“Petits oiseaux des bois,”
“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 plainesSçauent également vos plaisirs et vos peines.”
“que vous estes heureux,De plaindre librement vos tourmens amoreux.Les valons, les rochers, les forests et les plainesSçauent également 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 clarté,Tout le monde est pour vous un lieu de liberté,Mais ce cruel honneur, ce fléau de nostre vie,Sous de si dures loix la retient asservie. . . .”
“Vostre innocente amour ne fuit point la clarté,Tout le monde est pour vous un lieu de liberté,Mais ce cruel honneur, ce fléau 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 secrète flameQui malgré ma raison s’allume dans mon âmeDepuis le jour fatal que je vis sous l’ormeauAlcidor, qui dançoit au son du chalumeau.”
“Il est vray je ressens une secrète flameQui malgré ma raison s’allume dans mon âmeDepuis le jour fatal que je vis sous l’ormeauAlcidor, qui dançoit 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 werequite impersonal, as if she were making them up about some one 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 Sören 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 brew-house at Tjele mixing mead; for many of the bee-hives 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 Sören 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 unharnessand 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 Sören had any message to her from her husband.
No.
Would Sören 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 Sören 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 any more 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 any more 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 any more, 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.
Sören 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—Sören 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, Sören, open the door, or I’ll call the servants!”
Sören 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! I love you, love you, love you—oh, he doesn’t believe me! What shall I do—miserable wretch that I am!”
Sören 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.
“Sören, Sören, 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, Sören, 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, Sören, no one—no one in the world, Sören!”
“Is’t true?” asked Sören’s voice, hoarse and unrecognizable, close to the door.
“Oh, God be praised for evermore! Yes, yes, yes, itistrue, itistrue; I swear the strongest oath there is in the world that I love you with my whole soul. Oh, God be praised for evermore—”
Sören had untied the twine, and the door flew open. Marie rushed into the room and threw herself on his breast, sobbing and laughing. Sören looked embarrassed and hardly knew how to take it.
“Oh, Heaven be praised that I have you once more!” cried Marie. “But where were you going to do it? Tell me!” She looked curiously around the room at the unmade beds, where faded bolsters, matted straw, and dirty leather sheets lay in disorderly heaps.
But Sören did not answer, he gazed at Marie angrily. “Why didn’t you say so before?” he said and struck her arm.
“Forgive me, Sören, forgive me!” wept Marie, pressing close to him, while her eyes sought his pleadingly.
Sören bent down wonderingly and kissed her. He was utterly amazed.
“And it’s neither play-acting nor visions?” he asked, half to himself.
Marie smiled and shook her head.
“The devil! Who’d ’a’ thought—”
At first the relation between Marie and Sören was carefully concealed, but when Palle Dyre had to make frequent trips to Randers in his capacity of royal commissioner, his lengthy absences made them careless, and before long it was no secret to the servants at Tjele. When the pair realized that they were discovered, they took no pains to keep the affair hidden, but behaved as if Palle Dyre were at the other end of the world instead of at Randers. Erik Grubbe they recked nothing of. When he threatened Sören with his crutch, Sören would threaten him with his fist, and when he scolded Marie and tried to bring her to her senses, she would tease him by reeling off long speeches without raisingher voice, as was necessary now if he were to hear her; for he had become quite deaf, and besides he was wont to protect his bald head with a skull-cap with long earlaps, which did not improve his hearing.
It was no fault of Sören’s that Palle Dyre, too, did not learn the true state of affairs; for in the violence of his youthful passion, he did not stick at visiting Marie even when the master was at home. At dusk, or whenever he saw his chance, he would seek her in the manor-house itself, and on more than one occasion it was only the fortunate location of the stairway that saved him from discovery.
His sentiment for Marie was not always the same, for once in a while he would be seized with the idea that she was proud and must despise him. Then he would become capricious, tyrannical, and unreasonable, and treated her much more harshly and brutally than he really meant, simply in order to have her sweetness and submissiveness chase away his doubts. Usually, however, he was gentle and easily led, so long as Marie was careful not to complain too much of her husband and her father, or picture herself as too much abused; for then he would wax furious and swear that he would blow out Palle Dyre’s brains and put his hands around Erik Grubbe’s thin neck, and he would be so intent on carrying out his threat that she had to use prayers and tears to calm him.
The most serious element of disturbance in their relation was the persistent baiting of the other servants. They were, of course, highly incensed at the lovemaking between mistress and coachman, which put their fellow-servant in a favored position, and—especially in the absence of the master—gave him an influence to which he had no more rightful claim than they. So they harassed and tortured poorSören, until he was quite beside himself and thought sometimes that he would run away and sometimes that he would kill himself.
The maids were, of course, his worst tormentors.
One evening they were busy making candles in the hall at Tjele. Marie was standing beside the straw-filled vat in which the copper mould was placed. She was busy dipping the wicks, while the kitchen-maid, Anne Trinderup, Sören’s cousin, was catching the drippings in an earthenware dish. The cook was carrying the trays back and forth, hanging them up under the frame, and removing the candles when they were thick enough. Sören sat at the hall table looking on. He wore a gold-laced cap of red cloth trimmed with black feathers. Before him stood a silver tankard full of mead, and he was eating a large piece of roast meat, which he cut in strips with his clasp-knife on a small pewter plate. He ate very deliberately, sometimes taking a draught from his cup, and now and then answering Marie’s smile and nod with a slow, appreciative movement of his head.
She asked him if he was comfortable.
H’m, it might have been better.
Then Anne must go and fetch him a cushion from the maids’ room.
She obeyed, but not without a great many signs to the other maid behind Marie’s back.
Did Sören want a piece of cake?
Yes, that mightn’t be out of the way.
Marie took a tallow dip and went to get the cake, but did not return immediately. As soon as she was out of the room, the two girls began to laugh uproariously, as if by agreement. Sören gave them an angry, sidelong glance.
“Dear Sören,” said Anne, imitating Marie’s voice and manner, “won’t you have a serviette, Sören, to wipe your dainty fingers, Sören, and a bolstered foot-stool for your feet, Sören? And are you sure it’s light enough for you to eat with that one thick candle, Sören, or shall I get another for you? And there’s a flowered gown hanging up in master’s chamber, shan’t I bring it in? ’Twould look so fine with your red cap, Sören!”
Sören did not deign to answer.
“Ah, won’t your lordship speak to us?” Anne went on. “Common folk like us would fain hear how the gentry talk, and I know his lordship’s able, for you’ve heard, Trine, that his sweetheart’s given him a compliment-book, and sure it can’t fail that such a fine gentleman can read and spell both backwards and forwards.”
Sören struck the table with his fist and looked wrathfully at her.
“Oh, Sören,” began the other girl, “I’ll give you a bad penny for a kiss. I know you get roast meat and mead from the old—”
At that moment Marie came in with the cake and set it down before Sören, but he threw it along the table.
“Turn those women out!” he shouted.
But the tallow would get cold.
He didn’t care if it did.
The maids were sent away.
Sören flung the red cap from him, cursed and swore and was angry. He didn’t want her to go there and stuff him with food as if he was an unfattened pig, and he wouldn’t be made a fool of before people with her making play-actor caps for him, and there’d have to be an end to this. He’d have her know that he was the man, and didn’t care tohave her coddle him, and he’d never meant it that way. He wanted to rule, and she’d have to mind him; he wanted to give, and she should take. Of course he knew he didn’t have anything to give, but that was no reason why she should make nothing of him by giving to him. If she wouldn’t go with him through fire and flood, they’d have to part. He couldn’t stand this. She’d have to give herself into his power and run away with him, she shouldn’t sit there and be your ladyship and make him always look up to her. He needed to have her be a dog with him—be poor, so he could be good to her and have her thank him, and she must be afraid of him and not have any one to put her trust in but him.
A coach was heard driving in at the gate. They knew it must be Palle Dyre, and Sören stole away to the menservants’ quarters.
Three of the men were sitting there on their beds, besides the gamekeeper, Sören Jensen, who stood up.
“Why, there’s the baron!” said one of the men, as the coachman came in.
“Hush, don’t let him hear you,” exclaimed the other with mock anxiety.
“Ugh,” said the first speaker, “I wouldn’t be in his shoes fer’s many rosenobles as you could stuff in a mill-sack.”
Sören looked around uneasily and sat down on a chest that was standing against the wall.
“It must be an awful death,” put in the man who had not yet spoken, and shuddered.
Sören Gamekeeper nodded gravely to him and sighed.
“What’re you talkin’ about?” asked Sören with pretended indifference.
No one answered.
“Is’t here?” said the first man, passing his fingers across his neck.
“Hush!” replied the gamekeeper, frowning at the questioner.
“Ef it’s me you’re talkin’ about,” said Sören, “don’t set there an’ cackle, but say what you got to say.”
“Ay,” said the gamekeeper, laying great stress on the word and looking at Sören with a serious air of making up his mind. “Ay, Sören, itisyou we’re talkin’ about. Good Lord!” he folded his hands and seemed lost in dark musings. “Sören,” he began, “it’s a hangin’ matter what ye’re doin’, and I give you warnin’”—he spoke as if reading from a book—“mend your ways, Sören! There stands the gallows and the block”—he pointed to the manor-house—“and there a Christian life an’ a decent burial”—he waved his hand in the direction of the stable. “For you must answer with your neck, that’s the sacred word of the law, ay, so it is, so it is, think o’ that!”
“Huh!” said Sören defiantly. “Who’ll have the law on me?”
“Ay,” repeated the gamekeeper in a tone as if something had been brought forward that made the situation very much worse. “Who’ll have the law on you? Sören, Sören, who’ll have the law on you? But devil split me, you’re a fool,” he went on in a voice from which the solemnity had flown, “an’ it’s fool’s play to be runnin’ after an old woman, when there’s such a risk to it. If she’d been young! An’ such an ill-tempered satan, too—let Blue-face keepherin peace, there’s other women in the world besides her, Heaven be praised.”
Sören had neither courage nor inclination to explain to them that he could no longer live without Marie Grubbe.In fact, he was almost ashamed of his foolish passion, and he knew that if he confessed the truth, it would only mean that the whole pack of men and maids would hound him, so he lied and denied his love.
“’Tis a wise way you’re pointin’, but look ’ee here, folks, I’ve got a rix-dollar when you haven’t any, an’ I’ve got a bit of clothes an’ another bit an’ a whole wagon-load, my dear friends, and once I get my purse full, I’ll run away just as quiet, an’ then one o’ you can try your luck.”
“All well an’ good,” answered Sören Gamekeeper, “but it’s stealin’ money with your neck in a noose, I say. It’s all very fine to have clothes and silver given you for a gift, an’ most agreeable to lie in bed here an’ say you’re sick an’ get wine an’ roasted meat an’ all kinds o’ belly-cheer sent down, but it won’t go long here with so many people round. It’ll get out some day, an’ then you’re sure o’ the worst that can befall any one.”
“Oh, they won’t let things come to such a pass,” said Sören, a little crestfallen.
“Well, they’d both like to get rid o’ her, and her sisters and her brothers-in-law are not the kind o’ folks who’d stand between, if there’s a chance o’ getting her disinherited.”
“O jeminy, she’d help me.”
“You think so? She may ha’ all she can do helpin’ herself; she’s been in trouble too often fer any one to help her wi’ so much as a bucket o’ oats.”
“Hey-day,” said Sören, making for the inner chamber, “a threatened man may live long.”
From that day on, Sören was pursued by hints of the gallows and the block and the red-hot pincers wherever he went. The consequence was that he tried to drive awayfear and keep up his courage with brandy, and as Marie often gave him money, he was never forced to stay sober. After a while, he grew indifferent to the threats, but he was much more cautious than before, kept more to the other servants, and sought Marie more rarely.
A little before Christmas, Palle Dyre came home and remained there, which put a stop to the meetings between Sören and Marie. In order to make the other servants believe that all was over, and so keep them from telling tales to the master, Sören began to play sweethearts with Anne Trinderup, and he deceived them all, even Marie, although he had told her of his plan.
On the third day of Christmas, when most of the people were at church, Sören was standing by the wing of the manor-house, playing with one of the dogs, when suddenly he heard Marie’s voice calling him, it seemed to him under the ground.
He turned and saw Marie standing in the low trap-door leading to the salt-cellar. She was pale and had been weeping, and her eyes looked wild and haunted under eyebrows that were drawn with pain.
“Sören,” she said, “what have I done, since you no longer love me?”
“But I do love you! Can’t you see I must have a care, fer they’re all thinkin’ o’ nothin’ but how they can make trouble fer me an’ get me killed. Don’t speak to me, let me go, ef ye don’t want to see me dead!”
“Tell me no lies, Sören; I can see what is in your heart, and I wish you no evil, not for a single hour, for I am not your equal in youth, and you have always had a kindness for Anne, but it’s a sin to let me see it, Sören, you shouldn’t do that. Don’t think I am begging you to take me, forI know full well the danger ’twould put you in, and the labor and wear and tear that would be needed if we were to become a couple by ourselves, and ’tis a thing hardly to be wished either for you or me, though I can’t help it.”
“But I don’t want Anne now or ever, the country jade she is! I’m fond o’ you an’ no one else in the world, let ’em call you old and wicked an’ what the devil they please.”
“I can’t believe you, Sören, much as I wish to.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“No, Sören, no. My only wish is that this might be my grave, the spot where I stand. Would that I could close the door over me and sit down to sleep forever in the darkness.”
“I’ll make you believe me!”
“Never, never! there is nothing in all the world you can do to make me believe you, for there is no reason in it.”
“You make me daft wi’ your talk, and you’ll live to be sorry; for I’m goin’ to make you believe me, even ef they burn me alive or do me to death fer it.”
Marie shook her head and looked at him sadly.
“Then it must be, come what may,” said Sören and ran away.
He stopped at the kitchen door, asked for Anne Trinderup, and was told that she was in the garden. Then he went over to the menservants’ quarters, took a loaded old gun of the gamekeeper’s, and made for the garden.
Anne was cutting kale when Sören caught sight of her. She had filled her apron with the green stuff, and was holding the fingers of one hand up to her mouth to warm them with her breath. Slowly Sören stole up to her, his eyes fixed on the edge of her dress, for he did not want to see her face.
Suddenly Anne turned and saw Sören. His dark looks, the gun, and his stealthy approach alarmed her, and shecalled to him: “Oh, don’t, Sören, please don’t!” He lifted the gun, and Anne rushed off through the snow with a wild, shrill scream.
The shot fell; Anne went on running, then put her hand to her cheek and sank down with a cry of horror.
Sören threw down the gun and ran to the side of the house. He found the trap-door closed. Then on to the front door, in and through all the rooms, till he found Marie.
“’Tis all over!” he whispered, pale as a corpse.
“Are they after you, Sören?”
“No, I’ve shot her.”
“Anne? Oh, what will become of us! Run, Sören, run—take a horse and get away, quick, quick! Take the gray one!”
Sören fled. A moment later he was galloping out of the gate. He was scarcely halfway to Foulum, when people came back from church. Palle Dyre at once asked where Sören was going.
“There is some one lying out in the garden, moaning,” said Marie. She trembled in every limb and could hardly stand on her feet.
Palle and one of the men carried Anne in. Her screams could be heard far and wide, but the hurt was not really serious. The gun had only been loaded with grapeshot, of which a few had gone through her cheek and a few more had settled in her shoulder, but as she bled freely and cried piteously, a coach was sent to Viborg for the barber-surgeon.
When she had gathered her wits together a little, Palle Dyre questioned her about how it had happened, and was told not only that, but the whole story of the affair between Sören and Marie.
As soon as he came out of the sick-room all the servantscrowded around him and tried to tell him the same tale, for they were afraid that if they did not, they might be punished. Palle refused to listen to them, saying it was all gossip and stupid slander. The fact was, the whole thing was extremely inconvenient to him: divorce, journeys to court, lawsuit, and various expenditures—he preferred to avoid them. No doubt the story could be hushed up and smoothed over and all be as before. Marie’s unfaithfulness did not in itself affect him much; in fact, he thought it might be turned to advantage, by giving him more power over her and possibly also over Erik Grubbe, who would surely be anxious to keep the marriage unbroken, even though it had been violated.
When he had talked with Erik Grubbe, however, he hardly knew what to think, for he could not make out the old man. He seemed furious, and had instantly sent off four mounted men with orders to take Sören dead or alive, which was certainly not a good way of keeping matters dark; for many other things might come up in a trial for attempted murder.
In the evening of the following day, three of the men returned. They had caught Sören at Dallerup, where the gray horse had fallen under him, and had brought him to Skanderborg, where he was now held for trial. The fourth man had lost his way and did not return until a day later.
In the middle of January, Palle Dyre and Marie moved to Nörbæk manor. He thought the servants would more easily forget when their mistress was out of their sight, but in the latter part of February they were again reminded of the affair, when a clerk came from Skanderborg to ask whether Sören had been seen in the neighborhood, for he had broken out of the arrest. The clerk came too early, fornot until a fortnight later did Sören venture to visit Nörbæk one night, and to rap on Marie’s chamber window. His first question, when Marie opened it, was whether Anne was dead, and it seemed to relieve his mind of a heavy burden when he heard that she had quite recovered. He lived in a deserted house on Gassum heath and often came again to get money and food. The servants as well as Palle Dyre knew that he was in the habit of visiting the house, but Palle took no notice, and the servants did not trouble themselves in the matter, when they saw the master was indifferent.
At haymaking time, the master and mistress moved back to Tjele, where Sören did not dare to show himself. His absence, added to her father’s taunts and petty persecution, irritated and angered Marie, until she gave her feelings vent by scolding Erik Grubbe, in private, two or three times, as if he had been her foot-boy. The result was that, in the middle of August, Erik Grubbe sent a letter of complaint to the King. After recounting at great length all her misdeeds, which were a sin against God, a scandal before men, and an offence to all womanhood, he ended the epistle saying:
Whereas she hath thus grievously disobeyed and misconducted herself, I am under the necessity of disinheriting her, and I do humbly beseech Your Royal Majesty that You will graciously be pleased to ratify and confirm this my action, and that Your Royal Majesty will furthermore be pleased to issue Your most gracious command to Governor Mogens Scheel, that he may make inquiry concerning her aforesaid behavior toward me and toward her husband, and that because of her wickedness, she be confined atBorringholm, the expense to be borne by me, in order that the wrath and visitation of God may be upon her as a disobedient creature, a warning unto others, and her own soul possibly unto salvation. Had I not been hard pressed, I should not have made so bold as to come before You with this supplication, but I live in the most humble hope of Your Royal Majesty’s most gracious answer, acknowledgment, and aid, which God shall surely reward. I live and die
Your Royal Majesty’sMost humble and most devotedtrue hereditary subject
Your Royal Majesty’s
Most humble and most devoted
true hereditary subject
ERIK GRUBBE.
Tjele, August 14, 1690.
The King desired a statement in the matter from the Honorable Palle Dyre, and this was to the effect that Marie did not conduct herself toward him as befitted an honest wife, wherefore he petitioned the King to have the marriage annulled without process of law. This was not granted, and the couple were divorced by a decree of the court, on March twenty-third, sixteen hundred and ninety-one. Erik Grubbe’s supplication that he might lock her up and disinherit her was also refused, and he had to content himself with keeping her a captive at Tjele, strictly guarded by peasants, while the trial lasted, and indeed it must be admitted that he was the last person who had any right to cast at her the stone of righteous retribution.
As soon as judgment had been pronounced, Marie left Tjele with a poor bundle of clothes in her hand. She met Sören on the heath to the south, and he became her third husband.
ABOUT a month later, on an April evening, there was a crowd gathered outside of Ribe cathedral. The Church Council was in session, and it was customary, while that lasted, to light the tapers in church three times a week, at eight o’clock in the evening. The gentry and persons of quality in town as well as the respectable citizens would assemble and walk up and down in the nave, while a skilful musician would play for them on the organ. The poorer people had to be content to listen from the outside.
Among the latter were Marie Grubbe and Sören.
Their clothing was coarse and ragged, and they looked as if they had not had enough to eat every day; and no wonder, for it was not a profitable trade they plied. In an inn between Aarhus and Randers, Sören had met a poor sick German, who for twenty marks had sold him a small, badly battered hurdy-gurdy, a motley fool’s suit, and an old checked rug. With these he and Marie gained their livelihood, going from market to market; she would turn the hurdy-gurdy, and he would stand on the checked rug, dressed in the motley clothes, lifting and doing tricks with some huge iron weights and long iron bars, which they borrowed of the tradesmen.
It was the market that had brought them to Ribe.
They were standing near the door, where a faint, faded strip of light shone on their pale faces and the dark mass of heads behind them. People were coming singly or in pairs or small groups, talking and laughing in well-bred manner to the very threshold of the church, but there they suddenly became silent, gazed gravely straight before them, and changed their gait.
Sören was seized with a desire to see more of the show,and whispered to Marie that they ought to go in; there was no harm in trying, nothing worse could happen to them than to be turned out. Marie shuddered inwardly at the thought thatsheshould be turned out from a place where common artisans could freely go, and she held back Sören, who was trying to draw her on; but suddenly she changed her mind, pressed eagerly forward, pulling Sören after her, and walked in without the slightest trace of shrinking timidity or stealthy caution; indeed, she seemed determined to be noticed and turned out. At first no one stopped them, but just as she was about to step into the well-lit, crowded nave, a church warden, who was stationed there, caught sight of them. After casting one horrified glance up through the church, he advanced quickly upon them with lifted and outstretched hands, as if pushing them before him to the very threshold, and over it. He stood there for a moment, looking reproachfully at the crowd, as if he blamed it for what had occurred, then returned with measured tread, and took up his post, shuddering.
The crowd met the ejected ones with a burst of jeering laughter and a shower of mocking questions, which made Sören growl and look around savagely, but Marie was content; she had bent to receive the blow which the respectable part of society always has ready for such as he, and the blow had fallen.
On the night before St. Oluf’s market, four men were sitting in one of the poorest inns at Aarhus, playing cards.
One of the players was Sören. His partner, a handsome man with coal-black hair and a dark skin, was known as Jens Bottom, and was a juggler. The other two members of the party were joint owners of a mangy bear. Both were unusuallyhideous: one had a horrible harelip, while the other was one-eyed, heavy jowled, and pock-marked, and was known as Rasmus Squint, plainly because the skin around the injured eye was drawn together in such a manner as to give him the appearance of being always ready to peer through a key-hole or some such small aperture.
The players were sitting at one end of the long table which ran under the window and held a candle and an earless cruse. Opposite them was a folding-table, fastened up against the wall with an iron hook. A bar ran across the other end of the room, and a thin, long-wicked candle, stuck into an old inverted funnel, threw a sleepy light over the shelf above, where some large, square flasks of brandy and bitters, some quart and pint measures, and half-a-dozen glasses had plenty of room beside a basket full of mustard seed and a large lantern with panes of broken glass. In one corner outside of the bar sat Marie Grubbe, knitting and drowsing, and in the other sat a man with body bent forward and elbows resting on his knees. He seemed intent on pulling his black felt hat as far down over his head as possible, and when that was accomplished, he would clutch the wide brim, slowly work the hat up from his head again, his eyes pinched together and the corners of his mouth twitching, probably with the pain of pulling his hair, then presently begin all over again.
“Then this is the last game to play,” said Jens Bottom, whose lead it was.
Rasmus Squint pounded the table with his knuckles as a sign to his partner, Salmand, to cover.
Salmand played two of trumps.
“A two!” cried Rasmus; “have you nothing but twos and threes in your hand?”
“Lord,” growled Salmand, “there’s always been poor folks and a few beggars.”
Sören trumped with a six.
“Oh, oh,” Rasmus moaned, “are you goin’ to let him have it for a six? What the devil are you so stingy with your old cards for, Salmand?”
He played, and Sören won the trick.
“Kerstie Meek,” said Sören, playing four of hearts.
“And her half-crazy sister,” continued Rasmus, putting on four of diamonds.
“Maybe an ace is good enough,” said Sören, covering with ace of trumps.
“Play, man, play, if you never played before!” cried Rasmus.
“That’s too costly,” whimpered Salmand, taking his turn.
“Then I’ll put on my seven and another seven,” said Jens.
Sören turned the trick.
“And then nine of trumps,” Jens went on, leading.
“Then I’ll have to bring on my yellow nag,” cried Salmand, playing two of hearts.
“You’ll never stable it,” laughed Sören, covering with four of spades.
“Forfeit!” roared Rasmus Squint, throwing down his cards. “Forfeit with two of hearts, that’s a good day’s work! Nay, nay, ’tis a good thing we’re not goin’ to play any more. Now let them kiss the cards that have won.”
They began to count the tricks, and while they were busy with this, a stout, opulently dressed man came in. He went at once to the folding-table, let it down, and took a seat nearest the wall. As he passed the players, he touchedhis hat with his silver-knobbed cane, and said: “Good even to the house!”
“Thanks,” they replied, and all four spat.
The newcomer took out a paper full of tobacco and a long clay pipe, filled it, and pounded the table with his cane.
A barefoot girl brought him a brazier full of hot coals and a large earthenware cruse with a pewter cover. He took out from his vest-pocket a pair of small copper pincers, which he used to pick up bits of coal and put them in his pipe, drew the cruse to him, leaned back, and made himself as comfortable as the small space would allow.
“How much do you have to pay for a paper o’ tobacco like the one you’ve got there, master?” asked Salmand, as he began to fill his little pipe from a sealskin pouch held together with a red string.
“Sixpence,” said the man, adding, as if to apologize for such extravagance, “it’s very good for the lungs, as you might say.”
“How’s business?” Salmand went on, striking fire to light his pipe.
“Well enough, and thank you kindly for asking, well enough, but I’m getting old, as you might say.”
“Well,” said Rasmus Squint, “but then you’ve no need to run after customers, since they’re all brought to you.”
“Ay,” laughed the man, “in respect of that, it’s a good business, and, moreover, you don’t have to talk yourself hoarse persuading folks to buy your wares; they have to take ’em as they come, they can’t pick and choose.”
“And they don’t want anything thrown in,” Rasmus went on, “and don’t ask for more than what’s rightly comin’ to ’em.”
“Master, do they scream much?” asked Sören in a half whisper.
“Well, they don’t often laugh.”
“Faugh, what an ugly business!”
“Then there’s no use my counting on one of you for help, I suppose.”
“Are you countin’ on us to help you?” asked Rasmus, and rose angrily.
“I’m not counting on anything, but I’m looking for a young man to help me and to take the business after me, that’s what I’m looking for, as you might say.”
“And what wages might a man get for that?” asked Jens Bottom, earnestly.
“Fifteen dollars per annum in ready money, one-third of the clothing, and one mark out of every dollar earned according to the fixed rate.”
“And what might that be?”
“The rate is this, that I get five dollars for whipping at the post, seven dollars for whipping from town, four dollars for turning out of the county, and the same for branding with hot iron.”
“And for the bigger work?”
“Alack, that does not come so often, but it’s eight dollars for cutting off a man’s head, that is with an axe: with a sword it’s ten, but that may not occur once in seven years. Hanging is fourteen rix-dollars, ten for the job itself and four for taking the body down from the gallows. Breaking on the wheel is seven dollars, that is for a whole body, but I must find the stake and put it up too. And now, is there anything more? Ay, crushing arms and legs according to the new German fashion and breaking on the wheel, that’s fourteen—that’s fourteen, and for quartering andbreaking on the wheel I get twelve, and then there’s pinching with red-hot pincers, that’s two dollars for every pinch, and that’s all; there’s nothing more except such extras as may come up.”
“It can’t be very hard to learn, is it?”
“The business? Well, any one can do it, but how—that’s another matter. There’s a certain knack about it that one gets with practice, just like any other handicraft. There’s whipping at the post, that’s not so easy, if ’tis to be done right,—three flicks with each whip, quick and light like waving a bit of cloth, and yet biting the flesh with due chastisement, as the rigor of the law and the betterment of the sinner require.”
“I think I might do it,” said Jens, sighing as he spoke.
“Here’s the earnest-penny,” tempted the man at the folding-table, putting a few bright silver coins out before him.
“Think well!” begged Sören.
“Think and starve, wait and freeze—that’s two pair of birds that are well mated,” answered Jens, rising. “Farewell as an honest and true guild-man,” he went on, giving Sören his hand.
“Farewell, guild-mate, and godspeed,” replied Sören.
He went round the table with the same farewell and got the same answer. Then he shook hands with Marie and with the man in the corner, who had to let go his hat for the moment.
Jens proceeded to the man at the folding-table, who settled his face in solemn folds and said: “I, Master Herman Köppen, executioner in the town of Aarhus, take you in the presence of these honest men, a journeyman to be and a journeyman’s work to perform, to the glory of God, yourown preferment, and the benefit of myself and the honorable office of executioner,” and as he made this unnecessarily pompous speech, which seemed to give him immense satisfaction, he pressed the bright earnest-penny into Jens’s hand. Then he rose, took off his hat, bowed, and asked whether he might not have the honor of offering the honest men who had acted as witnesses a drink of half and half.
The three men at the long table looked inquiringly at one another, then nodded as with one accord.
The barefoot girl brought a clumsy earthenware cruse, and three green glasses on which splotches of red and yellow stars were still visible. She set the cruse down before Jens and the glasses before Sören and the bear-baiters, and fetched a large wooden mug from which she filled first the glasses of the three honest men, then the earthenware cruse, and finally Master Herman’s private goblet.
Rasmus drew his glass toward him and spat, the two others followed suit, and they sat a while looking at one another, as if none of them liked to begin drinking. Meanwhile Marie Grubbe came up to Sören and whispered something in his ear, to which he replied by shaking his head. She tried to whisper again, but Sören would not listen. For a moment she stood uncertain, then caught up the glass and emptied the contents on the floor, saying that he mustn’t drink the hangman’s liquor. Sören sprang up, seized her arm in a hard grip, and pushed her out of the door, gruffly ordering her to go upstairs. Then he called for a half pint of brandy and resumed his place.
“I’d like to ha’ seen my Abelone—God rest her soul—try a thing like that on me,” said Rasmus, drinking.
“Ay,” said Salmand, “she can thank the Lord she isn’tmy woman, I’d ha’ given her somethin’ else to think o’ besides throwin’ the gifts o’ God in the dirt.”
“But look ’ee, Salmand,” said Rasmus, with a sly glance in Master Herman’s direction, “your wife she isn’t a fine lady of the gentry, she’s only a poor common thing like the rest of us, and so she gets her trouncin’ when she needs it, as the custom is among common people; but if instead she’d been one of the quality, you’d never ha’ dared to flick her noble back, you’d ha’ let her spit you in the face, if she pleased.”
“No, by the Lord Harry, I wouldn’t,” swore Salmand, “I’d ha’ dressed her down till she couldn’t talk or see, and I’d ha’ picked the maggots out o’ her. You just ask mine if she knows the thin strap bruin’s tied up in—you’ll see it’ll make her back ache just to think of it. But if she’d tried to come as I’m sitting here and pour my liquor on the floor, I’d ha’ trounced her, if she was the emperor’s own daughter, as long’s I could move a hand, or there was breath in my body. What is she thinking about,—the fine doll,—does she think she’s better than anybody else’s wife, since she’s got the impudence to come here and put shame on her husband in the company of honest men? Does she s’pose it ’ud hurt her if you came near her after drinkin’ the liquor of this honorable man? Mind what I say, Sören, and”—he made a motion as if he were beating some one—“or else you’ll never in the wide world get any good out of her.”
“If he only dared,” teased Rasmus, looking at Sören.
“Careful, Squint, or I’ll tickle your hide.”
With that he left them. When he came into the room where Marie was, he closed the door after him with a kick, and began to untie the rope that held their little bundle of clothing.
Marie was sitting on the edge of the rough board frame that served as a bed. “Are you angry, Sören?” she said.
“I’ll show you,” said Sören.
“Have a care, Sören! No one yet has offered me blows since I came of age, and I will not bear it.”
He replied that she could do as she pleased, he meant to beat her.
“Sören, for God’s sake, for God’s sake, don’t lay violent hands on me, you will repent it!”
But Sören caught her by the hair, and beat her with the rope. She did not cry out, but merely moaned under the blows.
“There!” said Sören, and threw himself on the bed.
Marie lay still on the floor. She was utterly amazed at herself. She expected to feel a furious hatred against Sören rising in her soul, an implacable, relentless hatred, but no such thing happened. Instead she felt a deep, gentle sorrow, a quiet regret at a hope that had burst—how could he?
IN May of sixteen hundred and ninety-five Erik Grubbe died at the age of eighty-seven. The inheritance was promptly divided among his three daughters, but Marie did not get much, as the old man, before his death, had issued various letters of credit in favor of the other two, thus withdrawing from the estate the greater part of his property to the disadvantage of Marie.
Even so, her portion was sufficient to make her and her husband respectable folk instead of beggars, and with a little common sense, they might have secured a fair income to the end of their days. Unluckily Sören made up his mind to become a horse-dealer, and it was not long before he had squandered most of the money. Still there was enough left so they could buy the Burdock House at the Falster ferry.
In the early days they had a hard time, and Marie often had to lend a hand at the oars, but later on her chief task was to mind the ale-house which was a part of the ferry privileges. On the whole, they were very happy, for Marie still loved her husband above everything else in the world, and though he would sometimes get drunk and beat her, she did not take it much to heart. She realized that she had enrolled in a class where such things were an every-day matter, and though she would sometimes feel irritated, she would soon get over it by telling herself that this man who could be so rough and hard was the same Sören who had once shot a human being for her sake.
The people they ferried over were generally peasants and cattle-men, but occasionally there would come some one who was a little higher up in the world. One day Sti Högh passed that way. Marie and her husband rowed him across,and he sat in the stern of the boat, where he could talk with Marie, who had the oar nearest him. He recognized her at once, but showed no signs of surprise; perhaps he had known that he would find her there. Marie had to look twice before she knew him, for he was very much changed. His face was red and bloated, his eyes were watery; his lower jaw dropped, as if the corners of his mouth were paralyzed, his legs were thin, and his stomach hung down,—in short, he bore every mark of a life spent in stupefying debauchery of every kind, and this had, as a matter of fact, been his chief pursuit ever since he left Marie. As far as the external events went, he had for a time beengentilhommeandmaître d’hôtelin the house of a royal cardinal in Rome, had gone over to the Catholic Church, had joined his brother, Just Högh, then ambassador to Nimeguen, had been converted back to the Lutheran religion again, and returned to Denmark, where he was living on the bounty of his brother.
“Is this,” he asked, nodding in the direction of Sören,—“is this the one I foretold was to come after me?”
“Ay, he is the one,” said Marie, hesitating a little, for she would have preferred not to reply.
“And he is greater than I—was?” he went on, straightening himself in his seat.
“Nay, you can’t be likened to him, your lordship,” she answered, affecting the speech of a peasant woman.
“Oh, ay, so it goes—you and I have indeed cheapened ourselves—we’ve sold ourselves to life for less pay than we had thought to, you in one manner, I in another.”
“But your lordship is surely well enough off?” asked Marie, in the same simple tone.
“Well enough,” he laughed, “well enough is more than half ill; I am indeed well enough off. And you, Marie?”
“Thank you kindly for asking; we’ve got our health, and when we keep tugging at the oars every day, we’ve got bread and brandy too.”
They had reached land, and Sti stepped out and said good-by.
“Lord,” said Marie, looking after him pityingly, “he’s certainly been shorn of crest and wings too.”
Peacefully and quietly the days passed at the Burdock House, with daily work and daily gain. Little by little, the pair improved their condition, hired boatmen to do the ferrying, carried on a little trade, and built a wing on their old house. They lived to the end of the old century and ten years into the new. Marie turned sixty, and she turned sixty-five, and still she was as brisk and merry at her work as if she had been on the sunny side of sixty. But then it happened, on her sixty-eighth birthday, in the spring of seventeen hundred and eleven, that Sören accidentally shot and killed a skipper from Dragör under very suspicious circumstances, and in consequence was arrested.
This was a hard blow to Marie. She had to endure a long suspense, for judgment was not pronounced until midsummer of the following year, and this, together with her anxiety lest the old affair of his attempt on the life of Anne Trinderup should be taken up again, aged her very much.
One day, in the beginning of this period of waiting, Marie went down to meet the ferry just as it was landing. There were two passengers on board, and one of these, a journeyman, absorbed her attention by refusing to show his passport, declaring that he had shown it to the boatmen, when he went on board, which they, however, denied. When she threatened to charge him full fare, unlesshe would produce his passport as proof of his right as a journeyman to travel for half price, he had to give in. This matter being settled, Marie turned to the other passenger, a little slender man who stood, pale and shivering after the seasickness he had just endured, wrapped in his mantle of coarse, greenish-black stuff, and leaning against the side of a boat that had been dragged up on the beach. He asked in a peevish voice whether he could get lodgings in the Burdock House, and Marie replied that he might look at their spare room.
She showed him a little chamber which, besides bed and chair, contained a barrel of brandy with funnel and waste-cup, some large kegs of molasses and vinegar, and a table with legs painted in pearl-color and a top of square tiles, on which scenes from the Old and New Testament were drawn in purplish black. The stranger at once noticed that three of the tiles represented Jonah being thrown on land from the mouth of the whale, and when he put his hand on them, he shuddered, declaring he was sure to catch a cold, if he should be so careless as to sit and read with his elbows on the table.
When Marie questioned him, he explained that he had left Copenhagen on account of the plague, and meant to stay until it was over. He ate only three times a day, and he could not stand salt meat or fresh bread. As for the rest, he was a master of arts, at present fellow at Borch’s Collegium, and his name was Holberg, Ludvig Holberg.
Master Holberg was a very quiet man of remarkably youthful appearance. At first glance, he appeared to be about eighteen or nineteen years old, but upon closer examination, his mouth, his hands, and the inflection of his voice showed that he must be a good deal older. He keptto himself, spoke but little, and that little—so it seemed—with reluctance. Not that he avoided other people, but he simply wanted them to leave him in peace and not draw him into conversation. When the ferry came and went with passengers, or when the fishermen brought in their catch, he liked to watch the busy life from a distance and to listen to the discussions. He seemed to enjoy the sight of people at work, whether it was ploughing or stacking or launching the boats, and whenever any one put forth an effort that showed more than common strength, he would smile with pleasure and lift his shoulders in quiet delight. When he had been at the Burdock House for a month, he began to approach Marie Grubbe, or rather he allowed her to approach him, and they would often sit talking, in the warm summer evenings, for an hour or two at a time, in the common room, where they could look out through the open door, over the bright surface of the water, to the blue, hazy outlines of Möen.
One evening, after their friendship had been well established, Marie told him her story, and ended with a sigh, because they had taken Sören away from her.
“I must own,” said Holberg, “that I am utterly unable to comprehend how you could prefer an ordinary groom and country oaf to such a polished gentleman as his Excellency the Viceroy, who is praised by everybody as a past master in all the graces of fashion, nay as the model of everything that is elegant and pleasing.”
“Even though he had been as full of it as the book they call theAlamodische Sittenbuch, it would not have mattered a rush, since I had once for all conceived such an aversion and loathing for him that I could scarce bear to have him come into my presence; and you know how impossible it isto overcome such an aversion, so that if one had the virtue and principles of an angel, yet this natural aversion would be stronger. On the other hand, my poor present husband woke in me such instant and unlooked-for inclination that I could ascribe it to nothing but a natural attraction, which it would be vain to resist.”
“Ha! That were surely well reasoned! Then we have but to pack all morality into a strong chest and send it to Hekkenfell, and live on according to the desires of our hearts, for then there is no lewdness to be named but we can dress it up as a natural and irresistible attraction, and in the same manner there is not one of all the virtues but we can easily escape from the exercise of it; for one may have an aversion for sobriety, one for honesty, one for modesty, and such a natural aversion, he would say, is quite irresistible, so one who feels it is quite innocent. But you have altogether too clear an understanding, goodwife, not to know that all this is naught but wicked conceits and bedlam talk.”
Marie made no answer.
“But do you not believe in God, goodwife,” Master Holberg went on, “and in the life everlasting?”
“Ay, God be praised, I do. I believe in our Lord.”
“But eternal punishment and eternal reward, goodwife?”
“I believe every human being lives his own life and dies his own death, that is what I believe.”
“But that is no faith; do you believe we shall rise again from the dead?”
“How shall I rise? As the young innocent child I was when I first came out among people, or as the honored and envied favorite of the King and the ornament of the court,or as poor old hopeless Ferryman’s Marie? And shall I answer for what the others, the child and the woman in the fullness of life, have sinned, or shall one of them answer for me? Can you tell me that, Master Holberg?”
“Yet you have had but one soul, goodwife!”
“Have I indeed?” asked Marie, and sat musing for a while. “Let me speak to you plainly, and answer me truly as you think. Do you believe that one who his whole life has sinned grievously against God in heaven, and who in his last moment, when he is struggling with death, confesses his sin from a true heart, repents, and gives himself over to the mercy of God, without fear and without doubt, do you think such a one is more pleasing to God than another who has likewise sinned and offended against Him, but then for many years of her life has striven to do her duty, has borne every burden without a murmur, but never in prayer or open repentance has wept over her former life, do you think that she who has lived as she thought was rightly lived, but without hope of any reward hereafter and without prayer, do you think God will thrust her from Him and cast her out, even though she has never uttered a word of prayer to Him?”
“That is more than any man may dare to say,” replied Master Holberg and left her.
Shortly afterwards he went away.
In August of the following year, judgment was pronounced against Sören Ferryman, and he was sentenced to three years of hard labor in irons at Bremerholm.
It was a long time to suffer, longer to wait, yet at last it was over. Sören came home, but the confinement and harsh treatment had undermined his health, and before Marie had nursed him for a year, they bore him to the grave.
For yet another long, long year Marie had to endure this life. Then she suddenly fell ill and died. Her mind was wandering during her illness, and the pastor could neither pray with her nor give her the sacrament.
On a sunny day in summer they buried her at Sören’s side, and over the bright waters and the golden grainfields sounded the hymn, as the poor little group of mourners, dulled by the heat, sang without sorrow and without thought: