Marie Grubbe Page 6
“No, I want my fate decided here and now, in this very hour,” replied Ulrik Frederik who remained kneeling. “Little do you know how great and burning is my amour for you, if you can think that it is enough for me to be only your friend. By the holy blood and sweat of Christ, don’t give thought to something so foolish and utterly impossible. My love for you is not a weak flickering flame to be nourished or put out by your breath, and at your whim. Par Dieu! It is a burning and devouring fire, but it is in your power to decide whether that fire is to fan out and die in a thousand wild flickering flames like will-o’-the wisps, or whether it is to burn steadily and hot, high and shining, towards Heaven.”
“But, dearest Ulrik Frederik, have mercy and pity on me, and do not put an unfair temptation in my way, one that I possibly cannot resist. For you must believe me when I say you are truly dear and precious to me, and that is precisely why I so want to avoid putting you in a false and foolish situation to which you can’t remain true. You are nearly six years younger than I am, and all that quite pleases you in my figure, age can easily alter and make ugly. Yes, you smile, but imagine when you are thirty, being burdened with a wrinkled old witch as your mistress, one who has only brought you a poor dowry and hasn’t in the least advanced your position. Don’t you think you would be wishing that when you were twenty you had wed a young woman of royal blood, your real equal in age and rank, who would have advanced you better than a girl from a poor noble family? Dearest Ulrik Frederik, consult your high-born relations, and they will say the same. But one thing they wouldn’t tell you is that if you were to choose a gentlewoman who is older than you, then she will suffocate you to death with her jealousy. Jealous she’ll be of your every glance, yes, of the innermost thoughts of your heart. Because she knows just how much you have renounced to get her, she will strive to make her love mean the whole world to you. Believe me, she will surround you with her idolatrous love like an iron cage, and if she were to sense for one second that you wished to escape, then she’d give herself up to grief, day and night and poison your every hour with her jealous sorrow.”
She rose and offered him her hand. “Fare ye well, Ulrik Frederik, our parting has the bitter taste of death, but in a few years when I’m a shrivelled old maid or an old man’s middle-aged darling, then you’ll realise that Sofie Urne was right. May God protect you…
“Do you remember how in a Spanish romance there is a passage about a climbing plant from India which when young needed the support of a tree, but then it keeps winding itself round it long after it is dead and rotten, and finally it’s the one holding up the tree which can’t hold up anything any more. Believe me, Ulrik Frederik, in the same way my mind will be supported and carried by your love, long after it has withered and gone.”
She looked him straight in the eye and turned to leave, but Ulrik Frederik held on to her hand.
“Are you going to make me mad with anger? I’m going to tell you once and for all, that now I know your feelings for me, no power on earth can part us. Can’t you see that it makes no sense to talk about what you or I want? My very blood seems intoxicated by you, so how can I control myself? I am so infatuated with you that if you this very moment turned against me, you should still be mine, in spite of yourself, in spite of myself. I love you with all the intensity of hatred – and no, I’m not thinking of your happiness. What do I care whether you have good fortune or bad, as long as I’m part of your happiness, as long as I am part of your suffering, as long as I am…”
With a sudden movement he pulled her towards himself, clutching her tight to his breast.
Slowly she lifted her face towards him, looking long at him with tears in her eyes, and then she smiled. “As you wish, Ulrik Frederik.” And she kissed him passionately many times.
Three weeks later the engagement was celebrated with great splendour. The king had been pleased to give his consent, as it would finally put an end to the wild bachelor days of Ulrik Frederik.
* * *
4 The son of Frederik III and Margrethe Pappen. Governor of Norway, married to Marie Grubbe between 1660 and 1670.
5 Sofie Urne was the second cousin of Leonora Christina, daughter of Christian IV and Kirsten Munk. Leonora Christina married Corfitz Ulfeldt, a notorious traitor, who was at first favoured by Christian IV. Ruthlessly ambitious, Ulfeldt intrigued against Christian IV and was accused of a plot to poison the royal family. He left Denmark in 1651 and in 1657 supported Charles X Gustav of Sweden when he invaded Denmark. Both Leonora Christina and Corfitz Ulfeldt were eventually imprisoned for treason. Sofie Urne’s connection with Leonora Christina meant that any marriage alliance between her and the king’s illegitimate son was likely to be opposed.
6 The party of the dying.
7 The Canary Islands were known for their wine.
8 “Mars does not always bring to light things bathed in blood and tears, but the kingdom of love is always full of worry and trouble.” From Les Bergèries by Racan, a pastoral play inspired by Virgil’s Eclogues and first produced around 1619.
V
After the Swedish siege of Copenhagen had been broken, first on the 2nd of September and then on the 20th of October, the city was alive with the name of Christian Gyldenløve. They called him Colonel Satan. His name was on everyone’s lips; there was not a child in Copenhagen who did not know Ballerina, his sorrel with the white socks, and when he rode past, the young girls would follow with admiring eyes his tall, lean figure in the broad, lapelled, blue coat of the guards with its ample, white cuffs, red scarf and sword belt half a foot wide. They felt proud if their pretty face earned a nod or a glance from the brazen soldier. Yes, even many a sensible pater familias and his wife in her ruffled hat, who really did know what a rascal he was, and were familiar with lots of pretty tales, would nod to one another in satisfaction if they chanced to meet him and discuss the burning question of what would have happened to the city if he had not been there.
That the soldiers and the people on the ramparts should idolise him was not at all surprising, as he shared with his father, King Christian IV, that gift of being able to charm ordinary people. But he had inherited other traits as well: his bad temper and self-indulgence, some of his intelligence too, his decisiveness and ability to see things at a glance. He was extremely blunt, for several years at foreign courts had not made a courtier out of him. In fact, he was not in the least well mannered in his private life: he was rude and taciturn, while in the service he could hardly open his mouth without cursing and swearing like a common sailor.
But he was a born soldier. In spite of his youth, being only twenty-eight, he organised the defence of the city, leading dangerous but vital assaults with such arrogant insight and mature planning that the task could hardly have been entrusted to a better man among the king’s commanders.
It therefore made sense that his name should outshine all others, and that the poets in their verse accounts of events should address him as, “Thou victory crowned Gyldenløve, thou slayer of Denmark’s foe,” or greet him with a, “Hail, hail, to you, mighty Mars of the North, you bold Danish David,” wishing that his life might be a cornucopia of honour and glory, health, wealth and happiness. It made sense that many a quiet church service should finish with a prayer to the Lord to keep Christian Gyldenløve safe. Of course, there were a few pious souls who sighed and asked God that he should be led away from the nobleman’s slippery path of sin, that his thoughts should be turned away from darkness towards the shining torch of virtue and truth, and that he, who had won so great a share in the glory of this world, should also wish to partake of the one and true glory of God.
Marie Grubbe was very intrigued by this close relation of her aunt. It was chance that they had never met, neither here at Madame Rigitze’s nor anywhere else; only in the street had she caught sight of him, when Lucie had pointed him out once at dusk.
Everyone was talking about him. She was told new things about his courage almost every day. She had both heard and read that he was
a hero, and the jubilant whisper which had passed through the crowd that time at dusk, as he rode past, had made an indelible impression on her.
That big word, hero, had translated him into something so much more than an ordinary human being. It had never really occurred to her that heroes might be alive in quite the same way as other people. Alexander of Macedonia, Holger the Dane, Chevalier Bayard and others like them were heroes. They were mighty, distant, glorious figures, more models of some kind than human beings like everyone else. Just as when she was tiny, she had never been able to believe that anyone could ever write as elegantly as the script in a copybook, in the same way it had never occurred to her that anyone could actually become a hero. That one might meet a hero, a real hero, come across him on horseback in Great Ferry Road, that had been beyond her wildest dreams.
But suddenly life appeared very different, there was more to the world than the sum of the everyday; that beauty and grandeur, that rich world which was the subject of history books and poems was something one could encounter. So there was really something worth longing for with every part of your being. All those words which books and people were full of did mean something. There was a kind of sense in her vague dreams and longings, and she was not alone in this feeling; others were sharing this belief. Life was rich, gloriously rich.
Still, this was only a dim perception, as she convinced herself of a reality she could not see or feel. He was all that was tangible, the proof that life was worth living. Consequently, all her thoughts and dreams revolved aound him; again and again she would dash to the window at the sound of horses’ hooves, and many a time when they were out for a walk she would persuade the willing Lucie to go for a detour round the castle, but they never caught sight of him.
Then one late afternoon, towards the end of October, she was sitting making lace in the window seat of the long drawing room. Madame Rigitze was sitting by the fireplace. Now and then she would take a few dried flowers or some cinnamon bark from a box on her lap and put them on the embers. The air in the low-ceilinged room was hot, stuffy and sweet, and only a little light escaped through the deep, dark embroidered curtains with their motley flowers. The whirr of a spinning wheel could be heard from the adjoining room, and from time to time Madame Rigitze would give a small nod in her upholstered chair.
Marie Grubbe was listless with the heat. She tried to cool her hot cheeks against the small, moist window-panes while looking out onto the street, where a thin layer of fresh snow was making the air dazzlingly bright. Then she turned her eyes back inside where the darkness seemed twice as deep and oppressive. Suddenly, Christian Gyldenløve came in through the door so quickly that he gave Madame Rigitze a start. He did not see Marie, but sat down immediately by the fire. Then he said a few words of apology that he had not paid a visit for such a long time, and having mentioned his tiredness, he leaned forward in his chair, rested his face in his hand and became silent, only half listening to the lively talk of Madame Rigitze.
Marie Grubbe had become quite pale with emotion when she saw him entering. She closed her eyes for a moment, as if faint, then she blushed deeply and found it difficult to breathe. She felt as if the floor were sinking under her weight or the whole room with its chairs, tables and people were falling through the air. She perceived everything around her with a strange, sharp clarity, yet she was so agitated that it was as if she could not fix her eyes on anything. And how new and unfamiliar it all looked. But it did not take long for this feeling to vanish and for her to regain her senses. So there he was. She only wished she were far away, or just in her own room, her pleasant little room; she was so fearful, she could feel her hands shaking. If only he would not notice her!
Silently, she pressed herself more deeply into the window recess, looking her aunt’s visitor straight in the face for the first time.
So that was what he looked like! She had imagined him so much bigger… and his eyes were not at all black and shiny, not at all. They were blue, kind, melancholy eyes; she would never have imagined that. He was so pale and looked so sad; now he was smiling, but he was not really happy. His teeth were so white, his mouth so pretty, so small and elegant.
The more she looked at him, the more beautiful he seemed to her, and she began to wonder how she could have imagined him bigger or in any way different. She completely forgot her fear and could only think of how much she had heard people praise him, and how famous he was. She kept looking at him all the time, and imagining him leading his troops, storming ahead with the crowd cheering, as all gave way or were thrust aside like waves foaming around the broad prow of a ship. There was a thunder of cannons and a flash of swords, bullets were whistling in a black storm of smoke, but he leapt forward, proud and bold ‘holding victory in the palm of his hands’ as it said in a book she had read.
She looked at him with eyes full of awe and wonder. He moved suddenly and met her gaze. He turned his face away, lowering his eyes and suppressing with difficulty a triumphant smile, and then he rose, pretending that he had only just noticed her.
Madame Rigitze explained that this was her brother’s little daughter and Marie curtsied.
Christian Gyldenløve was taken aback and rather disappointed that the eyes which had given him such a look were those of a child.
“Ma chère,” he said with a note of sarcasm, looking down at her work. “I don’t know anyone with such a talent for secret and quiet occupation; I haven’t heard a sound from your bobbins all the time I’ve been here.”
“Oh,” said Marie, catching his drift. “When I saw the general,” she said, pushing the heavy lace cushion along the windowsill, “it occurred to me that in times like these it would be better to make bandages than finery for bonnets.”
“But I find bonnets as charmant in times of war as in peace.”
“But who thinks of such things in times as now!”
“Many,” replied Christian Gyldenløve, who was beginning to find her sincerity amusing. “And I am one of them.”
“I do understand,” said Marie, looking at him seriously. “You are just talking to a child.” She curtsied with dignity and picked up her lace.
“Pause a moment, my little maid!”
“No, please don’t let me keep you any longer.”
“Listen!” he said grabbing her wrists hard, drawing her across the work-table towards him. “By God, you are a difficult person,” he whispered. “But since you greeted me with such a glance as that, then I won’t have such a paltry farewell a few moments later – I won’t settle for it – so give me a kiss!”
With tears in her eyes Marie pressed her quivering lips against his. He let go, and she collapsed by the table, her face resting on her arms.
Marie felt quite overwhelmed. In the following days and nights after the encounter she had a vague sense of being enslaved, of having lost her freedom. It was as if someone had his foot pressing on her neck, as if she had been crushed into the dust and could not rise again. But there was no bitterness, no resentment in her thoughts, and no desire for revenge. A strange peace came over her. Gone was that train of many-coloured dreams and desires. Her feelings towards Christian Gyldenløve were vague, she only knew that if he said come, she would come, and if he said go away, then she must leave. She did not understand, but that was how it was, and it would always be like that, and it could be no other way.
She sewed and made lace all day long with unusual application, and while she worked, she would hum every bold ballad she knew: about the flowers of love, those that fade and pass away, about the lad who had to leave his maid to travel to foreign lands from which he would never return, and about the prisoner who lived so miserably and for such a long time in his dark tower that first his noble falcon died, then his loyal hound died, and at last his fine grey steed, he too died, and all the while his faithless wife Malvina flourished happily without knowing any sorrow. Such were the ballads she sang, sighing now and then, while frequently close to tears, so that Lucie thought she might be ill and
wanted her to put plantain leaves in her stockings.
When Christian Gyldenløve paid another visit a few days later and spoke to her in a kind and gentle way, she too pretended that nothing had happened between them. But with childish curiosity she examined the big white hands that had grabbed her so firmly and searched his eyes and his voice for that which had so filled her with awe. His mouth too, she kept looking at, with its slender moustache hanging down, but furtively and with a secret frisson of fear.
Then, in the time that followed, he began to come nearly every day or every other day, and she became more and more obsessed with him. When he was not there, she felt that the old place was empty and there was no life, and she longed for him like an insomniac longs for the dawn, but when he finally came, her happiness was not unrestrained and free, for she always felt so uncertain in his presence.
One night she dreamt that she saw him riding through the crowded street just like on that first evening, but this time there were no cheers and everyone was looking at him coldly, their faces disinterested. In this silence she became afraid, and she did not dare smile at him, but hid behind the crowd. Then he looked around with a strangely melancholic and searching air, and his glance fell on her, that glance, and she forced her way through the swarm of people and threw herself down in front of his horse which put its cold, iron-shod foot on her neck…
She woke, sat up straight in her bed and looked around in surprise at the cold, moonlit room. Oh it was only a dream! She sighed. How she wanted to show him how much she loved him. Yes, this was how it was, she just had not realised that this, this was love. The thought made her feel as if she were lying in fire; her eyes were dazed, and how each pulse did beat, beat, beat. She loved him – what strange words to be saying out loud – she loved him! How wonderful it was, how proud, how real… and yet how unreal. Good God, what use was it that she might be in love? And her eyes filled with tears of selfpity. But still! And she hid, soft and warm, under the duvet. And how lovely it was to be lying there and thinking about him like this, and about her love, her great, great love.