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

the foes of

the royal house. Moreover, he said, Ulrik Frederik was standing in his

own light, since none could expect important posts to be entrusted to

one who was constantly under the influence of the enemies of the

court. Finally, he alluded to the intriguing character of Mistress

Sofie and even expressed doubt of the sincerity of her regard. True

love, he said, would have sacrificed itself rather than bring woe upon

its object, would have hidden its head in sorrow rather than exulted

from the housetops. But Mistress Sofie had shown no scruples; indeed,

she had used his youth and blind infatuation to serve her own ends.

 

The King talked long in this strain but could not prevail upon Ulrik

Frederik, who still had a lively recollection of the pleading it had

cost him to make Mistress Sofie reveal her affection. He left the

King, more than ever resolved that nothing should part them. His

courtship of Mistress Sofie was the first serious step he had ever

taken in his life, and it was a point of honor with him to take it

fully. There had always been so many hands ready to lead and direct

him, but he had outgrown all that; he was old enough to walk alone,

and he meant to do it. What was the favor of the King and the court,

what were honor and glory, compared to his love? For that alone he

would strive and sacrifice; in that alone he would live.

 

The King, however, let it be known to Christoffer Urne that he was

opposed to the match, and the house was closed to Ulrik Frederik, who

henceforth could see Mistress Sofie only by stealth. At first this

merely fed the flame, but soon his visits to his betrothed grew less

frequent. He became more clear-sighted where she was concerned, and

there were moments when he doubted her love and even wondered whether

she had not led him on, that summer day, while she seemed to hold him

off.

 

The court, which had hitherto met him with open arms, was cold as ice.

The King, who had taken such a warm interest in his future, was

indifference itself. There were no longer any hands stretched out to

help him, and he began to miss them, for he was by no means man enough

to go against the stream. When it merely ceased to waft him along, he

lost heart instantly. At his birth a golden thread had been placed in

his hand, and he had but to follow it upward to happiness and honor.

He had dropped this thread to find his own way, but he still saw it

glimmering. What if he were to grasp it again? He could neither

stiffen his back to defy the King nor give up Sofie. He had to visit

her in secret, and this was perhaps the hardest of all for his pride

to stomach. Accustomed to move in pomp and display, to take every

step in princely style, he winced at crawling through back alleys.

Days passed and weeks passed, filled with inactive brooding and

still-born plans. He loathed his own helplessness and began to despise

himself for a laggard. Then came the doubt: perhaps his dawdling had

killed her love, or had she never loved him? They said she was clever,

and no doubt she was, but—as clever as they said? Oh, no! What was

love, then, if she did not love, and yet—and yet …

 

Behind Christoffer Urne’s garden ran a passage just wide enough for a

man to squeeze through. This was the way Ulrik Frederik had to take

when he visited his mistress, and he would usually have

Hop-o’-my-Thumb mounted on guard at the end of the passage, lest

people in the street should see him climbing the board fence.

 

On a balmy, moonlit summer night three or four hours after bedtime,

Daniel had wrapped himself in his cloak and found a seat for himself

on the remains of a pig’s trough which someone had thrown out from a

neighboring house. He was in a pleasant frame of mind, slightly drunk,

and chuckling to himself at his own merry conceits. Ulrik Frederik had

already scaled the fence and was in the garden. It was fragrant with

elder blossoms. Linen laid out to bleach made long white strips across

the grass. There was a soft rustling in the maples overhead and the

rose bushes at his side; their red blossoms looked almost white in the

moonlight. He went up to the house, which stood shining white, the

windows in a yellow glitter. How quiet everything was—radiant and

calm! Suddenly the glassy whirr of a cricket shivered the stillness.

The sharp, blue-black shadows of the hollyhocks seemed painted on the

wall behind them. A faint mist rose from the bleach-linen. There!—he

lifted the latch, and the next moment he was in the darkness within.

Softly he groped his way up the rickety staircase until he felt the

warm, spice-scented air of the attic. The rotten boards of the floor

creaked under his step. The moon shone through a small window

overhead, throwing a square of light on the flat top of a grain pile.

Scramble over—the dust whirling in the column of light! Now—the

gable-room at last! The door opened from within and threw a faint

reddish glow that illuminated for a second the pile of grain, the

smoke-yellowed, sloping chimney, and the roof beams. The next moment

they were shut out, and he stood by Sofia’s side in the family

clothes-closet.

 

The small, low room was almost filled with large linen-presses. From

the loft hung bags full of down and feathers. Old spinning wheels were

flung into the corners, and the walls were festooned with red onions

and silver-mounted harness. The window was closed with heavy wooden

shutters, but on a brass-trimmed chest beneath it stood a small hand

lantern. Sofie opened its tiny horn-pane to get a brighter light. Her

loosened hair hung down over the fur-edged broadcloth robe she had

thrown over her homespun dress. Her face was pale and grief worn, but

she smiled gaily and poured out a stream of chatter. She was sitting

on a low stool, her hands clasped around her knees, looking up merrily

at Ulrik Frederik, who stood silent above her while she talked and

talked, lashed on by the fear his ill humor had roused in her.

 

“How now, Sir Grumpy?” she said. “You’ve nothing to say? In all the

hundred hours that have passed, have you not thought of a hundred

things you wanted to whisper to me? Oh, then you have not longed as I

have!” She trimmed the candle with her fingers and threw the bit of

burning wick on the floor. Instinctively Ulrik Frederik took a step

forward and put it out with his foot.

 

“That’s right!” she went on. “Come here and sit by my side; but first

you must kneel and sigh and plead with me to be fond again, for this

is the third night I’m watching. Yester eve and the night before I

waited in vain, till my eyes were dim.” She lifted her hand

threateningly. “To your knees, Sir Faithless, and pray as if for your

life!” She spoke with mock solemnity, then smiled, half beseeching,

half impatient. “Come here and kneel, come!”

 

Ulrik Frederik looked around almost grudgingly. It seemed too absurd

to fall on his knees there in Christoffer Urne’s attic. Yet he knelt

down, put his arm around her waist, and hid his face in her lap,

though without speaking.

 

She too was silent, oppressed with fear; for she had seen Ulrik

Frederik’s pale, tormented face and uneasy eyes. Her hand played

carelessly with his hair, but her heart beat violently in apprehension

and dread.

 

They sat thus for a long time.

 

Then Ulrik Frederik started up.

 

“No, no!” he cried. “This can’t go on! God our Father in heaven is my

witness that you’re dear to me as the innermost blood of my heart, and

I don’t know how I’m to live without you. But what does it avail?

What can come of it? They’re all against us—every one. Not a tongue

will speak a word of cheer, but all turn from me. When they see me,

‘tis as though a cold shadow fell over them where before I brought a

light. I stand so utterly alone, Sofie, ‘tis bitter beyond words.

True, I know you warned me, but I’m eaten up in this strife. It sucks

my courage and my honor, and though I’m consumed with shame, I must

ask you to set me free. Dearest girl, release me from my word!”

 

Sofie had risen and stood cold and unflinching like a statue, eyeing

him gravely as he spoke.

 

“I am with child,” she said quietly and firmly.

 

If she had consented, if she had given him his freedom, Ulrik Frederik

felt that he would not have taken it. He would have thrown himself at

her feet. Sure of her, he would have defied the King and all. But she

did not. She but pulled his chain to show him how securely he was

bound. Oh, she was clever as they said! His blood boiled; he could

have fallen upon her, clutched her white throat to drag the truth out

of her and force her to open every petal and lay bare every shadow and

fold in the rose of her love that he might know the truth at last! But

he mastered himself and said with a smile: “Yes, of course,! know—‘t

was nothing but a jest, you understand.”

 

Sofie looked at him uneasily. No, it had not been a jest. If it had

been, why did he not come close to her and kiss her? Why did he stand

there in the shadow? If she could only see his eyes! No, it was no

jest. He had asked as seriously as she had answered. Ah, that answer!

She began to see what she had lost by it. If she had only said yes, he

would never have left her! “Oh, Ulrik Frederik,” she said, “I was

but thinking of our child, but if you no longer love me, then go, go

at once and build your own happiness! I will not hold you back.”

 

“Did I not tell you that’t was but a jest? How can you think that I

would ask you to release me from my word and sneak off in base shame

and dishonor! Whenever I lifted my head again,” he went on, “I must

fear lest the eye that had seen my ignominy should meet mine and force

it to the ground.” And he meant what he said. If she had loved him as

passionately as he loved her, then perhaps, but now—never.

 

Sofie went to him and laid her head on his shoulder, weeping.

 

“Farewell, Ulrik Frederik,” she said. “Go, go! I would not hold you

one hour after you longed to be gone, no, not if I could bind you with

a hair.”

 

He shook his head impatiently. “Dear Sofie,” he said, winding himself

out of her arms, “let us not play a comedy with each other. I owe it

both to you and to myself that the pastor should join our hands; it

cannot be too soon. Let it be in two or three days—but secretly, for

it is of no use to set the world against us more than has been done

already.” Sofie dared not raise any objection. They agreed on the time

and the place and parted with tender good-nights.

 

When Ulrik Frederik came down into the garden, it was dark, for the

moon had veiled itself, and a few heavy raindrops fell from the inky

sky. The early cocks were