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

sword. Thinkest thou that I cannot now pray to my

Father, and he shall presently give me more than twelve legions of

angels? But how then shall the scriptures be fulfilled, that thus it

must be?’

 

“Ay, my beloved friends, thus it must be. The poor walls and feeble

garrison of this city are at this moment encompassed by a strong host

of armed warriors, and their king and commander has ordered them by

fire and sword, by attack and siege to subdue this city and make us

all his servants.

 

“And those who are in the city and see their peace threatened and

their ruin contrary to all feelings of humanity determined upon, they

arm themselves, they bring catapults and other harmful implements of

war to the ramparts, and they say to one another, ‘Should not we with

flaming fire and shining sword fall upon the destroyers of peace who

would lay us waste? Why has God in heaven awakened valor and

fearlessness in the heart of man if not for the purpose of resisting

such an enemy?’ And, like Peter the Apostle, they would draw their

glaive and smite off the ear of Malchus. But Jesus says, ‘Put up again

thy sword into his place: for all they that take the sword shall

perish with the sword.’ ‘Tis true, this may seem like a strange speech

to the unreason of the wrathful and like foolishness to the unseeing

blindness of the spiteful. But the Word is not like a tinkle of

cymbals for the ear only. No, like the hull of a ship which is loaded

with many useful things, so the Word of God is loaded with reason and

understanding. Let us therefore examine the Word and find, one by one,

the points of true interpretation. Wherefore should the sword remain

in his place and he who takes the sword perish with the sword? This is

for us to consider under three heads:

 

“Firstly, man is a wisely and beyond all measure gloriously fashioned

microcosm or, as it may be interpreted, a small earth, a world of good

and evil. For does not the Apostle James say that the tongue alone is

a world of iniquity among our members? How much more then the whole

body—the lustful eyes, the hastening feet, the covetous hands, the

insatiable belly, but even so the prayerful knees, and the ears quick

to hear! And if the body is a world, how much more, then, our precious

and immortal soul! Ay, it is a garden full of sweet and bitter herbs,

full of evil lusts like ravening beasts and virtues like white lambs.

And is he who lays waste such a world to be regarded as better than an

incendiary, a brawler, or a field robber? And ye know what punishment

is meted out to such as these.”

 

Darkness had fallen, and the crowd around the preacher appeared only

as a large, dark, slowly shifting and growing mass.

 

“Secondly, man is a microtheos, that is, a mirror and image of the

Almighty God. Is not he who lays hands on the image of God to be

regarded as worse than he who merely steals the holy vessels or

vestments of the church or who profanes the sanctuary? And ye know

what punishment is meted out to such a one.

 

“Thirdly and lastly, it is the first duty of man to do battle for the

Lord without ceasing, clothed in the shining mail of a pure life and

girded about with the flaming sword of truth. Armed thus, it behooves

him to fight as a warrior before the Lord, rending the throat of hell

and trampling upon the belly of Satan. Therefore the sword of the body

must remain in its place, for verily we have enough to strive with

that of the spirit!”

 

Meanwhile stragglers came from both ends of the street, stopped, and

took their place in the outskirts of the crowd. Many were carrying

lanterns, and finally the dark mass was encircled with an undulating

line of twinkling lights that flickered and shifted with the movements

of the people. Now and then a lantern would be lifted, and its rays

would move searchingly over whitewashed walls and black windowpanes

till they rested on the earnest face of the preacher.

 

“But how is this? you would say in your hearts. ‘Should we deliver

ourselves bound hand and foot into the power of the oppressor, into a

bitter condition of thralldom and degradation?’ Oh, my well-beloved,

say not so! For then you will be counted among those who doubt that

Jesus could pray to his Father and He should send twelve legions of

angels. Oh, do not fall into despair! Do not murmur in your hearts

against the counsel of the Lord, and make not your liver black against

His will! For he whom the Lord would destroy is struck down, and he

whom the Lord would raise abides in safety. He has many ways by which

He can guide us out of the wilderness of our peril. Has He not power

to turn the heart of our enemy, and did He not suffer the angel of

death to go through the camp of Sennacherib? And have you forgotten

the engulfing waters of the Red Sea and the sudden destruction of

Pharaoh?”

 

At this point Jesper Kiim was interrupted.

 

The crowd had listened quietly except for a subdued angry murmur from

the outskirts, but suddenly Mette’s voice pierced through: “Faugh, you

hell-hound! Hold your tongue, you black dog! Don’t listen to him! It’s

Swede money speaks out of his mouth!”

 

An instant of silence, then bedlam broke loose! Oaths, curses, and

foul names rained over him. He tried to speak, but the cries grew

louder, and those nearest to the steps advanced threateningly. A

white-haired little man right in front, who had wept during the

speech, made an angry lunge at the preacher with his long,

silver-knobbed cane.

 

“Down with him, down with him!” the cry sounded. “Let him eat his

words! Let him tell us what money he got for betraying us! Down with

him! Send him to us; we’ll knock the maggots out of him!”

 

“Put him in the cellar!” cried others. “In the City Hall cellar! Hand

him down! hand him down!”

 

Two powerful fellows seized him. The wretch was clutching the wooden

porch railing with all his might, but they kicked both railing and

preacher down into the street, where the mob fell upon him with kicks

and blows from clenched fists. The women were tearing his hair and

clothes, and little boys, clinging to their fathers’ hands, jumped

with delight.

 

“Bring Mette!” cried someone in the back of the crowd. “Make way! Let

Mette try him.”

 

Mette came forward. “Will you eat your devil’s nonsense? Will you,

Master Rogue?”

 

“Never, never! We ought to obey God rather than men, as it is

written.”

 

“Ought we?” said Mette, drawing off her wooden shoe and brandishing it

before his eyes. “But men have shoes, and you’re in the pay of Satan

and not of God. I’ll give you a knock on the pate! I’ll plaster your

brain on the wall!” She struck him with the shoe.

 

“Commit no sin, Mette,” groaned the scholar.

 

“Now may the Devil—” she shrieked.

 

“Hush, hush!” some one cried. “Have a care, don’t crowd so! There’s

Gyldenlove, the lieutenant-general.”

 

A tall figure rode past.

 

“Long live Gyldenlove! The brave Gyldenlove!” bellowed the mob. Hats

and caps were swung aloft, and cheer upon cheer sounded until the

rider disappeared in the direction of the ramparts. It was the

lieutenant-general of the militia, colonel of horse and foot, Ulrik

Christian Gyldenlove, the King’s half-brother.

 

The mob dispersed little by little till only a few remained.

 

“Say what you will, ‘tis a curious thing,” said Gert the dyer. “Here

we’re ready to crack the head of a man who speaks of peace, and we cry

ourselves hoarse for those who’ve brought this war upon us.”

 

“I give you good night, Gert Pyper!” said the trader hastily. “Good

night and God be with you!” He hurried away.

 

“He’s afraid of Mette’s shoe,” murmured the dyer, and at last he too

turned homeward.

 

Jesper Kiim sat on the steps alone holding his aching head. The

watchman on the ramparts paced slowly back and forth, peering out over

the dark land where all was wrapped in silence, though thousands of

enemies were encamped round about.