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

fade and the darkness well out, while the

solitude, silent and calm and strong, has grown up around my soul and

covered it like plants of mandrake pouring their drowsy juices in my

blood. Ah, but I know full well that it is naught but an empty

conceit; never could the solitude gain power over me! I should long

like fire and leaping flame for life and what belongs to life—long

till I lost my senses! But you understand nothing of all this I am

prating. Let us go, ma chere! The rain is upon us; the wind is

laid.”

 

“Ah, no, the clouds are lifting. See the rim of light all around the

heavens!”

 

“Ay, lifting and lowering.”

 

“I say no,” declared Marie, rising.

 

“I swear yes, with all deference.”

 

Marie ran down the hill. “Man’s mind is his kingdom. Come, now, down

into yours!”

 

At the foot of the hill Marie turned into the path leading away from

the castle, and Sti walked at her side.

 

“Look you, Sti Hogh,” said Marie, “since you seem to think so well of

me, I would have you know that I am quite unlearned in the signs of

the weather and likewise in other people’s discourse.”

 

“Surely not.”

 

“In what you are saying—yes.”

 

“Nay.”

 

“Now I swear yes.”

 

“Oaths gouge no eye without fist follows after.”

 

“Faith, you may believe me or not, but God knows I ofttimes feel that

great still sadness that comes we know not whence. Pastor Jens was

wont to say it was a longing for our home in the kingdom of heaven,

which is the true fatherland of every Christian soul, but I think it

is not that. We long and sorrow and know no living hope to comfort

us—ah, how bitterly have I wept! It comes over one with such a

strange heaviness and sickens one’s heart, and one feels so tired of

one’s own thoughts and wishes one had never been born. But it is not

the briefness of these earthly joys that has weighed on my thoughts or

caused me grief. No, never! It was something quite different—but ‘t

is quite impossible to give that grief a name. Sometimes I have

thought it was really a grief over some hidden flaw in my own nature,

some inward hurt that made me unlike other people—lesser and poorer.

Ah, no, it passes everything how hard it is to find words—in just the

right sense. Look you, this life—this earth—seems to me so splendid

and wonderful I should be proud and happy beyond words just to have

some part in it. Whether for joy or grief matters not, but that I

might sorrow or rejoice in honest truth, not in play like mummeries or

shrovetide sports. I would feel life grasping me with such hard hands

that I was lifted up or cast down until there was no room in my mind

for aught else but that which lifted me up or cast me down. I would

melt in my grief or burn together with my joy! Ah, you can never

understand it! If I were like one of the generals of the Roman empire

who were carried through the streets in triumphal chariots, I myself

would be the victory and the triumph. I would be the pride and

jubilant shouts of the people and the blasts of the trumpets and the

honor and the glory—all, all in one shrill note. That is what I would

be. Never would I be like one who merely sits there in his miserable

ambition and cold vanity and thinks as the chariot rolls on how he

shines in the eyes of the crowd and how helplessly the waves of envy

lick his feet while he feels with pleasure the purple wrapping his

shoulders softly and the laurel wreath cooling his brow. Do you

understand me, Sti Hogh? That is what I mean by life, that is what I

have thirsted after, but I have felt in my own heart that such life

could never be mine, and it was borne in on me that, in some strange

manner I was myself at fault, that I had sinned against myself and led

myself astray. I know not how it is, but it has seemed to me that this

was whence my bitter sorrow welled, that I had touched a string which

must not sound and its tone had sundered something within me that

could never be healed. Therefore I could never force open the portals

of life but had to stand without, unbidden and unsought, like a poor

maimed bondwoman.” “You!” exclaimed Sti Hogh in astonishment; then,

his face changing quickly, he went on in another voice, “Ah, now I see

it all!” He shook his head at her. “By my troth, how easily a man may

befuddle himself in these matters! Our thoughts are so rarely turned

to the road where every stile and path is familiar, but more often

they run amuck wherever we catch sight of anything that bears a

likeness to a trail, and we’re ready to swear it’s the King’s highway.

Am I not right, ma chere? Have we not both, each for herself or

himself, in seeking a source of our melancholy, caught the first

thought we met and made it into the one and only reason? Would not

anyone, judging from our discourse, suppose that I went about sore

afflicted and weighed down by the corruption of the world and the

passing nature of all earthly things while you, my dear kinswoman,

looked on yourself as a silly old crone on whom the door had been shut

and the lights put out and all hope extinguished! But no matter for

that! When we get to that chapter, we are easily made heady by our own

words, and ride hard on any thought that we can bit and bridle.” In

the walk below the others were heard approaching, and joining them,

they returned to the castle.

 

At half-past the hour of eight in the evening of September

twenty-sixth, the booming of cannon and the shrill trumpet notes of a

festive march announced that both their Majesties, accompanied by his

Highness Prince Johan, the Elector of Saxony, and his royal mother and

followed by the most distinguished men and women of the realm, were

proceeding from the castle down through the park to witness the ballet

which was soon to begin.

 

A row of flambeaux cast a fiery sheen over the red wall, made the yew

and box glow like bronze, and lent all faces the ruddy glow of

vigorous health.

 

See, scarlet-clothed halberdiers are standing in double rows, holding

flower-wreathed tapers high against the dark sky. Cunningly wrought

lanterns and candles in sconces and candelabra send their rays low

along the ground and high among the yellowing leaves, forcing the

darkness back and opening a shining path for the resplendent train.

 

The light glitters on gold and gilded tissue, beams brightly on silver

and steel, glides in shimmering stripes down silks and sweeping

satins. Softly as a reddish dew, it is breathed over dusky velvet, and

flashing white, it falls like stars among rubies and diamonds. Reds

make a brave show with the yellows; clear sky blue closes over brown;

streaks of lustrous sea green cut their way through white and violet

blue; coral sinks between black and lavender; golden brown and rose,

steel gray and purple are whirled about, light and dark, tint upon

tint, in eddying pools of color.

 

They are gone. Down the walk, tall plumes nod white, white in the dim

air… .

 

The ballet or masquerade to be presented is called Die Waldlust. The

scene is a forest. Crown Prince Christian, impersonating a hunter,

voices his delight in the free life of the merry greenwood. Ladies

walking about under leafy crowns sing softly of the fragrant violets.

Children play at hide and seek and pick berries in pretty little

baskets. Jovial citizens praise the fresh air and the clear grape,

while two silly old crones are pursuing a handsome young rustic with

amorous gestures.

 

Then the goddess of the forest, the virginal Diana, glides forward in

the person of her Royal Highness the Princess Anne Sofie. The Elector

leaps from his seat with delight and throws her kisses with both hands

while the court applauds.

 

As soon as the goddess has disappeared, a peasant and his goodwife

come forward and sing a duet on the delights of love. One gay scene

follows another. Three young gentlemen are decking themselves with

green boughs; five officers are making merry; two rustics come

rollicking from market; a gardener’s ‘prentice sings, a poet sings,

and finally six persons play some sprightly music on rather fantastic

instruments.

 

This leads up to the last scene, which is played by eleven

shepherdesses: their Royal Highnesses the Princesses Anne Sofie,

Friderica Amalie, and Vilhelmina Ernestina, Madam Gyldenlove, and seven

young maidens of the nobility. With much skill they dance a pastoral

dance in which they pretend to tease Madam Gyldenlove because she is

lost in thoughts of love and refuses to join their gay minuet. They

twit her with giving up her freedom and bending her neck under the

yoke of love, but she steps forward and in a graceful pas de deux

which she dances with the Princess Anne Sofie reveals to her companion

the abounding transports and ecstasies of love. Then all dance forward

merrily, winding in and out in intricate figures, While an invisible

chorus sings in their praise to the tuneful music of stringed

instruments:

 

“_Ihr Numphen hochberumt, ihr sterblichen Gottinnen,

Durch deren Treff’ligkeit sich lasseh Heldensinnen

Ja auch die Gotter selbst bezwingen fur und fur,

Last nun durch diesen Tantz erblicken cure Zier

Der Glieder Hurtigkeit, die euch darum gegeben

So schon und prachtig sind, und zu den End erheben

Was an euch gottlich ist, aufF dass je mehr und mehr

Man preisen mog an euch des Schopfers Macht und Ehr_.”

 

This ended the ballet. The spectators dispersed through the park,

promenading through well-lit groves or resting in pleasant grottos

while pages dressed as Italian or Spanish fruit-venders offered wine,

cake, and comfits from the baskets they carried on their heads.

 

The players mingled with the crowd and were complimented on their art

and skill, but all were agreed that with the exception of the Crown

Princess and Princess Anne Sofie, none had acted better than Madam

Gyldenlove. Their Majesties and the Electress praised her cordially,

and the King declared that not even Mademoiselle La Barre could have

interpreted the role with more grace and vivacity.

 

Far into the night the junketing went on in the lighted park and the

adjoining halls of the castle, where violins and flutes called to the

dance and groaning boards invited to drinking and carousing. From the

lake sounded the gay laughter of revellers in gondolas strung with

lamps. People swarmed everywhere. The crowds were densest where the

light shone and the music played, more scattered where the illumination

was fainter, but even where darkness reigned completely and the music

was almost lost in the rustling of leaves, there were merry groups and

silent couples. One lonely guest had strayed far off to the grotto in

the eastern end of the garden and had found a seat there, but he was

in a melancholy mood. The tiny lantern in the leafy roof of the grotto

shone on a sad mien and pensive brows—yellow-white brows.

 

It was Sti Hogh.

 

“_… E di persona

Anzi grande, che no; di vista allegra,

Di bionda chioma, e colorita alquanto_,”

 

he whispered to himself.

 

He had not come unscathed from his four or five weeks of constant

intercourse with Marie Grubbe. She had absolutely bewitched him. He

longed