Marie Grubbe Read online

  She shook her head. “Are you really ill?” she asked.

  “Yes, soon it will be all over for me.”

  “No, no, that mustn’t be. For who will be left for me if you go? No, no, how shall I be able to bear it!”

  “To live – it is easy to live! But I have received the bread of death and the wine of death, and must die… yes, yes, yes… bread and wine, body and blood… do you think they can… no, no in the name of Jesus Christ… say a prayer, child, say a strong prayer.”

  Marie folded her hands and prayed.

  “Amen, amen! Pray again! I am such a big sinner, child, who needs so much, pray again, a long prayer with lots of words – lots of words! Oh, no, what is this? Why is the bed turning round? Hold on tight, hold on tight, it’s going round… it’s like a whirling tempest of much agony, an eternal whirl of suffering and… ha, ha, ha… am I drunk again? But what’s going on and what the hell have I drunk? Wine! Of course, it was wine I drank! Ha, ha, je m’amuse, ma fille, je m’amuse! Kiss me, my chick.

  “Le paradis c’est ici

  Quand on fait l’amour…

  “Kiss me again, my dove, I’m so cold, but you are so soft and warm… will you kiss me warm? You are white and plump, and white and smooth…”

  He had thrown his arms around Marie and was clutching the scared child tight. At that moment Shoemaker’s Ane woke and caught sight of the dying man dallying about with an unknown woman. She lifted her prayer book into the air and shouted, “Out! You woman from Satan! Are you sat there, right for my eyes, a loose slut playing games with my dying lord! Out whoever you may be! Wretched messenger of the living Beelzebub!”

  “Beelzebub!” roared Christian Gyldenløve, and thrust Marie Grubbe away in terror. “Get thee hence, Satan! Be gone, be gone!” And he crossed himself again, and again. “Oh, you accursed devil! Trying to make me sin when I’ve reached my last breath, my last hour, when I should take such great care… in the name of our Lord, away, away, you accursed spectre!”

  With eyes open wide and horror stamped on every feature of his face, he stood up in bed and pointed at the door. Speechless and out of her wits with terror, Marie rushed out.

  The sick man threw himself down, and prayed and prayed, while Shoemaker’s Ane loudly and slowly read one prayer after another from her large print book.

  A few hours later Christian Gyldenløve died.

  VI

  After the unsuccessful attempt to seize Copenhagen in February 1659, the Swedes retreated, contenting themselves with keeping the city surrounded.

  The besieged citizens could now breathe more freely, the privations of war were lighter than before. They gained breathing room to enjoy what each had done or achieved in terms of honour and privileges. Of course, there were those who had gained a taste for the seductive life of war and who looked on despondently as peace, dismal and dull, let its everyday scenes unfold, but the great mass of people were joyful and felt light of heart. And that joy expressed itself in exuberant celebrations; all those many weddings, christenings, and betrothals, which had been postponed while the enemy was so oppressively near, were now gathering merry crowds that filled every alley and court of the city.

  Now people found the time to busy themselves with their neighbours’ affairs and to make beams out of the motes in their eyes. There was time for gossip, for jealousy, for hatred. Envy blossomed: bread-envy, luck-envy, and old hostilities bloomed with a new rancour and a new thirst for revenge. One man, in particular, had recently swollen the army of his enemies, becoming the object of almost everyone’s hatred. That man was Corfitz Ulfeldt.9 They could not harm him, for he was safely ensconced in the army of the enemy, but those members of his own or his wife’s family who were thought to be sympathetic towards him were regarded with suspicion, spied upon, conspired against and excluded from court.

  This did not, perhaps, amount to many, but among them was Sofie Urne, Ulrik Frederik’s betrothed.

  The queen, who hated Ulfeldt’s wife even more than she hated him, had been from the very beginning against Ulrik Frederik’s connection with a woman who was so closely related to Leonora Christina,10 and now that Ulfeldt’s most recent actions had put him and his relations in an even more sinister light than before, she was again working on the king, and on others, to have the engagement annulled.

  It was not long before the king was of the same mind as the queen. For Sofie Urne, who actually did busy herself with intrigue, had been painted as so deceitful and dangerous, and Ulrik Frederik as so foolish and so easily led, that it had become obvious to him how much trouble and danger might result from this alliance. However, he had given his consent, and he cared too much for his word and his honour to retract it. So he tried persuasion. He argued that the good relationship which he enjoyed with the court could easily be disturbed by someone who was so obviously hostile to himself and the queen, as her sympathies were entirely with the enemies of the royal house. Moreover, he would be standing in the way of his own good fortune, as he would hardly be given a position of importance that matched his status as long as he was known to be under the constant influence of a circle hostile to the court. Finally he alluded to Sofie’s inclination for intrigue, and expressed his doubt that she really loved him. A real and true love, he argued, would rather be deprived of its object than expose it to danger and harm, and would choose to conceal itself sadly, rather than to reveal itself triumphantly; but Mistress Sofie had had no scruples, on the contrary she had taken advantage of his youth and his blind passion.

  Such were the king’s arguments, but he did not get anywhere with Ulrik Frederik, who still had very fresh memories of how difficult it had been for him to convince the girl to reveal her feelings, and he left the king, feeling even more strongly than before that nothing should part them. His courtship of Sofie had been his first serious step in life, and he felt that it was a point of honour to carry out his promise. There had always been so many hands ready to lead and guide him, but he was too old for that now. He could, and would, walk alone. What was the court, the favour of the king, what were honour and glory compared to his love? For that alone he would fight, make sacrifices and live.

  But the king let Chistoffer Urne know that he was against the match, and so he closed his home to Ulrik Frederik, who could now only visit Sofie in secret. At first, this was like a wind feeding a burning flame, but it quickly meant that he saw his betrothed less, and with clearer eyes, and there were moments when he doubted her feelings. Indeed, he became unsure as to whether she had not been egging him on that summer day, when she had seemed to be holding him back.

  The court, which had earlier welcomed him with open arms, was now as cold as ice. The king, who had earlier taken such a warm interest in his future, was now indifference itself. Now there were no hands offering to guide him, and he began to miss that. He was not at all the kind of man who was any good at swimming against the current; if it was not completely flowing in his direction, he lost all confidence. From birth he had been given a golden thread, and to rise and rise in fortune and glory, all he had to do was to follow it, but now he had let go, to find his own way, yet it was still there, gleaming in front of his eyes. Shouldn’t he grab hold of it again? He could not summon up the courage to oppose the king, he could not give up Sofie. He had to use stealth and subterfuge to see her, and all that demeaning furtiveness hurt his pride. That was almost the hardest thing of all: he was so used to arriving in pomp and splendour, so used to taking every step in royal style, and this felt so different.

  Days and weeks passed with empty brooding and fruitless plans; his indecision became loathsome to him, and he began to despise himself and then succumbed to doubt: might his constant wavering have killed her love for him or had she perhaps never loved him? She was rumoured to be clever and, yes, she was clever, but was she as clever as they said? Yet what was love, if she did not love? And yet…?

  Behind the garden of Christoffer Urne lay a narrow passage, just wide enough for a man to squee
ze himself through. This was the way Ulrik Frederik had to go whenever he wanted to see his betrothed, and he usually took Half-Pint with him to keep watch at the end of the passage so that no one might see him climbing over the wooden fence.

  It was a warm, moonlit, summer night, three or four hours past bed time. Daniel had wrapped himself up in his cape and made himself comfortable on the remains of a pigs’ trough which someone from a neighbouring house had thrown into the passage. He was in a good mood and slightly drunk. He sat there, giggling a bit to himself at his own merry thoughts.

  Ulrik Frederik had already climbed the fence and was in the garden. There was a strong scent of elderflower; linen had been laid out on the grass to bleach in long, white strips, and the wind was whispering gently in the sycamore trees above and in the rose bushes on either side. They were covered in red flowers that in the strong moonlight seemed almost white.

  He began to approach the building, with its shining white walls and its yellowy gleaming windows. Everything was quiet and radiant. The murmurings of a cricket came swirling through the air. The sharp, bluish shadows of hollyhock fell, as if painted on the white wall, while a fine mist was rising from the linen laid out to bleach. Now the latch was off the door, and when he went inside everything was dark. He groped his way up some ancient stairs, and the warm spicy air of the attic greeted him. For each step he took, he could hear the creak, creak of the rotten floor. The moon was shining through a small window in the roof, throwing a square of light onto an even pile of grain on the floor; above the pile, dust danced in the glare of the light behind.

  Now he had reached the door of the garret in the gable. It was being opened from within, and for a moment, a reddish light allowed the heaped grain, the leaning soot-covered chimney and the roof beams to emerge from the darkness. Then it was all gone, and he was standing with Sofie in the room used for storing clothes.

  It was small and had a low ceiling, and it appeared crowded because of a large linen closet. Below the ceiling hung canvas bags full of down and feathers. Old spinning wheels were standing in the corners, and the walls were hung with ropes of red onions and silver embossed harnesses. Below the window, closed with large wooden shutters, stood a brass embossed chest with a small portable lamp on it. Sofie was opening its horn window so that it might shed a brighter light. Her hair was loose and was hanging down the back of a fur-trimmed coat, which she had put on top of her dress. Her face was pale and full of grief, but she was smiling happily and could not stop gossiping. She had sat down on a low stool with her hands folded round her knees and was looking up at Ulrik Frederik while she talked away merrily. He just stood there, not saying a word. Fear made her keep talking, because his bad mood had made her apprehensive.

  “Oh, grim and silent knight!” she said. “You are not saying a word. Oh, if in all those hundreds of hours, there have not been a hundred thoughts you wanted to whisper to me, oh then, you have not longed for me as I’ve longed for you.”

  She removed a bit of the wick with one finger, throwing it, still glowing, on the floor. Instinctively, Ulrik Frederik took a step forward, putting out the spark.

  “Thank you,” she continued. “And now come here and take a seat, but first you must kneel and sigh, and put me in a good mood, because it’s now the third night I’ve sat here keeping watch. Yesterday and the day before I wore myself out with waiting and longing for you.” She lifted one hand threatening him. “On your knees, faithless knight. Beg as if you were begging for your life!” She was speaking in mock solemnity, then she smiled and entreated him, half beseeching, half impatient: “Come here and kneel, come here and kneel.”

  Ulrik Frederik looked round almost grudgingly. It seemed so ridiculous to kneel here, in Christoffer Urne’s clothes storeroom. Nevertheless, he did kneel, and he put his arms round her waist, burying his head in her lap. But he did not speak a word.

  She too was silent, anxious and afraid. She had noticed that Ulrik Frederik was pale and miserable, his glance shy and uneasy. Her hand was playing carelessly with his hair, but her heart was beating violently, apprehensive with fear. They sat for a long time like this.

  Suddenly Ulrik Frederik jumped up.

  “No, no,” he said. “This cannot go on! God in Heaven knows how dear you are to me, as precious as my own blood and I can’t imagine what it will be like to have to live without you. But what use is that? Where is the future? Everyone is so much against us, there is not a soul that dare speak up for us, they have one and all turned their backs on us. The sight of me is like a cold shadow creeping up on them, while before I seemed to bring some kind of light. I stand alone, so alone, so bitterly, bitterly alone! I know you did warn me, and I’m sorry and ashamed of what I’m about to ask, but I’m being eaten up by this battle, it has sucked my courage and my pride dry, and so I’m begging you, burning with shame, yes, and despondent and dejected: give me my freedom! Release me from my promise, my precious girl.”

  Sofie had risen and was standing as fixed and cold as a column, looking seriously at him while he spoke.

  “I am with child,” she said, calmly and deliberately.

  If only she had agreed, if only she had given him his freedom, Ulrik Frederik was certain he would not have accepted it. He would have thrown himself at her feet in worship, he would have defied the king and everyone else, certain of her. But she did not do that, she only pulled at his chain to show him how tied he was, and oh how cunning she was, just as they had said.

  He felt a burning turmoil within, he could have thrown himself on her, grabbed her by that white throat to force the truth out of her, to make her reveal every single leaf of the flower of her love, there in front of him, every shadow, every fold laid bare so that he could know. But he forced himself to reply with a smile, “Of course, I haven’t forgotten. I only spoke in jest, you know that.”

  Sofie looked at him perturbed. No, that was not in jest, certainly not. Why did he not come close and kiss her if it was a jest, why did he keep standing there so still among the shadows – if only she could see his eyes – but no, that was no jest. He had asked as seriously as she had replied, and oh, that reply! She sensed what it had cost her, for he would not have left her if she had said yes.

  “Ulrik Frederik,” she said. “I was only thinking of our child, but you don’t care for me any more, so go, hurry and go build upon your fortune, I won’t hold you back.”

  “Don’t you understand that it was only a jest? Can you believe that I would beg to be released from my promise and sneak away in shame and low disgrace? Every time I lifted my head,” he said, “I would fear that my eyes might meet those which had seen my disgrace, that a glance from those eyes might force me to look at the ground in shame.”

  And he meant what he was saying; had she loved him as deeply as he loved her, then perhaps, but now, never.

  Sofie came up to him, put her head on his shoulder and cried. “Goodbye, Ulrik Frederik,” she said. “Go, go, not if I could bind you with a single hair and keep you, would I do so the moment you long to leave.”

  Impatiently he shook his head. “Dearest Sofie,” he said releasing himself from her embrace. “Let us not play with each other’s feelings, I owe it to both myself and to you that a priest joins our hands. That can’t happen soon enough, and it will within a few days, but it must happen in secret, for there’s no point in provoking the world more than we’ve already done.”

  Sofie didn’t dare contradict him, and so they decided when and how it should be carried out. Finally, they lovingly bid each other goodbye.

  When Ulrik Frederik returned to the garden the moon had disappeared and everything was dark. A few yards away the vigilant cocks crowed, but Daniel had fallen asleep at his post.

  A week later, in Daniel’s best reception room, Mistress Sofie and Ulrik Frederik were secretly married by a poor priest. However, the secret was so badly kept that the queen was discussing the matter a few days later with the king. As a consequence, about a month later, the marr
iage was annulled by royal decree, and shortly afterwards, with the consent of her family, Sofie was sent to a convent at Itzehoe.11

  Ulrik Frederik made no attempt to stop this happening. Naturally he felt offended, but he was tired and listless, and accepted with a dull melancholic air what had to be. He was drunk almost every day, and once the wine had gone to his head, he enjoyed describing – all the while crying and moaning – that lovely, peaceful and happy life that might have been his to a couple of loyal drinking companions, his only constant friends. He would always end by dropping sad hints that the days of his life would soon be numbered and that his broken heart would find a cure on that bed of black dust where worms are doctors.

  To put an end to this situation the king sent him to join the troops which the Dutch were transferring to Fynen, from where he returned towards the middle of November with the news of a victory at Viborg. Now he was back in the king’s favour, back at court, and appointed a colonel in the cavalry, and he seemed quite his old self again.

  * * *

  9 Corfitz Ulfeldt married Leonora Christina, daughter of Christian IV by Kirsten Munk. He betrayed Denmark to Charles X Gustav of Sweden and helped finance his campaign. Both he and his wife were eventually imprisoned by the Danes. Leonora wrote an account of her imprisonment, ‘My Memories of Suffering.’

  10 Sofie Urne was the cousin of Kirsten Munk, wife of Christian IV and mother of Leonora Christina.

  11 A German town about fifty kilometres north-west of Hamburg. The convent dates from the thirteenth century. Ulrik Frederik Gyldenløve married Sofie Urne on the 11th of July 1659. He had two sons by her, Carl and Ulrik Frederik Valdemar.

  VII

  Marie Grubbe was now seventeen years old.

  That afternoon when she had fled in terror from the death bed of Christian Gyldenløve, she had rushed up to her room, where she paced up and down, wringing her hands, moaning to herself as if in the grip of a deep, physical pain. Lucie, aghast, had run quite out of breath down to Madame Rigitze, asking her for God’s sake to come upstairs, for there was something very wrong with Mistress Marie.