Marie Grubbe, Jens Peter Jacobsen [historical books to read .TXT] 📗

CHAPTER I

THE air beneath the linden crowns had flown in across brown heath and

parched meadow. It brought the heat of the sun and was laden with dust

from the road, but in the cool, thick foliage it had been cleansed and

freshened, while the yellow linden flowers had given it moisture and

fragrance. In the blissful haven of the green vault it lay quivering

in light waves, caressed by the softly stirring leaves and the flutter

of white-gold butterfly wings.

 

The human lips that breathed this air were full and fresh; the bosom

it swelled was young and slight. The bosom was slight, and the foot

was slight, the waist small, the shape slim, and there was a certain

lean strength about the whole figure. Nothing was luxuriant except the

partly loosened hair of dull gold, from which the little dark blue cap

had slipped until it hung on her back like a tiny cowl. Otherwise

there was no suggestion of the convent in her dress. A wide,

square-cut collar was turned down over a frock of lavender homespun,

and from its short, slashed sleeves billowed ruffles of fine Holland.

A bow of red ribbon was on her breast, and her shoes had red rosettes.

 

Her hands behind her back, her head bent forward, she went slowly up

the path, picking her steps daintily. She did not walk in a straight

line but meandered, sometimes almost running into a tree at her left,

then again seeming on the point of strolling out among the bushes to

her right. Now and then she would stop, shake the hair from her

cheeks, and look up to the light. The softened glow gave her

child-white face a faint golden sheen and made the blue shadows under

the eyes less marked. The scarlet of her lips deepened to red-brown,

and the great blue eyes seemed almost black. She was

lovely—lovely!—a straight forehead, faintly arched nose, short,

clean-cut upper lip, a strong, round chin and finely curved cheeks,

tiny ears, and delicately pencilled eyebrows… .

 

She smiled as she walked, lightly and carelessly, thought of nothing,

and smiled in harmony with everything around her. At the end of the

path, she stopped and began to rock on her heel, first to the right,

then to the left, still with her hands behind her back, head held

straight, and eyes turned upward, as she hummed fitfully in time with

her swaying.

 

Two flagstones led down into the garden, which lay glaring under the

cloudless, whitish blue sky. The only bit of shade hugged the feet of

the clipped box hedge. The heat stung the eyes, and even the hedge

seemed to flash light from the burnished leaves. The amber bush

trailed its white garlands in and out among thirsty balsamines,

nightshade, gillyflowers, and pinks, which stood huddling like sheep

in the open. The peas and beans flanking the lavender border were

ready to fall from their trellis with heat. The marigolds had given up

the struggle and stared the sun straight in the face, but the poppies

had shed their large red petals and stood with bared stalks.

 

The child in the linden lane jumped down the steps, ran through the

sun-heated garden with head lowered as one crosses a court in the

rain, made for a triangle of dark yew-trees, slipped behind them, and

entered a large arbor, a relic from the days of the Belows. A wide

circle of elms had been woven together at the top as far as the

branches would reach, and a framework of withes closed the round

opening in the centre. Climbing roses and Italian honeysuckle, growing

wild in the foliage, made a dense wall, but on one side they had

failed, and the hop vines planted instead had but strangled the elms

without filling the gap.

 

Two white seahorses were mounted at the door. Within the arbor stood a

long bench and table made of a stone slab which had once been large

and oval but now lay in three fragments on the ground while only one

small piece was unsteadily poised on a corner of the frame. The child

sat down before it, pulled her feet up under her on the bench, leaned

back, and crossed her arms. She closed her eyes and sat quite still.

Two fine lines appeared on her forehead, and sometimes she would lift

her eyebrows, smiling slightly.

 

“In the room with the purple carpets and the gilded alcove, Griselda

lies at the feet of the margrave, but he spurns her. He has just torn

her from her warm bed. Now he opens the narrow, round-arched door, and

the cold air blows in on poor Griselda, who lies on the floor weeping,

and there is nothing between the cold night air and her warm, white

body except the thin, thin linen. But he turns her out and locks the

door on her. And she presses her naked shoulder against the cold,

smooth door and sobs, and she hears him walking inside on the soft

carpet, and through the keyhole the light from the scented taper falls

and makes a little sun on her bare breast. And she steals away, and

goes down the dark staircase, and it is quite still, and she hears

nothing but the soft patter of her own feet on the ice-cold steps.

Then she goes out into the snow—no, it’s rain, pouring rain, and the

heavy cold water splashes on her shoulders. Her shift clings to her

body, and the water runs down her bare legs, and her tender feet press

the soft, chilly mud which oozes out beside them. And the wind—the

bushes scratch her and tear her frock—but no, she hasn’t any frock

on—just as they tore my brown petticoat! The nuts must be ripe in

Fastrup Grove—such heaps of nuts there were at Viborg market! God

knows if Anne’s teeth have stopped aching… No, No, Brynhild!—the

wild steed comes galloping … Brynhild and Grimhild—Queen Grimhild

beckons to the men, then turns, and walks away. They drag in Queen

Brynhild, and a squat, black yokel with long arms—something like

Bertel in the turnpike house—catches her belt and tears it in two,

and he pulls off her robe and her underkirtle, and his huge black

hands brush the rings from her soft white arms, and another big,

half-naked, brown and shaggy churl puts his hairy arm around her

waist, and he kicks off her sandals with his clumsy feet, and Bertel

winds her long black locks around his hands and drags her along, and

she follows with body bent forward, and the big fellow puts his sweaty

palms on her naked back and shoves her over to the black, fiery

stallion, and they throw her down in the gray dust in the road, and

they tie the long tail of the horse around her ankles—

 

The lines came into her forehead again and stayed there a long time.

She shook her head and looked more and more vexed. At last she opened

her eyes, half rose, and glanced around her wearily and

discontentedly.

 

Mosquitoes swarmed in the gap between the hopvines, and from the

garden came puffs of fragrance from mint and common balm, mingling

sometimes with a whiff of sow-thistle or anise. A dizzy little yellow

spider ran across her hand, tickling her, and made her jump up. She

went to the door and tried to pick a rose growing high among the

leaves, but could not reach it. Then she began to gather the blossoms

of the climbing rose outside and, getting more and more eager, soon

filled her skirt with flowers which she carried into the arbor. She

sat down by the table, took them from her lap, and laid one upon the

other until the stone was hidden under a fragrant cover of pale rose.

 

When the last flower had been put in its place, she smoothed the folds

of her frock, brushed off the loose petals and green leaves that had

caught in the nap, and sat with hands in her lap gazing at the

blossoming mass.

 

This bloom of color, curling in sheen and shadow, white flushing to

red and red paling to blue, moist pink that is almost heavy, and

lavender light as wafted on air, each petal rounded like a tiny vault,

soft in the shadow, but gleaming in the sun with thousands of fine

light points, with all its fair blood-of-rose flowing in the veins,

spreading through the skin—and the sweet, heavy fragrance rising like

vapor from that red nectar that seethes in the flower-cup… .

 

Suddenly she turned back her sleeves and laid her bare arms in the

soft, moist coolness of the flowers. She turned them round and round

under the roses until the loosened petals fluttered to the ground,

then jumped up and with one motion swept everything from the table and

went out into the garden, pulling down her sleeves as she walked. With

flushed cheeks and quickened step she followed the path to the end,

then skirted the garden toward the turnpike. A load of hay had just

been overturned and was blocking the way to the gate. Several other

wagons halted behind it, and she could see the brown polished stick of

the overseer gleaming in the sun as he beat the unlucky driver.

 

She put her fingers in her ears to shut out the sickening sound of the

blows, ran toward the house, darted within the open cellar door and

slammed it after her.

 

The child was Marie Grubbe, the fourteen-year-old daughter of Squire

Erik Grubbe of Tjele Manor.

 

The blue haze of twilight rested over Tjele. The falling dew had put a

stop to the haymaking. The maids were in the stable milking while the

men busied themselves about the wagons and harness in the shed. The

tenant farmers, after doing their stint of work for the squire, were

standing in a group outside the gate, waiting for the call to supper.

 

Erik Grubbe stood at an open window, looking out into the court. The

horses, freed from harness and halter, came slowly, one by one, from

the stable and went up to the watering trough. A red-capped boy was

hard at work putting new tines in a rake, and two greyhounds played

around the wooden horse and the large grindstone in one corner of the

yard.

 

It was growing late. Every few minutes the men would come out of the

stable door and draw back, whistling or humming a tune. A maid

carrying a full bucket of milk tripped with quick, firm steps across

the yard, and the farmers were straggling in, as though to hasten the

supper bell. The rattling of plates and trenchers grew louder in the

kitchen, and presently someone pulled the bell violently, letting out

two groups of rusty notes which soon died away in the clatter of

wooden shoes and the creaking of doors. In a moment the yard was

empty, except for the two dogs barking loudly out through the gate.

 

Erik Grubbe drew in the window and sat down thoughtfully. The room was

known as the winter parlor, though it was in fact used all the year

round for dining room and sitting