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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eyes. Oh, he knew it all, even to the halo of noble-hearted devotion
with which the Queen’s poor groom of the chambers would try to deck
his narrow head! The fellow would place himself at Ulrik Frederik’s
side with ludicrous bravado, overwhelming him with polite attentions
and respectfully consoling stupidities while his small, pale-blue eyes
and every line of his thin figure would cry out as plainly as words,
“See, all are turning from him, but I, never! Braving the King’s anger
and the Queen’s displeasure, I comfort the forsaken! I put my true
heart against—” Oh, how well he knew it all—everything—the whole
story!
Nothing of all this happened. The King received him with a Latin
proverb, a sure sign that he was in a good humor. Marie rose and held
out her hand to him as usual, perhaps a little colder, a shade more
reserved, but still in a manner very different from what he had
expected. Not even when they were left alone together did she refer
with so much as a word to their encounter at Lynge, and Ulrik Frederik
wondered suspiciously. He did not know what to make of this curious
silence; he would almost rather she had spoken.
Should he draw her out, thank her for not saying anything, give
himself up to remorse and repentance, and play the game that they were
reconciled again?
Somehow he did not quite dare to try it, for he had noticed that now
and then she would gaze furtively at him with an inscrutable
expression in her eyes as if she were looking through him and taking
his measure with a calm wonder, a cool, almost contemptuous curiosity.
Not a gleam of hatred or resentment, not a shadow of grief or
reproach, not one tremulous glance of repressed sadness! Nothing of
that kind, nothing at all!
Therefore he did not venture, and nothing was said. Once in a while as
the days went by, his thoughts would dwell on the matter uneasily, and
he would feel a feverish desire to have it cleared up. Still it was
not done, and he could not rid himself of a sense that these unspoken
accusations lay like serpents in a dark cave brooding over sinister
treasures which grew as the reptiles grew, blood-red carbuncles rising
on stalks of cadmium, and pale opal in bulb upon bulb slowly
spreading, swelling, and breeding, while the serpents lay still but
ceaselessly expanding, gliding forth in sinuous bend upon bend,
lifting ring upon ring over the rank growth of the treasure.
She must hate him, must be harboring secret thoughts of revenge, for
an insult such as he had dealt her could not forgotten. He connected
this imagined lust for vengeance with the strange incident when she
had lifted her hand against him and with Burrhi’s warning. So he
avoided her more than ever and wished more and more ardently that
their ways might be parted.
But Marie was not thinking of revenge. She had forgotten both him and
Karen Fiol. In that moment of unutterable disgust her love had been
wiped out and left no traces, as a glittering bubble bursts and is no
more. The glory of it is no more, and the iridescent colors it lent to
every tiny picture mirrored in it are no more. They are gone, and the
eye which was held by their splendor and beauty is free to look about
and gaze far out over the world which was once reflected in the glassy
bubble.
The number of guests in the castle increased day by day. The
rehearsals of the ballet were under way, and the dancing masters and
play-actors, Pilloy and Kobbereau, had been summoned to give
instruction as well as to act the more difficult or less grateful
roles.
Marie Grubbe was to take part in the ballet and rehearsed eagerly.
Since that day at Slangerup she had been more animated and sociable
and, as it were, more awake. Her intercourse with those about her had
always before been rather perfunctory. When nothing special called her
attention or claimed her interest, she had a habit of slipping back
into her own little world, from which she looked out at her
surroundings with indifferent eyes; but now she entered into all that
was going on, and if the others had not been so absorbed by the new
and exciting events of those days, they would have been astonished at
her changed manner. Her movements had a quiet assurance, her speech an
almost hostile subtlety, and her eyes observed everything. As it was,
no one noticed her except Ulrik Frederik, who would sometimes catch
himself admiring her as if she were a stranger.
Among the guests who came in August was Sti Hogh, the husband of
Marie’s sister. One afternoon, not long after his arrival, she was
standing with him on a hillock in the woods from which they could look
out over the village and the flat, sun-scorched land beyond. Slow,
heavy clouds were forming in the sky, and from the earth rose a dry,
bitter smell like a sigh of drooping, withering plants for the
life-giving water. A faint wind, scarcely strong enough to move the
windmill at the crossroad below, was soughing forlornly in the
treetops like a timid wail of the forest burning under summer heat
and sun-glow. As a beggar bares his pitiful wound, so the parched,
yellow meadows spread their barren misery under the gaze of heaven.
The clouds gathered and lowered, and a few raindrops fell, one by one,
heavy as blows on the leaves and straws, which would bend to one side,
shake, and then be suddenly still again. The swallows flew low along
the ground, and the blue smoke of the evening meal drooped like a veil
over the black thatched roofs in the village near by.
A coach rumbled heavily over the road, and from the walks at the foot
of the hill came the sound of low laughter and merry talk, rustling of
fans and silk gowns, barking of tiny lapdogs, and snapping and
crunching of dry twigs. The court was taking its afternoon promenade.
Marie and Sti Hogh had left the others to climb the hill and were
standing quite breathless after their hurried ascent of the steep
path.
Sti Hogh was then a man in his early thirties, tall and lean, with
reddish hair and a long, narrow face. He was pale and freckled, and
his thin, yellow-white brows were arched high over bright, light gray
eyes which had a tired look as if they shunned the light, a look
caused partly by the pink color that spread all over the lids and
partly by his habit of winking more slowly, or rather of keeping his
eyes closed longer, than other people did. The forehead was high, the
temples, well rounded and smooth. The nose was thin, faintly arched,
and rather long, the chin too long and too pointed, but the mouth was
exquisite, the lips fresh in color and pure in line, the teeth small
and white. Yet it was not its beauty that drew attention to this
mouth; it was rather the strange, melancholy smile of the voluptuary,
a smile made up of passionate desire and weary disdain, at once tender
as sweet music and bloodthirsty as the low, satisfied growl in the
throat of the beast of prey when its teeth tear the quivering flesh of
its victim.
Such was Sti Hogh—then.
“Madam,” said he, “have you never wished that you were sitting safe in
the shelter of convent walls such as they have them in Italy and other
countries?”
“Mercy, no! How should I have such mad fancies!”
“Then, my dear kinswoman, you are perfectly happy? Your cup of life is
clear and fresh; it is sweet to your tongue, warms your blood, and
quickens your thoughts? Is it, in truth, never bitter as lees, flat,
and stale? Never fouled by adders and serpents that crawl and mumble?
If so, your eyes have deceived me.”
“Ah, you would fain bring me to confession!” laughed Marie in his
face.
Sti Hogh smiled and led her to a little grass mound where they sat
down. He looked searchingly at her.
“Know you not,” he began slowly and seeming to hesitate whether to
speak or be silent, “know you not, madam, that there is in the world a
secret society which I might call ‘the melancholy company’? It is
composed of people who at birth have been given a different nature and
constitution from others, who yearn more and covet more, whose
passions are stronger, and whose desires burn more wildly than those of
the vulgar mob. They are like Sunday children, with eyes wider open
and senses more subtle. They drink with the very roots of their hearts
that delight and joy of life which others can only grasp between
coarse hands.”
He paused a moment, took his hat in his hand, and sat idly running his
fingers through the thick plumes.
“But,” he went on in a lower voice as speaking to himself, “pleasure
in beauty, pleasure in pomp and all the things that can be named,
pleasure in secret impulses and in thoughts that pass the
understanding of man—all that which to the vulgar is but idle pastime
or vile revelry—is to these chosen ones like healing and precious
balsam. It is to them the one honey-filled blossom from which they
suck their daily food, and therefore they seek flowers on the tree of
life where others would never think to look, under dark leaves and on
dry branches. But the mob—what does it know of pleasure in grief or
despair?”
He smiled scornfully and was silent.
“But wherefore,” asked Marie carelessly, looking past him, “wherefore
name them ‘the melancholy company’ since they think but of pleasure
and the joy of life but never of what is sad and dreary?”
Sti Hogh shrugged his shoulders and seemed about to rise as though
weary of the theme and anxious to break off the discussion.
“But wherefore?” repeated Marie.
“Wherefore!” he cried impatiently, and there was a note of disdain in
his voice. “Because all the joys of this earth are hollow and pass
away as shadows. Because every pleasure, while it bursts into bloom
like a flowering rosebush, in the selfsame hour withers and drops its
leaves like a tree in autumn. Because every delight, though it glow in
beauty and the fullness of fruition, though it clasp you in sound
arms, is that moment poisoned by the cancer of death, and even while
it touches your mouth, you feel it quivering in the throes of
corruption. Is it joyful to feel thus? Must it not rather eat like
reddest rust into every shining hour, ay, like frost nip unto death
every fruitful sentiment of the soul and blight it down to its deepest
roots?”
He sprang up from his seat and gesticulated down at her as he spoke.
“And you ask why they are called ‘the melancholy company’ when every
delight, in the instant you grasp it sheds its slough in a trice and
becomes disgust, when all mirth is but the last woeful gasp of joy,
when all beauty is beauty that passes, and all happiness is happiness
that bursts like the bubble!”
He began to walk up and down in front of her.
“So it is this that leads your thoughts to the convent?” asked Marie,
and looked down with a smile.
“It is so indeed, madam. Many a time have I fancied myself confined in
a lonely cell or imprisoned in a high tower, sitting alone at my
window, watching the light
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