E-text prepared by Douglas Levy
THE FEAST AT SOLHOUG.
by
HENRIK IBSEN
From The Collected Works of Henrik Ibsen, Volume 1
Revised and Edited by William Archer
Translation by William Archer and Mary Morrison
INTRODUCTION*
Exactly a year after the production of _Lady Inger of Ostrat_--that
is to say on the "Foundation Day" of the Bergen Theatre, January 2,
1866--_The Feast at Solhoug_ was produced. The poet himself has
written its history in full in the Preface to the second edition.
The only comment that need be made upon his rejoinder to his critics
has been made, with perfect fairness as it seems to me, by George
Brandes in the following passage:** "No one who is unacquainted with
the Scandinavian languages can fully understand the charm that the
style and melody of the old ballads exercise upon the Scandinavian
mind. The beautiful ballads and songs of _Des Knaben Wunderhorn_
have perhaps had a similar power over German minds; but, as far as
I am aware, no German poet has has ever succeeded in inventing a
metre suitable for dramatic purposes, which yet retained the
mediaeval ballad's sonorous swing and rich aroma. The explanation
of the powerful impression produced in its day by Henrik Hertz's
_Svend Dyring's House_ is to be found in the fact that in it, for
the first time, the problem was solved of how to fashion a metre
akin to that of the heroic ballads, a metre possessing as great
mobility as the verse of the _Niebelungenlied_, along with a
dramatic value not inferior to that of the pentameter. Henrik
Ibsen, it is true, has justly pointed out that, as regards the
mutual relations of the principal characters, _Svend Dyring's
House_ owes more to Kleist's _Kathchen von Heubronn_ than _The
Feast at Solhoug_ owes to _Svend Dyring's House_. But the fact
remains that the versified parts of the dialogue of both _The Feast
at Solhoug_ and _Olaf Liliekrans_ are written in that imitation
of the tone and style of the heroic ballad, of which Hertz was
the happily-inspired originator. There seems to me to be no
depreciation whatever of Ibsen in the assertion of Hertz's right
to rank as his model. Even the greatest must have learnt from
some one."
But while the influence of Danish lyrical romanticism is apparent
in the style of the play, the structure, as it seems to me, shows no
less clearly that influence of the French plot-manipulators which
we found so unmistakably at work in _Lady Inger_. Despite its
lyrical dialogue, _The Feast at Solhoug_ has that crispiness of
dramatic action which marks the French plays of the period. It may
indeed be called Scribe's _Bataille de Dames_ writ tragic. Here,
as in the _Bataille de Dames_ (one of the earliest plays produced
under Ibsen's supervision), we have the rivalry of an older and a
younger woman for the love of a man who is proscribed on an unjust
accusation, and pursued by the emissaries of the royal power. One
might even, though this would be forcing the point, find an analogy
in the fact that the elder woman (in both plays a strong and
determined character) has in Scribe's comedy a cowardly suitor,
while in Ibsen's tragedy, or melodrama, she has a cowardly husband.
In every other respect the plays are as dissimilar as possible; yet
it seems to me far from unlikely that an unconscious reminiscence
of the _Bataille de Dames_ may have contributed to the shaping of
_The Feast at Solhoug_ in Ibsen's mind. But more significant than
any resemblance of theme is the similarity of Ibsen's whole method
to that of the French school--the way, for instance, in which
misunderstandings are kept up through a careful avoidance of the
use of proper names, and the way in which a cup of poison, prepared
for one person, comes into the hands of another person, is, as a
matter of fact, drunk by no one but occasions the acutest agony to
the would-be poisoner. All this ingenious dovetailing of incidents
and working-up of misunderstandings, Ibsen unquestionably learned
from the French. The French language, indeed, is the only one which
has a word--_quiproquo_--to indicate the class of misunderstanding
which, from _Lady Inger_ down to the _League of Youth_, Ibsen
employed without scruple.
Ibsen's first visit to the home of his future wife took place after
the production of _The Feast at Solhoug_. It seems doubtful whether
this was actually his first meeting with her; but at any rate we
can scarcely suppose that he knew her during the previous summer,
when he was writing his play. It is a curious coincidence, then,
that he should have found in Susanna Thoresen and her sister Marie
very much the same contrast of characters which had occupied him
in his first dramatic effort, _Catilina_, and which had formed
the main subject of the play he had just produced. It is less
wonderful that the same contrast should so often recur in his later
works, even down to _John Gabriel Borkman_. Ibsen was greatly
attached to his gentle and retiring sister-in-law, who died
unmarried in 1874.
_The Feast at Solhoug_ has been translated by Miss Morison and
myself, only because no one else could be found to undertake the
task. We have done our best; but neither of us lays claim to any
great metrical skill, and the light movement of Ibsen's verse is
often, if not always, rendered in a sadly halting fashion. It is,
however, impossible to exaggerate the irregularity of the verse
in the original, or its defiance of strict metrical law. The
normal line is one of four accents: but when this is said, it is
almost impossible to arrive at any further generalisation. There
is a certain lilting melody in many passages, and the whole play
has not unfairly been said to possess the charm of a northern
summer night, in which the glimmer of twilight gives place only
to the gleam of morning. But in the main (though much better than
its successor, _Olaf Liliekrans_) it is the weakest thing that
Ibsen admitted into the canon of his works. He wrote it in 1870
as "a study which I now disown"; and had he continued in that
frame of mind, the world would scarcely have quarrelled with his
judgment. At worst, then, my collaborator and I cannot be accused
of marring a masterpiece; but for which assurance we should probably
have shrunk from the attempt.
W. A.
*Copyright, 1907, by Charles Scribner's Sons.
**_Ibsen and Bjornson_. London, Heinmann, 1899, p.88
THE FEAST AT SOLHOUG (1856)
THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION
PREFACE
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 of Solhoug_ was played in
Christiania. There also it was received by the public with much
approbation, and the day after the first performance Bjornson 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 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 Oehlenschlager and with the Soro 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 thought had long
ago been thought and expressed by others; their opinions had long
ere now been formulated elsewhere. Their aesthetic 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 form 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
or 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 _Kathchen
von Heilbronn_, a play written at the beginning of this century.
Kathchen's relation to Count Wetterstrahl is in all essentials
the same as Tagnhild's to the knight, Stig Hvide. Like Ragnhild,
Kathchen 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 _Kathchen 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 Henrick Hertz as
_Katchen 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* will be permitted to keep, in its entirety, what
rightfully belongs to him.
In writing _The Feast of 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 by 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 Aesthetics 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), Valsenious 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 1855.
In 1854 I had written _Lady Inger of Ostrat_. 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, thought, 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 Hiordis 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 Hiordis and Dagny,
of the projected tragedy, became the sisters Margit and Signe 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 aestheticians may
still, perhaps, find it indisputable 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 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.
*Heinrich von Kleist, Henrik Hertz, Henrik Ibsen.
THE FEAST AT SOLHOUG
CHARACTERS
BENGT GAUTESON, Master of Solhoug.
MARGIT, his wife.
SIGNE, her sister.
GUDMUND ALFSON, their kinsman.
KNUT GESLING, the King's sheriff.
ERIK OF HEGGE, 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=Goodmund. 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."
Transcriber's notes:
--Signe and Hegge have umlauts above the e's, the
ultimate e only in Hegge.
--Passages that are in lyric form are not indented
and have the directorial comments to the right of
the character's name.
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 and drinking-horns. The door in the back leads out
to a passage-way,* through which can be seen a spacious
fiord-landscape.
BENGT GAUTESON, MARGIT, KNUT GESLING and ERIK OF HEGGE 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.
*This no doubt means a sort of arcaded veranda running along the
outer wall of the house.
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
Hegge 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 Hegge, at Erik's bidding, whom here
you see. I vowed a vow that Signe, 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 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 husbands 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 over-looked.
[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 mighty 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 Hakon'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 may 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.
[SIGNE, radiant with gladness, comes running in from
the back.
SIGNE.
[Calling.] Margit, Margit,--he is coming!
MARGIT.
[Starting up.] Coming? Who is coming?
SIGNE.
Gudmund, our kinsman!
MARGIT.
Gudmund Alfson! Here! How can you think--?
SIGNE.
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.
SIGNE.
Maybe; but none the less I am sure it was he.
MARGIT.
Have you seen him?
SIGNE.
Oh, no, no; but I must tell you--
MARGIT.
Yes, haste you--tell on!
SIGNE.
'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 Signe, say on! Tell me all, tell me all!
SIGNE.
'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.
SIGNE.
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--?
SIGNE.
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 homeward 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--
SIGNE. [Reproachfully.]
Nay, this in not right.
[Embracing her.
But when Gudmund comes will your heart grow light--
Light, as when I was a child, again.
MARGIT.
So much has changed--ah, so much!--since then--
SIGNE.
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 toward the window.]
And he comes to Solhoug! He, as a guest!
SIGNE.
What say you?
MARGIT. [Turning.]
Naught.--Deck you out in your best.
That fortune which seemeth to you so bright
May await yourself.
SIGNE.
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--?
SIGNE.
A wooer? For whom?
MARGIT.
For you.
SIGNE. [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?
SIGNE.
That my heart was too light
To think upon suitors or choose a mate.
MARGIT.
But if he were mighty, and rich, and great?
SIGNE.
O, 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, meseeems,
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!
[SIGNE runs out to the left, singing.
MARGIT.
[After a pause.] Gudmund Alfson coming hither! Hither--to
Solhoug? No, no, it cannot be.--Signe 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 tree-tops, 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.--Signe 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 to seek 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 recognized 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 Signe'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!
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.
Then you know what of late has befallen me;--
You have heard the tale of my outlawry?
MARGIT. [Terror-struck.]
An outlaw! You, Gudmund!
GUDMUND.
I am indeed.
But I swear, by the Holy Christ I swear,
Had I known the thoughts of your heart, I ne'er
Had bent me to Solhoug in my need.
I thought that you still were gentle-hearted,
As you ever were wont to be ere we parted:
But I truckle not to you; the wood is wide,
My hand and my bow shall fend for me there;
I will drink of the mountain brook, and hide
My head in the beast's lair.
[On the point of going.
MARGIT. [Holding him back.]
Outlawed! Nay, stay! I swear to you
That naught of your outlawry I knew.
GUDMUND.
It is as I tell you. My life's at stake;
And to live are all men fain.
Three nights like a dog 'neath the sky I've lain,
My couch on the hillside forced to make,
With for pillow the boulder grey.
Though too proud to knock at the door of the stranger,
And pray him for aid in the hour of danger,
Yet strong was my hope as I held on my way:
I thought: When to Solhoug you come at last
Then all your pains will be done and past.
You have sure friends there, whatever betide.--
But hope like a wayside flower shrivels up;
Though your husband met me with flagon and cup,
And his doors flung open wide,
Within, your dwelling seems chill and bare;
Dark is the hall; my friends are not there.
'Tis well; I will back to my hills from your halls.
MARGIT. [Beseechingly.]
Oh, hear me!
GUDMUND.
My soul is not base as a thrall's.
Now life to me seems a thing of nought;
Truly I hold it scarce worth a thought.
You have killed all that I hold most dear;
Of my fairest hopes I follow the bier.
Farewell, then, Dame Margit!
MARGIT.
Nay, Gudmund, hear!
By all that is holy--!
GUDMUND.
Live on as before
Live on in honour and joyance--
Never shall Gudmund darken your door,
Never shall cause you 'noyance.
MARGIT.
Enough, enough. Your bitterness
You presently shall rue.
Had I known you outlawed, shelterless,
Hunted the country through--
Trust me, the day that brought you here
Would have seemed the fairest of many a year;
And a feast I had counted it indeed
When you turned to Solhoug for refuge in need.
GUDMUND.
What say you--? How shall I read your mind?
MARGIT. [Holding out her hand to him.]
Read this: that at Solhoug dwell kinsfolk kind.
GUDMUND.
But you said of late--?
MARGIT.
To that pay no heed,
Or hear me, and understand indeed.
For me is life but a long, black night,
Nor sun, nor star for me shines bright.
I have sold my youth and my liberty,
And none from my bargain can set me free.
My heart's content I have bartered for gold,
With gilded chains I have fettered myself;
Trust me, it is but comfort cold
To the sorrowful soul, the pride of pelf.
How blithe was my childhood--how free from care!
Our house was lowly and scant our store;
But treasures of hope in my breast I bore.
GUDMUND. [Whose eyes have been fixed upon her.]
E'en then you were growing to beauty rare.
MARGIT.
Mayhap; but the praises showered on me
Caused the wreck of my happiness--that I now see.
To far-off lands away you sailed;
But deep in my heart was graven each song
You had ever sung; and their glamour was strong;
With a mist of dreams my brow they veiled.
In them all the joys you had dwelt upon
That can find a home in the beating breast;
You had sung so oft of the lordly life
'Mid knights and ladies. And lo! anon
Came wooers a many from east and from west;
And so--I became Bengt Gauteson's wife.
GUDMUND.
Oh, Margit!
MARGIT.