ABOUT a month later, on an April evening, there was a crowd gathered outside of Ribe cathedral. The Church Council was in session, and it was customary, while that lasted, to light the tapers in church three times a week, at eight o’clock in the evening. The gentry and persons of quality in town as well as the respectable citizens would assemble and walk up and down in the nave, while a skilful musician would play for them on the organ. The poorer people had to be content to listen from the outside.

Among the latter were Marie Grubbe and S?ren.

Their clothing was coarse and ragged, and they looked as if they had not had enough to eat every day; and no wonder, for it was not a profitable trade they plied. In an inn between Aarhus and Randers, S?ren had met a poor sick German, who for twenty marks had sold him a small, badly battered hurdy-gurdy, a motley fool’s suit, and an old checked rug. With these he and Marie gained their livelihood, going from market to market; she would turn the hurdy-gurdy, and he would stand on the checked rug, dressed in the motley clothes, lifting and doing tricks with some huge iron weights and long iron bars, which they borrowed of the tradesmen.

It was the market that had brought them to Ribe.

They were standing near the door, where a faint, faded strip of light shone on their pale faces and the dark mass of heads behind them. People were coming singly or in pairs or small groups, talking and laughing in well-bred manner to the very threshold of the church, but there they suddenly became silent, gazed gravely straight before them, and changed their gait.

S?ren was seized with a desire to see more of the show, - 236 - and whispered to Marie that they ought to go in; there was no harm in trying, nothing worse could happen to them than to be turned out. Marie shuddered inwardly at the thought that she should be turned out from a place where common artisans could freely go, and she held back S?ren, who was trying to draw her on; but suddenly she changed her mind, pressed eagerly forward, pulling S?ren after her, and walked in without the slightest trace of shrinking timidity or stealthy caution; indeed, she seemed determined to be noticed and turned out. At first no one stopped them, but just as she was about to step into the well-lit, crowded nave, a church warden, who was stationed there, caught sight of them. After casting one horrified glance up through the church, he advanced quickly upon them with lifted and outstretched hands, as if pushing them before him to the very threshold, and over it. He stood there for a moment, looking reproachfully at the crowd, as if he blamed it for what had occurred, then returned with measured tread, and took up his post, shuddering.

The crowd met the ejected ones with a burst of jeering laughter and a shower of mocking questions, which made S?ren growl and look around savagely, but Marie was content; she had bent to receive the blow which the respectable part of society always has ready for such as he, and the blow had fallen.

On the night before St. Oluf’s market, four men were sitting in one of the poorest inns at Aarhus, playing cards.

One of the players was S?ren. His partner, a handsome man with coal-black hair and a dark skin, was known as Jens Bottom, and was a juggler. The other two members of the party were joint owners of a mangy bear. Both were unusually - 237 - hideous: one had a horrible harelip, while the other was one-eyed, heavy jowled, and pock-marked, and was known as Rasmus Squint, plainly because the skin around the injured eye was drawn together in such a manner as to give him the appearance of being always ready to peer through a key-hole or some such small aperture.

The players were sitting at one end of the long table which ran under the window and held a candle and an earless cruse. Opposite them was a folding-table, fastened up against the wall with an iron hook. A bar ran across the other end of the room, and a thin, long-wicked candle, stuck into an old inverted funnel, threw a sleepy light over the shelf above, where some large, square flasks of brandy and bitters, some quart and pint measures, and half-a-dozen glasses had plenty of room beside a basket full of mustard seed and a large lantern with panes of broken glass. In one corner outside of the bar sat Marie Grubbe, knitting and drowsing, and in the other sat a man with body bent forward and elbows resting on his knees. He seemed intent on pulling his black felt hat as far down over his head as possible, and when that was accomplished, he would clutch the wide brim, slowly work the hat up from his head again, his eyes pinched together and the corners of his mouth twitching, probably with the pain of pulling his hair, then presently begin all over again.

“Then this is the last game to play,” said Jens Bottom, whose lead it was.

Rasmus Squint pounded the table with his knuckles as a sign to his partner, Salmand, to cover.

Salmand played two of trumps.

“A two!” cried Rasmus; “have you nothing but twos and threes in your hand?”

- 238 -

“Lord,” growled Salmand, “there’s always been poor folks and a few beggars.”

S?ren trumped with a six.

“Oh, oh,” Rasmus moaned, “are you goin’ to let him have it for a six? What the devil are you so stingy with your old cards for, Salmand?”

He played, and S?ren won the trick.

“Kerstie Meek,” said S?ren, playing four of hearts.

“And her half-crazy sister,” continued Rasmus, putting on four of diamonds.

“Maybe an ace is good enough,” said S?ren, covering with ace of trumps.

“Play, man, play, if you never played before!” cried Rasmus.

“That’s too costly,” whimpered Salmand, taking his turn.

“Then I’ll put on my seven and another seven,” said Jens.

S?ren turned the trick.

“And then nine of trumps,” Jens went on, leading.

“Then I’ll have to bring on my yellow nag,” cried Salmand, playing two of hearts.

“You’ll never stable it,” laughed S?ren, covering with four of spades.

“Forfeit!” roared Rasmus Squint, throwing down his cards. “Forfeit with two of hearts, that’s a good day’s work! Nay, nay, ’tis a good thing we’re not goin’ to play any more. Now let them kiss the cards that have won.”

They began to count the tricks, and while they were busy with this, a stout, opulently dressed man came in. He went at once to the folding-table, let it down, and took a seat nearest the wall. As he passed the players, he touched - 239 - his hat with his silver-knobbed cane, and said: “Good even to the house!”

“Thanks,” they replied, and all four spat.

The newcomer took out a paper full of tobacco and a long clay pipe, filled it, and pounded the table with his cane.

A barefoot girl brought him a brazier full of hot coals and a large earthenware cruse with a pewter cover. He took out from his vest-pocket a pair of small copper pincers, which he used to pick up bits of coal and put them in his pipe, drew the cruse to him, leaned back, and made himself as comfortable as the small space would allow.

“How much do you have to pay for a paper o’ tobacco like the one you’ve got there, master?” asked Salmand, as he began to fill his little pipe from a sealskin pouch held together with a red string.

“Sixpence,” said the man, adding, as if to apologize for such extravagance, “it’s very good for the lungs, as you might say.”

“How’s business?” Salmand went on, striking fire to light his pipe.

“Well enough, and thank you kindly for asking, well enough, but I’m getting old, as you might say.”

“Well,” said Rasmus Squint, “but then you’ve no need to run after customers, since they’re all brought to you.”

“Ay,” laughed the man, “in respect of that, it’s a good business, and, moreover, you don’t have to talk yourself hoarse persuading folks to buy your wares; they have to take ’em as they come, they can’t pick and choose.”

“And they don’t want anything thrown in,” Rasmus went on, “and don’t ask for more ............