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

on.

 

At the sign of the Golden Grove they turned and rode through the woods

toward Overdrup, then walked their horses through the underbrush down

to the bright surface of the lake. Tall beeches leaned to mirror their

green vault in the clear water. Succulent marsh grass and pale pink

feather-foil made a wide motley border where the slope, brown with

autumn leaves, met the water. High in the shelter of the foliage in a

ray of light that pierced the cool shadow, mosquitoes whirled in a

noiseless swarm. A red butterfly gleamed there for a second, then flew

out into the sunlight over the lake. Steel-blue dragonflies made

bright streaks through the air, and the darting pike drew swift wavy

lines over the surface of the water. Hens were cackling in the

farmyard beyond the brushwood, and from the other side of the lake

came a note of wood doves cooing under the domes of the beech trees in

Dyrehaven.

 

They slackened their speed and rode out into the water to let their

horses dabble their dusty hoofs and quench their thirst. Marie had

stopped a little farther out than Ulrik Frederik and sat with reins

hanging in order to let her mare lower its head freely. She was

tearing the leaves from a long branch in her hand and sent them

fluttering down over the water, which was beginning to stir in soft

ripples.

 

“I think we may get a thunderstorm,” she said, her eyes following the

course of a light wind that went whirling over the lake raising round,

dark, roughened spots on the surface.

 

“Perhaps we had better turn back,” suggested Ulrik Frederik.

 

“Not for gold!” she answered and suddenly drove her mare to the shore.

They walked their horses round the lake to the road and entered the

tall woods.

 

“I would I knew,” said Marie, when she felt the cool air of the forest

fan her cheeks and drew in its freshness in long, deep breaths. “I

would I knew—” She got no further but stopped and looked up into the

green vault with shining eyes.

 

“What wouldst thou know, dear heart?”

 

“I’m thinking there’s something in the forest air that makes sensible

folks mad. Many’s the time I have been walking in Bigum woods when I

would keep on running and running till I got into the very thickest of

it. I’d be wild with glee and sing at the top of my voice and walk and

pick flowers and throw them away again and call to the birds when they

flew up—and then, on the sudden, a strange fright would come over me,

and I would feel, oh! so wretched and so small! Whenever a branch

broke, I’d start, and the sound of my own voice gave me more fright

than anything else. Hast thou never felt it?”

 

Before Ulrik Frederik could answer her song rang out:

 

“Right merrily in the woods I go

Where elm and apple grow,

And I pluck me there sweet roses two

And deck my silken shoe.

Oh, the dance,

Oh, the dance,

Oh, tra-la-la!

Oh, the red, red berries on the dogrose bush!”

 

and as she sang, the whip flew down over her horse, she laughed,

hallooed, and galloped at top speed along a narrow forest path where

the branches swept her shoulders. Her eyes sparkled; her cheeks

burned; she did not heed Ulrik Frederik calling after her. The whip

whizzed through the air again, and off she went with reins slack! Her

fluttering habit was flecked with foam. The soft earth flew up around

her horse. She laughed and cut the tall ferns with her whip.

 

Suddenly the light seemed to be lifted from leaf and branch and to

flee from the rain-heavy darkness. The rustling of the bushes had

ceased, and the hoofbeats were silent as she rode across a stretch of

forest glade. On either side the trees stood like a dark encircling

wall. Ragged gray clouds were scudding over the black, lowering

heavens. Before her rolled the murky blue waters of the Sound, and

beyond rose banks of fog. She drew rein, and her tired mount stopped

willingly. Ulrik Frederik galloped past, swung back in a wide circle,

and halted at her side.

 

At that moment a shower fell like a gray, heavy, wet curtain drawn

slantwise over the Sound. An icy wind flattened the grass, whizzed in

their ears, and made a noise like foaming waves in the distant

treetops. Large flat hail stones rattled down over them in white

sheets, settled like bead strings in the folds of her dress, fell in a

spray from the horses’ manes, and skipped and rolled in the grass as

though swarming out of the earth.

 

They sought shelter under the trees, rode down to the beach, and

presently halted before the low door of the Bide-a-Wee Tavern. A

stableboy took the horses, and the tall, bareheaded innkeeper showed

them into his parlor, where, he said, there was another guest before

them. It proved to be Hop-o’-my-Thumb, who rose at their entrance,

offering to give up the room to their highnesses, but Ulrik Frederik

graciously bade him remain.

 

“Stay here, my man,” he said, “and entertain us in this confounded

weather. I must tell you, my dear”—turning to Marie—“that this

insignificant mannikin is the renowned comedian and merry-andrew of

alehouses, Daniel Knopf, well learned in all the liberal arts such as

dicing, fencing, drinking, shrovetide sports, and such matters,

otherwise in fair repute as an honorable merchant in the good city of

Copenhagen.”

 

Daniel scarcely heard this eulogy. He was absorbed in looking at Marie

Grubbe and formulating some graceful words of felicitation, but when

Ulrik Frederik roused him with a sounding blow on his broad back, his

face flushed with resentment and embarrassment. He turned to him

angrily but mastered himself and said with his coldest smile, “We’re

scarce tipsy enough, Colonel.”

 

Ulrik Frederik laughed and poked his side crying, “Oh, you sacred

knave! Would you put me to confusion, you plaguy devil, and make me

out a wretched braggart who lacks parchments to prove his boasting?

Fie, fie, out upon you! Is that just? Have I not a score of times

praised your wit before this noble lady till she has time and again

expressed the greatest longing to see and hear your far-famed

drolleries? You might at least give us the blind Cornelius Fowler and

his whistling birds or play the trick—you know—with the sick cock

and the clucking hens!”

 

Marie now added her persuasions, saying that Colonel Gyldenlove was

quite right, she had often wondered what pastime, what fine and

particular sport, could keep young gentlemen in filthy alehouses for

half days and whole nights together, and she begged that Daniel would

oblige them without further urging.

 

Daniel bowed with perfect grace and replied that his poor pranks were

rather of a kind to give fuddled young sparks added occasion for

roaring and bawling than to amuse a dainty and highborn young maiden.

Nevertheless, he would put on his best speed to do her pleasure, for

none should ever say it of him that any command from her fair ladyship

had failed of instant obedience and execution.

 

“Look ‘ee!” he began, throwing himself down by the table and sticking

out his elbows. “Now I’m a whole assembly of your betrothed’s

honorable companions and especial good friends.”

 

He took a handful of silver dollars from his pocket and laid them on

the table, pulled his hair down over his eyes, and dropped his lower

lip stupidly.

 

“Devil melt me!” he drawled, rattling the coins like dice. “I’m not

the eldest son of the honorable Erik Kaase for nothing! What! you’d

doubt my word, you muckworm? I flung ten, hell consume me, ten with a

jingle! Can’t you see, you dog? I’m asking if you can’t see?—you

blind lamprey, you! Or d’ ye want me to rip your guts with my stinger

and give your liver and lungs a chance to see too? Shall I—huh? You

ass!”

 

Daniel jumped up and pulled a long face.

 

“You’d challenge me, would you?” he said hoarsely with a strong North

Skaane accent, “you stinkard, you! D’ you know whom you’re

challenging? So take me king o’ hell, I’ll strike your—Nay, nay,”

he dropped into his natural voice, “that’s perhaps too strong a jest

to begin with. Try another!”

 

He sat down, folded his hands on the edge of his knees as though to

make room for his stomach, puffed himself up fat and heavy jowled,

then whistled firmly and thoughtfully but in an altogether too slow

tempo the ballad of Roselil and Sir Peter. Then he stopped, rolled his

eyes amorously, and called in fond tones:

 

“Cockatoo—cockadoodle-doo!” He began to whistle again, but had some

difficulty in combining it with an ingratiating smile. “Little

sugar-top!” he called, “little honey-dew, come to me, little chuck!

P’st! Will it lap wine, little kitty? Lap nice sweet wine from little

cruse?”

 

Again he changed his voice, leaned forward in his chair, winked with

one eye, and crooked his ringers to comb an imaginary beard.

 

“Now stay here,” he said coaxingly, “stay here, fair Karen; I’ll never

forsake you, and you must never forsake me,”—his voice grew

weepy,—“we’ll never part, my dear, dear heart, never in the world!

Silver and gold and honor and glory and precious noble blood—begone!

I curse you! Begone! I say. You’re a hundred heavens high above them,

the thing of beauty you are! Though they’ve scutcheons and

emblems—would that make ‘em any better? You’ve got an emblem too—the

red mark on your white shoulder that Master Anders burned with his hot

iron, that’s your coat-of-arms! I spit on my scutcheon to kiss that

mark—that’s all I think of scutcheons—that’s all! For there isn’t in

all the land of Sjaelland a highborn lady as lovely as you are—is

there, huh? No, there isn’t—not a bit of one!”

 

“That’s—that’s a lie!” he cried in a new voice, jumped up, and shook

his fist over the table. “My Mistress Ide, you blockhead, she’s got a

shape—as a man may say—she’s got limbs—as a man may say—limbs. I

tell you, you slub-berdegulleon!”

 

At this point Daniel was about to let himself fall into the chair

again, but at that moment Ulrik Frederik pulled it away, and he rolled

on the floor. Ulrik Frederik laughed uproariously, but Marie ran to him

with hands outstretched as though to help him up. The little man, half

rising on his knees, caught her hand and gazed at her with an

expression so full of gratitude and devotion that it haunted her for a

long time. Presently they rode home, and none of them thought that

this chance meeting in the Bide-a-Wee Tavern would lead to anything

further.