Marie Grubbe by Jens Peter Jacobsen (black male authors txt) 📖

his realm, whither you are most certainly

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.