Marie Grubbe by Jens Peter Jacobsen (parable of the sower read online txt) đź“•
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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asleep on his post.
A week later his best parlor was the scene of Mistress Sofie’s and
Ulrik Frederik’s private marriage by an obscure clergyman. The secret
was not so well guarded, however, but that the Queen could mention it
to the King a few days later. The result was that in a month’s time
the contract was annulled by royal decree and Mistress Sofie was sent
to the cloister for gentlewomen at Itzehoe.
Ulrik Frederik made no attempt to resist this step. Although he felt
deeply hurt, he was weary and bowed in dull dejection to whatever had
to be. He drank too much almost every day and when in his cups would
weep and plaintively describe to two or three boon companions, who
were his only constant associates, the sweet, peaceful, happy life he
might have led. He always ended with mournful hints that his days were
numbered and that his broken heart would soon be carried to that place
of healing where the bolsters were of black earth and the worms were
chirurgeon.
The King, to make an end of all this, ordered him to accompany the
troops which the Dutch were transferring to Fyen, and thence he
returned in November with the news of the victory at Nyborg. He
resumed his place at the court and in the favor of the King and seemed
to be quite his old self.
Marie Grubbe was now seventeen. On the afternoon when she fled in
terror from the deathbed of Ulrik Christian Gyldenlove, she had
rushed up to her own chamber and paced the floor, wringing her hands
and moaning as with intense bodily pain until Lucie had run to
Mistress Rigitze and breathlessly begged her for God’s sake to come to
Miss Marie, for she thought something had gone to pieces inside of
her. Mistress Rigitze came but could not get a word out of the child.
She had thrown herself before a chair with face hidden in the
cushions, and to all Mistress Rigitze’s questions answered only that
she wanted to go home, she wanted to go home, she wouldn’t stay a
moment longer, and she had wept and sobbed, rocking her head from side
to side. Mistress Rigitze had finally given her a good beating and
scolded Lucie, saying that between them they had nearly worried the
life out of her with their nonsense, and therewith she left the two to
themselves.
Marie took the beating with perfect indifference. Had anyone offered
her blows in the happy days of her love, it would have seemed the
blackest calamity, the deepest degradation, but now it no longer
mattered. In one short hour her longings, her faith, and her hopes had
all been withered, shrivelled up, and blown away. She remembered once
at Tjele when she had seen the men stone to death a dog that had
ventured within the high railing of the duck-park. The wretched animal
swam back and forth, unable to get out, the blood running from many
wounds, and she remembered how she had prayed to God at every stone
that it might strike deep, since the dog was so miserable that to
spare it would have been the greatest cruelty. She felt like poor
Diana and welcomed every sorrow, only wishing that it would strike
deep, for she was so unhappy that the deathblow was her only hope.
Oh, if that was the end of all greatness—slavish whimpering,
lecherous raving, and craven terror!—then there was no such thing as
greatness. The hero she had dreamed of, he rode through the portals of
death with ringing spurs and shining mail, with head bared and lance
at rest, not with fear in witless eyes and whining prayers on
trembling lips. Then there was no shining figure that she could dream
of in worshipping love, no sun that she could gaze on till the world
swam in light and rays and color before her blinded eyes. It was all
dull and flat and leaden, bottomless triviality, lukewarm commonplace,
and nothing else.
Such were her first thoughts. She seemed to have been transported for
a short time to a fairy-land where the warm, life-laden air had made
her whole being unfold like an exotic flower, flashing sunlight from
every petal, breathing fragrance in every vein, blissful in its own
light and scent, growing and growing, leaf upon leaf and petal upon
petal, in irresistible strength and fullness. But this was all past.
Her life was barren and void again; she was poor and numb with cold.
No doubt the whole world was like that and all the people likewise.
And yet they went on living in their futile bustle. Oh, her heart was
sick with disgust at seeing them flaunt their miserable rags and
proudly listen for golden music in their empty clatter.
Eagerly she reached for those treasured old books of devotion that had
so often been proffered her and as often rejected. There was dreary
solace in their stern words on the misery of the world and the vanity
of all earthly things, but the one book that she pored over and came
back to again and again was the Revelation of St. John the Divine.
She never tired of contemplating the glories of the heavenly
Jerusalem; she pictured it to herself down to the smallest detail,
walked through every by-way, peeped in at every door. She was blinded
by the rays of sardonyx and chrysolyte, chrysoprasus and jacinth; she
rested in the shadow of the gates of pearl and saw her own face
mirrored in the streets of gold like transparent glass. Often she
wondered what she and Lucie and Aunt Rigitze and all the other people
of Copenhagen would do when the first angel poured out the vial of the
wrath of God upon earth, and the second poured out his vial, and the
third poured out his—she never got any farther, for she always had to
begin over again.
When she sat at her work, she would sing one long passion hymn after
another, in a loud, plaintive voice, and in her spare moments she
would recite whole pages from “The Chain of Prayerful Souls” or “A
Godly Voice for Each of the Twelve Months,” for these two she knew
almost by heart.
Underneath all this piety there lurked a veiled ambition. Though she
really felt the fetters of sin and longed for communion with God,
there mingled in her religious exercises a dim desire for power, a
half-realized hope that she might become one of the first in the
kingdom of heaven. This brooding worked a transformation in her whole
being. She shunned people and withdrew within herself. Even her
appearance was changed, the face pale and thin, the eyes burning with
a hard flame—and no wonder; for the terrible visions of the
Apocalypse rode life-size through her dreams at night, and all day
long her thoughts dwelt on what was dark and dreary in life. When
Lucie had gone to sleep in the evening, she would steal out of bed and
find a mystic ascetic pleasure in falling on her knees and praying,
till her bones ached and her feet were numb with cold.
Then came the time when the Swedes raised the siege, and all
Copenhagen divided its time between filling glasses as host and
draining them as guest. Marie’s nature, too, rebounded from the
strain, and a new life began for her, on a certain day when Mistress
Rigitze, followed by a seamstress, came up to her room and piled the
tables and chairs high with the wealth of sacks, gowns, and
pearl-embroidered caps that Marie had inherited from her mother. It
was considered time that she should wear grown-up clothes
She was in raptures at being the centre of all the bustle that broke
in on her quiet chamber, all this ripping and measuring, cutting and
basting. How perfectly dear that pounce-red satin glowing richly where
it fell in long, heavy folds or shining brightly where it fitted
smoothly over her form! How fascinating the eager parley about whether
this silk chamelot was too thick to show the lines of her figure or
that Turkish green too crude for her complexion! No scruples, no
dismal broodings could stand before this joyous, bright reality. Ah,
if she could but once sit at the festive board—for she had begun to
go to assemblies—wearing this snow-white, crisp ruff among other
young maidens in just as crisp ruffs, all the past would become as
strange to her as the dreams of yesternight; and if she could but once
tread the saraband and pavan in sweeping cloth of gold and lace mitts
and broidered linen, those spiritual excesses would make her cheeks
burn with shame.
It all came about: she was ashamed, and she did tread the saraband and
pavan; for she was sent twice a week with other young persons of
quality to dancing school in Christen Skeel’s great parlor, where an
old Mecklenburger taught them steps and figures and a gracious
carriage according to the latest Spanish mode. She learned to play on
the lute and was perfected in French; for Mistress Rigitze had her own
plans.
Marie was happy. As a young prince who has been held captive is taken
straight from the gloomy prison and harsh jailer to be lifted to the
throne by an exultant people, to feel the golden emblem of power and
glory pressed firmly upon his curls, and see all bowing before him in
smiling homage, so she had stepped from her quiet chamber into the
world, and all had hailed her as a queen indeed; all had bowed,
smiling, before the might of her beauty.
There is a flower called the pearl hyacinth; as that is blue, so were
her eyes in color, but their lustre was that of the falling dewdrop,
and they were deep as a sapphire resting in shadow. They could fall as
softly as sweet music that dies, and glance up exultant as a fanfare.
Wistful—ay, as the stars pale at daybreak with a veiled, tremulous
light, so was her look when it was wistful. It could rest with such
smiling intimacy that many a man felt it like a voice in a dream, far
away but insistent, calling his name; but when it darkened with grief,
it was full of such hopeless woe that one could almost hear the heavy
dripping of blood.
Such was the impression she made, and she knew it, but not wholly. Had
she been older and fully conscious of her beauty, it might have turned
her to stone. She might have come to look upon it as a jewel to be
kept burnished and in a rich setting that it might be the desire of
all; she might have suffered admiration coldly and quietly. Yet it was
not so. Her beauty was so much older than herself and she had so
suddenly come into the knowledge of its power, that she had not
learned to rest upon it and let herself be borne along by it serene
and self-possessed. Rather, she made efforts to please, grew
coquettish and very fond of dress, while her ears drank in every word
of praise, her eyes absorbed every admiring look, and her heart
treasured it all.
She was seventeen, and it was Sunday, the first Sunday after peace had
been declared. In the morning she had attended the thanksgiving
service, and in the afternoon she was dressing for a walk with
Mistress Rigitze.
The whole town was astir with excitement, for peace had opened the
city gates, which had been closed for twenty-two long months. All were
rushing to see where the suburb had stood, where the enemy had been
encamped, and where “ours” had fought.
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