Marie Grubbe Read online

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  1 Having initiated the disastrous war against Charles X Gustav of Sweden, Frederik III is supposed to have said, “I shall die in my nest.”

  2 A substance used to set dyes on fabrics.

  3 Christian Gyldenløve (1630–1658) son of Christian IV and Vibeke Kruse. Illegitimate sons of Danish kings were given the name of Gyldenløve (Golden Lion). He heroically defended Copenhagen from the Swedes.

  IV

  Orange sheets of light shot up over a sea-grey bank of mist in the horizon and set fire to the air above so that it shone with a gentle gold and pink glow, spreading further and further, becoming pale, till a small slender cloud grabbed its billowing edge and made it glow a dazzling gold. Kallebod beach was bathed in a violet and red light reflected from the clouds cornering the sun. Dew sparkled on the high grass of the western rampart. Sparrows were chirping on the roofs behind and in the gardens in front, and the air was alive with shimmering sound. From the gardens rose fine veils of light mist, while the trees slowly bowed their fruit-heavy branches to the sea breeze.

  Three times from the Western Gate came the long drawn-out sound of a bugle, answered by each of the other gates. Lonely watchmen began to walk more briskly back and forth along the ramparts, shaking their capes and adjusting their caps. They were about to be relieved.

  On the bastion just north of the Western Gate stood Ulrik Frederik Gyldenløve,4 looking at the white gulls that sailed in flight, sweeping across the shiny surface of the moat.

  Fleeting and light, opaque and misty, sometimes strong, full of colour and with a clear and burning presence, his twenty-year-old memories chased one another through his soul. They came in the form of strongly scented roses and fresh green woods, in the sharp ring of a hunting bugle, the sound of a fiddle and the rustle of shining silk. Images of his childhood in that town in Holstein, with its red roofs, passed before him, distant but sunlit. He saw the tall figure of his mother, Margarethe Pappen, her white hands and black hymn book. He saw the freckled chambermaid with the slender ankles, the stout fencing master with his red-blue face and crooked legs. Then the gardens at Gottorp came into his mind, with the meadows by the fjord freshly stacked with hay. There was the gamekeeper’s clumsy son, Heinrich, who could crow like a cock and was a wonder at skimming stones. The church appeared in its curious half darkness, with its groaning organ, mysterious metal grating and the emaciated Christ holding a red banner in his hand in the chapel.

  The sound of a bugle was again heard from the Western Gate, and at the same moment the sun burst forth, sharp and warm, banishing every trace of mist and muffled notes.

  Then there was the hunt when he had shot his first deer and old Von Dettmer had daubed his brow with the blood of the animal while the small game-gathering boys blew a wild, blaring fanfare. Then there was the bunch of flowers for Malene, the daughter of the keeper of the castle, the serious talk with his tutor, followed by the trip abroad and his first duel in the dew-fresh dawn, Anette’s cascade of ringing laughter, the ball at the Elector Palatine’s palace and the lonely ride outside the city gate, head aching from his first drinking bout. There followed a golden mist, full of the sound of clinking cups and the scent of wine; there was Lieschen and there was Lotte, Martha’s white neck and Adelaide’s plump arms. Finally, there came his journey to Copenhagen, and how kindly he’d been received by his father, the king. He remembered the busy tedium of days at court and the wild nights when wine flowed and kisses burned, interspersed with the gay din of splendid hunting feasts and the soft whispers of nightly trysts in the gardens of Ibstrup Castle and the golden ballrooms at Hillerød.

  But with a far greater clarity he could see the burning, dark eyes of Sofie Urne,5 and he was much more beguiled by the memory of her voice, soft and sensual, drawing him like a pair of white arms or a bird rising in the air, mocking him with its playful trills as it flees…

  A rustle from the bushes below the rampart woke him from his reverie.

  “Who goes there?” he shouted.

  “It’s only Daniel, Sir Gyldenleu, Daniel Knopf,” came the answer, and a small crippled man crept out of the bushes and bowed.

  “What! Is that you, Half-Pint? What the devil are you doing here?”

  The man looked sadly at the ground.

  “Daniel, Daniel!” said Ulrik Frederik smiling. “Tonight you didn’t emerge unscathed from the Fiery Furnace, that German brew seems to have gone to your head.”

  The cripple began to climb up the edge of the rampart.

  Daniel Knopf, who on account of his stature, was called ‘Half-Pint’, was a rich merchant and twenty years of age, who was equally known for his wealth, his sharp tongue and his skill at fencing. He associated in particular with the young nobility, that is, a certain group who went by the name of ‘le cercle des mourants,’6 which was made up of the young men closest to the court. Ulrik Frederik was the life and soul of this party, one that was more distinguished by high spirits than intelligence, more infamous than liked, yet in reality as admired and envied as it was infamous.

  Part master of entertainment, part fool, Daniel used to mix with these people. He was not seen with them publicly in the street or in the homes of the nobility, but he was completely indispensible to the life of the fencing school, the tavern and the inn. No one could speak so scientifically about ball games and dog training, or with such devotion about how to fence or parry. No one was such a connoisseur of wine. He held deep theories about games of dice and the art of love, and he could hold forth in learned detail on such subjects as the absurdity of crossing the native stud with the Salzburger horse. Finally, he could talk about everything with a sprinkling of anecdotes and a definite point of view, which particularly impressed the young men.

  He was also immensely obliging and keen to please, never forgetting the difference between himself and the nobility, and he looked so comical when anyone, playful or drunk, dressed him up in some absurd way. He allowed himself to be abused and shouted at without losing his temper and was, on the whole, so good-natured that he would frequently offer to play the fool if some talk threatened the peace of the company.

  And what made it possible for him to be with such people was also what drove him to their company, for in the eyes of this crippled merchant, noblemen belonged among the demi-gods, while the rest of humanity led a life of struggle in colourless darkness and rank air. He cursed being a commoner, regarding it as a far greater misfortune than being a cripple, and he grieved over it when alone with a bitter intensity that bordered on madness.

  “Now, Daniel,” said Ulrik Frederik when the little man had come close. “There must have been some mists in your eyes last night, since you have managed to run aground here on the western rampart. Or did the mulled wine flow too liberally, for I find you lying here, safe and dry like Noah’s ark on Mount Ararat?”

  “Prince of the Canaries,7 you rave if you believe I was in your company last night.”

  “What the deuce is wrong with you?” shouted Ulrik Frederik impatiently.

  “Sir Gyldenleu,” Daniel replied seriously, looking up at him with tears in his eyes: “I am a wretched human being.”

  “You dog of a shopkeeper! Is there some herring boat that you are afraid the Swede may be laying his hands on? Or is he moaning that there’ll be a lull in business and his saffron will lose its glory and the pepper and cardamom be covered in mildew? What a mercenary soul you have! As if there were nothing else for a decent citizen to care about than whether his wretched wares go to Hell when king and country seem about to fall!”

  “Sir Gyldenleu…”

  “Go to the devil with your moaning!”

  “No, Sir Gyldenleu,” said Daniel solemnly, taking a step backwards. “I am not weeping over missed trade, loss of fortune or the value of gold. I care not a doit for herring boats and saffron. But to be sent away like a leper or a criminal by both officers and common men – that is to be terribly wronged, Sir Gyldenleu. That’s why I’ve been lying in the gra
ss all night howling like some wretched dog that’s been locked outside. It’s why I’ve been twisting and turning like the most miserable crawling beast and shouting to God in Heaven in my misery and impotence, asking Him why I alone should be utterly rejected and my arm should be seen as withered and unfit for weapons or pistols when they’re being handed out to servants and apprentice boys.”

  “But who in the devil’s name has sent you away?”

  “Sir Gyldenleu, I ran to the ramparts like everyone else, but the first company said they didn’t have any room, and the next mocked me, saying that they were only humble citizens and this wasn’t a place for a noblemen and a person of rank and other such nonsense. And then there were the ones who said that they didn’t want anything to do with cripples, because they bring bad luck and bullets are drawn to them. They said they were in no hurry to risk life and limb by having among them such a person that the Lord had marked. Then I begged General Major Ahlefeldt to be given a place, but he just shook his head and laughed: things weren’t so desperate that they needed to fill the ranks with broken stumps who would be more in the way than anything.”

  “But why didn’t you go to some of the officers with whom you are familiar?”

  “I did, Sir Gyldenleu. I thought of our circle first of all and I even got to speak to two of the mourants, King Petticoat and the Gilded Knight.”

  “And I suppose they helped you?”

  “Indeed, Sir Gyldenleu, indeed they did. By God, finding them really did help me! ‘Daniel,’ they said, ‘Daniel you just go home and sort your plums.’ They had expected, they said, that I was a man of sufficient decency to spare them my presence and monkey tricks here. I was good enough to play a fool and a knave at a merry bout, but when they were doing their duty I should stay out of their sight. A fine thing to say, Sir Gyldenleu, and how sinful, how truly sinful! The familiarity they’d shown me in taverns didn’t mean that they regarded me as enough of an equal that I could come here imagining that I had any claims on their company and friendship when they were in action. I was being too intimate, Sir Gyldenleu. I shouldn’t think that I could inveigle myself into their company, no, not here. Here they had no use for a knave. This is what they said to me, Sir Gyldenleu. And I was only begging them that my life too be exposed to risk, to serve with other citizens of this town.”

  “Well,” said Ulrik Frederik yawning. “I do understand that it rankles to be left out. And time would seem to pass slowly, sitting there busy at accounts, quietly occupied while the future of the kingdom is decided here on the ramparts. Well, you shall join in the action, because…” He gave Daniel a suspicious glance. “Or do you have a more sinister motive, I wonder?”

  The dwarf stamped the ground in fury, he became as pale as a sheet and ground his teeth.

  “Come, come,” continued Ulrik Frederik. “I do trust you, but you can’t expect me to put the same faith in your word as in that of a gentleman, and don’t forget that it’s your own folk who were the first to cast you out… but hark!”

  A shot rang out from one of the bastions near the Eastern Gate, the first in the war.

  Ulrik Frederik drew himself up, blood rushed to his cheeks, his eyes looked at the white smoke full of desire and fascination, and when he spoke there was a strange quiver in his voice.

  “Daniel,” he said. “Later this morning you can report to me. Don’t mind what I said.” He quickly made his way along the rampart.

  Daniel followed him with his eyes full of admiration, and then he sighed deeply, sat down in the grass and wept like an unhappy child.

  *

  It was late in the afternoon. A strong, fitful wind was blowing through the streets, whirling clouds of wood shavings, hay and dust from one place to another. It tore roof tiles loose, drove smoke down chimneys and played havoc with signs.

  It threw the dyers’ long dark blue banners into the air in dark spirals, slamming them and twisting them tight round the bending poles. The turners’ wheels swayed endlessly back and forth, the furriers’ signs whipped the air with their shaggy tails and the splendid glass suns of the glaziers swung and flashed in wild unrest, vying with the shiny polished basins of the barber surgeons.

  Doors and shutters were slamming in the yards, chickens had to seek shelter behind sheds and barrels; even the pigs in their sties seemed disturbed by the wind howling through sunlit cracks and crevices. The wind brought the heat with it. People sat inside gasping, and only the flies buzzed about energetically in the sultry air.

  The streets were unbearable, porches windy, and all over the city anyone who could made for their garden. In the huge garden behind Christoffer Urne’s mansion in Vingaardsstraede a young girl was sitting and sewing in the shade of one of the great sycamore trees.

  She was tall and slender, her figure almost slight, but her bosom was broad and full. Her complexion was pale and made paler still by waves of rich, black hair and a pair of large, dark, anxious eyes. She had a sharp, finely shaped nose, a mouth large but not full; there was a sickly sweetness in her smile. Her lips were of a deep red, and her chin slightly pointed but strong and well-shaped. She was not very well-dressed: she wore an old, black velvet gown with embroidery of faded gold, a new green felt hat with huge white ostrich feathers and leather shoes with worn red toes. There was down in her hair, and neither the collar round her neck nor her long white hands were very clean.

  That was Sofie, the daughter of Christopher Urne’s brother. Her father, a member of the Privy Council and Marshall of the Realm, Jørgen Urne of Alslev, Knight of the Order of the Elephant, had died while she was only a child, after her mother Lady Margrethe Marsvin had passed away a few years earlier. She lived with her elderly uncle, and since he was a widower she was, at least in name, the mistress of the house.

  She was sitting and sewing, humming and tapping a tune with the toe of one foot. Above her head the trees were swaying with their thick crowns in the gale with a sound like the roar of the sea. The tall hollyhocks were swinging their flower-festooned tops round and round in unsteady arches as if overcome by a restless madness, and the timid raspberry bushes bent low their branches, showing the underside of their leaves while changing colour with every gust of wind. Dry leaves sailed down through the air, the grass laid itself flat against the ground, and on the spirea’s pale green wave a foam of white flowers swayed up and down, forever changing.

  Now there was a moment of stillness, everything drew itself up straight, still quivering with fear and breathless suspense, before the wind roared again and a wave of unrest, all shimmer and foam, full of wild swaying and fitful change, spread across the garden.

  “In her bark sat Phyllis fair

  Heard sweet Corydon blow an air

  Listened madly to that sound

  While her bark it ran aground

  While her bark…”

  Ulrik Frederik walked through the gate at the other end of the garden. For a moment Sofie looked with surprise towards him, before bending over her embroidery and continuing to sing.

  Ulrik Frederik sauntered slowly down the path, pausing from time to time to look at the flowers, pretending that he had not noticed that there was someone in the garden. He turned down a small path, stopped behind a large jasmine bush, straightened his uniform and belt, took off his hat, re-arranged his hair and continued his walk.

  The path, curving round, brought him out in front of Sofie.

  “Ah, good day to you, Mistress Sofie,” he exclaimed quite surprised.

  “Good day,” she replied, friendly and calm, putting her needle away thoughtfully in her embroidery, straightening it with her hand, before smiling up at him. “Welcome, Sir Gyldenløve.”

  “I’m in luck,” he said, bowing. I only expected to see thy cousin here.”

  Sofie gave him a quick glance and smiled. “He is not here,” she replied.

  “I see,” said Gyldenløve, looking at the ground.

  After a small pause Sofie sighed and said, “what a sultry day it is today!�
�

  “Yes, it looks like thunder, if only the wind dies down.”

  “Ye-es, quite,” Sofie slowly replied, looking thoughtfully towards the house.

  “Did you not hear the shot ringing out this morning?” asked Ulrik Frederik, straightening himself as if he were just about to leave.

  “God, what heart-breaking times await us this summer! The thought of all that danger to life and possessions makes your head spin. And when you have as many dear relatives and good friends, as I have, who may all suffer in this disaster and are risking life and limb and everything they own, then there is more than enough reason for one to harbour all sorts of strange and miserable thoughts.”

  “No, dearest Sofie! Don’t for the love of God start weeping, you shouldn’t look so much on the dark side.

  “Tousiours Mars ne met pas au jour

  Des objects de sang et de larmes

  Mais…”

  And he grabbed her hand, lifting it to his lips.

  “…tousiours l’Empire d’amour

  Est plein de troubles et d’alarmes.”8

  Sofie looked up at him innocently. How lovely she was: the deep, tantalising night of her eye, where day broke through in swarming shoals of shimmering light, like the sun playing in a black diamond; her lips’ Cupid’s bow painfully beautiful, the proud lily whiteness of her cheeks, slowly giving way to the glow of a rose-red blush like a sky lit by a dawn sun, and her forehead, dark-veined like a delicate petal, full of mystery, vanishing beneath her dark hair…

  Her hand, cold as marble, trembled in his. Gently, she drew it back and cast her eyes down. Her embroidery slipped off her lap, Ulrik Frederik bent down on one knee to pick it up and remained kneeling.

  “Mistress Sofie!” he said.

  She laid her hand on his mouth and looked at him gently and seriously, almost in sorrow.

  “Dear Ulrik Frederik,” she begged. “Do not take it ill if I beseech you not to let your feelings of the moment persuade you to make a change in the relationship which we have hitherto enjoyed. It will only serve to bring us both harm and unhappiness. Do get up from that foolish position and seat yourself with all decency next to me on the bench so that we can talk together calmly.”