Complete Works of Henrik Ibsen (32 page)

MARGIT.

[To herself.] She — it is she! She of whom he had scarce thought before to-night. Had I been free, I know well whom he had chosen. — Aye, free!

[BENGT and GUESTS, both Men and Women enter from the house.

YOUNG MEN AND MAIDENS.

Out here, out here be the feast arrayed,
While the birds are asleep in the greenwood shade,
How sweet to sport in the flowery glade
      ’Neath the birches.

Out here, out here, shall be mirth and jest,
No sigh on the lips and no care in the breast,
When the fiddle is tuned at the dancers’ ‘hest,
      ’Neath the birches.

BENGT.

That is well, that is well! So I fain would see it! I am merry, and my wife likewise; and therefore I pray ye all to be merry along with us.

ONE OF THE GUESTS.

Aye, now let us have a stave-match.*

*A contest in impromptu verse-making.

MANY.

[Shout.] Yes, yes, a stave-match!

ANOTHER GUEST.

Nay, let that be; it leads but to strife at the feast. [Lowering his voice.] Bear in mind that Knut Gesling is with us to-night.

SEVERAL.

[Whispering among themselves.] Aye, aye, that is true. Remember the last time, how he — . Best beware.

AN OLD MAN.

But you, Dame Margit — I know your kind had ever wealth of tales in store; and you yourself, even as a child, knew many a fair legend.

MARGIT.

Alas! I have forgot them all. But ask Gudmund Alfson, my kinsman; he knows a tale that is merry enough.

GUDMUND.

[In a low voice, imploringly.] Margit!

MARGIT.

Why, what a pitiful countenance you put on! Be merry, Gudmund! Be merry! Aye, aye, it comes easy to you, well I wot. [Laughing, to the GUESTS.] He has seen the huldra to-night. She would fain have tempted him; but Gudmund is a faithful swain. [Turns again to GUDMUND.] Aye, but the tale is not finished yet. When you bear away your lady-love, over hill and through forest, be sure you turn not round; be sure you never look back — the huldra sits laughing behind every bush; and when all is done — [In a low voice, coming close up to him.] — you will go no further than she will let you.

[She crosses to the right.

SIGNE.

Oh, God! Oh, God!

BENGT.

[Going around among the GUESTS in high contentment.] Ha, ha, ha! Dame Margit knows how to set the mirth afoot! When she takes it in hand, she does it much better than I.

GUDMUND.

[To himself.] She threatens! I must tear the last hope out of her breast; else will peace never come to her mind. [Turns to the GUESTS.] I mind me of a little song. If it please you to hear it —

SEVERAL OF THE GUESTS.

Thanks, thanks, Gudmund Alfson!

[They close around him some sitting, others standing. MARGIT leans against a tree in front on the right. SIGNE stands on the left, near the house.

GUDMUND.

I rode into the wildwood,
     I sailed across the sea,
  But ‘twas at home I wooed and won
     A maiden fair and free.

It was the Queen of Elfland,
     She waxed full wroth and grim:
  Never, she swore, shall that maiden fair
     Ride to the church with him.

Hear me, thou Queen of Elfland,
     Vain, vain are threat and spell;
  For naught can sunder two true hearts
     That love each other well!

AN OLD MAN.

That is a right fair song. See how the young swains cast their glances thitherward! [Pointing towards the GIRLS.] Aye, aye, doubtless each has his own.

BENGT.

[Making eyes at MARGIT.] Yes, I have mine, that is sure enough.
Ha, ha, ha!

MARGIT.

[To herself, quivering.] To have to suffer all this shame and scorn! No, no; now to essay the last remedy.

BENGT.

What ails you? Meseems you look so pale.

MARGIT.

‘Twill soon pass over. [Turns to the GUESTS.] Did I say e’en now that I had forgotten all my tales? I bethink me now that I remember one.

BENGT.

Good, good, my wife! Come, let us hear it.

YOUNG GIRLS.

[Urgently.] Yes, tell it us, tell it us, Dame Margit!

MARGIT.

I almost fear that ‘twill little please you; but that must be as it may.

GUDMUND.

[To himself.] Saints in heaven, surely she would not — !

MARGIT.

It was a fair and noble maid,
She dwelt in her father’s hall;
Both linen and silk did she broider and braid,
Yet found in it solace small.
For she sat there alone in cheerless state,
Empty were hall and bower;
In the pride of her heart, she was fain to mate
With a chieftain of pelf and power.
But now ‘twas the Hill King, he rode from the north,
With his henchmen and his gold;
On the third day at night he in triumph fared forth,
Bearing her to his mountain hold.
Full many a summer she dwelt in the hill;
Out of beakers of gold she could drink at her will.
Oh, fair are the flowers of the valley, I trow,
But only in dreams can she gather them now!
‘Twas a youth, right gentle and bold to boot,
Struck his harp with such magic might
That it rang to the mountain’s inmost root,
Where she languished in the night.
The sound in her soul waked a wondrous mood —
Wide open the mountain-gates seemed to stand;
The peace of God lay over the land,
And she saw how it all was fair and good.
There happened what never had happened before;
She had wakened to life as his harp-strings thrilled;
And her eyes were opened to all the store
Of treasure wherewith the good earth is filled.
For mark this well: it hath ever been found
That those who in caverns deep lie bound
Are lightly freed by the harp’s glad sound.
He saw her prisoned, he heard her wail —
But he cast unheeding his harp aside,
Hoisted straightway his silken sail,
And sped away o’er the waters wide
To stranger strands with his new-found bride.
     [With ever-increasing passion.

So fair was thy touch on the golden strings
That my breast heaves high and my spirit sings!
I must out, I must out to the sweet green leas!
I die in the Hill-King’s fastnesses!
He mocks at my woe as he clasps his bride
And sails away o’er the waters wide.
     [Shrieks.

With me all is over; my hill-prison barred;
Unsunned is the day, and the night all unstarred.

  [She totters and, fainting, seeks to support herself against
       the trunk of a tree.

SIGNE.

[Weeping, has rushed up to her, and takes her in her arms.]
Margit! My sister!

GUDMUND.

[At the same time, supporting her.] Help! help! she is dying!

[BENGT and the GUESTS flock round them with cries of alarm.

ACT THIR
D

The hall at Solhoug as before, but now in disorder after the feast.
    It is night still, but with a glimmer of approaching dawn in
    the room and over the landscape without.

BENGT stands outside in the passage-way, with a beaker of ale in
    his hand. A party of GUESTS are in the act of leaving the
    house. In the room a MAID-SERVANT is restoring order.

BENGT.

[Calls to the departing GUESTS.] God speed you, then, and bring you back ere long to Solhoug. Methinks you, like the rest, might have stayed and slept till morning. Well, well! Yet hold — I’ll e’en go with you to the gate. I must drink your healths once more.

[He goes out.

GUESTS. [Sing in the distance.]

Farewell, and God’s blessing on one and all
  Beneath this roof abiding!
The road must be faced. To the fiddler we call:
  Tune up! Our cares deriding,
    With dance and with song
We’ll shorten the way so weary and long.
    Right merrily off we go.

  [The song dies away in the distance.
     [MARGIT enters the hall by the door on the right.

MAID.

God save us, my lady, have you left your bed?

MARGIT.

I am well. Go you and sleep. Stay — tell me, are the guests all gone?

MAID.

No, not all; some wait till later in the day; ere now they are sleeping sound.

MARGIT.

And Gudmund Alfson — ?

MAID.

He, too, is doubtless asleep. [Points to the right.] ‘Tis some time since he went to his chamber — yonder, across the passage.

MARGIT.

Good; you may go.

  [The MAID goes out to the left.
     [MARGIT walks slowly across the hall, seats herself by the
       table on the right, and gazes out at the open window.

MARGIT.

To-morrow, then, Gudmund will ride away
Out into the world so great and wide.
Alone with my husband here I must stay;
And well do I know what will then betide.
Like the broken branch and the trampled flower
I shall suffer and fade from hour to hour.
     [Short pause; she leans back in her chair.

I once heard a tale of a child blind from birth,
Whose childhood was full of joy and mirth;
For the mother, with spells of magic might,
Wove for the dark eyes a world of light.
And the child looked forth with wonder and glee
Upon the valley and hill, upon land and sea.
Then suddenly the witchcraft failed —
The child once more was in darkness pent;
Good-bye to games and merriment;
With longing vain the red cheeks paled.
And its wail of woe, as it pined away,
Was ceaseless, and sadder than words can say. —
Oh! like the child’s my eyes were sealed,
To the light and the life of summer blind —
     [She springs up.

But now — ! And I in this cage confined!
No, now is the worth of my youth revealed!
Three years of life I on him have spent —
My husband — but were I longer content
This hapless, hopeless weird to dree,
Meek as a dove I needs must be.
I am wearied to death of petty brawls;
The stirring life of the great world calls.
I will follow Gudmund with shield and bow,
I will share his joys, I will soothe his woe,
Watch o’er him both by night and day.
All that behold shall envy the life
Of the valiant knight and Margit his wife. —
His wife!
     [Wrings her hands.

      Oh God, what is this I say!
Forgive me, forgive me, and oh! let me feel
The peace that hath power both to soothe and to heal.
     [Walks back and forward, brooding silently.

Signe, my sister — ? How hateful ‘twere
To steal her glad young life from her!
But who can tell? In very sooth
She may love him but with the light love of youth.
     [Again silence; she takes out the little phial, looks long
       at it and says under her breath:

This phial — were I its powers to try —
My husband would sleep for ever and aye!
     [Horror-struck.

No, no! To the river’s depths with it straight!
     [In the act of throwing it out of the window, stops.

And yet I could—’tis not yet too late. —
     [With an expression of mingled horror and rapture, whispers.

With what a magic resistless might
Sin masters us in our own despite!
Doubly alluring methinks is the goal
I must reach through blood, with the wreck of my soul.

  [BENGT, with the empty beaker in his hand, comes in from
       the passageway; his face is red; he staggers slightly.

BENGT.

[Flinging the beaker upon the table on the left.] My faith, this has been a feast that will be the talk of the country. [Sees MARGIT.] Eh, are you there? You are well again. Good, good.

MARGIT.

[Who in the meantime has concealed the phial.] Is the door barred?

BENGT.

[Seating himself at the table on the left.] I have seen to everything. I went with the last guests as far as the gates. But what became of Knut Gesling to-night? — Give me mead, Margit! I am thirsty Fill this cup.

[MARGIT fetches a flagon of the mead from a cupboard, and and fills the goblet which is on the table before him.

MARGIT.

[Crossing to the right with the flagon.] You asked about
Knut Gesling.

BENGT.

That I did. The boaster, the braggart! I have not forgot his threats of yester-morning.

MARGIT.

He used worse words when he left to-night.

BENGT.

He did? So much the better. I will strike him dead.

MARGIT.

[Smiling contemptuously.] H’m —

BENGT.

I will kill him, I say! I fear not to face ten such fellows as he. In the store-house hangs my grandfather’s axe; its shaft is inlaid with silver; with that axe in my hands, I tell you — ! [Thumps the table and drinks.] To-morrow I shall arm myself, go forth with all my men, and slay Knut Gesling.

[Empties the beaker.

MARGIT.

[To herself.] Oh, to have to live with him!

[Is in the act of leaving the room.

BENGT.

Margit, come here! Fill my cup again. [She approaches; he tries to draw her down on his knee.] Ha, ha, ha! You are right fair, Margit! I love thee well!

MARGIT.

[Freeing herself.] Let me go!

[Crosses, with the goblet in her hand, to the left.

BENGT.

You are not in the humour to-night. Ha, ha, ha! That means no
great matter, I know.

MARGIT.

[Softly, as she fills the goblet.] Oh, that this might be the
last beaker I should fill for you.

  [She leaves the goblet on the table and is making her way
       out to the left.

BENGT.

Hark to me, Margit. For one thing you may thank Heaven, and that is, that I made you my wife before Gudmund Alfson came back.

MARGIT.

Why so?

BENGT.

Why, say you? Am not I ten times the richer man? And certain I am that he would have sought you for his wife, had you not been the mistress of Solhoug.

MARGIT.

[Drawing nearer and glancing at the goblet.] Say you so?

BENGT.

I could take my oath upon it. Bengt Gauteson has two sharp eyes in his head. But he may still have Signe.

MARGIT.

And you think he will — ?

BENGT.

Take her? Aye, since he cannot have you. But had you been free, — then — Ha, ha, ha! Gudmund is like the rest. He envies me my wife. That is why I set such store by you, Margit. Here with the goblet again. And let it be full to the brim!

MARGIT.

[Goes unwillingly across to the right.] You shall have it straightway.

BENGT.

Knut Gesling is a suitor for Signe, too, but him I am resolved to slay. Gudmund is an honourable man; he shall have her. Think, Margit, what good days we shall have with them for neighbours. We will go a-visiting each other, and then will we sit the live-long day, each with his wife on his knee, drinking and talking of this and that.

MARGIT.

[Whose mental struggle is visibly becoming more severe, involuntarily takes out the phial as she says:] No doubt no doubt!

BENGT.

Ha, ha, ha! it may be that at first Gudmund will look askance at me when I take you in my arms; but that, I doubt not, he will soon get over.

MARGIT.

This is more than woman can bear! [Pours the contents of the phial into the goblet, goes to the window and throws out the phial, then says, without looking at him.] Your beaker is full.

BENGT.

Then bring it hither!

MARGIT.

[Battling in an agony of indecision, at last says.] I pray you drink no more to-night!

BENGT.

[Leans back in his chair and laughs.] Oho! You are impatient for my coming? Get you in; I will follow you soon.

MARGIT.

[Suddenly decided.] Your beaker is full. [Points.] There it is.

[She goes quickly out to the left.

BENGT.

[Rising.] I like her well. It repents me not a whit that I took her to wife, though of heritage she owned no more than yonder goblet and the brooches of her wedding gown.

  [He goes to the table at the window and takes the goblet.
     [A HOUSE-CARL enters hurriedly and with scared looks, from
       the back.

HOUSE-CARL.

[Calls.] Sir Bengt, Sir Bengt! haste forth with all the speed you can! Knut Gesling with an armed train is drawing near the house.

BENGT.

[Putting down the goblet.] Knut Gesling? Who brings the tidings?

HOUSE-CARL.

Some of your guests espied him on the road beneath, and hastened back to warn you.

BENGT.

E’en so. Then will I — ! Fetch me my grandfather’s battle-axe!

  [He and the HOUSE-CARL go out at the back.
     [Soon after, GUDMUND and SIGNE enter quietly and cautiously
       by the door at the back.

SIGNE. [In muffled tones.]

It must then, be so!

GUDMUND. [Also softly.]

                       Necessity’s might
Constrains us.

SIGNE.

           Oh! thus under cover of night
To steal from the valley where I was born?
     [Dries her eyes.

Yet shalt thou hear no plaint forlorn.
‘Tis for thy sake my home I flee;
Wert thou not outlawed, Gudmund dear,
I’d stay with my sister.