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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despair. He had loved before, but never like this, never so timidly
and weakly and hopelessly. It was not the fact that she was the wife
of Ulrik Frederik, nor that he was married to her sister, which
robbed him of his courage. No, it was in the nature of his love to be
faint-hearted—his calf-love, he called it bitterly. It had so little
desire, so much fear and worship, and yet so much desire. A wistful,
feverish languishing for her, a morbid longing to live with her in her
memories, dream her dreams, suffer her sorrows, and share her sad
thoughts, no more, no less. How lovely she had been in the dance, but
how distant and unattainable! The round gleaming shoulders, the full
bosom and slender limbs—they took his breath away. He trembled before
that splendor of body which made her seem richer and more perfect and
hardly dared to let himself be drawn under its spell. He feared his
own passion and the fire, hell-deep, heaven-high, that smouldered
within him. That arm around his neck, those lips pressed against
his—it was madness, imbecile dreams of a madman! This mouth—
“Paragon di dolcezza!
… … … … .
… bocca beata,
… bocca gentil, che pud ben dirsi
Conca d’ Indo odorata
Di perle orientali e pellegrine:
E la porta, che chiude
Ed apre il bel tesoro,
Con dolcissimo mel porpora mista.”
He started from the bench as with pain. No, no! He clung to his own
humble longing and threw himself again in his thoughts at her feet,
clutched at the hopelessness of his love, held up before his eyes the
image of her indifference, and—Marie Grubbe stood there in the arched
door of the grotto, fair against the outside darkness.
All that evening she had been in a strangely enraptured mood. She felt
calm and sound and strong. The music and pomp, the homage and
admiration of the men, were like a carpet of purple spread out for her
feet to tread upon. She was intoxicated and transported with her own
beauty. The blood seemed to shoot from her heart in rich, glowing jets
and become gracious smiles on her lips, radiance in her eyes, and
melody in her voice. Her mind held an exultant serenity, and her
thoughts were clear as a cloudless sky. Her soul seemed to unfold its
richest bloom in this blissful sense of power and harmony.
Never before had she been so fair as with that imperious smile of joy
on her lips and the tranquillity of a queen in her eyes and bearing,
and thus she stood in the arched door of the grotto, fair against the
outside darkness. Looking down at Sti Hogh, she met his gaze of
hopeless adoration, and at that she bent down, laid her white hand as
in pity on his hair, and kissed him. Not in love—no, no!—but as a
king may bestow a precious ring on a faithful vassal as a mark of
royal grace and favor, so she gave him her kiss in calm largesse.
As she did so, her assurance seemed to leave her for a moment, and she
blushed while her eyes fell. If Sti Hogh had tried to take her then or
to receive her kiss as anything more than a royal gift, he would have
lost her forever, but he knelt silently before her, pressed her hand
gratefully to his lips, then stepped aside reverently and saluted her
deeply with head bared and neck bent. She walked past him proudly,
away from the grotto and into the darkness.
In January of sixteen hundred and sixty-four, Ulrik Frederik was
appointed Viceroy of Norway, and in the beginning of April the same
year he departed for his post. Marie Grubbe went with him.
The relation between them had not improved, except in so far as the
lack of mutual understanding and mutual love had, as it were, been
accepted by both as an unalterable fact and found expression in the
extremely ceremonious manner they had adopted toward each other.
For a year or more after they had moved to Aggershus, things went on
much in the same way, and Marie for her part desired no change. Not so
Ulrik Frederik, for he had again become enamored of his wife.
On a winter afternoon in the gloaming, Marie Grubbe sat alone in the
little parlor known from olden time as the Nook. The day was cloudy
and dark with a raw, blustering wind. Heavy flakes of melting snow
were plastered into the corners of the tiny window panes, covering
almost half the surface of the greenish glass. Gusts of wet, chilly
wind went whirling down between the high walls where they seemed to
lose their senses and throw themselves blindly upon shutters and
doors, rattling them fiercely, then flying skyward again with a
hoarse, dog-like whimper. Powerful blasts came shrieking across the
roofs opposite and hurled themselve’s against windows and walls,
pounding like waves, then suddenly dying away. Now and again a squall
would come roaring down the chimney. The flames ducked their
frightened heads, and the white smoke, timidly curling toward the
chimney like the comb of a breaker, would shrink back, ready to throw
itself out into the room. Ah, in the next instant it is whirled, thin
and light and blue, up through the flue with the flames calling after
it, leaping and darting, and sending sputtering sparks by the handful
right in its heels. Then the fire began to burn in good earnest. With
grunts of pleasure it spread over glowing coals and embers, boiled and
seethed with delight in the innermost marrow of the white birch wood,
buzzed and purred like a tawny cat, and licked caressingly the noses
of blackening knots and smouldering chunks of wood.
Warm and pleasant and luminous the breath of the fire streamed through
the little room. Like a fluttering fan of light it played over the
parquet floor and chased the peaceful dusk which hid in tremulous
shadows to the right and the left behind twisted chair legs or shrank
into corners, lay thin and long in the shelter of mouldings or
flattened itself under the large clothes press.
Suddenly the chimney seemed to suck up the light and heat with a roar.
Darkness spread boldly across the floor on every board and square to
the very fire, but the next moment the light leaped back again and
sent the dusk flying to all sides with the light pursuing it up the
walls and doors, above the brass latch. Safety nowhere! The dusk sat
crouching against the wall, up under the ceiling, like a cat in a high
branch, with the light scampering below, back and forth like a dog,
leaping, running at the foot of the tree. Not even among the flagons
and tumblers on the top of the press could the darkness be
undisturbed, for red ruby glasses, blue goblets, and green Rhenish
wineglasses lit iridescent fires to help the light search them out.
The wind blew and the darkness fell outside, but within the fire
glowed, the light played, and Marie Grubbe was singing. Now and again
she would murmur snatches of the words as they came to her mind, then
again hum the melody alone. Her lute was in her hand, but she was not
playing it, only touching the strings sometimes and calling out a few
clear, long-sounding notes. It was one of those pleasant little
pensive songs that make the cushions softer and the room warmer; one
of those gently flowing airs that seem to sing themselves in their
indolent wistfulness while they give the voice a delicious roundness
and fullness of tone. Marie was sitting in the light from the fire,
and its beams played around her while she sang in careless enjoyment,
as if caressing herself with her own voice.
The little door opened, and Ulrik Frederik bent his tall form to
enter. Marie stopped singing instantly.
“Ah, madam!” exclaimed Ulrik Frederik in a tone of gentle
remonstrance, making a gesture of appeal as he came up to her. “Had I
known that you would allow my presence to incommode you—”
“No, truly, I was but singing to keep my dreams awake.”
“Pleasant dreams?” he asked, bending over the fire-dogs before the
grate and warming his hands on the bright copper balls.
“Dreams of youth,” replied Marie, passing her hand over the strings of
the lute.
“Ay, that was ever the way of old age,” and he smiled at her.
Marie was silent a moment, then suddenly spoke, “One may be full young
and yet have old dreams.”
“How sweet the odor of musk in here! But was my humble person along in
these ancient dreams, madam?—if I may make so bold as to ask.”
“Ah, no!”
“And yet there was a time—”
“Among all other times.”
“Ay, among all other times there was once awondrously fair time when I
was exceeding dear to you. Do you bring to mind a certain hour in the
twilight a sennight or so after our nuptials? ‘T was storming and
snowing—”
“Even as now.”
“And you were sitting before the fire—”
“Even as now.”
“Ay, and I was lying at your feet, and your dear hands were playing
with my hair.”
“Yes, then you loved me.”
“Oh, even as now! And you—you bent down over me and wept till the
tears streamed down your face, and you kissed me and looked at me with
such tender earnestness it seemed you were saying a prayer for me in
your heart, and then all of a sudden—do you remember?—you bit my
neck.”
“Ah, merciful God, what love I did bear to you, my lord! When I heard
the clanging of your spurs on the steps, the blood pounded in my ears,
and I trembled from head to foot and my hands were cold as ice. Then
when you came in and pressed me in your arms—”
“De grace, madam!”
“Why, it’s naught but dead memories of an amour that is long since
extinguished.”
“Alas, extinguished, madam? Nay, it smoulders hotter than ever.”
“Ah, no, ‘tis covered by the cold ashes of too many days.”
“But it shall rise again from the ashes as the bird Phenix, more
glorious and fiery than before—pray, shall it not?”
“No, love is like a tender plant; when the night frost touches its
heart, it dies from the blossom down to the root.”
“No, love is like the herb named the rose of Jericho. In the dry
months it withers and curls up, but when there is a soft and balmy
night with a heavy fall of dew, all its leaves will unfold again,
greener and fresher than ever before.”
“It may be so. There are many kinds of love in the world.”
“Truly there are, and ours was such a love.”
“That yours was such you tell me now, but mine—never, never!
“Then you have never loved.”
“Never loved? Now I shall tell you how I have loved. It was at
Frederiksborg—”
“Oh, madam, you have no mercy!”
“No, no, that is not it at all. It was at Frederiksborg. Alas, you
little know what I suffered there. I saw that your love was not as it
had been. Oh as a mother watches over her sick child and marks every
little change, so I kept watch over your love with fear and trembling,
and when I saw in your cold looks how it had paled and felt in your
kisses how feeble was its pulse it seemed
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