Chapter V: Part 5

Thou sawest it, God—I repented me! But Olaf Skaktavl was too
swift of hand.

[OLAF SKAKTAVL _comes silently into the hall._

LADY INGER.

[_After a pause, without looking at him._] Is it done?

OLAF SKAKTAVL.

You need fear him no more; he will betray no one.

LADY INGER.

[_As before._] Then he is dumb?

OLAF SKAKTAVL.

Six inches of steel in his breast. I felled him with my left
hand.

LADY INGER.

Ay, ay—the right was too good for such work.

OLAF SKAKTAVL.

That is your affair;—the thought was yours.—And now to
Sweden! Peace be with you meanwhile! When next we meet at
Östråt, I shall bring another with me.

[_Goes out by the furthest door on the right._

LADY INGER.

Blood on my hands. Then ’twas to come to that!—He begins to
be dear-bought now.

[BIÖRN _comes in, with a number of Swedish_
MEN-AT-ARMS, _by the first door on the right._

ONE OF THE MEN-AT-ARMS.

Pardon, if you are the lady of the house——

LADY INGER.

Is it Count Sture ye seek?

THE MAN-AT-ARMS.

The same.

LADY INGER.

Then you are on the right track. The Count has sought refuge
with me.

THE MAN-AT-ARMS.

Refuge? Pardon, my noble lady,—you have no power to harbour
him; for——

LADY INGER.

That the Count himself has doubtless understood; and
therefore he has—ay, look for yourselves—therefore he has
taken his own life.

THE MAN-AT-ARMS.

His own life!

LADY INGER.

Look for yourselves, I say. You will find the corpse within
there. And since he already stands before another judge, it
is my prayer that he may be borne hence with all the honour
that beseems his noble birth.—Biörn, you know my own coffin
has stood ready this many a year in the secret chamber. [_To
the_ MEN-AT-ARMS.] I pray that in it you will bear Count
Sture’s body to Sweden.

THE MAN-AT-ARMS.

It shall be as you command. [_To one of the others._] Haste
with these tidings to Jens Bielke. He holds the road with
the rest of the troop. We others must in and——

_One of the_ MEN-AT-ARMS _goes out to the right; the
others go with_ BIÖRN _into the room on the
left._

LADY INGER.

[_Moves about for a time in uneasy silence._]

If Count Sture had not taken such hurried leave of the
world, within a month he had hung on a gallows, or had lain
for all his days in a dungeon. Had he been better served
with such a lot?

Or else he had bought his life by betraying my child into
the hands of my foes. Is it _I_, then, that have slain him?
Does not even the wolf defend her cubs? Who dare condemn me
for striking my claws into him that would have reft me of my
flesh and blood?—It had to be. No mother but would have done
even as I.

But ’tis no time for idle musings now. I must to work.

[_Sits down by the table on the left._

I will write to all my friends throughout the land. They
must rise as one man to support the great cause. A new
king,—regent first, and then king——

_Begins to write, but falls into thought, and says
softly:_

Who will be chosen in the dead man’s place?—A king’s
mother—? ’Tis a fair word. It has but one blemish—the
hateful likeness to another word.—King’s _mother_ and—king’s
_murderer_.[21]—King’s murderer—one that takes a king’s
life. King’s mother—one that gives a king life.

[_She rises._

Well, then; I will make good what I have taken.—My son shall
be a king!

_She sits down again and begins writing, but pushes
the paper away again, and leans back in her
chair._

There is ever an eerie feeling in a house where lies a
corpse. ’Tis therefore my mood is so strange. [_Turns her
head to one side as if speaking to some one._] Not
therefore? Why else should it be?

[_Broodingly._

Is there such a great gulf, then, between openly striking
down a foe and slaying one—thus? Knut Alfson had cleft many
a brow with his sword; yet was his own as peaceful as a
child’s. Why then do I ever see this—[_makes a motion as
though striking with a knife_]—-this stab in the heart—and
the gush of red blood after?

_Rings, and goes on speaking while shifting about
her papers._

Hereafter I will have nought to do with such ugly sights. I
will be at work both day and night. And in a month—in a
month my son will be here——

BIÖRN.

[_Entering._] Did you strike the bell, my lady?

LADY INGER.

[_Writing._] Bring more lights. See to it in future that
there are many lights in the room.

[BIÖRN _goes out again to the left._

LADY INGER.

_After a pause, rises impetuously._] No, no, no;—I cannot
guide the pen to-night! My head is burning and throbbing——

[_Startled, listens._

What is _that_? Ah, they are screwing the lid on the coffin.

They told me when I was a child the story of Sir Aage,[22]
who rose up and walked with his coffin on his back.—If _he_
in there bethought him one night to come with the coffin on
his back, and thank me for the loan? [_Laughs quietly._]
H’m—what have we grown people to do with childish fancies?
[_Vehemently._] Nevertheless, such stories do no good! They
give uneasy dreams. When my son is king, they shall be
forbidden.

_Paces up and down once or twice; then opens the
window._

How long is it, commonly, ere a body begins to rot? All the
rooms must be aired. ’Tis not wholesome here till that be
done.

BIÖRN _comes in with two lighted
branch-candlesticks, which he places on the
tables._

LADY INGER.

[_Who has set to work at the papers again._] It is well. See
you forget not what I have said. Many lights on the table!

What are they about now in there?

BIÖRN.

They are still screwing down the coffin-lid.

LADY INGER.

[_Writing._] Are they screwing it down _tight_?

BIÖRN.

As tight as need be.

LADY INGER.

Ay, ay—who can tell how tight it needs to be? Do you see
that ’tis well done.

[_Goes up to him with her hand full of papers, and
says mysteriously:_

Biörn, you are an old man; but _one_ counsel I will give
you. Be on your guard against all men—both those that are
dead and those that are still to die.—Now go in—go in and
see to it that they screw the lid down tightly.

BIÖRN.

[_Softly, shaking his head._] I cannot make her out.

[_Goes back again into the room on the left._

LADY INGER.

[_Begins to seal a letter, but throws it down half-closed;
walks up and down awhile, and then says vehemently:_] Were I
a coward I had never done it—never to all eternity! Were I a
coward, I had shrieked to myself: Refrain, while there is
yet a shred of hope for the saving of thy soul!

[_Her eye falls on Sten Sture’s picture; she turns
to avoid seeing it, and says softly:_

He is laughing down at me as though he were alive! Pah!

[_Turns the picture to the wall without looking at it._

Wherefore did you laugh? Was it because I did evil to your
son? But the other,—is not he your son too? And he is _mine_
as well; mark that!

[_Glances stealthily along the row of pictures._

So wild as they are to-night, I have never seen them yet.
Their eyes follow me wherever I may go. [_Stamps on the
floor._] I will not have it! I will have peace in my house!
[_Begins to turn all the pictures to the wall._] Ay, if it
were the Holy Virgin herself——Thinkest thou _now_ is the
time——? Why didst thou never hear my prayers, my burning
prayers, that I might have my child again? Why? Because the
monk of Wittenberg is right: There is no mediator between
God and man!

[_She draws her breath heavily, and continues in
ever-increasing distraction._

’Tis well that I know what to think in such things. There
was no one to see what was done in there. There is none to
bear witness against me.

[_Suddenly stretches out her hands and whispers:_

My son! My beloved child! Come to me! Here I am!—Hush! I
will tell you something: They hate me up there—beyond the
stars—because I bore you into the world. ’Twas their will
that I should bear the Lord God’s standard over all the
land. But I went my own way. That is why I have had to
suffer so much and so long.

BIÖRN.

[_Comes from the room on the left._] My lady, I have to tell
you—Christ save me—what is this?

LADY INGER.

[_Has climbed up into the high-seat by the right-hand
wall._] Hush! Hush! I am the King’s mother. My son has been
chosen king. The struggle was hard ere it came to this—for
’twas with the Almighty One himself I had to strive.

NILS LYKKE.

[_Comes in breathless from the right._] He is saved! I have
Jens Bielke’s promise. Lady Inger,—know that——

LADY INGER.

Peace, I say! look how the people swarm.

[_A funeral hymn is heard from the room within._

There comes the coronation train. What a throng! All men bow
themselves before the King’s mother. Ay, ay; has she not
fought for her son—even till her hands grew red
withal?—Where are my daughters? I see them not.

NILS LYKKE.

God’s blood!—what has befallen here?

LADY INGER.

My daughters—my fair daughters! I have none any more. I had
_one_ left, and her I lost even as she was mounting her
bridal bed. [_Whispers._] In it lay Lucia dead. There was no
room for two.

NILS LYKKE.

Ah—it has come to this! The Lord’s vengeance is upon me.

LADY INGER.

Can you see him? Look, look! ’Tis the King. It is Inger
Gyldenlöve’s son! I know him by the crown and by Sten
Sture’s ring that he wears round his neck. Hark, what a
joyful sound! He is coming! Soon will he be in my arms!
Ha-ha!—who conquers, God or I?

[_The_ MEN-AT-ARMS _come out with the coffin._

LADY INGER.

[_Clutches at her head and shrieks._] The corpse!
[_Whispers._] Pah! ’Tis a hideous dream. [_Sinks back
into the high-seat._

JENS BIELKE.

[_Who has come in from the right, stops and cries in
astonishment._] Dead! Then after all——

ONE OF THE MEN-AT-ARMS.

’Twas he himself that——

JENS BIELKE.

[_With a look at_ NILS LYKKE.] He himself——?

NILS LYKKE.

Hush!

LADY INGER.

[_Faintly, coming to herself._] Ay, right;—now I remember
all.

JENS BIELKE.

[_To the_ MEN-AT-ARMS.] Set down the corpse. It is not Count
Sture.

ONE OF THE MEN-AT-ARMS.

Your pardon, Captain;—this ring that he wore around his
neck——

NILS LYKKE.

[_Seizes his arm._] Be still!

LADY INGER.

[_Starts up._] The ring? The ring!

[_Rushes up and snatches the ring from him._

Sten Sture’s ring! [_With a shriek._] Oh God, oh God—my son!

[_Throws herself down on the coffin._

THE MEN-AT-ARMS.

Her son?

JENS BIELKE.

[_At the same time._] Inger Gyldenlöve’s son?

NILS LYKKE.

So is it.

JENS BIELKE.

But why did you not tell me——?

BIÖRN.

[_Trying to raise her up._] Help! help! My lady—what ails
you? what lack you?

LADY INGER.

[_In a faint voice, half raising herself._] What lack I? One
coffin more. A grave beside my child——

[_Sinks again, senseless, on the coffin._ NILS LYKKE
_goes hastily out to the right. General
consternation among the rest._

-----

Footnote 12:

Pronounce _Knoot_.

Footnote 13:

Pronounce _Stoorë_.

Footnote 14:

Pronounce _Stayn Stoorë_.

Footnote 15:

Pronounce _Tronyem_.

Footnote 16:

Pronounce _Mayraytë_.

Footnote 17:

Pronounce _Loonghë_.

Footnote 18:

Pronounce _Ahkers-hoos_.

Footnote 19:

That is, Peter the Chancellor.

Footnote 20:

King Christian II. of Denmark (the perpetrator of the
massacre at Stockholm known as the Blood-Bath) fled to
Holland in 1523, five years before the date assigned to
this play, in order to escape death or imprisonment at the
hands of his rebellious nobles, who summoned his uncle,
Frederick I., to the throne. Returning to Denmark in 1532,
Christian was thrown into prison, where he spent the last
twenty-seven years of his life.

Footnote 21:

The words in the original are “Kongemoder” and
“Kongemorder,” a difference of one letter only.

Footnote 22:

Pronounce _Oaghë_.

-----

THE FEAST AT SOLHOUG
(1856)

THE AUTHOR’S PREFACE TO THE
SECOND EDITION

I wrote _The Feast at Solhoug_ in Bergen in the summer of 1855—that
is to say, about twenty-eight years ago.

The play was acted for the first time on January 2, 1856, also at
Bergen, as a gala performance on the anniversary of the foundation
of the Norwegian Stage.

As I was then stage-manager of the Bergen Theatre, it was I myself
who conducted the rehearsals of my play. It received an excellent, a
remarkably sympathetic interpretation. Acted with pleasure and
enthusiasm, it was received in the same spirit. The “Bergen
emotionalism,” which is said to have decided the result of the
latest elections in those parts, ran high that evening in the
crowded theatre. The performance ended with repeated calls for the
author and for the actors. Later in the evening I was serenaded by
the orchestra, accompanied by a great part of the audience. I almost
think that I went so far as to make some kind of speech from my
window; certain I am that I felt extremely happy.

A couple of months later, _The Feast at Solhoug_ was played in
Christiania. There also it was received by the public with much
approbation, and the day after the first performance Björnson wrote
a friendly, youthfully ardent article on it in the _Morgenblad_. It
was not a notice or criticism proper, but rather a free, fanciful
improvisation on the play and the performance.

On this, however, followed the real criticism, written by the real
critics.

How did a man in the Christiania of those days—by which I mean the
years between 1850 and 1860, or thereabouts—become a real literary,
and in particular dramatic, critic?

As a rule, the process was as follows: After some preparatory
exercises in the columns of the _Samfundsblad_, and after having
frequently listened to the discussions which went on in Treschow’s
café or at “Ingebret’s” after the play, the future critic betook
himself to Johan Dahl’s bookshop and ordered from Copenhagen a copy
of J. L. Heiberg’s _Prose Works_, among which was to be found—so he
had heard it said—an essay entitled _On the Vaudeville_. This essay
was in due course read, ruminated on, and possibly to a certain
extent understood. From Heiberg’s writings the young man, moreover,
learned of a controversy which that author had carried on in his day
with Professor Oehlenschläger and with the Sorö poet, Hauch. And he
was simultaneously made aware that J. L. Baggesen (the author of
_Letters from the Dead_) had at a still earlier period made a
similar attack on the great author who wrote both _Axel and Valborg_
and _Hakon Jarl_.

A quantity of other information useful to a critic was to be
extracted from these writings. From them one learned, for instance,
that taste obliged a good critic to be scandalised by a hiatus. Did
the young critical Jeronimuses of Christiania encounter such a
monstrosity in any new verse, they were as certain as their
prototype in Holberg to shout their “Hoity-toity! the world will not
last till Easter!”

The origin of another peculiar characteristic of the criticism then
prevalent in the Norwegian capital was long a puzzle to me. Every
time a new author published a book or had a little play acted, our
critics were in the habit of flying into an ungovernable passion and
behaving as if the publication of the book or the performance of the
play were a mortal insult to themselves and the newspapers in which
they wrote. As already remarked, I puzzled long over this
peculiarity. At last I got to the bottom of the matter. Whilst
reading the Danish _Monthly Journal of Literature_ I was struck by
the fact that old State-Councillor Molbech was invariably seized
with a fit of rage when a young author published a book or had a
play acted in Copenhagen.

Thus, or in a manner closely resembling this, had the tribunal
qualified itself, which now, in the daily press, summoned _The Feast
at Solhoug_ to the bar of criticism in Christiania. It was
principally composed of young men who, as regards criticism, lived
upon loans from various quarters. Their critical thoughts had long
ago been thought and expressed by others; their opinions had long
ere now been formulated elsewhere. Their æsthetic principles were
borrowed; their critical method was borrowed; the polemical tactics
they employed were borrowed in every particular, great and small.
Their very frame of mind was borrowed. Borrowing, borrowing, here,
there, and everywhere! The single original thing about them was that
they invariably made a wrong and unseasonable application of their
borrowings.

It can surprise no one that this body, the members of which, as
critics, supported themselves by borrowing, should have presupposed
similar action on my part, as author. Two, possibly more than two,
of the newspapers promptly discovered that I had borrowed this,
that, and the other thing from Henrik Hertz’s play, _Svend Dyring’s
House_.

This is a baseless and indefensible critical assertion. It is
evidently to be ascribed to the fact that the metre of the ancient
ballads is employed in both plays. But my tone is quite different
from Hertz’s; the language of my play has a different ring; a light
summer breeze plays over the rhythm of my verse; over that of
Hertz’s brood the storms of autumn.

Nor, as regards the characters, the action, and the contents of the
plays generally, is there any other or any greater resemblance
between them than that which is a natural consequence of the
derivation of the subjects of both from the narrow circle of ideas
in which the ancient ballads move.

It might be maintained with quite as much, or even more, reason that
Hertz in his _Svend Dyring’s House_ had borrowed, and that to no
inconsiderable extent, from Heinrich von Kleist’s _Käthchen von
Heilbronn_, a play written at the beginning of this century.
Käthchen’s relation to Count Wetterstrahl is in all essentials the
same as Ragnhild’s to the knight, Stig Hvide. Like Ragnhild,
Käthchen is compelled by a mysterious, inexplicable power to follow
the man she loves wherever he goes, to steal secretly after him, to
lay herself down to sleep near him, to come back to him, as by some
innate compulsion, however often she may be driven away. And other
instances of supernatural interference are to be met with both in
Kleist’s and in Hertz’s play.

But does any one doubt that it would be possible, with a little
good- or a little ill-will, to discover among still older dramatic
literature a play from which it could be maintained that Kleist had
borrowed here and there in his _Käthchen von Heilbronn_? I, for my
part, do not doubt it. But such suggestions of indebtedness are
futile. What makes a work of art the spiritual property of its
creator is the fact that he has imprinted on it the stamp of his own
personality. Therefore I hold that, in spite of the above-mentioned
points of resemblance, _Svend Dyring’s House_ is as incontestably
and entirely an original work by Henrik Hertz as _Käthchen von
Heilbronn_ is an original work by Heinrich von Kleist.

I advance the same claim on my own behalf as regards _The Feast at
Solhoug_, and I trust that, for the future, each of the three
namesakes[23] will be permitted to keep, in its entirety, what
rightfully belongs to him.

In writing of _The Feast at Solhoug_ in connection with _Svend
Dyring’s House_, George Brandes expresses the opinion, not that the
former play is founded upon any idea borrowed from the latter, but
that it has been written under an influence exercised by the older
author upon the younger. Brandes invariably criticises my work in
such a friendly spirit that I have all reason to be obliged to him
for this suggestion, as for so much else.

Nevertheless I must maintain that he, too, is in this instance
mistaken. I have never specially admired Henrik Hertz as a
dramatist. Hence it is impossible for me to believe that he should,
unknown to myself, have been able to exercise any influence on my
dramatic production.

As regards this point and the matter in general, I might confine
myself to referring those interested to the writings of Dr. Valfrid
Vasenius, lecturer on Æsthetics at the University of Helsingfors. In
the thesis which gained him his degree of Doctor of Philosophy,
_Henrik Ibsen’s Dramatic Poetry in its First Stage_ (1879), and also
in _Henrik Ibsen: The Portrait of a Skald_ (Jos. Seligman & Co.,
Stockholm, 1882), Vasenius states and supports his views on the
subject of the play at present in question, supplementing them in
the latter work by what I told him, very briefly, when we were
together at Munich three years ago.

But, to prevent all misconception, I will now myself give a short
account of the origin of _The Feast at Solhoug_.

I began this Preface with the statement that _The Feast at Solhoug_
was written in the summer of 1855.

In 1854 I had written _Lady Inger of Östråt_. This was a task which
had obliged me to devote much attention to the literature and
history of Norway during the Middle Ages, especially the latter part
of that period. I did my utmost to familiarise myself with the
manners and customs, with the emotions, thoughts, and language, of
the men of those days.

The period, however, is not one over which the student is tempted to
linger, nor does it present much material suitable for dramatic
treatment.

Consequently I soon deserted it for the Saga period. But the Sagas
of the Kings, and in general the more strictly historical traditions
of that far-off age, did not attract me greatly; at that time I was
unable to put the quarrels between kings and chieftains, parties and
clans, to any dramatic purpose. This was to happen later.

In the Icelandic “family” Sagas, on the other hand, I found in
abundance what I required in the shape of human garb for the moods,
conceptions, and thoughts which at that time occupied me, or were,
at least, more or less distinctly present in my mind. With these
Old-Norse contributions to the personal history of our Saga period I
had had no previous acquaintance; I had hardly so much as heard them
named. But now N. M. Petersen’s excellent translation—excellent, at
least, as far as the style is concerned—fell into my hands. In the
pages of these family chronicles, with their variety of scenes and
of relations between man and man, between woman and woman, in short,
between human being and human being, there met me a personal,
eventful, really living life; and as the result of my intercourse
with all these distinctly individual men and women, there presented
themselves to my mind’s eye the first rough, indistinct outlines of
_The Vikings at Helgeland_.

How far the details of that drama then took shape, I am no longer
able to say. But I remember perfectly that the two figures of which
I first caught sight were the two women who in course of time became
Hiördis and Dagny. There was to be a great banquet in the play, with
passion-rousing, fateful quarrels during its course. Of other
characters and passions, and situations produced by these, I meant
to include whatever seemed to me most typical of the life which the
Sagas reveal. In short, it was my intention to reproduce
dramatically exactly what the Saga of the Volsungs gives in epic
form.

I made no complete, connected plan at that time; but it was evident
to me that such a drama was to be my first undertaking.

Various obstacles intervened. Most of them were of a personal
nature, and these were probably the most decisive; but it
undoubtedly had its significance that I happened just at this time
to make a careful study of Landstad’s collection of Norwegian
ballads, published two years previously. My mood of the moment was
more in harmony with the literary romanticism of the Middle Ages
than with the deeds of the Sagas, with poetical than with prose
composition, with the word-melody of the ballad than with the
characterisation of the Saga.

Thus it happened that the fermenting, formless design for the
tragedy, _The Vikings at Helgeland_, transformed itself temporarily
into the lyric drama, _The Feast at Solhoug_.

The two female characters, the foster sisters Hiördis and Dagny, of
the projected tragedy, became the sisters Margit and Signë of the
completed lyric drama. The derivation of the latter pair from the
two women of the Saga at once becomes apparent when attention is
drawn to it. The relationship is unmistakable. The tragic hero, so
far only vaguely outlined, Sigurd, the far-travelled Viking, the
welcome guest at the courts of kings, became the knight and
minstrel, Gudmund Alfson, who has likewise been long absent in
foreign lands, and has lived in the king’s household. His attitude
towards the two sisters was changed, to bring it into accordance
with the change in time and circumstances; but the position of both
sisters to him remained practically the same as that in the
projected and afterwards completed tragedy. The fateful banquet, the
presentation of which had seemed to me of the first importance in my
original plan, became in the drama the scene upon which its
personages made their appearance; it became the background against
which the action stood out, and communicated to the picture as a
whole the general tone at which I aimed. The ending of the play was,
undoubtedly, softened and subdued into harmony with its character as
drama, not tragedy; but orthodox æstheticians may still, perhaps,
find it disputable whether, in this ending, a touch of pure tragedy
has not been left behind, to testify to the origin of the drama.

Upon this subject, however, I shall not enter further at present. My
object has simply been to maintain and prove that the play under
consideration, like all my other dramatic works, is an inevitable
outcome of the tenor of my life at a certain period. It had its
origin within, and was not the result of any outward impression or
influence.

This, and no other, is the true account of the genesis of _The Feast
at Solhoug_.

HENRIK IBSEN.

ROME, April, 1883.

-----

Footnote 23:

Heinrich von Kleist, Henrik Hertz, Henrik Ibsen.

-----

CHARACTERS

BENGT GAUTESON, _Master of Solhoug._
MARGIT, _his wife._
SIGNË, _her sister._
GUDMUND ALFSON, _their kinsman._
KNUT GESLING, _the King’s sheriff._
ERIK OF HEGGË, _his friend._
A HOUSE-CARL.
ANOTHER HOUSE-CARL.
THE KING’S ENVOY.
AN OLD MAN.
A MAIDEN.
GUESTS, BOTH MEN AND LADIES.
MEN OF KNUT GESLING’S TRAIN.
SERVING-MEN AND MAIDENS AT SOLHOUG.

-------

_The action passes at Solhoug in the Fourteenth Century._

PRONUNCIATION OF NAMES: Gudmund = _Goodmoond_. The g in
“Margit” and in “Gesling” is hard, as in “go,” or, in
“Gesling,” it may be pronounced as y—“Yesling.” The first o
in “Solhoug” ought to have the sound of a very long “oo.”

THE FEAST AT SOLHOUG
PLAY IN THREE ACTS

ACT FIRST

_A stately room, with doors in the back and to both sides.
In front, on the right, a bay window with small round
panes, set in lead, and near the window a table, on
which is a quantity of feminine ornaments. Along the
left wall, a longer table with silver goblets, beakers
and drinking-horns. The door in the back leads out to a
passage-way,[24] through which can be seen a spacious
fiord-landscape._

BENGT GAUTESON, MARGIT, KNUT GESLING _and_ ERIK OF HEGGË
_are seated around the table on the left. In the
background are_ KNUT’S _followers, some seated, some
standing; one or two flagons of ale are handed round
among them. Far off are heard church bells, ringing to
Mass._

ERIK.

[_Rising at the table._] In one word, now, what answer have
you to make to my wooing on Knut Gesling’s behalf?

BENGT.

[_Glancing uneasily towards his wife._] Well, I—to me it
seems—[_As she remains silent._] H’m, Margit, let us first
hear your thought in the matter.

MARGIT.

[_Rising._] Sir Knut Gesling, I have long known all that
Erik of Heggë has told of you. I know full well that you
come of a lordly house; you are rich in gold and gear, and
you stand in high favour with our royal master.

BENGT.

[_To_ KNUT.] In high favour—so say I too.

MARGIT.

And doubtless my sister could choose her no doughtier mate—

BENGT.

None doughtier; that is what _I_ say too.

MARGIT.

—if so be that you can win her to think kindly of you.

BENGT.

[_Anxiously, and half aside._] Nay—nay, my dear wife—

KNUT.

[_Springing up._] Stands it so, Dame Margit! You think that
your sister—

BENGT.

[_Seeking to calm him._] Nay, nay, Knut Gesling! Have
patience, now. You must understand us aright.

MARGIT.

There is naught in my words to wound you. My sister knows
you only by the songs that are made about you—and these
songs sound but ill in gentle ears.

No peaceful home is your father’s house.
With your lawless, reckless crew,
Day out, day in, must you hold carouse—
God help her who mates with you.
God help the maiden you lure or buy
With gold and with forests green—
Soon will her sore heart long to lie
Still in the grave, I ween.

ERIK.

Aye, aye—true enough—Knut Gesling lives not overpeaceably.
But there will soon come a change in that, when he gets him
a wife in his hall.

KNUT.

And this I would have you mark, Dame Margit: it may be a
week since, I was at a feast at Heggë, at Erik’s bidding,
whom here you see. The ale was strong; and as the evening
wore on I vowed a vow that Signë, your fair sister, should
be my wife, and that before the year was out. Never shall it
be said of Knut Gesling that he brake any vow. You can see,
then, that you must e’en choose me for your sister’s
husband—be it with your will or against it.

MARGIT.

Ere _that_ may be, I must tell you plain,
You must rid yourself of your ravening train.
You must scour no longer with yell and shout
O’er the country-side in a galloping rout;
You must still the shudder that spreads around
When Knut Gesling is to a bride-ale bound.
Courteous must your mien be when a-feasting you ride;
Let your battle-axe hang at home at the chimney-side—
It ever sits loose in your hand, well you know,
When the mead has gone round and your brain is aglow.
From no man his rightful gear shall you wrest,
You shall harm no harmless maiden;
You shall send to no man the shameless hest
That when his path crosses yours, he were best
Come with his grave-clothes laden.
And if you will so bear you till the year be past,
You may win my sister for your bride at last.

KNUT.

[_With suppressed rage._] You know how to order your words
cunningly, Dame Margit. Truly, you should have been a
priest, and not your husband’s wife.

BENGT.

Oh, for that matter, I too could—

KNUT.

[_Paying no heed to him._] But I would have you take note
that had a sword-bearing man spoken to me in such wise—

BENGT.

Nay, but listen, Knut Gesling—you must understand us!

KNUT.

[_As before._] Well, briefly, he should have learnt that the
axe sits loose in my hand, as you said but now.

BENGT.

[_Softly._] There we have it! Margit, Margit, this will
never end well.

MARGIT.

[_To_ KNUT.] You asked for a forthright answer, and that I
have given you.

KNUT.

Well, well; I will not reckon too closely with you, Dame
Margit. You have more wit than all the rest of us together.
Here is my hand;—it may be there was somewhat of reason in
the keen-edged words you spoke to me.

MARGIT.

This I like well; now are you already on the right way to
amendment. Yet one word more—to-day we hold a feast at
Solhoug.

KNUT.

A feast?

BENGT.

Yes, Knut Gesling: you must know that it is our wedding-day;
this day three years ago made me Dame Margit’s husband.

MARGIT.

[_Impatiently, interrupting._] As I said, we hold a feast
to-day. When Mass is over, and your other business done, I
would have you ride hither again, and join in the banquet.
Then you can learn to know my sister.

KNUT.

So be it, Dame Margit; I thank you. Yet ’twas not to go to
Mass that I rode hither this morning. Your kinsman, Gudmund
Alfson, was the cause of my coming.

MARGIT.

[_Starts._] He! My kinsman? Where would you seek him?

KNUT.

His homestead lies behind the headland, on the other side of
the fiord.

MARGIT.

But he himself is far away.

ERIK.

Be not so sure; he may be nearer than you think.

KNUT.

[_Whispers._] Hold your peace!

MARGIT.

Nearer? What mean you?

KNUT.

Have you not heard, then, that Gudmund Alfson has come back
to Norway? He came with the Chancellor Audun of Hegranes,
who was sent to France to bring home our new Queen.

MARGIT.

True enough; but in these very days the King holds his
wedding-feast in full state at Bergen, and there is Gudmund
Alfson a guest.

BENGT.

And there could we too have been guests had my wife so
willed it.

ERIK.

[_Aside to_ KNUT.] Then Dame Margit knows not that—?

KNUT.

[_Aside._] So it would seem; but keep your counsel.
[_Aloud._] Well, well, Dame Margit, I must go my way none
the less, and see what may betide. At nightfall I will be
here again.

MARGIT.

And then you must show whether you have power to bridle your
unruly spirit.

BENGT.

Aye, mark you that.

MARGIT.

You must lay no hand on your axe—hear you, Knut Gesling?

BENGT.

Neither on your axe, nor on your knife, nor on any other
weapon whatsoever.

MARGIT.

For then can you never hope to be one of our kindred.

BENGT.

Nay, that is our firm resolve.

KNUT.

[_To_ MARGIT.] Have no fear.

BENGT.

And what we have firmly resolved stands fast.

KNUT.

That I like well, Sir Bengt Gauteson. I, too, say the same;
and I have pledged myself at the feast-board to wed your
kinswoman. You may be sure that my pledge, too, will stand
fast.—God’s peace till to-night!

[_He and_ ERIK, _with their men, go out at the back._

[_BENGT accompanies them to the door. The sound of the bells
has in the meantime ceased._

BENGT.

[_Returning._] Methought he seemed to threaten us as he
departed.

MARGIT.

[_Absently._] Aye, so it seemed.

BENGT.

Knut Gesling is an ill man to fall out with. And, when I
bethink me, we gave him over many hard words. But come, let
us not brood over that. To-day we must be merry, Margit!—as
I trow we have both good reason to be.

MARGIT.

[_With a weary smile._] Aye, surely, surely.

BENGT.

’Tis true I was no mere stripling when I courted you. But
well I wot I was the richest man for many and many a mile.
You were a fair maiden, and nobly born; but your dowry would
have tempted no wooer.

MARGIT.

[_To herself._] Yet was I then so rich.

BENGT.

What said you, my wife?

MARGIT.

Oh, nothing, nothing. [_Crosses to the right._] I will deck
me with pearls and rings. Is not to-night a time of
rejoicing for me?

BENGT.

I am fain to hear you say it. Let me see that you deck you
in your best attire, that our guests may say: Happy she who
mated with Bengt Gauteson.—But now must I to the larder;
there are many things to-day that must not be overlooked.

[_He goes out to the left._

MARGIT.

[_Sinks down on a chair by the table on the right._

’Twas well he departed. While here he remains
Meseems the blood freezes within my veins;
Meseems that a crushing might and cold
My heart in its clutches doth still enfold.

[_With tears she cannot repress._

_He_ is my husband! I am _his_ wife!
How long, how long lasts a woman’s life?
Sixty years, mayhap—God pity me
Who am not yet full twenty-three!

[_More calmly, after a short silence._

Hard, so long in a gilded cage to pine;
Hard a hopeless prisoner’s lot—and mine.

[_Absently fingering the ornaments on the table, and
beginning to put them on._

With rings, and with jewels, and all of my best
By his order myself I am decking—
But oh, if to-day were my burial-feast,
’Twere little that I’d be recking.

[_Breaking off._

But if thus I brood I must needs despair;
I know a song that can lighten care.

[_She sings._

The Hill-King to the sea did ride;
—Oh, sad are my days and dreary—
To woo a maiden to be his bride.
—I am waiting for thee, I am weary.—

The Hill-King rode to Sir Håkon’s hold;
—Oh, sad are my days and dreary—
Little Kirsten sat combing her locks of gold.
—I am waiting for thee, I am weary.—

The Hill-King wedded the maiden fair;
—Oh, sad are my days and dreary—
A silvern girdle she ever must wear.
—I am waiting for thee, I am weary.—

The Hill-King wedded the lily-wand,
—Oh, sad are my days and dreary—
With fifteen gold rings on either hand.
—I am waiting for thee, I am weary.—

Three summers passed, and there passed full five;
—Oh, sad are my days and dreary—
In the hill little Kirsten was buried alive.
—I am waiting for thee, I am weary.—

Five summers passed, and there passed full nine;
—Oh, sad are my days and dreary—
Little Kirsten ne’er saw the glad sunshine.
—I am waiting for thee, I am weary.—

In the dale there are flowers and the birds’ blithe song;
—Oh, sad are my days and dreary—
In the hill there is gold and the night is long
—I am waiting for thee, I am weary.—

[_She rises and crosses the room._

How oft in the gloaming would Gudmund sing
This song in my father’s hall.
There was somewhat in it—some strange, sad thing
That took my heart in thrall;
Though I scarce understood, I could ne’er forget—
And the words and the thoughts they haunt me yet.

[_Stops horror-struck._

Rings of red gold! And a belt beside—!
’Twas with gold the Hill-King wedded his bride!

[_In despair; sinks down on a bench beside the table
on the left._

Woe! Woe! I myself am the Hill-King’s wife!
And there cometh none to free me from the prison of my life.

[SIGNË, _radiant with gladness, comes running in
from the back._

SIGNË.

[_Calling._] Margit, Margit,—he is coming!

MARGIT.

[_Starting up._] Coming? Who is coming?

SIGNË.

Gudmund, our kinsman!

MARGIT.

Gudmund Alfson! Here! How can you think—?

SIGNË.

Oh, I am sure of it.

MARGIT.

[_Crosses to the right._] Gudmund Alfson is at the
wedding-feast in the King’s hall; you know that as well as
I.

SIGNË.

Maybe; but none the less I am sure it was he.

MARGIT.

Have you seen him?

SIGNË.

Oh, no, no; but I must tell you—

MARGIT.

Yes, haste you—tell on!

SIGNË.

’Twas early morn, and the church bells rang,
To Mass I was fain to ride;
The birds in the willows twittered and sang,
In the birch-groves far and wide.
All earth was glad in the clear, sweet day;
And from church it had well-nigh stayed me;
For still, as I rode down the shady way,
Each rosebud beguiled and delayed me.
Silently into the church I stole;
The priest at the altar was bending;
He chanted and read, and with awe in their soul,
The folk to God’s word were attending.
Then a voice rang out o’er the fiord so blue;
And the carven angels, the whole church through,
Turned round, methought, to listen thereto.

MARGIT.

O Signë, say on! Tell me all, tell me all!

SIGNË.

’Twas as though a strange, irresistible call
Summoned me forth from the worshipping flock,
Over hill and dale, over mead and rock.
’Mid the silver birches I listening trod,
Moving as though in a dream;
Behind me stood empty the house of God;
Priest and people were lured by the magic, ’twould seem,
Of the tones that still through the air did stream.
No sound they made; they were quiet as death;
To hearken the song-birds held their breath,
The lark dropped earthward, the cuckoo was still,
As the voice re-echoed from hill to hill.

MARGIT.

Go on.

SIGNË.

They crossed themselves, women and men;

[_Pressing her hands to her breast._

But strange thoughts arose within me then;
For the heavenly song familiar grew:
Gudmund oft sang it to me and you—
Ofttimes has Gudmund carolled it,
And all he e’er sang in my heart is writ.

MARGIT.

And you think that it may be—?

SIGNË.

I know it is he!
I know it! I know it! You soon shall see!

[_Laughing._

From far-off lands, at the last, in the end,
Each song-bird homewards his flight doth bend!
I am so happy—though why I scarce know—!
Margit, what say you? I’ll quickly go
And take down his harp, that has hung so long
In there on the wall that ’tis rusted quite;
Its golden strings I will polish bright,
And tune them to ring and to sing with his song.

MARGIT.

[_Absently._]

Do as you will—

SIGNË.

[_Reproachfully._]

Nay, this is not right.

[_Embracing her._

But when Gudmund comes will your heart grow light—
Light, as when I was a child, again.

MARGIT.

[_To herself._]

So much has changed—ah, so much!—since then—

SIGNË.

Margit, you _shall_ be happy and gay!
Have you not serving-maids many, and thralls?
Costly robes hang in rows on your chamber walls;
How rich you are, none can say.
By day you can ride in the forest deep,
Chasing the hart and the hind;
By night in a lordly bower you can sleep,
On pillows of silk reclined.

MARGIT.

[_Looking towards the window._]

And he comes to Solhoug! He, as a guest!

SIGNË.

What say you?

MARGIT.

[_Turning._]

Naught.—Deck you out in your best.
That fortune which seemeth to you so bright
May await yourself.

SIGNË.

Margit, say what you mean!

MARGIT.

[_Stroking her hair._]

I mean—nay, no more! Twill shortly be seen—;
I mean—should a wooer ride hither to-night—?

SIGNË.

A wooer? For whom?

MARGIT.

For you.

SIGNË.

[_Laughing._]

For me?
That he’d ta’en the wrong road full soon he would see.

MARGIT.

What would you say if a valiant knight
Begged for your hand?

SIGNË.

That my heart was too light
To think upon suitors or choose a mate.

MARGIT.

But if he were mighty, and rich, and great?

SIGNË.

Oh, were he a king, did his palace hold
Stores of rich garments and ruddy gold,
’Twould ne’er set my heart desiring.
With you I am rich enough here, meseems,
With summer and sun and the murmuring streams,
And the birds in the branches quiring.
Dear sister mine—here shall my dwelling be;
And to give any wooer my hand in fee,
For that I am too busy, and my heart too full of glee!

[SIGNË _runs out to the left, singing._

MARGIT.

[_After a pause._] Gudmund Alfson coming hither! Hither—to
Solhoug? No, no, it cannot be.—Signë heard him singing, she
said! When I have heard the pine-trees moaning in the forest
afar, when I have heard the waterfall thunder and the birds
pipe their lure in the treetops, it has many a time seemed
to me as though, through it all, the sound of Gudmund’s
songs came blended. And yet he was far from here.—Signë has
deceived herself. Gudmund cannot be coming.

[BENGT _enters hastily from the back._

BENGT.

[_Entering, calls loudly._] An unlooked-for guest, my wife!

MARGIT.

What guest?

BENGT.

Your kinsman, Gudmund Alfson! [_Calls through the doorway on
the right._] Let the best guest-room be prepared—and that
forthwith!

MARGIT.

Is he, then, already here?

BENGT.

[_Looking out through the passage-way._]

Nay, not yet; but he cannot be far off. [_Calls again to the
right._] The carved oak bed, with the dragon-heads!
[_Advances to_ MARGIT.] His shield-bearer brings a message
of greeting from him; and he himself is close behind.

MARGIT.

His shield-bearer! Comes he hither with a shield-bearer?

BENGT.

Aye, by my faith he does. He has a shield-bearer and six
armed men in his train. What would you? Gudmund Alfson is a
far other man than he was when he set forth to seek his
fortune. But I must ride forth and receive him.

[_Calls out._] The gilded saddle on my horse! And forget not
the bridle with the serpents’ heads! [_Looks out to the
back._] Ha, there he is already at the gate! Well, then, my
staff—my silver-headed staff! Such a lordly knight—Heaven
save us!—we must receive him with honour, with all seemly
honour!

[_Goes hastily out to the back._

MARGIT.
[_Brooding._]

Alone he departed, a penniless swain;
With esquires and henchmen now comes he again.
What would he? Comes he, forsooth, to see
My bitter and gnawing misery?
Would he try how long, in my lot accurst,
I can writhe and moan, ere my heart-strings burst—
Thinks he that—? Ah, let him only try!
Full little joy shall he reap thereby.

[_She beckons through the doorway on the right.
Three handmaidens enter._

List, little maids, what I say to you:
Find me my silken mantle blue.
Go with me into my bower anon:
My richest of velvets and furs do on.
Two of you shall deck me in scarlet and vair,
The third shall wind pearl-strings into my hair.
All my jewels and gauds bear away with ye!

[_The handmaids go out to the left, taking the
ornaments with them._

Since Margit the Hill-King’s bride must be,
Well! don we the queenly livery!

[_She goes out to the left._

[BENGT _ushers in_ GUDMUND ALFSON, _through the
pent-house passage at the back._

BENGT.

And now once more—welcome under Solhoug’s roof, my wife’s
kinsman.

GUDMUND.

I thank you. And how goes it with her? She thrives well in
every way, I make no doubt?

BENGT.

Aye, you may be sure she does. There is nothing she lacks.
She has five handmaidens, no less, at her beck and call; a
courser stands ready saddled in the stall when she lists to
ride abroad. In one word, she has all that a noble lady can
desire to make her happy in her lot.

GUDMUND.

And Margit—is she then happy?

BENGT.

God and all men would think that she must be; but, strange
to say—

GUDMUND.

What mean you?

BENGT.

Well, believe it or not as you list, but it seems to me that
Margit was merrier of heart in the days of her poverty, than
since she became the lady of Solhoug.

GUDMUND.

[_To himself._] I knew it; so it must be.

BENGT.

What say you, kinsman?

GUDMUND.

I say that I wonder greatly at what you tell me of your
wife.

BENGT.

Aye, you may be sure I wonder at it too. On the faith and
troth of an honest gentleman, ’tis beyond me to guess what
more she can desire. I am about her all day long; and no one
can say of me that I rule her harshly. All the cares of
household and husbandry I have taken on myself; yet
notwithstanding—Well, well, you were ever a merry heart; I
doubt not you will bring sunshine with you. Hush! here comes
Dame Margit! Let her not see that I—

[MARGIT _enters from the left, richly dressed._

GUDMUND.

[_Going to meet her._] Margit—my dear Margit!

MARGIT.

[_Stops, and looks at him without recognition._] Your
pardon, Sir Knight; but—? [_As though she only now
recognised him._] Surely, if I mistake not, ’tis Gudmund
Alfson.

[_Holding out her hand to him._

GUDMUND.

[_Without taking it._] And you did not at once know me
again?

BENGT.

[_Laughing._] Why, Margit, of what are you thinking? I told
you but a moment agone that your kinsman—

MARGIT.

[_Crossing to the table on the right._] Twelve years is a
long time, Gudmund. The freshest plant may wither ten times
over in that space.

GUDMUND.

’Tis seven years since last we met.

MARGIT.

Surely it must be more than that.

GUDMUND.

[_Looking at her._] I could almost think so. But ’tis as I
say.

MARGIT.

How strange! I must have been but a child then; and it seems
to me a whole eternity since I was a child. [_Throws herself
down on a chair._] Well, sit you down, my kinsman! Rest you,
for to-night you shall dance, and rejoice us with your
singing. [_With a forced smile._] Doubtless you know we are
merry here to-day—we are holding a feast.

GUDMUND.

’Twas told me as I entered your homestead.

BENGT.

Aye, ’tis three years to-day since I became—

MARGIT.

[_Interrupting._] My kinsman has already heard it. [_To_
GUDMUND.] Will you not lay aside your cloak?

GUDMUND.

I thank you, Dame Margit; but it seems to me cold
here—colder than I had foreseen.

BENGT.

For my part, I am warm enough; but then I have a hundred
things to do and to take order for. [_To_ MARGIT.] Let not
the time seem long to our guest while I am absent. You can
talk together of the old days. [_Going._

MARGIT.

[_Hesitating._] Are you going? Will you not rather—?

BENGT.

[_Laughing, to_ GUDMUND, _as he comes forward again._] See
you well—Sir Bengt of Solhoug is the man to make the women
fain of him. How short so e’er the space, my wife cannot
abide to be without me. [_To_ MARGIT, _caressing her._]
Content you; I shall soon be with you again. [_He goes
out to the back._

MARGIT.

[_To herself_.] Oh, torture, to have to endure it all.
[_A short silence._

GUDMUND.

How goes it, I pray, with your sister dear?

MARGIT.

Right well, I thank you.

GUDMUND.

They said she was here
With you.

MARGIT.

She has been here ever since we—

[_Breaks off._

She came, now three years since, to Solhoug with me.

[_After a pause._

Ere long she’ll be here, her friend to greet.

GUDMUND.

Well I mind me of Signë’s nature sweet.
No guile she dreamed of, no evil knew.
When I call to remembrance her eyes so blue
I must think of the angels in heaven.
But of years there have passed no fewer than seven;
In that time much may have altered. Oh, say
If she, too, has changed so while I’ve been away?

MARGIT.

She too? Is it, pray, in the halls of kings
That you learn such courtly ways, Sir Knight?
To remind me thus of the change time brings—

GUDMUND.

Nay, Margit, my meaning you read aright!
You were kind to me, both, in those far-away years—
Your eyes, when we parted were wet with tears.
We swore like brother and sister still
To hold together in good hap or ill.
’Mid the other maids like a sun you shone,
Far, far and wide was your beauty known.
You are no less fair than you were, I wot;
But Solhoug’s mistress, I see, has forgot
The penniless kinsman. So hard is your mind
That ever of old was gentle and kind.

MARGIT.
[_Choking back her tears._]

Aye, of old—!

GUDMUND.

[_Looks compassionately at her, is silent for a
little, then says in a subdued voice._

Shall we do as your husband said?
Pass the time with talk of the dear old days?

MARGIT.
[_Vehemently._]

No, no, not of them! [_More calmly._
Their memory’s dead.
My mind unwillingly backward strays.
Tell rather of what your life has been,
Of what in the wide world you’ve done and seen.
Adventures you’ve lacked not, well I ween—
In all the warmth and the space out yonder,
That heart and mind should be light, what wonder?

GUDMUND.

In the King’s high hall I found not the joy
That I knew by my own poor hearth as a boy.

MARGIT.
[WITHOUT LOOKING AT HIM.]

While I, as at Solhoug each day flits past,
Thank Heaven that here has my lot been cast.

GUDMUND.

’Tis well if for this you can thankful be—

MARGIT.
[_Vehemently._]

Why not? For am I not honoured and free?
Must not all folk here obey my hest?
Rule I not all things as seemeth me best?
Here I am first, with no second beside me;
And that, as you know, from of old satisfied me.
Did you think you would find me weary and sad?
Nay, my mind is at peace and my heart is glad.
You might, then, have spared your journey here
To Solhoug; ’twill profit you little, I fear.

GUDMUND.

What, mean you, Dame Margit?

MARGIT.
[_Rising._]

I understand all—
I know why you come to my lonely hall.

GUDMUND.

And you welcome me not, though you know why I came?

[_Bowing, and about to go._

God’s peace and farewell, then, my noble dame!

MARGIT.

To have stayed in the royal hall, indeed,
Sir Knight, had better become your fame.

GUDMUND.
[_Stops._]

In the royal hall? Do you scoff at my need?

MARGIT.

Your need? You are ill to content, my friend;
Where, I would know, do you think to end?
You can dress you in velvet and cramoisie,
You stand by the throne, and have lands in fee—

GUDMUND.

Do you deem, then, that fortune is kind to me? You said but
now that full well you knew What brought me to Solhoug—

MARGIT.

I told you true!

GUDMUND.