Marie Grubbe, Jens Peter Jacobsen [historical books to read .TXT] 📗
- Author: Jens Peter Jacobsen
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looked long into each other’s eyes, and how she would run her hand
through his soft, wavy brown hair? What did it matter that none of
these things happened? She blushed at the very thought that they might
happen.
They were fair and happy days, but toward the end of November Ulrik
Christian fell dangerously ill. His health, long undermined by
debauchery of every conceivable kind, had perhaps been unable to
endure the continued strain of night watches and hard work in
connection with his post. Or possibly fresh dissipations had strung
the bow too tightly. A wasting disease marked by intense pain, wild
fever dreams, and constant restlessness, attacked him, and soon took
such a turn that none could doubt the name of the sickness was death.
On the eleventh of December Pastor Hans Didrichsen Bartskjaer,
chaplain to the royal family, was walking uneasily up and down over the
fine straw mattings that covered the floor in the large leather-brown
room outside of Ulrik Christian’s sick chamber. He stopped
absentmindedly before the paintings on the walls and seemed to examine
with intense interest the fat, naked nymphs outstretched under the
trees, the bathing Susannas, and the simpering Judith with bare,
muscular arms. They could not hold his attention long, however, and he
went to the window, letting his gaze roam from the gray-white sky to
the wet, glistening copper roofs and the long mounds of dirty, melting
snow in the castle park below. Then he resumed his nervous pacing,
murmuring, and gesticulating.
Was that the door opening? He stopped short to listen.
No! He drew a deep breath and sank down into a chair, where he sat
sighing and rubbing the palms of his hands together until the door
really opened. A middle-aged woman wearing a huge flounced cap of
red-dotted stuff appeared and beckoned cautiously to him. The pastor
pulled himself together, stuck his prayer book under his arm, smoothed
his cassock, and entered the sick chamber.
The large oval room was wainscoted in dark wood from floor to ceiling.
From the central panel, depressed below the surface of the wall,
grinned a row of hideous, white-toothed heads of blackamoors and Turks
painted in gaudy colors. The deep, narrow lattice window was partially
veiled by a sash curtain of thin, blue-gray stuff, leaving the lower
part of the room in deep twilight, while the sunbeams played freely on
the painted ceiling, where horses, weapons, and naked limbs mingled in
an inextricable tangle, and on the canopy of the four-poster bed, from
which hung draperies of yellow damask fringed with silver.
The air that met the pastor as he entered was warm, and so heavy with
the scent of salves and nostrums that for a moment he could hardly
breathe. He clutched a chair for support, his head swam, and
everything seemed to be whirling around him—the table covered with
flasks and phials, the window, the nurse with her cap, the sick man on
the bed, the sword rack, and the door opening into the adjoining room
where a fire was blazing in the grate.
“The peace of God be with you, my lord!” he greeted in a trembling
voice as soon as he recovered from his momentary dizziness.
“What the devil d’ ye want here?” roared the sick man, trying to lift
himself in bed.
“Gemach, gnadigster Herr, gemach!” Shoemaker’s Anne, the nurse,
hushed him and, coming close to the bed, gently stroked the coverlet.
“‘Tis the venerable Confessionarius of his Majesty, who has been sent
hither to give you the sacrament.”
“Gracious Sir, noble Lord Gyldenlove!” began the pastor as he
approached the bed. “Though ‘tis known to me that you have not been
among the simple wise or the wisely simple who use the Word of the
Lord as their rod and staff and who dwell in His courts and although
that God whose cannon is the crashing thunderbolt likewise holds in
His hand the golden palm of victory and the blood dripping cypresses
of defeat, yet men may understand, though not justify, the
circumstance that you, whose duty it has been to command and set a
valiant example to your people, may for a moment have forgotten that
we are but as nothing, as a reed in the wind, nay, as the puny grafted
shoot in the hands of the mighty Creator. You may have thought
foolishly, This I have done; this is a fruit that I have brought to
maturity and perfection. Yet now, beloved lord, when you lie here on
your bed of pain, now God who is the merciful God of love hath surely
enlightened your understanding and turned your heart to Him in longing
with fear and trembling to confess your uncleansed sins, that you may
trustfully accept the grace and forgiveness which His loving hands are
holding out to you. The sharp-toothed worm of remorse—”
“Cross me fore and cross me aft! Penitence, forgiveness of sins, and
life eternal!” jeered Ulrik Christian and sat up in bed. “Do you
suppose, you sour-faced baldpate, do you suppose because my bones are
rotting out of my body in stumps and slivers that gives me more
stomach for your parson-palaver?”
“Most gracious lord, you sadly misuse the privilege which your high
rank and yet more your pitiable condition give you to berate a poor
servant of the Church, who is but doing his duty in seeking to turn
your thoughts toward that which is assuredly to you the one thing
needful. Oh, honored lord, it avails but little to kick against the
pricks! Has not the wasting disease that has struck your body taught
you that none can escape the chastisements of the Lord God, and that
the scourgings of heaven fall alike on high and low?”
Ulrik Christian interrupted him, laughing, “Hell consume me, but you
talk like a witless school-boy! This sickness that’s eating my marrow
I’ve rightfully brought on myself, and if you suppose that heaven or
hell sends it, I can tell you that a man gets it by drinking and
wenching and revelling at night. You may depend on ‘t. And now take
your scholastic legs out of this chamber with all speed, or else
I’ll—”
Another attack seized him, and as he writhed and moaned with the
intense pain, his oaths and curses were so blasphemous and so
appalling in their inventiveness that the scandalized pastor stood
pale and aghast. He prayed God for strength and power of persuasion,
if mayhap he might be vouchsafed the privilege of opening this
hardened soul to the truth and glorious consolation of religion. When
the patient was quiet again, he began, “My lord, my lord, with tears
and weeping I beg and beseech you to cease from such abominable
cursing and swearing! Remember, the axe is laid unto the root of the
tree, and it shall be hewn down and cast into the fire if it continues
to be unfruitful and does not in the eleventh hour bring forth flowers
and good fruit! Cease your baleful resistance, and throw yourself with
penitent prayers at the feet of our Saviour—”
When the pastor began his speech, Ulrik Christian sat up at the
headboard of the bed. He pointed threateningly to the door and cried
again and again, “Begone, parson! Begone, march! I can’t abide you any
longer!”
“Oh, my dear lord,” continued the clergyman, “if mayhap you are
hardening yourself because you misdoubt the possibility of finding
grace, since the mountain of your sins is overwhelming, then hear with
rejoicing that the fountain of God’s grace is inexhaustible—”
“Mad dog of a parson, will you go!” hissed Ulrik Christian between
clenched teeth; “one—two!”
“And if your sins were red as blood, ay, as Tyrian purple—”
“Right about face!”
“He shall make them white as Lebanon’s—”
“Now by St. Satan and all his angels!” roared Ulrik Christian as he
jumped out of bed, caught a rapier from the sword rack, and made a
furious lunge after the pastor, who, however, escaped into the
adjoining room, slamming the door after him. In his rage Ulrik
Christian flung himself at the door, but sank exhausted to the floor
and had to be lifted into bed, though he still held the sword.
The forenoon passed in a drowsy calm. He suffered no pain, and the
weakness that came over him seemed a pleasant relief. He lay staring
at the points of light penetrating the curtain and counted the black
rings in the iron lattice. A pleased smile flitted over his face when
he thought of his onslaught on the pastor, and he grew irritable only
when Shoemaker’s Anne would coax him to close his eyes and try to
sleep.
In the early afternoon a loud knock at the door announced the entrance
of the pastor of Trinity Church, Dr. Jens Justesen. He was a
tall, rather stout man with coarse, strong features, short black hair,
and large, deep-set eyes. Stepping briskly up to the bed, he said
simply, “Good-day!”
As soon as Ulrik Christian became aware that another clergyman was
standing before him, he began to shake with rage, and let loose a
broadside of oaths and railing against the pastor, against Shoemaker’s
Anne, who had not guarded his peace better, against God in heaven and
all holy things.
“Silence, child of man!” thundered Pastor Jens. “Is this language meet
for one who has even now one foot in the grave? ‘Twere better you
employed the nickering spark of life that still remains to you in
making your peace with the Lord, instead of picking quarrels with men.
You are like those criminals and disturbers of peace who, when their
judgment is fallen and they can no longer escape the red-hot pincers
and the axe, then in their miserable impotence curse and revile the
Lord our God with filthy and wild words. They seek thereby courage to
drag themselves out of that almost brutish despair, that craven fear
and slavish remorse without hope, into which such fellows generally
sink toward the last and which they fear more than death and the
tortures of death.”
Ulrik Christian listened quietly until he had managed to get his sword
out from under the coverlet. Then he cried, “Guard yourself,
priest-belly!” and made a sudden lunge after Pastor Jens, who coolly
turned the weapon aside with his broad prayer book.
“Leave such tricks to pages!” he said contemptuously. “They’re scarce
fitting for you or me. And now this woman”—turning to Shoemaker’s
Anne—“had best leave us private.”
Anne quitted the room, and the pastor drew his chair up to the bed
while Ulrik Christian laid his sword on the coverlet.
Pastor Jens spoke fair words about sin and the wages of sin, about
God’s love for the children of men, and about the death on the cross.
Ulrik Christian lay turning his sword in his hand, letting the light
play on the bright steel. He swore, hummed bits of ribald songs, and
tried to interrupt with blasphemous questions, but the pastor went on
speaking about the seven words of the cross, about the holy sacrament
of the altar, and the bliss of heaven.
Then Ulrik Christian sat up in bed and looked the pastor straight in
the face.
“‘Tis naught but lies and old wives’ tales,” he said.
“May the devil take me where I stand, if it isn’t true!” cried the
pastor, “every blessed word!” He hit the table with his fist till the
jars and glasses slid and rattled against one another while he rose to
his feet and spoke in a stern voice, “‘Twere meet that I should shake
the dust from my feet in righteous anger and leave you here alone, a
sure prey to the devil and
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