Marie Grubbe by Jens Peter Jacobsen (parable of the sower read online txt) 📕
He was a large-boned, long-limbed man with a stoop in his broad shoulders. His hair was rough as a crow's nest, grayish and tangled, but his face was of a deep yet clear pink, seemingly out of keeping with his coarse, rugged features and bushy eyebrows.
Erik Grubbe invited him to a seat and asked about his haymaking. The conversation dwelt on the chief labors of the farm at that season and died away in a sigh over the poor harvest of last year. Meanwhile the pastor was casting sidelong glances at the mug and finally said: "Your honor is always temperate--keeping to the natural drinks. No doubt they are the healthiest. New milk is a blessed gift of heaven, good both for a weak stomach and a sore chest."
"Indeed the gifts of God are all good, whether they come from the udder or the tap. But you must taste a keg of genuine mum that we brought home from Viborg the other day. She's both good and German, though I can't see that the customs have put their mark on her."
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bound. You are one of those who daily nail our Lord Jesus to the
gibbet of the cross, and for all such the courts of hell are prepared.
Do not mock the terrible name of hell, for it is a name that contains
a fire of torment and the wailing and gnashing of teeth of the damned!
Alas, the anguish of hell is greater than any human mind can conceive,
for if one were tortured to death and woke in hell, he would long for
the wheel and the red-hot pincers as for Abraham’s bosom. ‘T is true
that sickness and disease are bitter to the flesh of man when they
pierce like a draught, inch by inch, through every fibre of the body
and stretch the sinews till they crack, when they burn like salted
fire in the vitals, and gnaw with dull teeth in the innermost marrow!
But the sufferings of hell are a raging storm racking every limb and
joint, a whirlwind of unthinkable woe, an eternal dance of anguish;
for as one wave rolls upon another, and is followed by another and
another in all eternity, so the scalding pangs and blows of hell
follow one another ever and everlastingly, without end and without
pause.”
The sick man looked around bewildered. “I won’t!” he said, “I won’t!
I’ve nothing to do with your heaven or hell. I would die, only die and
nothing more!”
“You shall surely die,” said the pastor, “but at the end of the dark
valley of death are two doors, one leading to the bliss of heaven and
one to the torments of hell. There is no other way, no other way at
all.”
“Yes, there is, pastor; there must be—tell me, is there not?—a
deep, deep grave hard by for those who went their own way, a deep black
grave leading down to nothing—to no earthly thing?”
“They who went their own way are headed for the realm of the devil.
They are swarming at the gate of hell; high and low, old and young,
they push and scramble to escape the yawning abyss and cry miserably
to that God whose path they would not follow, begging Him to take them
away. The cries of the pit are over their heads, and they writhe in
fear and agony, but the gates of hell shall close over them as the
waters close over the drowning.”
“Is it the truth you’re telling me? On your word as an honest man, is
it anything but a tale?”
“It is.”
“But I won’t! I’ll do without your God! I don’t want to go to heaven,
only to die!”
“Then pass on to that horrible place of torment where those who are
damned for all eternity are cast about on the boiling waves of an
endless sea of sulphur, where their limbs are racked by agony, and
their hot mouths gasp for air among the flames that flicker over the
surface. I see their bodies drifting like white gulls on the sea, yea,
like a frothing foam in a storm, and their shrieks are like the noise
of the earth when the earthquake tears it, and their anguish is
without a name. Oh, would that my prayers might save thee from it,
miserable man! But grace has hidden its countenance, and the sun of
mercy is set forever.”
“Then help me, pastor, help me! “groaned Ulrik Christian. “What are
you a parson for, if you can’t help me? Pray, for God’s sake, pray!
Are there no prayers in your mouth? Or give me your wine and bread, if
there’s salvation in ‘em as they say! Or is it all a lie—a
confounded lie? I’ll crawl to the feet of your God like a whipped
boy, since He’s so strong—it is not fair—He’s so mighty, and we’re so
helpless! Make Him kind, your God, make Him kind to me! I bow down—I
bow down—I can do no more!”
“Pray!”
“Ay, I’ll pray, I’ll pray all you want—indeed!” he knelt in bed and
folded his hands. “Is that right?” he asked, looking toward Pastor
Jens. “Now, what shall I say?”
The pastor made no answer.
For a few moments Ulrik Christian knelt thus, his large, bright,
feverish eyes turned upward. “There are no words, pastor,” he
whimpered. “Lord Jesu, they’re all gone,” and he sank down, weeping.
Suddenly he sprang up, seized his sword, broke it, and cried, “Lord
Jesu Christ, see, I break my sword!” and he lifted the shining pieces
of the blade. “Pardon, Jesu, pardon!”
The pastor then spoke words of consolation to him and gave him the
sacrament without delay, for he seemed not to have a long time left.
After that Pastor Jens called Shoemaker’s Anne and departed.
The disease was believed to be contagious; hence none of those who had
been close to the dying man attended him in his illness, but in the
room below a few of his family and friends, the physician in ordinary
to the King, and two or three gentlemen of the court were assembled to
receive the noblemen, foreign ministers, officers, courtiers, and city
councilmen who called to inquire about him. So the peace of the sick
chamber was not disturbed, and Ulrik Christian was again alone with
Shoemaker’s Anne.
Twilight fell. Anne threw more wood on the fire, lit two candles, took
her prayer book, and settled herself comfortably. She pulled her cap
down to shade her face and very soon was asleep. A barber-surgeon and
a lackey had been posted in the ante-room to be within call, but they
were both squatting on the floor near the window, playing dice on the
straw matting to deaden the sound. They were so absorbed in their
game that they did not notice someone stealing through the room until
they heard the door of the sick-chamber close.
“It must have been the doctor,” they said, looking at each other in
fright.
It was Marie Grubbe. Noiselessly she stole up to the bed and bent over
the patient, who was dozing quietly. In the dim, uncertain light he
looked very pale and unlike himself, the forehead had a deathly
whiteness, the eyelids were unnaturally large, and the thin wax-yellow
hands were groping feebly and helplessly over the dark blue bolster.
Marie wept. “Art thou so ill?” she murmured. She knelt, supporting her
elbows on the edge of the bed, and gazed at his face.
“Ulrik Christian,” she called, and laid her hand on his shoulder.
“Is anyone else here?” he moaned weakly.
She shook her head. “Art thou very ill?” she asked.
“Yes, ‘tis all over with me.”
“No, no, it must not be! Whom have I if you go? No, no, how can I bear
it!”
“To live?—‘tis easy to live, but I have had the bread of death and
the wine of death; I must die—yes, yes—bread and wine—body and
blood—d’ you believe they help? No, no, in the name of Jesus Christ,
in the name of Jesus Christ! Say a prayer, child; make it a strong
one!”
Marie folded her hands and prayed.
“Amen, amen! Pray again! I’m such a great sinner, child; it needs so
much! Pray again, a long prayer with many words—many words! Oh, no,
what’s that? Why is the bed turning?—Hold fast, hold fast! ‘T is
turning—like a whirlwind of unthinkable woe, a dance of eternal
anguish, and—ha, ha, ha! Am I drunk again? What devilry is
this—what have I been drinking? Wine! Ay, of course, ‘t was wine I
drank, ha, ha! We’re gaily yet, we’re gaily—Kiss me, my chick!
Herzen und Kussen ist
Himmel auf Erd—
“Kiss me again, sweetheart; I’m so cold, but you’re round and warm.
Kiss me warm! You’re white and soft, white and smooth—”
He had thrown his arms around Marie and pressed the terrified child
close to him. At that moment Shoemaker’s Anne woke and saw her patient
sitting up and fondling a strange woman. She lifted her prayer book
threateningly and cried, “H’raus, thou hell-born wench! To think of
the shameless thing sitting here and wantoning with the poor dying
gentleman before my very eyes! H’raus, whoever ye are—handmaid of
the wicked one, sent by the living Satan!”
“Satan!” shrieked Ulrik Christian and flung away Marie Grubbe in
horror.” Get thee behind me! Go, go!” he made the sign of the cross
again and again. “Oh, thou cursed devil! You would lead me to sin in
my last breath, in my last hour, when one should be so careful.
Begone, begone in the blessed name of the Lord, thou demon!” His eyes
wide open, fear in every feature, he stood up in bed and pointed to
the door.
Speechless and beside herself with terror, Marie rushed out. The sick
man threw himself down and prayed and prayed while Shoemaker’s Anne
read slowly and in a loud voice prayer after prayer from her book with
the large print.
A few hours later Ulrik Christian was dead.
After the attempt to storm Copenhagen in February of fifty-nine, the
Swedes retired and contented themselves with keeping the city
isolated. The beleaguered townspeople breathed more freely. The
burdens of war were lightened, and they had time to rejoice in the
honors they had won and the privileges that had been conferred on
them. It is true there were some who had found a zest in the stirring
scenes of war and felt their spirits flag, as they saw dull peace
unfold its tedious routine, but the great mass of people were glad and
light at heart. Their happiness found vent in merry routs, for
weddings, christenings, and betrothals, long postponed while the enemy
was so oppressively near, gathered gay crowds in every court and alley
of the city.
Furthermore, there was time to take note of the neighbors and make the
mote in their eyes into a beam. There was time to backbite, to envy
and hate. Jealousies, whether of business or love, shot a powerful
growth again, and old enmity bore fruit in new rancor and new
vengeance. There was one who had lately augmented the number of his
enemies, until he had drawn well-nigh the hate of the whole community
upon his head. This man was Corfitz Ulfeldt. He could not be reached,
for he was safe in the camp of the Swedes, but certain of his
relatives and those of his wife who were suspected of a friendly
regard for him, were subjected to constant espionage and annoyance
while the court knew them not.
There were but few such, but among them was Sofie Urne, Ulrik
Frederik’s betrothed. The Queen, who hated Ulfeldt’s wife more than
she hated Ulfeldt himself, had from the first been opposed
to Ulrik Frederik’s alliance with a gentlewoman so closely related to
Eleonore Christine, and since the recent actions of Ulfeldt had placed
him in a more sinister light than ever, she began to work upon the
King and others in order to have the engagement annulled.
Nor was it long before the King shared the Queen’s view. Sofie Urne,
who was in fact given to intrigue, had been painted as so wily and
dangerous, and Ulrik Frederik as so flighty and easily led, that the
King clearly saw how much trouble might come of such an alliance. Yet
he had given his consent and was too sensitive about his word of honor
to withdraw it. He therefore attempted to reason with Ulrik Frederik,
and pointed out how easily his present friendly footing at court might
be disturbed by a woman whowas so unacceptable to the King and
Queen, and justly so, as her sympathies were entirely with
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