Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - XII
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harsh and stern and ruthless; he had suffered these dear
hands to be wrung with anguish and these dear lips to open
in sighing.
His eyes took on a moist lustre at the thought, and he
felt suffused with the easy, indolent pity of a drunken man.
He stood there staring in sottish sentimentality, until the
rich flood of sunlight had shrunk to a thin bright streak
high among the dark rafters of the ceiling.
Then Marie Grubbe awoke.
“You!” she almost screamed, as she jumped up and
darted back so quickly that the chair tumbled along the
floor.
“Marie!” said Ulrik Frederik as tenderly as he could,
and held out his hands pleadingly to her.
“What brings you here? Have you come to complain
of the beating your harlot got?”
“No, no, Marie; let’s be friends—good friends!”
“You are drunk,” she said coldly, turning away from
him.
“Ay, Marie, I’m drunk with love of you—I’m drunk
and dizzy with your beauty, my heart’s darling.”
“Yes, truly, so dizzy that your eyesight has failed you,
and you have taken others for me.”
“Marie, Marie, leave your jealousy!”
She made a contemptuous gesture as if to brush him
aside.
“Indeed, Marie, you were jealous. You betrayed yourself
when you took that bridle rein, you know. But now
let the whole filthy rabble be forgotten as dead and given
over to the devil. Come, come, cease playing unkind to me
as I have played the faithless rogue to you with all these
make-believe pleasures and gallantries. We do nothing but
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