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

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true; I swear the strongest oath there is in the world that I love you

with my whole soul. Oh, God be praised for evermore—”

 

Soren had untied the twine, and the door flew open. Marie rushed into

the room and threw herself on his breast, sobbing and laughing. Soren

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 Soren did not answer; he gazed at Marie angrily. “Why didn’t you

say so before?” he said and struck her arm.

 

“Forgive me, Soren, forgive me!” wept Marie pressing close to him

while her eyes sought his pleadingly.

 

Soren 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 Soren 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 Soren with his crutch, Soren 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 raising her 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 Soren’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 awhile 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 poor Soren

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, Soren’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.

Soren 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 Soren 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. Soren gave them an angry,

sidelong glance.

 

“Dear Soren,” said Anne imitating Marie’s voice and manner, “won’t

you have a serviette, Soren, to wipe your dainty fingers, Soren, and a

bolstered foot-stool for your feet, Soren? And are you sure it’s light

enough for you to eat with that one thick candle, Soren, 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? ‘T would look so fine with

your red cap, Soren!”

 

Soren 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.”

 

Soren struck the table with his fist and looked wrathfully at her.

 

“Oh, Soren,” 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

Soren, 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.

 

Soren 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 to have

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 anyone to put her trust in but him.

 

A coach was heard driving in at the gate. They knew it must be Palle

Dyre, and Soren stole away to the menservants’ quarters.

 

Three of the men were sitting thereon their beds, besides the

gamekeeper, Soren 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 rose nobles as you could stuff in a mill-sack.”

 

Soren 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.

 

Soren Gamekeeper nodded gravely to him and sighed.

 

“What’re you talkin’ about?” asked Soren 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 Soren, “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 Soren with a serious air of making up his mind. “Ay, Soren, it is

you we’re talkin’ about. Good Lord!” he folded his hands and seemed

lost in dark musings. “Soren,” 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, Soren! 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 Soren 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? Soren, Soren, 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 keep her in peace; there’s

other women in the world besides her, Heaven be praised.”

 

Soren 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.

 

“‘T is 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 Soren 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

kind so’ 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