Marie Grubbe Page 9

  Madame Rigitze came but she did not get a word out of the child, who had thrown herself down in front of a chair, buried her face in a cushion, and to all of Madame Rigitze’s questions would only reply repeatedly that she wanted to go home, she could not stay there at all any longer. She wept and sobbed, rocking her head from side to side. Then Madame Rigitze gave her a good beating, scolded Lucie because the two of them were going to be the death of her with their nonsense, and then she left them to themselves.

  Marie did not care whether anyone beat her. Had she been beaten in the happy days of her love, it would have seemed to her the blackest misfortune, the deepest disgrace. But now she did not care, not now that all her longings, all that she believed in, every one of her hopes in one short hour had been crushed, made into dust and blown away. She recalled how once, at home at Tjele, she had seen the farmhands stone to death a dog that had managed to get into the tall-fenced duck pond. The miserable animal swam around in silence; it could not get out, and the blood was streaming down it, one stone wounding it here, another there, and she remembered how she had begged God every time a stone fell that it might hit really deep. For the animal was so miserable that to spare it would just have been a sin.

  Now she felt like that wretched Diana, and she welcomed every sorrow and bitter experience as long as it would really hit home. She had reached such a state of unhappiness that all she longed and hoped for was that blow of mercy. Oh, if that was how all greatness ended, in slavish whimpering, lecherous madness and supine fear, then there was no such thing as greatness. That hero whom she had dreamt into the world, he rode through the portals of death with jingling spurs and ringing bridle, his head bare, his sword in its sheath, not with fear in witless eyes and prayers of mercy on trembling lips.

  So there was no shining figure one could long for, love and worship, no sun to stare oneself blind at till all became one mass of glowing rays and colour. The world was dull, grey and empty, and utterly trivial, insipid and commonplace, every bit of it.

  At first that was how she felt. It was as if she had been snatched away for a moment to a beguiling, imaginary world, rich in variety, where her whole being had unfolded itself in that warm air, pregnant with life. Like a strange, perpetually growing, foreign flower blissfully reflecting the sun’s rays in all its leaves and breathing scent from every vein as it unfolded itself in ceaseless vigour and profusion. And now that was all over. She had once again become something barren, poor, and empty, turned to ice by a freezing cold; and the whole world was like that, everyone alive was like that. And they continued living unrestrained in their petty engagements. The heart inside her became sick with disgust at the sight of them making a show of their abject poverty and proudly attempting to find clear notes in that empty roar of sound.

  She eagerly devoured now that old treasure of sermons that she had so often been offered and had equally often rejected, and she found a melancholic consolation in their stern words about the misery of the world and the vanity of all earthly things. There was one book that she immersed herself in above all others and to which she always returned, and that was the Book of Revelation.

  She could not tire of contemplating the heavenly glory of Jerusalem. She imagined it in every detail, journeying through obscure alleys, looking through every door. She let herself be blinded by the glare of sardius, beryl, chrysoprasus and jacinth;12 she rested in the shadow of the Gates of Pearl and saw her reflection in the transparent gold of the streets. Often she would try to imagine how she, Lucie and Aunt Rigitze and all the other people in Copenhagen would respond when the first angel poured out his vial containing the wrath of God over the world, followed by the second angel with his vial, and the third with his.

  And when she worked, she could not stop singing long hymns of the Passion in a loud and plaintive voice, and when she was not working, she would recite long prayers from The Chain of Prayer or The Twelve Divine Voices of the Months. She knew both works almost by heart.

  There was in all this devotion some veiled ambition, for although she did actually feel the weight of the chains of sin and longed for communion with God, all this religious fervour was also born out of a dim desire for power, a not-quite-conscious hope that she might be chosen as one of the saints and among the first to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Her character had undergone a sea change through all of this: she had become inward-looking and reclusive. Her appearance, too, had changed. She had become pale and wasted, and her eyes had a hard, burning look, which was not surprising. Terrible visions of the Apocalypse rode through her night dreams as if real, and all day her thoughts would dwell on every dark and gloomy aspect of life. In the evening, when Lucie had fallen asleep, she would get out of bed, and find a mystical and ascetic pleasure in lying on her bare knees on the floor and praying till her legs ached or she could not feel her feet any more from the cold.

  Then came the time when the Swedes retreated, and all of Copenhagen played host and guest in a feast of drinking. And one such day, life changed suddenly for Marie, because Madame Rigitze arrived in her room with a seamstress, piling chairs and tables high with a wealth of shifts, gowns and hats covered in pearls, which Marie had inherited from her mother. For they had decided that it was about time that Marie began to dress as an adult.

  It was exciting to be the object of all that bustle that had burst into her little room, of all that unstitching, measuring, cutting and sewing. That deep red satin was lovely as it glowed in long, rich folds or shone brightly when it fitted tight and close. Yes, how wonderfully captivated she was by those animated discussions of whether this piece of camelot was too heavy to show off her figure or whether that Turkish coarse silk quite matched her complexion! This world, so real, glowing and carefree, banished every second thought and all her sad fantasies. And now if only she might, just once, sit at the banquet table – for she was to attend balls – with a snow-white ruff rippling round her neck together with other maidens in similar ruffs, why then her former thoughts would seem as strange as a day-old dream; and if she could, just once, tread the saraband and the pavane in a silk dress shot through with gold with a wide skirt and wearing long lace gloves and embroidered linen, why then yesterday’s excessive devotion would only make her blush with shame.

  And blush with shame she did, and she did tread the saraband and the pavane. Twice a week, together with other aristocratic young ladies, she attended dance lessons in Christen Skeel’s great hall, where an old man from Mecklenborg taught them posture, dance steps and comportment according to the latest Spanish fashion. She was also taught to play the lute and given more advanced lessons in French, for Madame Rigitze had plans of her own.

  Marie was happy. She was like a captive young prince, who has only just been released from the darkness of a prison and the brutal treatment of the guards, and is raised onto the throne by an exultant crowd to have the crown of power and glory placed firmly on his head, and see all the world smile and show respect, kneel and accept his supremacy. Marie, from her quiet chamber, had stepped out into a world where everyone worshipped and flattered her as if she were a queen, paying homage to the power of her beauty.

  There is a flower called the pearl hyacinth, and her eyes had its blue, that deep shade of a sapphire resting in the shadow, shining like trickling dewdrops. They could be lowered shyly, like a sweet, dying note, or raised boldly like a fanfare. And melancholy… yes, as the stars at daybreak gird themselves with a veiled tremulous light, so was her glance when she was melancholic. And her eye might rest with a smiling intimacy so that many felt as if someone were calling them urgently but from afar, as in a dream; but when her eyes became dark in sorrow, without hope and full of grief, then it was as if one heard drops of blood fall.

  That was the impression she made, and she was aware of it, but not fully, and had she been really conscious of it, and had she been older than she was, perhaps she might have been spellbound by her own beauty and thought of herself as a rare and precious piece of jewellery that
only needed to be kept polished and worn against a rich background to become the object of everyone’s desire. Cold and composed, she would have allowed herself to be admired. But that was not so. Hers was a beauty so much more mature than she was herself, and she had become acquainted with its power so suddenly that it would take a long time before it came naturally to her to rely on it with calm certainty and allow herself to be sustained by it. On the contrary, she took great trouble to please, was very flirtatious and enjoyed getting dressed up in all her finery. She drank in eagerly every flattering word, took notice of every admiring glance and treasured it all faithfully in her heart.

  On the first Sunday after peace had been declared, she attended a service of thanksgiving, and she was getting all dressed up to go for an afternoon walk with Madame Rigitze.

  That day the whole town was almost in turmoil. Peace had been made and the city gates were open for the first time after a full twenty-two months of being shut. Everyone had to get out and see for themselves where Carlstad13 had stood, where the enemy had encamped, where our men had fought. They had to go down into the trenches and climb the barricades, look down into the mouths of mining tunnels and touch the earth-filled baskets, piled high in defence. Here this person had taken a stand, and there that one had fallen and from here he had advanced to be surrounded there. Everything they saw struck them, from the wheel marks of canon carriages, the coal for the watchmen’s fires, to bullet-ridden old fences and sun-bleached horse skulls, and all around, in trenches and on barricades, they could not stop talking, exchanging stories, explanations, wild guesses and questions.

  Gert Pyper and his entire family were there, strutting about. He stamped at least a hundred times on the ground, every time seeming to notice a particularly hollow sound; his buxom wife was anxiously pulling at his sleeve and begging him not to be too foolhardy, but Master Gert still kept stamping as hard as he could. His grown-up son was showing his tiny sweetheart where he had been posted that night when they had shot a hole through his duffel cape and where the turner’s son had his head shot off. Meanwhile, the small children were crying because they were not allowed to keep a bullet they had found, as it might be full of poison, according to Erik Lauritzen. He was there too, poking about in the half-rotten hay where the Swedish barracks had stood. He had recalled a story about a soldier who had been hung outside of Magdeburg, and how seven of his companions found so much money lying underneath his pillow that they decided to desert just before the pillaging of the town was going to take place.

  There was a lot of to-ing and fro-ing; the green fields and white grey roads were dotted black with people who went about examining all those familiar places so carefully and deliberately that it was as if they had just discovered a new world, or as if an unknown islet had suddenly risen from the ocean’s floor. There were many who, when they saw the countryside lying there right in front of them, free and open, fields and meadows stretching into the distance, were seized with a sudden desire to wander, and just kept walking, on and on, as if drunk on all that endless space.

  But towards late afternoon, around supper time, most of them began to head back towards town, towards the northern part of Copenhagen, to St Peter’s churchyard and its spacious gardens, where it had been an age-old custom to go on a Sunday in summer, after evening service, to walk and take the air in the shade of green trees. Once the enemy was encamped outside the ramparts, this custom had naturally ceased, and the churchyard had lain deserted both on holy days and on weekdays, but today that custom was resurrected. Crowds heaved their way through the two entrances in North Street; aristocrats and commoners, rich and poor, humble and distinguished, they had all remembered the wide-crowned lime trees of St Peter’s Church.

  Among the green mounds and on the wide gravestones lay merry groups of citizens – husbands, wives, children and friends – all enjoying their supper. Apprentices stood behind munching away at the tasty Sunday sandwiches while waiting for the baskets. Tiny tots tripped along, their hands full of leftovers for hungry beggar children standing by the wall; young lads eager for knowledge spelled their way through lengthy epitaphs while fathers full of pride listened. Mothers and daughters examined critically the fine clothes of those strolling up and down the wide paths where all the important people were to be found. They had arrived a little later, and would either dine at home or at one of the places in the gardens beyond.

  There were proud matrons and fine maidens, old councillors and young officers, stout noblemen and foreigners. The grey and agile Hans Nansen smiled at everyone while he adjusted his walk to listen to the squeaky voice of old Villem Fiuren, a man as rich as Croesus. Corfitz Trolle and the proud Otto Krag walked by, while Lady Ide Daa, with her beautiful eyes, chatted to old Axel Urup, who was always smiling, showing his big teeth, while his bent wife, Mrs Sidsel Grubbe, shuffled slowly along with her sister Rigitze and the impatient Marie. Gersdorf, Schack and Thuresen with his flaxen yellow mane were also there as well as Peder Retz with his Spanish affectations and dress.

  Ulrik Frederik was there too, together with Niels Rosenkrands, the bold lieutenant colonel with his French manners and lively gestures.

  They met Madame Rigitze and their company. Ulrik Frederik greeted them coldly and formally, and would have preferred to walk on. Since his divorce from Sofie Urne, he had taken against Madame Rigitze. He suspected her, as one of the queen’s strongest supporters, to have played a role in what had happened. However Rosenkrands stopped and Axel Urup asked them so warmly to come and dine in the garden of John Adolf that it was difficult to escape, and so they both went along.

  Shortly afterwards, they were all seated in the walled summerhouse enjoying the local dishes which the kitchen gardener had to offer.

  “Is it true, I wonder,” asked Mrs Ide Daa, “that the Swedish officers have such a beguiling way with the maidens in Sjoelland that whole crowds have eloped with them?”

  “That’s certainly what that hussy Miss Dyre is supposed to have done,” replied Mrs Sidsel Grubbe.

  “Which Dyres are you talking about?” asked Madame Rigitze.

  “The Dyres from Skaane, you know them, dear sister. They are quite blonde and all related to the Powitzers. The girl who ran away was the daughter of Henning Dyre of West- Neergaard manor, the one who married Sidonie, the oldest of Ove Powitze’s girls. She didn’t go empty-handed, filling all her bags and cases with her father’s stuff, sheets, cotton, silver and any money she could get her hands on.”

  “Yes,” smiled Axel Urup. “Great love brings a great dowry.”

  “Yes love,” agreed Oluf Daa, waving his left hand in the air as was his habit.“Love, you know – well love is something strong.”

  “L-love,” said Rosenkrands, stroking his moustache carefully with the back of his little finger, “l-love is like H-hercules in women’s clothing, his manners are gentle and charming, and he a-ap-pears a real coward and per-fectly tame, but he’s got in him enough strength and slyness to carry out all twelve of those her-culean labours.”

  “Indeed,” interrupted Mrs Ide Daa. “Miss Dyre’s love certainly proves that he could easily do one of the labours. He definitely cleaned out the chests and strong boxes of everything, just as Hercules did for Urias, or whatever his name was, cleaning his stables, you know what I mean. ”

  “I believe,” said Ulrik Frederik turning to Marie Grubbe, “that love is like falling asleep in the desert and waking up to find yourself in a graceful and delightful pleasure garden, for love has the power to make a person look at things with different eyes, an empty and dreary world shines suddenly with festive mirth and beauty. But what do you think of love, my beautiful Marie?”

  “Me? I think love is like a diamond. A diamond is a thing of beauty and wonder on the outside, just as love is one of beauty and delight; and just as a diamond is poisonous to whomever swallows it whole, in the same way love is a kind of poison or a mad and dangerous disease to whomever succumbs to it… if I am to judge by the odd behaviour and strang
e conversations of those struck by Cupid.”

  “I agree,” whispered Ulrik Frederik chivalrously. “It is easy for the candle to talk reason to the poor fly who is put into a state of confusion by its light.”

  “You are perhaps right, Marie,” began Axel Arup, only to stop and smile, and nod towards her. “Yes, it stands to reason that love is a kind of poison that enters the blood, for how else can clever people with potions and elixirs make cold natures experience the most burning desires?”

  “You should be ashamed of yourself!” exclaimed Mrs Sidsel Grubbe. “You shouldn’t be talking about such terribly dark and sinful arts, and on a Sunday, too.”

  “My dear Sidse,” replied Axel. “There is nothing sinful in this to my mind, not at all. Do you consider it sinful, Officer Gyldenløve? No, you don’t, not at all. Doesn’t the holy Bible speak of witches and the conjuring of evil spirits? Yes, it certainly does! What I want to say is this: all our moods and passions have their seat in the blood. If you get angry, don’t you feel the blood rushing through you till your ears and eyes are spinning? And sudden fear, doesn’t that make your blood feel quite cold, as if it were being drained? Isn’t that the reason, wouldn’t you agree, that sorrow is pale and bloodless, and happiness as red as a rose? Certainly, I repeat, certainly! All human passions are caused by certain conditions and the general consistency of the blood. And what about love? That comes when the blood around the age of seventeen or eighteen changes from cold to hot and begins to ripen in the veins, and to ferment like a fine wine. For love is like yeast in the blood: it boils and bubbles, it grows hot and plays havoc, and no human being is quite himself as long as that is happening. But as time passes it becomes clear like other fermenting liquid, and more tender and gentle, less hot and turbulent. Yes, there is one other thing that it has in common with wine: just as the finest wine every year does foam and bubble, as if fermenting when it’s spring and the vine is in flower, so our minds, even those of the very old, are for the short spring season more than otherwise inclined towards love, for the blood can never quite forget that first ferment in the spring of life, and each time that season returns it is reminded and tries to ferment again.”