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.