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

CHAPTER II

Mistress Rigitze Grubbe, relict of the late lamented Hans Ulrik

Gyldenlove, owned a house on the corner of Ostergade and Pilestraede.

At that time Ostergade was a fairly aristocratic residence section.

Members of the Trolle, Sehested, Rosencrantz, and Krag families lived

there; Joachim Gersdorf was Mistress Rigitze’s neighbor, and one or

two foreign ministers usually had lodgings in Carl van Mandern’s new

red mansion. Only one side of the street was the home of fashion,

however; on the other side Nikolaj Church was flanked by low houses

where dwelt artisans, shopkeepers, and shipmasters. There were also

one or two taverns.

 

On a Sunday morning early in September, Marie Grubbe stood looking out

of the dormer window in Mistress Rigitze’s house. Not a vehicle in

sight! Nothing but staid footsteps, and now and then the long-drawn

cry of the oystermonger. The sunlight, quivering over roofs and

pavements, threw sharp, black, almost rectangular shadows. The

distance swam in a faint bluish heat mist.

 

“Attention!” called a woman’s voice behind her, cleverly mimicking

the raucous tones of one accustomed to much shouting of military

orders.

 

Marie turned. Her aunt’s maid, Lucie, had for some time been sitting on

the table appraising her own well-formed feet with critical eyes.

Tired of this occupation, she had called out and now sat swinging her

legs and laughing merrily.

 

Marie shrugged her shoulders with a rather bored smile and would have

returned to her window gazing, but Lucie jumped down from the table,

caught her by the waist, and forced her down on a small rush-bottomed

chair.

 

“Look here, Miss,” she said, “shall I tell you something?”

 

“Well?”

 

“You’ve forgot to write your letter, and the company will be here at

half-past one o’clock, so you’ve scarce four hours. D’you know what

they’re going to have for dinner? Clear soup, flounder or some such

broad fish, chicken pasty, Mansfeld tart, and sweet plum compote.

Faith, it’s fine, but not fat! Your sweetheart’s coming, Miss?”

 

“Nonsense!” said Marie crossly.

 

“Lord help me! It’s neither banns nor betrothal because I say so! But,

Miss, I can’t see why you don’t set more store by your cousin. He is

the prettiest, most bewitching man I ever saw. Such feet he has! And

there’s royal blood in him—you’ve only to look at his hands, so tiny

and shaped like a mould, and his nails no larger than silver groats

and so pink and round. Such a pair of legs he can muster! When he

walks it’s like steel springs, and his eyes blow sparks—”

 

She threw her arms around Marie and kissed her neck so passionately

and covetously that the child blushed and drew herself out of the

embrace.

 

Lucie flung herself down on the bed, laughing wildly.

 

“How silly you are today,” cried Marie. “If you carry on like this,

I’ll go downstairs.”

 

“Merciful! Let me be merry once in a while! Faith, there’s trouble

enough, and I’ve more than I can do with. With my sweetheart in the

war, suffering ill and worse—it’s enough to break one’s heart. What

if they’ve shot him dead or crippled! God pity me, poor maid, I’d

never get over it.” She hid her face in the bedclothes and sobbed,

“Oh, no, no, no, my own dear Lorens—I’d be so true to you if the Lord

would only bring you back to me safe and sound! Oh, Miss, I can’t bear

it!”

 

Marie tried to soothe her with words and caresses, and at last she

succeeded in making Lucie sit up and wipe her eyes.

 

“Indeed, Miss,” she said, “no one knows how miserable I am. You see, I

can’t possibly behave as I should all the time. ‘T is no use I resolve

to set no store by the young men. When they begin jesting and passing

compliments, my tongue’s got an itch to answer them back, and then ‘t

is true more foolery comes of it than I could answer for to Lorens.

But when I think of the danger he’s in, oh, then I’m more sorry than

any living soul can think. For I love him, Miss, and no one else, upon

my soul I do. And when I’m in bed, with the moon shining straight in

on the floor, I’m like another woman, and everything seems so sad,

and I weep and weep, and something gets me by the throat till I’m

like to choke—it’s terrible! Then I keep tossing in my bed and

praying to God, though I scarce know what I’m praying for. Sometimes I

sit up in bed and catch hold of my head, and it seems as if I’d lose

my wits with longing. Why, goodness me, Miss, you’re crying! Sure

you’re not longing for anyone in secret—and you so young?”

 

Marie blushed and smiled faintly. There was something flattering in

the idea that she might be pining for a lover.

 

“No, no,” she said, “but what you say is so sad. You make it seem as

if there’s naught but misery and trouble.”

 

“Bless me, no, there’s a little of other things too,” said Lucie,

rising in answer to a summons from below and nodding archly to Marie

as she went.

 

Marie sighed and returned to the window. She looked down into the

cool, green graveyard of St. Nikolaj, at the red walls of the church,

over the tarnished copper roof of the castle, past the royal dockyard

and ropewalk around to the slender spire of East Gate, past the

gardens and wooden cottages of Hallandsaas, to the bluish Sound

melting into the blue sky where softly moulded cloud masses were

drifting to the Skaane shore.

 

Three months had passed since she came to Copenhagen. When she left

home, she had supposed that life in the residential city must be

something vastly different from what she had found. It had never

occurred to her that she might be more lonely there than at Tjele

Manor, where in truth, she had been lonely enough. Her father had

never been a companion to her, for he was too entirely himself to be

anything to others. He never became young when he spoke to fourteen

years nor feminine when he addressed a little maid. He was always on

the shady side of fifty and always Erik Grubbe.

 

As for his concubine, who ruled as though she were indeed mistress of

the house, the mere sight of her was enough to call out all there was

of pride and bitterness in Marie. This coarse, domineering peasant

woman had wounded and tortured her so often that the girl could hardly

hear her step without instantly and half unconsciously hardening into

obstinacy and hatred. Little Anne, her half sister, was sickly and

spoiled, which did not make it easier to get along with her; and to

crown all, the mother made the child her excuse for abusing Marie to

Erik Grubbe.

 

Who, then, were her companions?

 

She knew every path and road in Bigum woods, every cow that pastured

in the meadows, every fowl in the hen-coop. The kindly greeting of the

servants and peasants when she met them seemed to say: Our young lady

suffers wrong, and we know it. We are sorry, and we hate the woman up

there as much as you do.

 

But in Copenhagen?

 

There was Lucie, and she was very fond of her, but after all she