Marie Grubbe E-Book

Jens Peter Jacobsen

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

'Jacobsen has made a more profound impression on me emotionally than anything else I've read in recent years.' Sigmund Freud 'In Jacobsen we have the earliest and noblest example of an author who combines a powerful imagination and a wistfully tender nature with all the finesse of the most highly developed realism.' Hermann Hesse 'One of the best books I've ever read.' Delius. Marie Grubbe is loosely based on the true story of a Danish noble woman of the same name. A wealthy heiress she married the illegitimate son of Frederik The Third of Denmark and Norway. The relationship was unhappy and violent, and, after she had had several affairs, her husband divorced her allowing her to keep her substantial dowry. For the next two years, Marie Grubbe travelled around Europe with her brother-in-law and lover spending the fortune her mother had left her. On her return her father married her to a local nobleman but this relationship too was unhappy. At the age of forty-six, she finally met the man who was going to be her companion for the rest of her life: a coach driver more than twenty years her junior. A wonderful historical novel and one of the jewels of Danish 19-th century fiction

Leseprobe

The Author

Jens Peter Jacobsen was born in Denmark in 1847. He studied botany at the University of Copenhagen and he translated Darwin’s On The Origin of the Species and The Descent of Man into Danish. He published his first work in 1872, the short story Mogens. A year later he was diagnosed with TB while travelling in Italy.

He wrote two novels, Marie Grubbe (1876) and Niels Lyhne (1880), as well as some poems and short stories, before dying in 1885 at the age of 38.

The Translator

Mikka Haugaard was born in Denmark in 1953. Her father is Danish and her mother American and she grew up bilingual. She studied classics at Cambridge University and did research in Roman history. She now teaches classics and psychology at a London school and lectures for the Open University. She is married with two children.

She is the author of two novels: Gabriel’s Bureau and The Dream Maker. Marie Grubbe is her first translation for Dedalus.

Contents

Title

The Author

The Translator

Introduction

A Few Notes on the Translation

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Copyright

Introduction

The novel Marie Grubbe was based on a true story. Seventeenth century Denmark was a time of turbulence and change; the constitution was altered to give King Frederick III absolute power and the country was engaged in a disastrous war with Sweden.

Marie Grubbe (1643–1718) was a wealthy heiress from an undistinguished noble family in Jutland. She was very young when she was married to the illegitimate son of Frederik III, Urik Frederik Gyldenløve, who became Viceroy of Norway, but the marriage did not last. Her father then made her marry a neighbouring landowner, but she left him for their coach driver, who was more than twenty years younger than herself. It was a case of third time lucky, until her husband was sentenced to hard labour for manslaughter.

Such are the bare bones of the story which became Jens Peter Jacobsen’s first novel, published in 1876. Little is known about her beyond these events, but one can’t but feel the presence of a forceful, unusual woman. One of the servants giving evidence at her divorce from her second husband quoted her as saying that ‘she wished she was divorced from Palle Dyre and had Søren again, he was such a lovely and quick man, and she so liked the smell of tar and horse dung, and there was no one that she wanted more than him, even if all he owned were the clothes on his back.’

We also know that she didn’t change her mind: twenty years later the playwright Ludvig Holberg met her by chance when he had to leave Copenhagen because of the plague. She and her husband had been working a ferry and running an inn, but now he was in prison awaiting trial for manslaughter and she was on her own. Holberg stayed at their inn, and Marie told him that her third marriage had been the only happy one.

The novelist and poet Jens Peter Jacobsen (1847–1875) was born in Thisted in Jutland, not far from where Marie Grubbe grew up. He started writing poems when he was only a child, but his interests were as much scientific as literary. He studied science at Copenhagen University, specialising in botany, and he won a gold medal for a paper on fresh water algae. It was science and Darwin in particular that shaped his outlook on life – he translated both On the Origin of Species (1859) and The Descent of Man (1871) into Danish, and he wrote several articles on the theory of evolution.

‘There are,’ wrote Jacobsen in his diary at twenty, ‘moments when I think that the study of nature is my calling, others when I feel that it’s poetry, particularly when I’m excited by a fine poem or I’m poring over ancient Norse religion. If I could take the fixed laws of nature, its riches, its questions and wonders and let them inhabit the world of fiction, then I think I’ll have achieved something quite out of the ordinary.’

That Jacobsen chose literature over science may partly have been due to the hard hand of fate. At the age of twenty-six he suffered a haemorrhage of the lung while travelling in Italy. He returned home to Thisted immediately. The doctors were not very hopeful, as he had advanced TB. He spent much of the rest of his life being looked after by his family in Thisted and devoting himself to writing. His own closeness to death haunted him and made him all the more aware of the rich joys and variety of the senses. There is something very sensual about his writing, and his approach is not unlike that of an impressionist painter. In Marie Grubbe roughly four thousand words are devoted to describing the effect of light and the sound of wind, and one gets the impression that this is more about the joy of a thing itself than to create atmosphere.

Jacobsen combines a fine ear and feel for language with a passion for science and the new ideas of evolution. His aim, as he wrote in his diary, was to take ‘the fixed laws of nature and let them inhabit the world of fiction.’ He uses the story of Marie Grubbe to explore human sexuality, but being a novelist too, the book is rich in characters and atmosphere. The subtitle of the book is ‘Seventeenth Century Interiors’ and the book reads as a series of images or tableaux. Jacobsen wants to depict the times as much as Marie Grubbe herself, and so we meet alchemists – King Frederik III was an alchemist as well as an amateur carpenter – heretics, soldiers, fanatics, executioners and court ladies and gentlemen. We witness a series of moments that curl themselves around the plot of Marie Grubbe, but there is no ‘and then’: this is a modern novel and at its heart lies not so much a story as a vivid sense of the moment, the conjurer’s magic with words and place.

Jacobsen wrote one other novel, Niels Lyhne (1880) and a book of short stories (1882). A book of his poems was published a year after his death in 1885 at the age of just thirty-eight.

For a man who wrote so little, he made a remarkable impression: the dramatist Strindberg wanted to make a play out of Marie Grubbe. He didn’t, but the book influenced Miss Julie, probably his most famous play outside of Scandinavia. Jacobsen became the spokesman of a generation in Germany and Austria at the beginning of the twentieth century. ‘He was the Werther of our generations,’ wrote Stefan Sweig in a preface to a German edition of Jacobsen’s novel Niels Lyhne published in 1925, ‘we modelled our feelings and our behaviour on him. Some of us even learnt Danish; a few friends would get together so that we could read Niels Lyhne and Jens Peter Jacobsen’s poetry in the original, and in this way might worship him even more. That’s how much we loved this writer.’ Photographs of his melancholy face, with his large eyes, high forehead, hair messily swept back and long moustache, were for sale for those who worshipped Jacobsen, the writer who expressed that sense of isolation of a generation which couldn’t any longer believe in God and had to face life in the raw.

But he is also a writer’s writer – his style is singular and his choice to abandon plot for a string of moments seen from within puts him at the beginning of modernism. In a passionate article written at the age of nineteen, James Joyce speaks of Jacobsen as a writer who is pointing the way forward. Joyce later learnt Danish so that he could read Jacobsen. Thomas Mann, Rainer Marie Rilke and Hermann Hessen shared Joyce’s enthusiasm for Jacobsen’s lyrical prose.

His influence has been largely European, with one very curious exception: Zora Neale Hurston, a black American writer, took the story of Marie Grubbe as told by Jacobsen, as well as some of his language and ideas, and transposed them to early twentieth century black America. Her book, Their Eyes were Watching God, about a woman who marries three times, third time to a man who owns nothing but the shirt on his back, transforms Marie Grubbe into something new and fresh. The novel ends with a metaphor taken from Jacobsen, the metaphor of a net enclosing the world, and, as in Jacobsen, this metaphor is both something figurative and tangible.

A few notes on the translation

The story of Marie Grubbe is set in the seventeenth century, and Jacobsen’s research managed to give the book some flavour of that period. The dialogue makes some use of Jute dialect and German, as Danish was very influenced by German at the time. A Danish reader would not find a few German words a problem, but German is not a language with which most English people are very familiar. I have made use of some French, as the English language of the time had a tendency to borrow from French. For dialect I decided to go to Yorkshire, as the landscape and isolation is very similar to that of Jutland.

Illegitimate sons of kings were given the name of Gyldenløve, meaning golden lion. Two illegitimate sons of kings feature in Marie Grubbe: Ulrik Frederik Gyldenløve (1638–1704), the son of Frederik III, and Ulrik Christian Gyldenløve (1630–1658), the son of Christian IV. Since the names are very similar, I have called one Christian Gyldenløve and the other Ulrik Frederik Gyldenløve to avoid confusion.

Mikka Haugaard

I

That air below those crowns of lime trees had swayed across brown heath and thirsty fields; it had been baked by the sun and filled with the dust of the road, but just now the thick, hanging screen of green had made it clear, the cool lime leaves had chilled it, and the scent of yellow lime flowers had made it wet and given it weight. Now it lay there shimmering, quiet and content, in that vault of pale green, caressed by gently trembling leaves and the quick beat of the wings of white and yellow butterflies.

Those lips that breathed the air were full and fresh. The breasts it swelled were small and young. Her feet were tiny, her waist slender and her figure slim. A kind of lean strength lay in her whole body.

Abundance was only to be found in her thick hair. A shadowy gold, it lay half tied up, half down because her small, dark blue velvet hat had slipped off, and was hanging around her neck by its knotted string and down her back like a small monk’s hood. Otherwise there was nothing of the convent about her dress: a wide and square-cut linen collar turned down over a coarse lavender frock, with generous slashed shoulder puffs through which flowed a wide pair of fine Holland sleeves. A scarlet bow was on her breast and scarlet bows adorned her shoes.

She walked with her hands behind her back and her head bent forwards. She was coming slowly up the path with playful, graceful steps, but not straight, rather in wide curves; one moment she was just about to bump into a tree on one side, the next to disappear through the trees on the other. She would stop now and then, shake the hair off her face and look up towards the light. The subdued brightness gave her white child’s face a dull glow and softened those blue-tinged shadows beneath her eyes. Her red lips turned a brown scarlet, and her large blue eyes became almost black. Yes, she was lovely: a high forehead, a slightly curved nose, short sharply-defined lips, a strong round chin, delicate round cheeks, very small ears and fine, elegant eyebrows…

She smiled as she walked, light and carefree, no thoughts in her head. She smiled in harmony with everything around her. Reaching the end of the path, she stopped and began to swing on her heels, first to the right and then to the left. Hands still behind her back, head held high and eyes on the sky, she hummed a colourless tune, fitfully, in time to her swinging.

There were two flagstones and some steps leading to the garden and its sharp, white sunlight. The sky, cloudless and a whitish blue, looked right into it and the limited shade there hugged the ground by the trimmed box-hedge. The light hurt her eyes, and even the hedge was sending out flashes of light from its bright leaves. Southern wormwood slung itself in bands of white here and there, around thirsty busy lizzies, Japanese lanterns, wallflowers and carnations, which were standing, their heads together, like sheep in an open field. The peas and beans by the row of lavender were falling off their supports with the heat; the morning glory had given up the fight and faced the sun head on, while the poppies had shed their big red petals and stood there with bare stalks.

She jumped down the steps, and ran through the sun-hot garden, head down, as if running through a yard in the rain. She made for a triangle of dark yew, slipped behind them and into a vast leafy arbour, a relic from the time of the Below family. The upper branches of a wide circle of elms had been woven together as far as they would reach, and the round opening in the centre had been covered with lattice wood. Rambling roses and Italian honeysuckle grew strong among elm leaves, making a fine cover, though on one side it had not worked, and hop vines, more recently planted, were strangling the elms without being able to close the gap.

In front of the entrance to the arbour were two giant whitewashed seahorses. Inside, there was a long wooden bench and a table. The top of the table was made of stone, a big oval thing once, but most of it was now on the ground in three pieces, while a small, fourth piece lay loose on one corner of the table frame. Here the child sat herself down, put her feet on the bench, leaned back and crossed her arms. She closed her eyes and sat quite still. A few small furrows appeared on her brow, and from time to time she moved her eyebrows, smiling softly.

“Griselda lies at the feet of the count in a room with crimson rugs and a gilt four-poster bed, but he pushes her away. A moment ago he tore her from her warm bed. Now he is opening the narrow arched door, and the cold air streams in on poor Griselda who is lying on the floor, weeping. And there is nothing between that cold breath of night air and her white warm limbs except some thin, thin linen. But he throws her out and locks the door on her. Then she presses her naked shoulder against the smooth, cold door and sobs as she hears his soft steps on the rugs. And through the keyhole falls the light from a scented candle, settling like a small, round sun on her bared breasts. Then she slips away, down the dark marble staircase. And all is quite silent. She can’t hear anything but the soft beat of her naked feet on the icy steps. Then she’s outside. The snow – no it’s the rain. It’s pouring down, and the water, cold and heavy, is splashing down on her shoulders. The linen cloth is clinging tightly to her body and the water is dripping down her bare legs. With her delicate feet she steps into the soft, cold mud, which slides out beneath the soles of her feet. The wind… The bushes are tearing at her and slashing her dress – but she isn’t really wearing a dress – just as they slashed my brown petticoat!

“Oh, there must be nuts in Fastrup-lund, what with all those nuts in the market at Viborg… God knows whether Ane’s teeth are giving her any peace… No, Brunhilda! The wild horse is galloping away… Brunhilda and Grimmild – Queen Grimmild – they wink at the men, turn and walk away. And they drag out Queen Brunhilda, and a coarse, dark fellow with long, thick arms – someone like Bertel at the tollhouse – takes hold of her belt, tearing it in two. Then he pulls off her smock and her petticoat; and with his dirty fists he whips the gold bracelets off her white, delicate arms. Then a big, half-naked, rough brown man puts his hairy arm round her waist and breaks off her sandals with his big fat feet. And Bertel twists her long, black locks round his hand and starts dragging her away. Her body bent forward, she follows him, and the big man puts the palm of his sweaty hands on her naked back and he pushes her ahead. Ahead to the black, snorting stallion. Then they sling her into the grey dust of the road and fasten the long tail of the horse round her ankles…”

Again a frown appeared, but this time it lasted longer. She shook her head, looking more and more annoyed. Finally she opened her eyes, began to get up and looked around, tired and dissatisfied.

Mosquitoes were dancing in the gaps between the hop vines, and from the garden came gusts of mint and lemon balm, dill and aniseed. A small, bewildered, yellow spider ran tickling across her hand and made her jump up from the bench. She went towards the entrance and stretched for a rose high among the leaves, but could not reach it. Then she went out into the garden and began picking the rambling roses. The more she picked, the more eager she became, and soon her skirt was full. She carried them into the arbour and sat down by the table. One by one she lifted them out of her skirt and laid them on the stone surface, close together, till the stone was hidden below a pale red, fragrant cover.

When the last rose was on the table, she smoothed down the folds in her skirt and brushed off the loose petals, and leaves stuck in the wool of her dress. She remained seated, her hands in her lap, staring at the rose blooms.

This palette of flowers, from a white that blushed to a red turning blue, rippled in shades and shadows; they were joined by a damp and almost heavy pink and a lilac so elusive that it seemed to be coming and going with the air. And every curved petal, finely arched, soft in the shade, came alive in the light with thousands of barely visible sparks and flashes. All that lovely rose blood collected in veins and spread through the skin… and then that heavy, sweet scent, the rising mist of the red nectar seethed deep inside the flower cup.

Hastily, she rolled up her sleeves and put her naked arms into the soft, damp coolness of the roses. She twisted and turned them, and the loose petals fluttered to the ground. Then she jumped up and with one sweep cleared everything off the table, and went out into the garden, straightening her sleeves. Blushing, with quick steps, she followed the path out, then walked slowly along the garden wall towards the open road. A cartload of hay had overturned, just outside the entrance to the farm. Many cartloads were waiting behind it, unable to get in. The overseer was beating the driver with a brown polished pole which gleamed in the sunlight.

The sound of the blows made a horrible impression on the child and she walked quickly to the farm covering her ears. The door to the kitchen cellar was open and she slipped in and slammed it shut.

That was Marie Grubbe, the fourteen-year-old daughter of Erik Grubbe of Tjele Manor.

*

The blue glare of twilight lay over Tjele. Dew had fallen and put an end to the bringing in of the hay. The girls on the farm were in the cowshed milking, and the farm-hands were keeping themselves busy in the wagon shed or in the saddle room. The serfs were standing in a crowd outside the gate waiting for the bell to be rung for supper.

Erik Grubbe was standing by the open window looking out over the farmyard: slowly, one by one, the horses, free of their harnesses and halters, were emerging and heading for the trough of water. A boy in a red hat was standing in the middle of the yard by one of the stones used for securing horses, adding new teeth to a rake while, in one corner, two greyhounds were playing tag between the large whetstone and the wooden horse used for punishment.

As time passed the farm-hands appeared more and more often at the stable doors. They would look around and disappear, whistling or singing a tune; a girl with a full pail of milk tramped across the yard with quick, tripping steps, while the serfs were beginning to assemble within the gates as if to hurry the bell for their supper. The din from the kitchen grew, with the rattle of buckets, trays and wooden plates. Finally someone made a couple of strong pulls on the dinner bell, which shook twice with a ring of rusty notes that soon died in the din of wooden clogs and doors scraping against their posts. Then the yard was empty, except for two dogs at the gate who were barking madly.

Erik Grubbe pulled the window to, and sat down thoughtfully. He was in the winter sitting room. They used it during both winter and summer, both to dine and to sit in, and they were hardly ever anywhere else. It was a spacious room with two windows, half-panelled in tall, dark oak, with walls covered in Dutch-glazed tiles, white-edged and decorated with big, blue roses. The fireplace was made out of burnt brick, and a chest had been placed in front of it to stop any draughts when any of the doors were opened. There was also a polished oak table with two large half-moon extensions hanging down and almost reaching the floor, some high-backed chairs with hard leather seats, worn till they shone, and a small cabinet painted green hanging high on one wall. That’s all there was in the room.

As he sat there in the gathering dusk, his housekeeper Ane, Jens’ daughter, entered, a light in one hand and a jar of milk in the other, warm as the udder it came from. She put the jar next to him. Then she sat herself down at the table, the light in front of her. She did not let go of the candlestick, but sat there, turning it round and round in a big red hand that gleamed with many rings and big stones.

“Good Lord!” she said.

“What’s wrong?” Erik Grubbe asked, fixing his eyes on her.

“Good Lord, can’t I moan when I’ve toiled till there’s no strength or feelin’ left?”

“It’s a busy time. In summer people must make the hay they use in winter to keep themselves warm.”

“Ah, ye can talk! There’s some sense in this world, and if yah’re wanting t’ drive for a king, better yer wheel not be in t’ ditch an’ yer axle broke. There’s nobbut me t’work. T’ maids are all drabs; love and town gossip are all they care for and when they wark, it’s all crooked an’ has to be set right. An’ who’s to do that, but misself? Wulfberg is sick an’ Stine an’ Buel, those harlots, they’re standing there warkin’ up a sweat loike pigs, but no good comes of it. I could ’ave help from yer Mari, I nobbut wish ye’d talk sense to her when she’s in a plisky, but she’s too good t’ move a finger.”

“Good God! All that talk has drained your lungs of air and fuddled brain so you can’t speak properly. You’ve no one but yourself to blame. If you had shown Marie some patience last winter, instructing her gently and showing her how to do everything properly, then you’d be having some use of her now. But you had no patience, your fiery temper made her defiant, and there you were tearing each other apart. I’m just pleased that that’s all over.”

“Ah’m not arguing – ye fight for yer Mari, she’s yer blood. But if ye fight for yers, then ah’ll do the same for mine e’en if it angers and provokes ye. Ah’m going to tell ye there’s more stubborn in Mari than do her good in th’ world. Anyhow, that’s her problem, but she’s wicked, she is though ye deny her ill ways. Never does she leave little Ane in peace. Never! She’s at her all day long with slaps and blows and foul words. That poor bairn must be wishing she’d ne’er been born, and so do ah. Ah really do, though it’s a sad thing, God have mercy on us! Yah’re not t’ same father for both bairns, but that ah understand, that’s th’ way it sod be, that t’ sins of t’ fathers are visited on t’ children to th’ third and to th’ fourth generation, and it’s the same with the sins of t’ mother, and little Ane is only a whore’s bairn. Yes, ah say so meself – a whore’s bairn, in t’ eyes of God and in t’ eyes of men! But yah’re her father – ye sod feel some shame – yes, ah’ll speak even if ye lay hands on me loike ye did two years ago at Michaelmas: ye sod feel shame, real shame that yah’re making yer own bairn know that she’s begotten in sin, making her feel that. Ye and Mari, t’ two of ye, making her and me feel it, and if ye hit me then yah’re making her feel it…”

Erik Grubbe jumped up and stamped hard on the floor.

“Hell and damnation! Are you insane, woman? You’re drunk, you are, go and lie on your bed, and sleep till you sober up and come to your senses again! You deserve to have your ears boxed, you senseless woman! Not another word. Marie’ll leave, and she’ll do so tomorrow morning! I want to enjoy peace in times of peace.”

Ane began to wail loudly.

“Oh my Gooid, that it shud come to this, shamed in t’ eyes of the world – slandering me that ah drink! In all the time the two of us have known each other, an’ afore that, was ah ever found in t’ kitchen, t’ worse for drink? When have ye ever ’erd me letting words fly empty of sense? Where, where have ye seen me, sprawled out and filthy drunk? Some gratitude ah get. Sleep till ye sober up! Yes, ah wish to God ah might just sleep away, ah wish to God ah might sink down dead in front of ye since ye have nowt but scorn and a flaysome contempt for me…”

Outside in the yard the dogs began to bark, and the sound of horses’ hooves could be heard beneath the windows.

Ane quickly dried her eyes, and Erik Grubbe opened the window and asked who it was.

“A messenger on horse from Fovsing,” replied one of the house servants.

“Then take his horse and let him in.”

He closed the window. Ane sat up in her chair and with her hand shaded her eyes, red from crying.

The messenger entered, bringing friendly greetings from the Chancellor of the Diocese, Christian Skeel of Fovsing and Odden, who wanted him to know that he had received a message by courier that war had been declared on the first of June. This meant that for several reasons he had to leave for Aars, from where he might be travelling on to Copenhagen. So he wanted to know whether Erik Grubbe would accompany him for as long as their journeys would overlap. Also, they might resolve the dispute they had with those people in Aars, and on the subject of Copenhagen, the Chancellor was well aware that Erik Grubbe had more than enough to do there. In any case, Christian Skell would be at Tjele at about the stroke of four in the afternoon.

Erik Grubbe replied that he would be ready for the journey. With that answer the messenger rode away.

Then Ane and Erik Grubbe talked for a long time about what had to be done while he was away, and they decided that Marie should accompany him to Copenhagen and stay with his sister, her aunt Rigitze, for a year or two.

The imminent separation had calmed them both, even if their old quarrel almost flared up again when they began to discuss which pieces of her dear mother’s jewellery and which dresses Marie should take with her. However, they came to a friendly agreement, and Ane left to go to bed early, since it would be a good thing to have as much time as possible the following day.

Not long after, the dogs announced more visitors, but this time it was only the local vicar for Tjele and Vinge, Father Jens Jensen Paludan.

With ‘a good evening to you’, he stepped in.

He was a broad shouldered, strongly built man, with long limbs and a stoop. He had a hunched back too and a huge head of hair like a crow’s nest, sprinkled and tipped with grey. His face was of a strange complexion, smooth, clear and of a pale red that ill-matched his rough, gnarled features and bushy eyebrows.

Erik Grubbe begged him to take a seat and asked him how his haymaking was going. Their conversation lingered for a while on the most important seasonal jobs and died away with a sigh over last year’s poor grain harvest.

The priest was sitting there, stealing an occasional glance at the jug. Finally he said, “Noble blood always shows proper restraint! It always prefers nature’s drinks – they are healthier by far! Milk just from the udder is a blessing from Paradise, equally efficacious for a poor stomach or an attack of nerves.”

“Aye, God’s gifts are all precious whether they come from the udder or the tap. You shall have a taste of a barrel of dark beer which I brought back from Viborrig last time. It’s good, and German too, even if I can’t see the customs officer’s seal.

Mugs of beer and a big spouted yew jug with burnished silver rings appeared. They drank to each other’s health.

“It’s a Heydenkamper! A true, noble Heydenkamper,” exclaimed the priest in a voice that shook with enthusiasm and emotion, as he leaned back blissfully in his chair. He almost had tears in his eyes.

“You’re a connoisseur, Father Jens,” said Erik Grubbe in a wheedling voice.

“What a connoisseur! I’m a man of the past and know nothing,” muttered the priest absent-mindedly. “But I was wondering,” he continued, raising his voice, “whether there is any truth in what I’ve been told about the brewery of the Heydenkampers. It was a mason who told me this, once when I was in Hannover, in the days when I travelled with Squire Jørgen. He said that they always begin brewing on a Friday night, and before anyone is allowed to touch anything they have to go in front of the master himself and put their hands on the big scales, and swear by blood, fire and water that they aren’t nourishing some nasty or evil thoughts that might harm the brew. He also said that on Sunday mornings when the church bells begin to sound, they’ll open all doors, windows and hatches so that the bells can chime over the beer. But the finest ceremony takes place when the ale is put aside to ferment. The master himself will arrive with a splendid coffer, from which he’ll draw thick gold rings and chains and precious gems with curious signs, and all of that will be lowered into the brew, and it does make sense that such noble treasures should give the beer a share in those secret powers which are theirs by nature.”

“That’s a subject for speculation,” replied Erik Grubbe. “I think I have more faith in the Brunsvig hops and those other herbs they add.”

“Now you mustn’t talk like that,” said the priest, being serious and shaking his head. “Nature has many secrets, that’s for sure. Everything, whether it’s alive or dead, contains its own miraculum, and all you need is the patience to look with eyes wide open. Oh, in the old days when it wasn’t so long ago that God had made the earth, why in those days everything was so pregnant with the Lord’s power that it overflowed with healing and all that’s good, always and in fair measure, but now that the Kingdom of the Earth has lost its beauty and freshness, and has been profaned by the sins of countless generations, now it’s only rarely and on strange occasions, at certain times, in certain places, that these powers make their presence felt. When, for instance, strange signs occur in the sky. That’s what I was saying just now to the blacksmith. We were chatting about the terrible flashes of fire that could be seen these last few nights covering half the sky. And once a messenger on horse rode past us, heading this way I believe?”

“That is indeed the case, Father Jens.”

“Was he a rider with good news?”

“He came with the news that war has been declared.”

“Dear Lord, no! Yet sooner or later it had to happen.”

“If it had waited so long, it could have at least waited till people had brought in their harvest.”

“It’s those people in Skaane who have made it start early, I suppose. They’re still licking the wounds from the last war, and they expect this one to bring them a sweet revenge.”

“Well, it’s not just the people in Skaane. Those in Sjaelland always long for war because they know perfectly well that it’ll always pass them by… yes it’s a good time for dolts and knaves when those who rule the kingdom are all mad…”

“But it’s rumoured that the marshall is very reluctant.”

“Why the devil should one believe that! Anyway, it’ll be as much use as trying to calm a colony of ants – war is what we’ve got, and now it’s about each one of us saving his own skin, and that’ll be enough to keep everyone busy.”

Then their talk drifted to the journey he was about to make, lingered on the awful roads, returned to Tjele, its beef cattle and winter feed, and then came back again to the journey. They had not neglected their jugs, the beer had quite gone to their heads, and when telling of his voyage to Ceylon and the Far East on the Pearl, Erik Grubbe couldn’t speak for laughter every time some curious incident occurred to him.

The later it got, the more serious the priest became. He sat hunched up in his chair, and from time to time he would shake his head, look fiercely about him and move his lips as if speaking out loud, gesticulating with one hand, more and more excitedly, till he happened to hit the table. Then, stealing a frightened glance at Erik Grubbe, he returned to his previous position. Finally, when Erik Grubbe was completely stuck in a story about an unbelievable fool of a cook’s boy, the priest got up and began to speak, his voice solemn and low.

“Verily,” he said. “Verily, I shall bear witness with my tongue – aye, with my tongue – that you are to be despised, despised among men. It would be better for ye, if ye were cast into the sea. Aye, cast into the sea with a millstone round yer neck and two bushels of malt. The two bushels of malt that you owe me. And for this I bear witness before God, and with my tongue – two bushels of malt, full to the brim and in my own new sacks, because they weren’t my sacks – not ever I swear by God – they were your old sacks, and my new ones you kept, and the malt was spoilt, yes verily! Behold that abominable corruption. Those sacks are mine and I claim my revenge, yes. Aren’t you shaking in your old bones, you ancient whoremonger? You should live like a Christian. Could a Christian live with Ane Jensdatter and let her cheat a Christian priest? You are a… a Christian whoremonger… yes…”

At the beginning of the priest’s speech, Erik Grubbe had been smiling broadly and full of bonhomie. He had stretched his hand out towards him across the table. Next he began to nudge the air with his elbow, as if there were an invisible witness there with whom he might share the funny spectacle of the drunken priest. But finally, some kind of understanding must have dawned on him, because suddenly, white as a sheet, he grabbed the jug with the large spout and threw it towards the priest, who fell over backwards in his chair, sliding down and onto the floor. It was only the surprise that had made him fall, because the jug did not make it that far. It lay at the edge of the table, its contents spilling everywhere, trickling down onto the floor and onto the priest.

The candle had burnt down into the candlestick and was flickering. One moment the room was full of light, the next so dark that a blue dawn crept in through the windows.

Still the priest continued talking. His voice went from deep and threatening to high-pitched and almost whiny.

“You are seated amongst gold and purple while I lie here and the dogs are licking my wounds – and what have you put in the lap of Abraham? What was your offering? You did not offer a silver penny to be placed in the lap of holy Abraham. And now you are in infernal torment. But no one will dip even his finger in water to save ye.” And he hit the pool of beer on the table. “But I shall wash my hands, both of them. I have warned ye… there ye are clad in sack and ashes – in my two new sacks, my malt…”

For a while he kept muttering, before he fell asleep. But Erik Grubbe tried to get revenge. Holding firmly onto the chair, he stretched and put all his energy into kicking one of the legs of the table really hard, having hoped it was the priest’s leg.

Soon nothing moved. The only sound was the snoring of the two elderly gentlemen – that and the dull drip of beer falling from the table.

II

The widow of the late Hans Ulrik Gyldenløve, Madame Rigitze Grubbe, owned a building on the corner of Østergade and Pilestroede. Østergade was quite an aristocratic place to live. Members of the Trolle, Sehested, Rosenkrantz and Krag families lived there. Joachim Gersdorff lived next door to Madame Rigitze, and Karel van Mander would often have two or more visitors from abroad staying in his new, red mansion. But only one side of the street was inhabited by such fine people. On the side where Saint Nikolaj’s Church lay, the houses were more lowly, and artisans, shopkeepers and sailors lived in them. There were even a couple of inns.

It was a Sunday morning at the beginning of September. Marie Grubbe was standing by a garret window of Madame Rigitze’s residence, looking out. There was not a carriage in sight. There was no sense of hurry, only leisurely footsteps and the isolated drawl of an oyster seller. Roofs and cobblestones lay shimmering in the sun, and every shadow stood out sharply in bold definition. The distance lay in a light, smokey blue, warm haze.

“Beware,” shouted a woman from behind, doing a good imitation of a soldier’s hoarse voice. Marie turned round.

It was the chambermaid, Lucie, who was shouting. She had been sitting for a while on top of a table looking critically at her own rather lovely legs. Eventually she had got bored and shouted. Now she was sitting there laughing like mad and swinging her legs happily.

Marie shrugged her shoulders and was about to turn towards the window again, smiling rather grumpily, when Lucie jumped down from the table, put her hands round her waist and made her sit down on a nearby rush chair.

“Listen, miss,” she said.

“What?”

“Are you forgetting that you must get your letters done? At half past two we are having visitors, so you’ve hardly got four hours. Do you know what’s going to be served? Golden bread, soup, flounder and some other flat fish, chickens broiled in sugar, cinnamon and ginger, Mansfelder cake with plum sauce. All very fancy, but wonderful it bloody ain’t. Your sweetheart will be there too!”

“You can talk!” exclaimed Marie, quite cross.

“Good Lord! It doesn’t mean banns or betrothal just because I use that word. I can’t understand, miss, why you don’t make more of a fuss of your cousin. He’s the merriest and most handsome man I know. What feet he has! And he’s got royal blood, you can tell from just looking at his hands, so small and tiny! They look as if they’d been cast. Nails no bigger than a groat, and so perfectly round and red. And can he show a pair of legs! It’s as if he were walking on steel springs as he comes along, da, di, and da! And there’s a real twinkle in those sparkling eyes…”

She threw her arms around Marie and kissed her on the neck passionately, sucking so hard that the child blushed and wriggled out of her embrace. Lucie threw herself on the bed, laughing wildly.

“What’s the matter with you?” cried Marie. “If you’re going to be like that, then I’m going downstairs.”

“What’s wrong? Can’t one even have a little fun sometimes? There’s misery enough in the world and I have got far more than I can take. Isn’t my sweetheart in the war suffering all that’s bad, and worse? It doesn’t even bear thinking about. And what if he’s been shot, shot dead or made into some kind of cripple? God then have mercy on a poor girl like me, I wouldn’t ever be human again.”