling of his voyage to Ceylon and the Far East on the Pearl, Erik Grubbe couldn’t speak for laughter every time some curious incident occurred to him.

  The later it got, the more serious the priest became. He sat hunched up in his chair, and from time to time he would shake his head, look fiercely about him and move his lips as if speaking out loud, gesticulating with one hand, more and more excitedly, till he happened to hit the table. Then, stealing a frightened glance at Erik Grubbe, he returned to his previous position. Finally, when Erik Grubbe was completely stuck in a story about an unbelievable fool of a cook’s boy, the priest got up and began to speak, his voice solemn and low.

  “Verily,” he said. “Verily, I shall bear witness with my tongue – aye, with my tongue – that you are to be despised, despised among men. It would be better for ye, if ye were cast into the sea. Aye, cast into the sea with a millstone round yer neck and two bushels of malt. The two bushels of malt that you owe me. And for this I bear witness before God, and with my tongue – two bushels of malt, full to the brim and in my own new sacks, because they weren’t my sacks – not ever I swear by God – they were your old sacks, and my new ones you kept, and the malt was spoilt, yes verily! Behold that abominable corruption. Those sacks are mine and I claim my revenge, yes. Aren’t you shaking in your old bones, you ancient whoremonger? You should live like a Christian. Could a Christian live with Ane Jensdatter and let her cheat a Christian priest? You are a… a Christian whoremonger… yes…”

  At the beginning of the priest’s speech, Erik Grubbe had been smiling broadly and full of bonhomie. He had stretched his hand out towards him across the table. Next he began to nudge the air with his elbow, as if there were an invisible witness there with whom he might share the funny spectacle of the drunken priest. But finally, some kind of understanding must have dawned on him, because suddenly, white as a sheet, he grabbed the jug with the large spout and threw it towards the priest, who fell over backwards in his chair, sliding down and onto the floor. It was only the surprise that had made him fall, because the jug did not make it that far. It lay at the edge of the table, its contents spilling everywhere, trickling down onto the floor and onto the priest.

  The candle had burnt down into the candlestick and was flickering. One moment the room was full of light, the next so dark that a blue dawn crept in through the windows.

  Still the priest continued talking. His voice went from deep and threatening to high-pitched and almost whiny.

  “You are seated amongst gold and purple while I lie here and the dogs are licking my wounds – and what have you put in the lap of Abraham? What was your offering? You did not offer a silver penny to be placed in the lap of holy Abraha
m. And now you are in infernal torment. But no one will dip even his finger in water to save ye.” And he hit the pool of beer on the table. “But I shall wash my hands, both of them. I have warned ye… there ye are clad in sack and ashes – in my two new sacks, my malt…”

  For a while he kept muttering, before he fell asleep. But Erik Grubbe tried to get revenge. Holding firmly onto the chair, he stretched and put all his energy into kicking one of the legs of the table really hard, having hoped it was the priest’s leg.

  Soon nothing moved. The only sound was the snoring of the two elderly gentlemen – that and the dull drip of beer falling from the table.

  II

  The widow of the late Hans Ulrik Gyldenløve, Madame Rigitze Grubbe, owned a building on the corner of Østergade and Pilestroede. Østergade was quite an aristocratic place to live. Members of the Trolle, Sehested, Rosenkrantz and Krag families lived there. Joachim Gersdorff lived next door to Madame Rigitze, and Karel van Mander would often have two or more visitors from abroad staying in his new, red mansion. But only one side of the street was inhabited by such fine people. On the side where Saint Nikolaj’s Church lay, the houses were more lowly, and artisans, shopkeepers and sailors lived in them. There were even a couple of inns.

  It was a Sunday morning at the beginning of September. Marie Grubbe was standing by a garret window of Madame Rigitze’s residence, looking out. There was not a carriage in sight. There was no sense of hurry, only leisurely footsteps and the isolated drawl of an oyster seller. Roofs and cobblestones lay shimmering in the sun, and every shadow stood out sharply in bold definition. The distance lay in a light, smokey blue, warm haze.

  “Beware,” shouted a woman from behind, doing a good imitation of a soldier’s hoarse voice. Marie turned round.

  It was the chambermaid, Lucie, who was shouting. She had been sitting for a while on top of a table looking critically at her own rather lovely legs. Eventually she had got bored and shouted. Now she was sitting there laughing like mad and swinging her legs happily.