Marie Grubbe Read online

  Marie shrugged her shoulders and was about to turn towards the window again, smiling rather grumpily, when Lucie jumped down from the table, put her hands round her waist and made her sit down on a nearby rush chair.

  “Listen, miss,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Are you forgetting that you must get your letters done? At half past two we are having visitors, so you’ve hardly got four hours. Do you know what’s going to be served? Golden bread, soup, flounder and some other flat fish, chickens broiled in sugar, cinnamon and ginger, Mansfelder cake with plum sauce. All very fancy, but wonderful it bloody ain’t. Your sweetheart will be there too!”

  “You can talk!” exclaimed Marie, quite cross.

  “Good Lord! It doesn’t mean banns or betrothal just because I use that word. I can’t understand, miss, why you don’t make more of a fuss of your cousin. He’s the merriest and most handsome man I know. What feet he has! And he’s got royal blood, you can tell from just looking at his hands, so small and tiny! They look as if they’d been cast. Nails no bigger than a groat, and so perfectly round and red. And can he show a pair of legs! It’s as if he were walking on steel springs as he comes along, da, di, and da! And there’s a real twinkle in those sparkling eyes…”

  She threw her arms around Marie and kissed her on the neck passionately, sucking so hard that the child blushed and wriggled out of her embrace. Lucie threw herself on the bed, laughing wildly.

  “What’s the matter with you?” cried Marie. “If you’re going to be like that, then I’m going downstairs.”

  “What’s wrong? Can’t one even have a little fun sometimes? There’s misery enough in the world and I have got far more than I can take. Isn’t my sweetheart in the war suffering all that’s bad, and worse? It doesn’t even bear thinking about. And what if he’s been shot, shot dead or made into some kind of cripple? God then have mercy on a poor girl like me, I wouldn’t ever be human again.”

  She hid her face in the bedclothes and began to sob, “Oh, no, no, no, my own, precious Lorens. I’ll be true to you, really, really true, if only God brings you back in one piece. Oh miss, oh miss, I can’t take any more, I can’t.”

  Marie tried to calm her with words and tenderness. Eventually she had some response, and Lucie sat up drying her eyes.

  “Yes, miss,” she said. “You can’t believe how unhappy I am with myself. I just can’t always be as I should, not all the time. And I really have made up my mind not to like any of the young men, but it makes no difference. If they make merry, pay me compliments, why then even if my life depended on it, I couldn’t cut them dead and play hard to get. My tongue is itching to answer back and then more fun and fireworks follow than I could really answer for to Lorens.

  Then when I think what danger he is in, oh then I have more regrets than any living soul could imagine. For I love him, miss, and no one but him, you must believe that. Oh, when I’m lying on my bed and the moon casts its beam right there, on the floor, why then I’m a completely different person. Then I’m so sad, so sad, and I cry and cry, and I can feel something just here in my throat, and it is as if I might choke. Ah, it’s torture, and I lie on my bed, throwing myself about and praying to God, I hardly know for what. Sometimes I’m completely beside myself and sit up in bed holding my head in terror that I should have lost my mind from longing. But dear God, miss! You’re crying now. You aren’t secretly full of longing for someone yourself, young as you are?”

  Marie blushed and smiled quietly. There was something so flattering in the idea that she might be in love and full of longing.

  “No, no,” she said. “It’s just that what you are saying is so sad, as if there were nothing but grief and harm in the world.”

  “Not at all! There are other things too,” said Lucie who rose, as they were calling her from downstairs. As she left, she gave Marie a conspiratorial nod.

  Marie sighed and went over to the window, and looked out onto the cool, green churchyard of Saint Nikolaj, onto the reddish walls of the church, then towards the castle with its green copper roof and out over the dockyards and the ropewalk, round towards the East Gate with its pointed spire, and Hallandsaas with its gardens, humble wooden buildings, and beyond, where a bluish sea lost itself in a blue sky, below which a soft cloud mass was drifting slowly towards the coast of Skaane.

  She had now been in Copenhagen for three months. When she had left home, she had imagined that living in the heart of the city would be something quite different from what she now knew. It had never occurred to her that she could be even more lonely here than at Tjele, where she had been lonely enough.

  Her father was no company at all. He was always so much himself that he could never be anything else for anyone. He wouldn’t become fourteen years old when he chatted to a fourteen year old, he wouldn’t become a woman because he was talking to a little girl. He was always more than fifty, and always Erik Grubbe.

  Whenever she saw her father’s mistress, who ruled as if she were the mistress of the house, all her pride and resentment were immediately roused. This coarse, power-relishing peasant woman had wounded and tortured her so often that Marie couldn’t hear the sound of her footsteps without becoming almost instinctively hard, obstinate and full of hatred. Her half-sister, the little Ane, was spoiled and sickly, which made her anything but easy, and on top of that, her mother was always using her and Erik Grubbe to get at Marie.

  What company did she have?

  She knew every road and path in Bigum Wood, every cow grazing in the field, every bird in the chicken run. And in the friendly greetings of the servants and peasants she met, she could read a message: the young lady isn’t being treated fairly, and we know it; that upsets us and we share her feelings about that woman.

  But in Copenhagen?

  Here she only had Lucie, and she loved Lucie, but she was still a servant. She was Lucie’s complete confidant, and for this she was pleased and grateful, but Lucie wasn’t her confidant. She just couldn’t give air to her grievances in Lucie’s presence, she didn’t want anyone to say that hers were sad circumstances, and she couldn’t bear a servant talking about her unhappy family life. She didn’t even want to hear a bad word about her aunt. And yet she didn’t like her at all, and had no reason to.

  Rigitze Grubbe shared the very strict notions of those times about the advantages of a tough and quite inflexible upbringing, and took it upon herself to raise Marie in that fashion. Having never had any children of her own, she played the role of foster mother with great impatience and incompetence, because she had never learnt from being a mother the love which makes it so much easier for child and teacher to progress. And yet such a tough approach might have been best for Marie. Her mind and thoughts, half crippled by capricious and unjust cruelty, had been made to grow up almost too quickly through lack of any constant and caring attention, and so she might well have found some peace and solace in being guided firmly and consistently by someone who only wished her well.

  But she was given no guidance at all.

  Madame Rigitze was so immersed in politics and the intrigues of the court, and spent so much time there, that she would be away from home for days or for most of the day. She was so busy that Marie could do with her time and herself whatever she pleased, even when she was at home. When Madame Rigitze finally had a few spare moments for the child, her previous neglect would make her twice as impatient and sharp. The whole relationship therefore seemed to Marie completely unfair and almost gave her the impression that she was an outcast, loved by no one and hated by all.

  As she was standing by the window, looking out over the city, that feeling of being abandoned and alone came over her. She leant her head on the windowsill and stared at the slowly gliding clouds.

  She understood what Lucie meant when she spoke of the sadness brought by longing. It was like a fire inside and nothing could be done but to let it burn as it might. She knew that too well.

  What was going to become of her? One day was s
o like another, with nothing to look forward to. Could this go on and on? Certainly, things didn’t just go on like that for everyone; she couldn’t possibly still be wearing that child’s hat when she got to sixteen! Her sister Ane Marie hadn’t done that, and she was married now. She remembered clearly all that noisy fun they’d had at the wedding, long after she had been sent to bed, and the music. She, too, would like to get married, but to whom? Maybe to the brother of her sister’s husband. He was really ugly, but if you had to? No, that wasn’t anything to look forward to. Was there anything in the whole wide world to look forward to? Not as far as she could see.

  She went away from the window and sat down thoughtfully at the table and began to write:

  ‘This comes with my kind love to you and, as always, the Lord’s blessing, my dearest Ane Marie, darling sister, God look after you always, thanks be to him. I take up my pen pour vous congratuler, hoping that this will find you safe after your delivery and in full health and spirits. Darling sister, I am happy and well and in great spirits. For our aunt lives in much splendour and there are often many visitors here, most of them are gentlemen of rank from the king’s court, and with the exception of some elderly ladies, only men folk come visiting here. Many of them knew our dear mother, and they all praise her loveliness and much besides. I am always there at table with the visitors. But no one speaks to me at all, with the exception of Ulrik Frederik, and I would rather he wouldn’t, as he is more full of teasing and railleries than any kind of sensible conversation. He is so very young and without much self-control, and no doubt visits taverns, alehouses and other such places.

  Almost my only news is that we are having visitors today and that he will be among them. Whenever I speak in French he can’t stop laughing, and he says that my French is about a hundred years old, which certainly may be true because Mr Jens was such a youth when he was on tour, though he does grant that I am so very good at putting words together that not a lady at court could do better, but I think he is only paying me a compliment, and I am not at all pleased. It has been long since I have received any news from Tjele. Our aunt can’t stop screaming and swearing whenever she’s on the subject of the disgraceful way our dear father carries on and on living with that creature, a woman of such vile extraction. That often makes me miserable, but to no avail. Please don’t let Stycho read this letter, but give him my sincere good wishes.

  Your loving sister,

  Marie Grubbe

  September 1657

  To her Ladyship Ane Marie Grubbe, wife of Stycho Høegh of Gjordslev, my dear friend and sister, warmest greetings.’

  *

  They had risen from the table and gone into the large reception room, where Lucie was serving a drink made with aquavit called Goldwater. Marie had retreated to a window recess and was partly hidden by the rich folds of the curtain. Ulrik Frederik approached her, bowed to her in a way that was much too formal and exaggerated, and said, his face very serious, that he was very upset that at table he’d been sitting so far from mademoiselle. He put his small tanned hand on the windowsill as he was speaking. Marie looked at it and became red as a drop of blood.

  “Pardon, mademoiselle! I notice that you have become quite red with anger that I have the presumption to offer you my very humble worship. Dare I ask how I have so terribly offended thee?”

  “I am certainly neither angry nor red.”

  “You choose to call that colour white? Bien! Then I should want to know by what colour red roses should be known?”

  “Don’t you ever speak a word of sense?”

  “Well, I must confess that it sometimes does happen, but not very often.

  “Chloe, Chloe do not grow dark as night

  Your eyes flashing with their sullen light.

  Make me like a mad dog groan

  While my lips with wild words foam…”

  “How you do talk!”

  “Oh, mademoiselle, you do not yet know much of Cupid’s power! You may not believe it, but there are nights when, drunk on love, I sneak into Silkegaarden, swing myself over the fence into the garden of Christian Skeel, where I stand, a statue among fragrant roses and wall flowers, staring at the window to your chamber till slender Aurora runs her pink fingers through my locks…”

  “Oh, monsieur! I believe you were mistaken when you said Cupid. You must have meant Bacchus, and it’s easy to lose one’s way when one is roaming about late at night. For you have not been near Skeel’s garden, but at Mogens in Cappadocia, among jugs and flagons, and if you were unable to move and were still as a statue, then it was not thoughts of love that stopped the movements of your legs…”

  “You do me a grave injustice! If I happen to visit an inn, then it’s not for merriment and pleasure, but only, only to seek forgetfulness from the nagging pain that is choking me.”

  “Ah.”

  “You do not trust me, you have no faith in the constancy of my amour, heavens! Do you see that arched window in the tower of Saint Nikolai’s church there in the east? For three full days I have sat there staring at your enchanting face as you sat at your embroidery frame.”

  “What bad luck you have! You can’t open your mouth without being caught talking wild lies. I have never sat at my embroidery frame looking out toward Saint Nikolai’s church. Do you know that old rhyme?

  ‘Twas a dark night

  Man holds troll tight.

  ‘Tell me,’ says he.

  ‘And you’ll be free,

  One word you know,

  True above, true below.’

  Says troll, ‘I have heard.’

  Utters not another word.

  Yet one cannot deny

  That troll told no lie.’ ”

  Ulrik Frederik gave her a respectful bow and left, not saying a word.

  Her eyes followed him as he crossed the floor. He had such an elegant way of walking. His silk stockings were such a shiny white and sat so tightly on his legs, without so much as a fold or a wrinkle, and there was something beautiful about his ankles. And that long, narrow shoe – he was such a comical sight. She had also never noticed that he had a tiny rose-red scar on his brow.

  She stole a glance at her own hands and frowned. Her fingers seemed much too short.

  III

  Winter came. And with it came hard times for the creatures of the wood and the birds of the field; a lean Christmas was had in clay-walled huts and tar-timbered ships. To the west, the beach lay thick with wrecks: ice covered hulls, splintered masts, broken boats, dead ships. Riches were lying there, scraps, to sink, drift or be hidden by the sand. Storms continually raged, a rough sea showed its face, and there was a deadly cold.

  Human effort was of no avail. Heaven and earth were as one in the swirling ice snow. It swamped the poor in their rags, coming through the leaky shutters and broken hatches, and it sneaked through the eaves and doors of the rich in their fur-trimmed coats. Beggars and those who lost their way froze to death, sheltered from the wind by dykes and ditches. Poor people died of the cold in their straw beds, and rich man’s cattle did not fare much better.

  Then the storms abated, and there was a silent, cutting frost. These were tough times for the kingdom and its people, a heavy winter price for summer’s folly. The Swedish army marched across the frozen sea to Denmark.

  Peace arrived and then too did spring with light leaves and air, but the Sjaelland lads did not run round the maypole that year. Everywhere there were Swedish soldiers, and the peace – such as it was given the privations of war – continued, but was expected to be short-lived. When the spring leaves had become dark and firm with the heat of the midsummer sun, the Swedes did indeed march towards the ramparts of Copenhagen.

  On the second Sunday in August during the afternoon service, a rumour started that the Swedes had landed at Korsør.

  The streets filled immediately with people. They were calm and dignified, but they couldn’t stop talking. Everyone was talking, and the clamour of voices and footsteps grew into a single loud, co
nfused murmur that never grew louder or weaker, but remained a strangely dull and incessant sound.

  The rumour entered the churches during the sermon. In quick, breathless whispers, it spread from someone sitting at the back to someone in the second row, to three in the third, before bypassing an old man in the fourth, and moving to the fifth and finally reaching the front. People in the middle pews turned round, looked at those sitting behind, nodding meaningfully. At the front, a few rose and looked curiously towards the door. Soon not an eye was on the priest. All were sitting, heads bowed as if concentrating on the words of the sermon, but they were busy whispering to one another, stopping occasionally to listen eagerly to the priest in order to to see how close he was to finishing. Then the whispering continued. The dull sound of the crowd outside was clearly audible and intolerable to listen to. The members of the congregation busied themselves by furtively putting away their hymn books in their pockets.

  “Amen!”

  All eyes were on the priest.

  During the first prayers everyone was wondering whether the priest knew anything. Then they prayed for the royal family, for the King’s Council, for men of rank, for anyone who had a high position or served the country. Many eyes became full of tears. But when the next part of the prayer was recited many began to sob, and from hundreds of lips, in a distinct whisper, the words were heard: “God, in thy pity, avert from this land and kingdom war, bloodshed, pestilence, death, hunger, poverty, storm and gale, fire and floods, that we who receive thy fatherly compassion may honour and praise thy holy name.”

  The church was empty before the hymn was finished, and only the organ pipes were singing.

  The following day the crowds that were again out in the streets had a destination; for during the night the Swedish fleet had cast anchor outside of Dragør. Yet people were calmer, for it was widely known that two members of the King’s Council had gone to negotiate with the enemy and, it was rumoured, with such wide powers that it could not but lead to peace. But when, on the Tuesday, they returned with the news that peace had not been agreed, there was a sudden and violent change of mood.