Marie Grubbe Page 21

  In the following days it often happened that Marie was in close proximity to Søren the Overseer, because he had work to do on the farm, and, each time, he would stare at her with an unhappy, puzzled and questioning look, as if he were asking for the answer to the strange riddle that she had thrown in his way, but Marie only glanced at him furtively and turned her head away.

  Søren was quite ashamed of himself, and he was always afraid that one of the other servants might notice that he was not right in the head. Never before in his entire life had he been overcome by any feeling or desire which was in the least fanciful, not until now, and this made him afraid and ill at ease. He wondered whether he was a bit queer in the head or mad. One never knew how such things happened to people, and he promised himself that he would never again think like that. But a moment later his thoughts were right there, where he did not want them to be. And it was precisely the fact that he could not escape these thoughts, whatever he did, that he found most dispiriting, and he was reminded of what he had heard about the book of spells called Cyprianus, which could not be destroyed by fire or water, but always came back, and yet, deep down, he wished that these thoughts would not go away, because then everything would be so sad and empty. But he would not admit this to himself, and his cheeks burned with shame whenever he calmly pondered the nature of that madness which was filling his thoughts.

  About a week after she had come across Søren asleep, Marie Grubbe was sitting below the large beech tree which grew on a hill covered in heather in the middle of Frastrup grove. She was sitting with her back against the trunk, with a book open on her lap, but she was not reading. She was staring intently up at the sky, at a dark bird of prey that in slow, gliding, watchful flight was hovering above that endless sea of swaying trees with their heavy crowns. The air, filled with light and sun, was quivering with the soporific sound of thousands of invisible, humming insects. The sweet, much too sweet, smell of yellow blossom broom and the bitter scent of the sun-baked birch leaves at the foot of the hill mingled with the scent of rotting compost from the woods and the sweet almond scent of white meadow-wort from a far hollow. Marie sighed, then she whispered plaintively:

  “Petits oiseaux des bois,

  Que vous estes heureux,

  De plaindre librement vos tourmens amoureux.

  Les valons, les rochers, les forests et les plaines

  Sçauent également vos plaisirs et vos peines;”

  For a moment she sat there, as if concentrating to remember the rest, then she took the book and read in a quiet and dejected voice:

  “Vostre innocente amour ne fuit point la clarté,

  Tout le monde est pour vous un lieu de liberté,

  Mais ce cruel honneur, ce fleau de nostre vie,

  Sous de si dures loix la retient asservie.”

  She closed the book with a bang and almost shouted:

  “Il est vray je ressens une secrète flame

  Qui malgré ma raison s’allume dans mon âme

  Depuis le jour fatal que je vis sous l’ormaeu

  Alcidor, qui dançoit au son du chalumeau.”25

  Her voice trailed off again, becoming in the last lines only a whisper, quite low and without any expression, and almost mechanical, as if while she sang her mind was seeing a different image to that painted by the words.

  She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. It was so strange, so perturbing now that she was middle-aged to feel herself moved by those same longings, those dreams full of foreboding and unquiet hopes which had thrilled her youth. But would they last, would they amount to something more than that brief flowering which a sun-rich autumn spell can call to life, a second flowering drawn from the plant’s last strength, abandoning it to winter’s power, all weak and exhausted? Dead, certainly, they had been, these longings, and they had been lying quietly in their grave. What did they want, why had they returned? Had they not done what they had meant to do, to rest in peace, without any rising again to a sham life, playing the game of youth all over again?

  Such were her thoughts, but there was no seriousness behind them. She was only playing with them, quite detached, as if they belonged to someone else, for she was in no doubt about the strength and persistence of her passion. It had filled her so completely and irresistibly that there was no room left for surprise or reflection. Following that insincere train of thought, her mind turned for a moment to the image of the Golden Remigius and his unwavering belief in her, but that only tempted a bitter smile, an artificial sigh, and her thoughts went elsewhere.

  She wondered whether Søren would have the confidence to court her. She could hardly believe that. He was a peasant… and she pictured to herself his slavish fear of his masters, his dog-like sense of obedience, his servile, self-deprecating respect. She thought of his simple habits and his ignorance, his peasant language and clothes, his rough labour, his body toughened by wear, his coarse greed. And she should kneel and accept all that, love all that, receive good and evil from that black hand… there was a strange pleasure in such self-humiliation, not unconnected to a coarse sensuality, but also related to that which is considered to be the most noble and fine in women’s nature. And such was the clay of which she was made.

  A few days later Marie Grubbe was in the brewery at Tjele mixing the mead, for quite a few of the beehives had suffered badly on the night of the fire. She was standing just by the hearth in the far corner, staring out through the open doorway where, seduced by the sweet smell of honey, hundreds of bees were humming, golden and glistening in the shaft of sunlight.

  Suddenly, Søren the Overseer came swinging in through the gate with an empty travelling carriage in which he had driven Palle Dyre to Viborg.

  He caught a glimpse of Marie, hurriedly unharnessed the horses, got the carriage put away and stabled them. Then he strutted about for a while, his hands deep in the pockets of his long coachman’s coat and his eyes fastened on his big boots. Suddenly he turned round and began walking towards the brewery. He was swinging his arm in a decisive way, his brow was furrowed and he was biting his lip like someone who is forcing himself to take an unpleasant, but unavoidable decision. All the way from Viborg to Foulum he had been swearing that he was going to put an end to this, and he had kept his courage up by means of a small bottle which the master had left behind in the carriage.

  He took his hat off when he entered the brew-house, but he did not say anything. He was standing there, rubbing the rim of the brewing vat shyly with one finger.

  Marie asked whether Søren had a message for her from her husband.

  He did not.

  Would Søren like to taste her brew or would he like a piece of dried honey?

  Yes, please – no thank you, that was not why he was here.

  Marie blushed, becoming anxious.

  Might he ask her something?

  Yes, of course he could.

  Yes, he would like to say, begging her pardon, that he was not quite right in the head because both asleep and awake he could not stop thinking about her ladyship, he could not help it.

  But that was quite right of Søren.

  Well, he wasn’t sure about that, because his duties were not what made him think about her ladyship. No, it was something different that made him think of her, what people called love.

  He gave her an anxious and questioning look, becoming completely dispirited and shaking his head when Marie replied that this was quite right, this was what the priest said all people should feel.

  No, it was not like that, it was like a lover. But this did not really make sense, he continued in an angry voice, as if he were looking for a quarrel. Such a fine lady as her, she was probably afraid of touching such a simple peasant like him, though peasants were almost human too, and had neither water nor sour porridge in their veins any more than other people. He knew that fine folk thought of them as being different, a race apart; but it was the same with them as with others, as far as he could see. They ate, drank and slept the same as did the simples
t wretch of a peasant, and therefore he did not believe that her ladyship could come to any harm if he kissed her on the mouth, any more than she would from the kiss of a gentleman. No, she shouldn’t look at him in that way, just because he was so free in what he said, he didn’t care what he said. She could get him into trouble, should she please. When he left this place, he would be heading for the millpond or putting a piece of rope around his neck.

  He must not say that, she had never thought of breathing a word about him to any person in the world.

  Was that something she had never thought of? Maybe. But whether he believed it or not made no difference anyway. She had already given him enough trouble, and she was solely to blame that he wanted to take his own life, because he loved her so dearly.

  He had sat down on the beer-keg bench and was staring at Marie with a sad expression in his loyal, gentle eyes; and all the while, his lips were quivering as if he were battling back his tears. She could not help but approach him and put her hand on his shoulder to console him.

  But he was not having that, he knew that when she laid her hand on him, and said a few quiet words, why then she could magic the courage out of him, and that was not what he wanted. But she might sit down next to him, though he was a simple peasant, when she considered that before the evening he would be dead. Marie sat down.

  Søren scowled at her and moved a little away from her on the bench, before he got up suddenly. He wanted to say goodbye now and thank her ladyship for all her kindness, all the time they had known each other, and would she give his regards to Ane, his cousin, the one who was a kitchen-maid on the farm. Marie held tightly onto his hand. But he really wanted to go now. No, he should stay, there was no one in the world that she cared for as much as him.

  Oh, that was just what she was saying, because she was afraid that his ghost might haunt her, but she could be sure that he had no ill will towards her at all, and he would never come close to her when he was dead, that he would swear and promise, if only she would let go. No, she would never let go. Well, he had no choice. Søren tore his hand away and ran out of the brew-house right across the farmyard. Marie was just behind him when he slipped into the men servants’ quarters, slammed the door shut and put his back firmly against it.

  “Open the door Søren, open the door or I’ll call everyone.”

  Søren did not reply, but very calmly he took some string out of his pocket and began to wrap it round the latch holding the door firm with his knee and shoulder. The threat of summoning the servants did not worry him because he knew that they were all busy with the hay in the meadow.

  Marie was hammering on the door with all her strength.

  “Dear God, Søren!” she shouted, “come out will you, I love you as much as a human being can, I do, Søren. I love you, I love you. Oh, he doesn’t believe me at all, what shall I do then, poor wretch that I am?”

  Søren did not hear her; he had gone through the men’s common room into the small chamber where he and the gamekeeper usually slept. This was where it was going to happen, and he was having a look around. Then it occurred to him that it would be a shame for the gamekeeper and that it would be better to do it out there, where so many slept together. He entered the common room again.

  “Søren, Søren, oh let me in, let me in! Oh, open the door. No, no he is going to hang himself, and here I am just standing here. Oh, for the sake of God Almighty, Søren, now open the door, for I have loved you from the first time I saw you. Are you completely deaf? There is nobody who is as dear to me as you, nobody, nobody in the whole world, Søren.”

  “Is that true?” asked Søren’s voice, hoarse and unrecognisable, close to the door.

  “Oh, God in his mercy, yes, yes, yes. Søren, it is true, it is true, I swear to you by the strongest oath in the world that I love you from the depth of my soul. God be praised, forever…”

  Søren had removed the string from around the latch and was opening the door.

  Marie ran into the room, threw herself round his neck with tears of happiness.

  “Oh, thank heavens that you are mine again,” shouted Marie. “But where were you intending to do it? Tell me, please.” She looked curiously around the room and its unmade beds with their mess of unbleached cotton, matted straw and grimy leather sheets.

  But Søren did not answer, he was staring at her threateningly.

  “And why did ye say naught before?” he said, hitting her on the arm.

  “Sorry, Søren, sorry Søren,” cried Marie, holding him close, her eyes seeking his, beseechingly.

  Amazed, Søren bent down over her and kissed her. He was quite taken by surprise.

  “You aren’t play actin’ or some ghost or apparition?” he whispered quietly to himself. Smiling, Marie shook her head.

  “Ah, the devil, who’d have thought…”

  *

  At first, the relationship between Marie and Søren was kept well-hidden, but then Palle Dyre’s frequent journeys to Randers and his long stays there in his capacity of Royal Commissioner made them careless. It became no secret to the servants at Tjele, and when the couple realised that they had given themselves away, they did not try in any way to conceal their feelings, but lived as if Palle Dyre was at the other end of the world and not in Randers. To Erik Grubbe they paid no attention at all. Whenever he threatened Søren with his crutch, he would threaten him with his fist; when he scolded Marie, and tried to bring her to her senses, she would tease him by reeling off a long speech without raising her voice, which was necessary since he had gone quite deaf. On top of that, to compensate for his baldness and his arthritis, he had taken to wearing a hat with long ear flaps tied close to his head, which certainly did not improve his hearing.

  That Palle Dyre himself had not been a witness to the affair was not due to any care on Søren’s part; for in the uncontrolled passion of his youthful love, he did not hesitate, even when his master was at home, to seek out Marie in the private rooms of the mansion itself, at dusk or whenever an opportunity arose. It was only the lucky convenience of a ladder to the loft that had more than once saved him from discovery.

  In his conduct towards Marie he could be rather changeable, because it could sometimes occur to him that she was proud and despised him, and then he could be sullen, tyrannical and unreasonable, and treated her more harshly and roughly than he really intended in order to make her respond with a gentleness and obedience that would banish any trace of doubt. Most of the time, however, he was kind, indulgent and easy to lead, only Marie had to be very wary when complaining about her husband and father, that she did not appear too deeply aggrieved, for then he would become incensed with anger and would swear that he would knock out the brains of Palle Dyre or put his hands round the thin neck of Erik Grubbe, and he would be so determined to carry out his threats that it needed tears and prayers to calm him down.

  But of all the things that disturbed the relationship between Søren and Marie, there was nothing as constant or as provocative as the teasing of the servants, who strongly resented this love-making between their mistress and the coachman, which unfairly placed a fellow servant in a much more fortunate position than themselves, and which gave him an influence, particularly when their master was away, to which he had no more right than any one of them. And so they would torture and torment Søren in every possible way so that he was often driven from his senses, and frequently he would make up his mind either to run away or take his own life. The girls of course were the ones who treated him the worst.

  One evening they were moulding candles in the great hall at Tjele. Marie was standing dipping the wicks by a vessel full of hay that contained the copper mould, while the kitchen maid Ane Trinderup, Søren’s cousin, caught the drips in a yellow earthenware dish. The cook was going back and forth with flat wooden plates, placing them below the table for the candles and removing the candles when they had reached the necessary thickness. Søren was sitting at the table watching what they were doing. He was wearing a red cloth hat
with gold braid and black feathers. In front of him stood a silver jug of mead. He was eating a large piece of roast meat, which he was cutting into pieces on a small tin plate with a pocket knife. He was eating very deliberately, drinking from time to time from the jug, and to Marie’s nods and smiles, he would occasionally give a slow move of the head in recognition. She asked him whether he was sitting comfortably. Up to a point. Then it would be better if Ane went to the girls’ quarters to fetch him a pillow. She did so, but not before she had made quite a few signs to the other maid behind Marie’s back. Wouldn’t Søren like a piece of cake? Yes, that would be rather nice.

  Marie took a crude tallow candle and went for the cake, but she was away for quite a long time.

  She was hardly out of the door before both of the girls began to laugh their heads off, as if they had been conspiring together. Søren gave them an angry look from the corner of his eyes.

  “Oh, little Søren,” said Ane, imitating Marie Grubbe’s voice and way of speaking, “wouldn’t Søren like a napkin to dry Søren’s delicate fingers and an embroidered footstool for Søren’s feet? And can Søren see to eat by the light of just one fat candle, or should I light a better one for him? What do you say, dear Søren? And there is a long gown with flowers in master’s bedchamber, should I not fetch it? It would go so well with Søren’s red hat.”