Marie Grubbe, a Lady of the Seventeenth Century

by J. P. Jacobsen

“I am with child,” she said quietly and firmly.

If she had consented, if she had given him his freedom, Ulrik Frederik felt that he would not have taken it. He would have thrown himself at her feet. Sure of her, he would have defied the King and all. But she did not. She but pulled his chain to show him how securely he was bound. Oh, she was clever as they said! His blood boiled, he could have fallen upon her, clutched her white throat to drag the truth out of her and force her to open every petal and lay bare every shadow and fold in the rose of her love, that he might know the truth at last! But he mastered himself and said with a smile: “Yes, of course, I know—’twas nothing but a jest, you understand.”

Sofie looked at him uneasily. No, it had not been a jest. If it had been, why did he not come close to her and kiss her? Why did he stand there in the shadow? If she could only see his eyes! No, it was no jest. He had asked as seriously as she had answered. Ah, that answer! She began to see what she had lost by it. If she had only said yes, he would never have left her! “Oh, Ulrik Frederik,” she said, “I was but thinking of our child, but if you no longer love me, then go, go at once and build your own happiness! I will not hold you back.”

“Did I not tell you that ’twas but a jest? How can you think that I would ask you to release me from my word and sneak off in base shame and dishonor! Whenever I lifted my head again,” he went on, “I must fear lest the eye that had seen my ignominy should meet mine and force it to the ground.” And he meant what he said. If she had loved him as passionately as he loved her, then perhaps, but now—never.

Sofie went to him and laid her head on his shoulder, weeping.

“Farewell, Ulrik Frederik,” she said. “Go, go! I would not hold you one hour after you longed to be gone, no, not if I could bind you with a hair.”

He shook his head impatiently. “Dear Sofie,” he said, winding himself out of her arms, “let us not play a comedy with each other. I owe it both to you and to myself that the pastor should join our hands; it cannot be too soon. Let it be in two or three days—but secretly, for it is of no use to set the world against us more than has been done already.” Sofie dared not raise any objection. They agreed on the time and the place, and parted with tender good-nights.

When Ulrik Frederik came down into the garden, it was dark, for the moon had veiled itself, and a few heavy raindrops fell from the inky sky. The early cocks were crowing in the mews, but Daniel had fallen asleep on his post.

A week later his best parlor was the scene of Mistress Sofie’s and Ulrik Frederik’s private marriage by an obscure clergyman. The secret was not so well guarded, however, but that the Queen could mention it to the King a few days later. The result was that in a month’s time the contract was annulled by royal decree, and Mistress Sofie was sent to the cloister for gentlewomen at Itzehoe.

Ulrik Frederik made no attempt to resist this step. Although he felt deeply hurt, he was weary, and bowed in dull dejection to whatever had to be. He drank too much almost every day, and when in his cups would weep and plaintively describe to two or three boon companions, who were his only constant associates, the sweet, peaceful, happy life he might have led. He always ended with mournful hints that his days were numbered, and that his broken heart would soon be carried to that place of healing where the bolsters were of black earth and the worms were chirurgeon.