On a Sunday morning, early in September, Marie Grubbe stood looking out of the dormer window in Mistress Rigitze’s house. Not a vehicle in sight! Nothing but staid footsteps, and now and then the long-drawn cry of the oyster-monger. The sunlight, quivering over roofs and pavements, threw sharp, black, almost rectangular shadows. The distance swam in a faint bluish heat mist.
“At-tention!” called a woman’s voice behind her, cleverly mimicking5 the raucous6 tones of one accustomed to much shouting of military orders.
Marie turned. Her aunt’s maid, Lucie, had for some time been sitting on the table, appraising7 her own well-formed feet with critical eyes. Tired of this occupation, she had called out, and now sat swinging her legs and laughing merrily.
Marie shrugged8 her shoulders with a rather bored smile and would have returned to her window-gazing, but Lucie - 19 - jumped down from the table, caught her by the waist, and forced her down on a small rush-bottomed chair.
“Look here, Miss,” she said, “shall I tell you something?”
“Well?”
“You’ve forgot to write your letter, and the company will be here at half-past one o’clock, so you’ve scarce four hours. D’you know what they’re going to have for dinner? Clear soup, flounder or some such broad fish, chicken pasty, Mansfeld tart9, and sweet plum compote. Faith, it’s fine, but not fat! Your sweetheart’s coming, Miss?”
“Nonsense!” said Marie crossly.
“Lord help me! It’s neither banns nor betrothal10 because I say so! But, Miss, I can’t see why you don’t set more store by your cousin. He is the pret-tiest, most be-witching man I ever saw. Such feet he has! And there’s royal blood in him—you’ve only to look at his hands, so tiny and shaped like a mould, and his nails no larger than silver groats and so pink and round. Such a pair of legs he can muster12! When he walks it’s like steel springs, and his eyes blow sparks—”
She threw her arms around Marie and kissed her neck so passionately13 and covetously14 that the child blushed and drew herself out of the embrace.
Lucie flung herself down on the bed, laughing wildly.
“How silly you are to-day,” cried Marie. “If you carry on like this, I’ll go downstairs.”
“Merciful! Let me be merry once in a while! Faith, there’s trouble enough, and I’ve more than I can do with. With my sweetheart in the war, suffering ill and worse—it’s enough to break one’s heart. What if they’ve shot him dead or crippled! God pity me, poor maid, I’d never get - 20 - over it.” She hid her face in the bedclothes and sobbed15: “Oh, no, no, no, my own dear Lorens—I’d be so true to you, if the Lord would only bring you back to me safe and sound! Oh, Miss, I can’t bear it!”
Marie tried to soothe16 her with words and caresses17, and at last she succeeded in making Lucie sit up and wipe her eyes.
“Indeed, Miss,” she said, “no one knows how miserable18 I am. You see, I can’t possibly behave as I should all the time. ’Tis no use I resolve to set no store by the young men. When they begin jesting and passing compliments, my tongue’s got an itch11 to answer them back, and then ’tis true more foolery comes of it than I could answer for to Lorens. But when I think of the danger he’s in, oh, then I’m more sorry than any living soul can think. For I love him, Miss, and no one else, upon my soul I do. And when I’m in bed, with the moon shining straight in on the floor, I’m like another woman, and everything seems so sad, and I weep and weep, and something gets me by the throat till I’m like to choke—it’s terrible! Then I keep tossing in my bed and praying to God, though I scarce know what I’m praying for. Sometimes I sit up in bed and catch hold of my head and it seems as if I’d lose my wits with longing19. Why, goodness me, Miss, you’re crying! Sure you’re not longing for any one in secret—and you so young?”
Marie blushed and smiled faintly. There was something flattering in the idea that she might be pining for a lover.
“No, no,” she said, “but what you say is so sad. You make it seem as if there’s naught20 but misery21 and trouble.”
“Bless me, no, there’s a little of other things too,” said Lucie, rising in answer to a summons from below, and nodding archly to Marie, as she went.
- 21 -
Marie sighed and returned to the window. She looked down into the cool, green graveyard22 of St. Nikolaj, at the red walls of the church, over the tarnished23 copper24 roof of the castle, past the royal dockyard and ropewalk around to the slender spire25 of East Gate, past the gardens and wooden cottages of Hallandsaas, to the bluish Sound melting into the blue sky, where softly moulded cloud-masses were drifting to the Skaane shore.
Three months had passed since she came to Copenhagen. When she left home she had supposed that life in the residential26 city must be something vastly different from what she had found. It had never occurred to her that she might be more lonely there than at Tjele Manor27, where, in truth, she had been lonely enough. Her father had never been a companion to her, for he was too entirely28 himself to be anything to others. He never became young when he spoke29 to fourteen years nor feminine when he addressed a little maid. He was always on the shady side of fifty and always Erik Grubbe.
As for his concubine, who ruled as though she were indeed mistress of the house, the mere30 sight of her was enough to call out all there was of pride and bitterness in Marie. This coarse, domineering peasant woman had wounded and tortured her so often that the girl could hardly hear her step without instantly and half unconsciously hardening into obstinacy31 and hatred32. Little Anne, her half-sister, was sickly and spoiled, which did not make it easier to get along with her, and to crown all, the mother made the child her excuse for abusing Marie to Erik Grubbe.
Who, then, were her companions?
She knew every path and road in Bigum woods, every cow that pastured in the meadows, every fowl33 in the hencoop. - 22 - The kindly34 greeting of the servants and peasants when she met them seemed to say: Our young lady suffers wrong, and we know it. We are sorry, and we hate the woman up there as much as you do.
But in Copenhagen?
There was Lucie, and she was very fond of her, but after all she was a servant. Marie was in Lucie’s confidence and was pleased and grateful for it, but Lucie was not in her confidence. She could not tell her troubles to the maid. Nor could she bear to have the fact of her unfortunate position put into words or hear a servant discuss her unhappy family affairs. She would not even brook35 a word of criticism against her aunt, though she certainly did not love her father’s kinswoman and had no reason to love her.
Rigitze Grubbe held the theories of her time on the salutary effects of harsh discipline, and she set herself to bring up Marie accordingly. She had never had any children of her own, and she was not only a very impatient foster-mother, but also clumsy, for mother love had never taught her the useful little arts that smooth the way for teacher and pupil. Yet a severe training might have been very good for Marie. The lack of watchful36 care in her home had allowed one side of her nature to grow almost too luxuriantly, while the other had been maimed and stunted37 by capricious cruelty, and she might have felt it a relief to be guided in the way she should go by the hard and steady hand of one who in all common sense could wish her nothing but good.
Yet she was not so guided. Mistress Rigitze had so many irons in the fire of politics and court intrigue38 that she was often away for days, and when at home she would be so preoccupied39 that Marie did with herself and her time what she pleased. When Mistress Rigitze had a moment to - 23 - spare for the child, the very consciousness of her own neglect made her doubly irritable40. The whole relation therefore wore to Marie an utterly41 unreasonable42 aspect, and was fitted to give her the notion that she was an outcast whom all hated and none loved.
As she stood at the window looking out over the city, this sense of forlornness came over her again. She leaned her head against the casement43 and lost herself in contemplation of the slowly gliding44 clouds.
She understood what Lucie had said about the pain of longing. It was like something burning inside of you, and there was nothing to do but to let it burn and burn—how well she knew it! What would come of it all?—One day just like another—nothing, nothing,—nothing to look forward to. Could it last? Yes, for a long time yet! Even when she had passed sixteen?—But things did happen to other people! At least she wouldn’t go on wearing a child’s cap after she was sixteen; sister Anne Marie hadn’t—she had been married. Marie remembered the noisy carousing45 at the wedding long after she had been sent to bed—and the music. Well, at least she could be married. But to whom? Perhaps to the brother of her sister’s husband. To be sure, he was frightfully ugly, but if there was nothing else for it—No, that certainly was nothing to look forward to. Was there anything? Not that she could see.
She left the window, sat down by the table thoughtfully, and began to write:
My loving greeting always in the name of Our Lord, dear Anne Marie, good sister and friend! God keep you always and be praised for His mercies. I have taken upon myself to write pour vous congratuler inasmuch as you have - 24 - been fortunately delivered of child and are now restored to good health. Dear sister, I am well and hearty46. Our Aunt, as you know, lives in much splendor47, and we often have company, chiefly gentlemen of the court, and with the exception of a few old dames48, none visit us but men folks. Many of them have known our blessed mother and praise her beauty and virtue49. I always sit at table with the company, but no one speaks to me except Ulrik Frederik, whom I would prefer to do without, for he is ever given to bantering50 and raillerie rather than sensible conversation. He is yet young and is not in the best repute; ’tis said he frequents both taverns and ale-houses and the like. Now I have nothing new to tell except that to-day we have an assembly, and he is coming. Whenever I speak French he laughs very much and tells me that it is a hundred years old, which may well be, for Pastor51 Jens was a mere youth at the time of his travels. Yet he gives me praise because I put it together well, so that no lady of the court can do it better, he says, but this I believe to be but compliments, about which I care nothing. I have had no word from Tjele. Our Aunt cannot speak without cursing and lamenting52 of the enormity that our dear father should live as he does with a female of such lowly extraction. I grieve sorely, but that gives no boot for bane. You must not let Stycho see this letter, but give him greeting from my heart. September, 1657.
Your dear sister,
MARIE GRUBBE.
The honorable Mistress Anne Marie Grubbe, consort53 of Stycho H?egh of Gjordslev, my good friend and sister, written in all loving-kindness.
The guests had risen from the table and entered the drawing-room, - 25 - where Lucie was passing the golden Dantzig brandy. Marie had taken refuge in a bay-window, half hidden by the full curtains. Ulrik Frederik went over to her, bowed with exaggerated deference54, and with a very grave face expressed his disappointment at having been seated so far from mademoiselle at the table. As he spoke, he rested his small brown hand on the window-sill. Marie looked at it and blushed scarlet55.
“Pardon, Mademoiselle, I see that you are flushing with anger. Permit me to present my most humble56 service! Might I make so bold as to ask how I have had the misfortune to offend you?”
“Indeed I am neither flushed nor angry.”
“Ah, so ’tis your pleasure to call that color white? Bien! But then I would fain know by what name you designate the rose commonly known as red!”
“Can you never say a sensible word?”
“Hm—let me see—ay, it has happened, I own, but rarely—
Doch Chlo?, Chlo? zürne nicht! Toll57 brennet deiner Augen Licht Mich wie das Hundsgestirn die Hunde, Und Worte sch?umen mir vom Munde Dem Geifer gleich der Wasserscheu—”
“Forsooth, you may well say that!”
“Ach, Mademoiselle, ’tis but little you know of the power of Eros! Upon my word, there are nights when I have been so lovesick I have stolen down through the Silk Yard and leaped the balustrade into Christen Skeel’s garden, and there I’ve stood like a statue among fragrant58 roses and - 26 - violets, till the languishing59 Aurora61 has run her fingers through my locks.”
“Ah, Monsieur, you were surely mistaken when you spoke of Eros; it must have been Evan—and you may well go astray when you’re brawling62 around at night-time. You’ve never stood in Skeel’s garden; you’ve been at the sign of Mogens in Cappadocia among bottles and Rhenish wineglasses, and if you’ve been still as a statue, it’s been something besides dreams of love that robbed you of the power to move your legs.”
“You wrong me greatly! Though I may go to the vintner’s house sometimes, ’tis not for pleasure nor revelry, but to forget the gnawing63 anguish60 that afflicts64 me.”
“Ah!”
“You have no faith in me; you do not trust to the constancy of my amour! Heavens! Do you see the eastern louver-window in St. Nikolaj? For three long days have I sat there gazing at your fair countenance65, as you bent66 over your broidery frame.”
“How unlucky you are! You can scarce open your mouth, but I can catch you in loose talk. I never sit with my broidery frame toward St. Nikolaj. Do you know this rigmarole?—
’Twas black night, Troll was in a plight67; For man held him tight. To the troll said he: ‘If you would be free, Then teach me quick, Without guile68 or trick, One word of perfect truth.’ - 27 - Up spake the troll: ‘In sooth!’ Man let him go. None on earth, I trow, Could call troll liar69 for saying so.”
Ulrik Frederik bowed deferentially70 and left her without a word.
She looked after him, as he crossed the room. He did walk gracefully71. His silk hose fitted him without fold or wrinkle. How pretty they were at the ankle, where they met the long, narrow shoe! She liked to look at him. She had never before noticed that he had a tiny pink scar in his forehead.
Furtively72 she glanced at her own hands and made a slight grimace,—the fingers seemed to her too short.
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1
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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2
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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4
taverns
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| n.小旅馆，客栈，酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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mimicking
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的现在分词 )；酷似 | |
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raucous
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| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
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7
appraising
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| v.估价( appraise的现在分词 )；估计；估量；评价 | |
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8
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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tart
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| adj.酸的；尖酸的，刻薄的；n.果馅饼；淫妇 | |
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10
betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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11
itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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12
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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13
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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14
covetously
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| adv.妄想地，贪心地 | |
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15
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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16
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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17
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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18
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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19
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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22
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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24
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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residential
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| adj.提供住宿的；居住的；住宅的 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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29
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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30
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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31
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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32
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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33
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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35
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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36
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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37
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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38
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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39
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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40
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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41
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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42
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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43
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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44
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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45
carousing
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| v.痛饮，闹饮欢宴( carouse的现在分词 ) | |
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46
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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47
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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48
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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49
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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50
bantering
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| adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的现在分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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51
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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52
lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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53
consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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54
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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55
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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56
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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57
toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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58
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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59
languishing
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| a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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60
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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61
aurora
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| n.极光 | |
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62
brawling
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| n.争吵，喧嚷 | |
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63
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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64
afflicts
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的名词复数 ) | |
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65
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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66
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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67
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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68
guile
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| n.诈术 | |
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69
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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70
deferentially
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| adv.表示敬意地，谦恭地 | |
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71
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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72
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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