Marie Grubbe Read online

  The next time Marie saw Christian Gyldenløve, she experienced no feelings of uncertainty. Not at all. Her secret feelings gave her a sense of importance, while her fear of betraying them made her appear more self-possessed, almost grown-up. Then followed a wonderful time, full of dreams and longings. How lovely it was when Christian Gyldenløve was leaving, to throw him a thousand kisses unbeknown to him or anyone else, and when he came, to imagine how her beloved might take her in his arms, calling her all kinds of sweet names, might sit beside her, how they then might look into each other’s eyes for such a long time while she let her hand slide through his soft, brown, wavy hair. It did not matter that it did not happen. On the contrary, she blushed deeply at the thought that this really was something that could happen.

  Those were beautiful, lovely days, but then, towards the end of November, Christian Gyldenløve became quite desperately ill. With his health already weakened by a life of so much excess, he had perhaps not been able to take the continual strain of sleepless nights and the labour associated with his command, or perhaps some fresh, wild urges had made him go too far. A painful, wasting illness with wild feverish visions struck him, making him constantly agitated, and within a short time it took such a dangerous turn that it became obvious that this was death.

  It was the 11th of December. A roomy chamber, the colour of brown leather, led into the sick room of Christian Gyldenløve, and here the king’s chaplain, Hans Didrichsen Bartskæjr, was walking anxiously up and down the floor, which was strewn with carefully woven straw mats. He paused absent-mindedly in front of the pictures on the wall, appearing to study carefully the naked, voluptuous nymphs sprawled in the shadows of dark trees, various Susannahs at their baths, and a cloying Judith with muscular, naked arms. But the images did not hold his attention for long. He crossed over to the window and his eyes wandered restlessly from the grey-white sky to the shiny, wet, copper roofs and the accumulated heaps of grimy snow melting in the palace yard. Then he began wandering nervously round the room again, talking to himself and waving his hands.

  He stopped suddenly and listened. He thought he could hear the sound of a door. No, nothing. He breathed heavily, let himself fall down on a chair, where he sat and sighed, rubbing his hands together sadly when the door did open and a middle-aged woman wearing a flounced cape with red dots timidly waved him in.

  The priest composed himself, put the prayer book under his arm, smoothed his cassock and made for the sick room.

  It was a huge, oval room covered from floor to ceiling in dark panelling, with a wide central band where a boldly painted row of hideous Turkish and Moorish heads bared their white teeth through grinning lips. A thin, grey-blue piece of cloth had been drawn across the bottom half of the narrow, deep latticed window, so that the lower part of the room was in semi-darkness while the light played freely on a painted ceiling where horses, weapons and naked bodies mingled in hopeless confusion, as well as on the canopy of the four-poster bed with its silver tasselled drapes of yellow damask.

  A warm, heavy air of ointments and other medicines greeted the priest as he entered, almost taking his breath away. Faint, he grabbed a chair to lean on as everything seemed to be swirling round his head: the table with its bottles, phials and urine glass; the window, the nurse with her cape, the bed with the sick man, the weapon stand, and the open door to the next room, where a fire was burning in the grate.

  “God’s peace, your lordship!” he said, his voice trembling, as he recovered from his dizziness.

  “What in Hell are you doing here?” roared the sick man, rising in the bed.

  “Calmez-vous, calmez-vous,” whispered Shoemaker’s Ane, the sick nurse, approaching the bed and smoothing the bedclothes. “He is the très respectable, royal confessor à votre service.”

  “My gracious lord, noble Gyldenløve,” began the priest, coming closer to the bed. “Well do I know that you do not belong among those who, foolish in their wisdom or wise in their folly, have made of the Word their true staff, and of His House, a constant dwelling place. Though the Lord, who thunders on high, is the God who holds in His hand the golden palm of victory and the bloody cypresses of defeat, yet it is for us to understand, if not to forgive, that he to whom it has been given to command a multitude and to set them an example, might – oblivious that we are as naught; as swaying rushes, or weak shoots in the mighty hands of the Creator of Heaven and Earth – for an ill-judged moment think, this, this I have accomplished, this is a deed which I have brought to full fruition. But, my precious lord, now that thou liest upon a hard bed of pain, now surely the God of mercy and love has filled your understanding and entered your heart so that you, full of fear and trembling, long to confess your secret sins so that you will verily receive that mercy and forgiveness which the Lord offers with loving hands. The sharp teeth of the worm conscience…”

  “Cross me in front, cross me behind, pledges and promises, forgiveness for sins, life eternal,” mocked Christian Gyldenløve, sitting straight up in bed. “Do you think, bald headed, spiteful worm that you are, do you really think that because my bones are now rotting out of my body, in bits and pieces, do you think I’m any more likely to want to listen to priestly gibberish?”

  “My noble lord, you do mightily abuse the privilege of your high station and pitiful disease when you revile a poor servant of the church, who is only carrying out his duty by trying to turn your thoughts to the one and only thing that truly matters. Oh, mighty lord, do not kick against the pricks! Has not this disease which has destroyed your body taught you that no one can escape the punishment of the Lord and that high and low are lashed equally by Heaven?”

  Laughing, Christian Gyldenløve interrupted him. “How you talk. May Hell swallow me up! How like a witless child. That which is consuming me is the fruit of my own, my very own honest labour, and should you argue that this is the gift of Heaven or Hell, then I can tell you that one gets it from drinking, night revelling and whoring and such, of that you can be sure. But now you can take your learned legs out of my chamber as fast as they can carry you or I shall…”

  Here he had one of his attacks, twisting and turning and moaning in agony. He swore and blasphemed so profanely, so strangely and so hideously that the priest, turning pale with indignation and terror, began to pray to God that he might be granted the strength of persuasion necessary to make that lost and abandoned soul receptive to the truth of religion and its wonderful consolation.

  When the sick man had regained composure, he began again. “My good lord! In tears and anguish, I beg and beseech you to stop this terrible swearing and blaspheming. Remember that the axe all but lies at the root of the tree, soon to be felled and cast into the flames if it remains barren and does not at the eleventh hour bear some flower and some fruit. Do not continue in sinful stubbornness, but cast yourself full of prayer and repentance at the feet of our Saviour…”

  When the priest began his speech, Christian Gyldenløve sat up, supporting himself by the headboard. Now he pointed at the door threateningly, shouting again and again, “Be gone, priest, be gone, and march! I won’t put up with this any longer…”

  “Dear lord,” continued the priest. “Though you harden your soul, as someone who has little faith that mercy will be yours because of the mountain, the huge mountain of your sins, yet you should rejoice in the news of the never ending fountain of God’s mercy…”

  “Dog of a priest, will you finally go!” hissed Christian Gyldenløve between clenched teeth, “one, two, three…”

  “And even if your sins are as red as blood, yes, even as the dye of Turkey…”

  “Be gone!”

  “Yet he can make them as white as the snow of Lebanon…”

  “Then will St Lucifer and all his holy angels…” roared Christian Gyldenløve, and leaping out of bed, he snatched a foil from the weapon stand and made a violent lunge at the priest, who quickly escaped to the next room, slamming the door shut. Christian Gyldenløve ran furiously towards the door
and collapsed helplessly on the floor. He had to be lifted back on to the bed, but he would not let go of the foil.

  He spent the rest of the morning dozing peacefully, without pain, and he experienced a listlessness that he found pleasant and comforting. He lay staring at the tiny pricks of light piercing the cloth suspended in front of the window, counting the black rings in the iron grating. From time to time, the thought of how he had chased the priest made him smile, and he was only bad tempered when Shoemaker’s Ane wanted him to close his eyes and try to sleep.

  A little after noon there was a hard knock on the door, and the priest from Holy Trinity Church, the Reverend Jensen, entered quickly. The tall, thickset man, with strong, coarse features, short black hair and large deep-set eyes, immediately approached the bed and greeted him.

  As soon as Christian Gyldenløve realised that yet another priest was at his bedside, he became so furious that he shook all over and uttered a stream of oaths and curses aimed at the priest, at Shoemaker’s Ane who had so failed to protect his peace and quiet, at God in Heaven and all things holy.

  “Be quiet, you miserable soul!” thundered Mr Jens. “Is this a fit way to talk for someone with one foot in the grave? You should use that flickering spark of life that’s still in you to seek peace with God rather than strife among men. You are behaving like those villains and malefactors who, when judgement has fallen and they know that there is no escape from the tongs and the axe – ready and waiting for them – in their pitiful impotence threaten and berate God with loose unclean words to give themselves courage, to hold themselves afloat in that sea of almost animal despair, that crushing state of cowardice and slavish regret devoid of hope, into which these fellows sink at last and which they fear more than death, more than the torments of death.”

  Christian Gyldenløve listened quietly while he sneaked the foil from below the duvet, and then cried, “Beware you gutless priest,” as he lunged towards Mr Jens, who calmly warded off the blow with his broad prayer book.

  “Stop playing such childish tricks,” he said mockingly. “We are, I believe, both above such, and as for you,” he turned towards Shoemaker’s Ane, “it is better that you leave us alone.”

  Ane left, the priest drew his chair towards the bed and Christian Gyldenløve put the foil down on the duvet.

  Then Mr Jens spoke fine words about sin and the wages of sin, about God’s love for his children and about the death on the Cross.

  While the priest spoke Christian Gyldenløve lay there, his hands playing with the foil so as to catch the light with its naked blade. He was swearing and humming bits of bawdy songs, and he tried to interrupt with profane questions, but Mr Jens ignored him and went on and on about the Seven Last Words from the Cross, the holy sacrament, about the forgiveness of sin and joys of Heaven.

  But then Christian Gyldenløve rose up in the bed and said straight in Mr Jens’ face, “That is nothing but fantasy and lies.”

  “May the devil take me right now, if it is not the truth,” shouted the priest, “every single word.”

  And he thumped the table, sending tumblers and glasses rattling against one another. Then he rose and addressed him loudly.

  “It is what you deserve that I should, in the righteousness of my anger, shake the dust off my feet and leave you here, as certain spoils for the devil and his kingdom, to which you are surely heading. You are one of those who daily nails Jesus to the beam of his cross and for whom the Kingdom of Hell has been prepared. Do not mock that awesome name, Hell; it is a sound full of fire and torment, which contains the pitiful screams and gnashing pain of the tortured, of those in agony! Ah, the pain and suffering of Hell is beyond human understanding. For if someone who had suffered death on the rack with red hot irons were to wake again in the fires of Hell, then he would long to relive his execution as a soul longs to be in the lap of Abraham! Sickness and disease are bitter for the flesh when like a draught they slowly insinuate themselves, tormenting every fibre, when they make the sinews taut to bursting, when they burn like an acid fire in the innards, or gnaw the very marrow of the bones with their dull teeth. But the agony of Hell is like a howling gale of anguish, tearing through every single limb, like a whirling tempest of a pain beyond our grasp, an eternal whirlpool of suffering and torment. For as the waves crash on the shore, one upon another, to the very end of time, so the burning blows and stings of Hell follow one another for ever and ever more, never ceasing.”

  The sick man looked around, confused. “I want nothing,” he whispered. “I want nothing. I’ll have nothing of your Hell or your Paradise. I want to die, just to die, nothing more.”

  “Truly you shall die,” said the priest. “But at the end of death’s dark road there are only two doors, one leading to the joys of Heaven, the other to the anguish of Hell. There are no other roads for the traveller. Truly, there are none.”

  “Yes, there is, father, there must be. Don’t you think so? Answer me! Is there not a deep, deep grave for those who went their own way, a deep, black grave leading nowhere, to nothing at all?”

  “Those who went their own way, they’re heading to the kingdom of Satan. The gates of Hell are all swarming with them: high and low, young and old, they push and tug one another to avoid the yawning chasm and shout pitifully for that God, whose path they wouldn’t follow, to take them away. The screams from the abyss fill their heads, and they writhe in fear and agony, but the gates of Hell will close over them as the waters close over the drowned.”

  “Is there anything in what you are telling me, anything at all? Swear to me as an honest man, is there anything except fantasy?”

  “There is!”

  “But I don’t want it, I shall do without your God, I don’t want to go to Heaven, only to die.”

  “Then go to that place of torment for the eternally damned, where an ungodly host are tossed on the boiling waves of an endless sulphur sea, their limbs torn in sick suffering, their hot mouths gasping for breath among the blazing flames on the surface. I can see their bodies chased like white gulls across the sea; aye, like foaming froth before a blasting tempest, and their cries are like the roar of the earth when a quake shakes it to its marrow, and their agony does not have a name. Oh, you lost soul, would that my heart dared to set you free by prayer! But mercy has her countenance veiled, and the sun of compassion has set.”

  “Then help me, father, help me!” Christian Gyldenløve groaned. “What use is a priest if he can’t help at all? Pray! For God’s sake pray! Are there no prayers left in your mouth? Then give me your bread and your wine, they bring salvation, they say, that bread and wine. Or is that a lie, a complete and disgraceful lie? I will crawl on my knees for your God like a repentant boy, for He has such power, such unfair power and such a hopeless might. Just make Him good, make Him good to me, your God. I bow, I bow, and I can do no more.”

  “Pray!”

  “Yes, I’ll pray, all you want, yes.” And he got on his knees in the bed and folded his hands. “Is this how it’s done?” he asked, looking towards Mr Jens. “Now what do I say?”

  The priest did not answer.

  For a while he lay there staring at the ceiling, his eyes big and shiny with fever. “No words come, father!” he moaned. “Dear God, I have no words.” And he sank down weeping.

  Suddenly he flung himself forward, grabbed the foil and broke it into several pieces, shouting, “Lord Jesus Christ, see how I break my blade!” Then he held the shiny pieces of foil high into the air. “Pardon, Jesu, pardon!”

  The priest spoke the words of the Penitential Act, hurrying to prepare him for the sacrament, as he did not seem to have much time left. Then Mr Jens called for Shoemaker’s Ane and left.

  As the illness was thought to be contagious, no one who had been close to him came to see the dying man, but in an apartment below, some friends and relatives as well as the king’s doctor and a couple of courtiers assembled to receive anyone from the nobility or any ambassador, officer or councillor who came to ask abou
t his condition. Therefore, no one disturbed the peace of the sickroom and Christian Gyldenløve was again alone with Shoemaker’s Ane.

  Twilight was beginning to grow. Ane put some wood on the fire in the grate, lit a couple of candles, took out her prayer book and sat herself down comfortably. She pulled down her cap over her face and quickly fell asleep. A barber and a footman had been posted to the antechamber in case anything happened. They were both now lying on the floor by the window playing dice on a straw mat so as not to make a sound, and they were so absorbed by their game that they did not notice that someone had sneaked through the room until they heard the sound of the door to the sickroom closing.

  “Must be the doctor,” they said, looking frightened at one another.

  It was Marie Grubbe.

  Without a sound, she approached the bed, bending over the sick man who was lying in a quiet slumber. In the drowsy, uncertain light, he looked so pale, so unfamiliar, his forehead such a ghostly white, his eyelids so curiously big. His thin, wax yellow hands were groping, weak and helpless, for something on the coarse, dark blue cover.

  Marie was crying. “Are you really so ill?” she whispered. She knelt by the bed, leaning with her elbow on its frame, studying his face intently.

  He moaned and opened his eyes. He gave her a searching, uncertain look.

  “Christian Gyldenløve!” she said, putting her hand on his shoulder.

  “Is there anyone else here?” he groaned heavily.