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

he soberly

considered what he really had in mind.

 

About a week after the day when she had found Soren asleep, Marie

Grubbe was sitting under the great beech on the heathery hill in

Fastrup Grove. She sat leaning her back against the trunk and held an

open book in her hand, but she was not reading. With dreamy eyes she

followed intently a large, dark bird of prey, which hung in slowly

gliding, watchful flight over the unending, billowing surface of the

thick, leafy treetops.

 

The air was drenched with light and sun, vibrant with the drowsy,

monotonous hum of myriad invisible insects. The sweet—too sweet—odor

of yellow-flowered broom and the spicy fragrance of sun-warmed

birch-leaves mingled with the earthy smell of the forest and the

almond scent of white meadowsweet in the hollows.

 

Marie sighed.

 

“Petits oiseaux des bois,”

 

she whispered plaintively,

 

“_que vous estes heureux,

De plaindre librement vos tourmens amoreux.

Les valons, les rochers, les forests et les plaines

Scauent egalement vos plaisirs et vos peines_.”

 

She sat a moment trying to remember the rest, then took the book and

read in a low, despondent tone:

 

“_Vostre innocente amour ne fuit point la clarte,

Tout le monde est pour vous un lieu de liberte,

Mais ce cruel honneur, ce fleau de nostre vie,

Sous de si dures loix la retient asservie_… .”

 

She closed the book with a bang and almost shouted:

 

“_Il est vray je ressens une secrete flame

Qui malgre ma raison s’allume dans mon ame

Depuis le jour fatal que je vis sous l’ormeau

Alcidor, qui dancoit au son du chalumeau_.”

 

Her voice sank, and the last lines were breathed forth softly, almost

automatically, as if her fancy were merely using the rhythm as an

accompaniment to other images than those of the poem. She leaned her

head back and closed her eyes. It was so strange and disturbing now

that she was middle-aged to feel herself again in the grip of the same

breathless longing, the same ardent dreams and restless hopes that had

thrilled her youth. But would they last? Would they not be like the

short-lived bloom that is sometimes quickened by a sunny week in

autumn, the after-bloom that sucks the very last strength of the

flower only to give it over, feeble and exhausted, to the mercy of

winter? For they were dead, these longings, and had slept many years

in silent graves. Why did they come again? What did they want of her?

Was not their end fulfilled so they could rest in peace and not rise

again in deceitful shapes of life to play the game of youth once more?

 

So ran her thoughts, but they were not real. They were quite

impersonal, as if she were making them up about someone else, for she

had no doubt of the strength and lasting power of her passion. It had

filled her so irresistibly and completely that there was no room left

in her for reflective amazement. Yet for a moment she followed the

train of theoretical reasoning, and she thought of the golden Remigius

and his firm faith in her, but the memory drew from her only a bitter

smile and a forced sigh, and the next moment her thoughts were caught

up again by other things.

 

She wondered whether Soren would have the courage to make love to her.

She hardly believed he would. He was only a peasant, and she pictured

to herself his slavish fear of the gentlefolks, his dog-like

submission, his cringing servility. She thought of his coarse habits

and his ignorance, his peasant speech and poor clothes, his

toil-hardened body and his vulgar greediness. Was she to bend beneath

all this, to accept good and evil from this black hand? In this

self-abasement there was a strange, voluptuous pleasure which was in

part gross sensuality but in part akin to whatever is counted noblest

and best in woman’s nature. For such was the manner in which the clay

had been mixed out of which she was fashioned. …

 

A few days later, Marie Grubbe was in the brewing house at Tjele

mixing mead; for many of the beehives had been injured on the night of

the fire. She was standing in the corner by the hearth, looking at the

open door, where hundreds of bees, drawn by the sweet smell of honey,

were swarming, glittering like gold in the strip of sunlight that

pierced the gloom.

 

Just then Soren came driving in through the gate with an empty coach

in which he had taken Palle Dyre to Viborg. He caught a glimpse of

Marie and made haste to unharness and stable the horses and put the

coach in its place. Then he strutted about a little while, his hands

buried deep in the pockets of his long livery coat, his eyes fixed on

his great boots. Suddenly he turned abruptly toward the brew-house,

swinging one arm resolutely, frowning, and biting his lips like a man

who is forcing himself to an unpleasant but unavoidable decision. He

had in fact been swearing to himself all the way from Viborg to Foulum

that this must end, and he had kept up his courage with a little

flask, which his master had forgotten to take out of the coach.

 

He took off his hat when he came into the house but said nothing,

simply stood passing his fingers awkwardly along the edge of the

brewing vat.

 

Marie asked whether Soren had any message to her from her husband.

 

No.

 

Would Soren taste her brew, or would he like a piece of sugar honey?

 

Yes, thank you—or that is, no, thanks—that wasn’t what he’d come

for.

 

Marie blushed and felt quite uneasy.

 

Might he ask a question?

 

Ay, indeed he might.

 

Well, then, all he wanted to say was this, with her kind permission,

that he wasn’t in his right mind, for waking or sleeping he thought

of nothing but her ladyship, and he couldn’t help it.

 

Ah, but that was just what Soren ought to do.

 

No, he wasn’t so sure of that, for ‘twas not in the way of tending to

his work that he thought of her ladyship. ‘Twas quite different; he

thought of her in the way of what folks called love.

 

He looked at her with a timid, questioning expression and seemed quite

crestfallen as he shook his head when Marie replied that it was quite

right; that was what the pastor said they should all do.

 

No, ‘twasn’t in that way either; ‘twas kind of what you might call

sweethearting. But of course there wasn’t any cause for it—he went on

in an angry tone as if to pick a quarrel—he s’posed such a fine lady

would be afraid to come near a poor common peasant like him, though to

be sure peasants were kind of half way like people too and didn’t have

either water or sour gruel for blood anymore than gentlefolks. He knew

the gentry thought they were of a kind by themselves, but really they

were made about the same way as others, and sure he knew they ate and

drank and slept and all that sort of thing just like the lowest,

commonest peasant lout. And so he didn’t think it would hurt her

ladyship if he kissed her mouth anymore than if a gentleman had kissed

her. Well, there was no use her looking at him like that even if he

was kind of free in his talk, for he didn’t care what he said

anymore, and she was welcome to make trouble for him if she liked, for

when he left her, he was going straight to drown himself in the

miller’s pond or else put a rope around his neck.

 

He mustn’t do that, for she never meant to say a word against him to

any living creature.

 

So she didn’t? Well, anybody could believe that who was simple enough,

but no matter for that. She’d made trouble enough for him, and ‘twas

nobody’s fault but hers that he was going to kill himself, for he

loved her beyond anything.

 

He had seated himself on a bench and sat gazing at her with a mournful

look in his good, faithful eyes while his lips trembled as if he were

struggling with tears.

 

She could not help going over to him and laying a comforting hand on

his shoulder.

 

She’d best not do that. He knew very well that when she put her hand

on him and said a few words quietly to herself she could read the

courage out of him, and he wouldn’t let her. Anyhow, she might as

well sit down by him, even if he was nothing but a low peasant, seeing

that he’d be dead before nightfall.

 

Marie sat down.

 

Soren looked at her sideways and moved a little farther away on the

bench. Now he s’posed he’d better say good-by and thank her ladyship

for all her kindness in the time they’d known each other, and maybe

she’d say good-by from him to his cousin Anne—the kitchen-maid at

the manor.

 

Marie held his hand fast.

 

Well, now he was going.

 

No, he must stay; there was no one in all the world she loved like

him.

 

Oh, that was just something she said because she was afraid he’d come

back and haunt her, but she might make herself easy on that score, for

he didn’t bear any grudge against her and would never come near her

after he was dead; that he’d both promise and perform if she would

only let him go.

 

No, she would never let him go.

 

Then if there was nothing else for it—Soren tore his hand away and

ran out of the brew house and across the yard.

 

Marie was right on his heels when he darted into the menservants’

quarters, slammed the door after him, and set his back against it.

 

“Open the door, Soren, open the door or I’ll call the servants!”

 

Soren made no answer but calmly took a bit of pitchy twine from his

pocket and proceeded to tie the latch with it while he held the door

with his knee and shoulder. Her threat of calling the other servants

did not alarm him, for he knew they were all haymaking in the outlying

fields.

 

Marie hammered at the door with all her might.

 

“Merciful God!” she cried. “Why don’t you come out! I love you as much

as it’s possible for one human being to love another!! love

you, love you, love you—oh, he doesn’t believe me! What shall I

do—miserable wretch that I am!”

 

Soren did not hear her, for he had passed through the large common

room into the little chamber in the rear, where he and the gamekeeper

usually slept. This was where he meant to carry out his purpose, but

then it occurred to him that it would be a pity for the gamekeeper; it

would be better if he killed himself in the other room where a number

of them slept together. He went out into the large room again.

 

“Soren, Soren, let me in, let me in! Oh, please open the door! No, no,

oh, he’s hanging himself, and here I stand. Oh, for God Almighty’s

sake, Soren, open the door! I have loved you from the first moment I

saw you! Can’t you hear me? There’s no one I’m so fond of as you,

Soren, no one—no one in the world, Soren!”

 

“Is ‘t true?” asked Soren’s voice, hoarse and unrecognizable, close

to the door.

 

“Oh, God be praised for evermore! Yes, yes, yes, it is true, it