------------------------------------------------------------------------

                          Transcriber’s Note:

This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects.
Italics are delimited with the ‘_’ character as _italic_. In the printed
original, emphasis is indicated by gesperrt (spaced) text, but is here
also delimited as the italic.

Footnotes have been collected at the end of each section or act in which
they are referenced.

Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please
see the transcriber’s note at the end of this text for details regarding
the handling of any other textual issues encountered during its
preparation.




THE COLLECTED WORKS OF
     HENRIK IBSEN

                                VOLUME I

                          LADY INGER OF ÖSTRÅT

                          THE FEAST AT SOLHOUG

                             LOVE'S COMEDY

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                         THE COLLECTED WORKS OF
                              HENRIK IBSEN

           _Copyright Edition.       Complete in 11 Volumes._
                      _Crown 8vo, price 4s. each._

                    =ENTIRELY REVISED AND EDITED BY=
                            =WILLIAM ARCHER=

         Vol. I.      Lady Inger, The Feast at Solhoug, Love’s
                        Comedy

         Vol. II.     The Vikings, The Pretenders

         Vol. III.    Brand

         Vol. IV.     Peer Gynt

         Vol. V.      Emperor and Galilean (2 parts)

         Vol. VI.     The League of Youth, Pillars of Society

         Vol. VII.    A Doll’s House, Ghosts

         Vol. VIII.   An Enemy of the People, The Wild Duck

         Vol. IX.     Rosmersholm, The Lady from the Sea

         Vol. X.      Hedda Gabler, The Master Builder

         Vol. XI.     Little Eyolf, John Gabriel Borkman, When
                        We Dead Awaken

                       LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
                        21 BEDFORD STREET, W.C.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                         THE COLLECTED WORKS OF
                              HENRIK IBSEN

                           COPYRIGHT EDITION

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                                VOLUME I

                          LADY INGER OF ÖSTRÅT

                          THE FEAST AT SOLHOUG

                             LOVE'S COMEDY

                         WITH INTRODUCTIONS BY

                             WILLIAM ARCHER

                                  AND

                      C. H. HERFORD, LITT.D., M.A.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Illustration: title page]

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                                 LONDON
                           WILLIAM HEINEMANN
                                  1910








                  _First printed (Collected Edition)_ 1908
                          _Second Impression_ 1910








                  _Copyright_ 1908 _by William Heinemann_




                                CONTENTS


                                                              PAGE

     GENERAL PREFACE                                           vii

     INTRODUCTION TO “LADY INGER OF ÖSTRÅT”                   xvii

     INTRODUCTION TO “THE FEAST AT SOLHOUG”                 xxxiii

     INTRODUCTION TO “LOVE’S COMEDY”                        xxxvii

     “LADY INGER OF ÖSTRÅT”                                      1
                    _Translated by_ CHARLES ARCHER

     “THE FEAST AT SOLHOUG”                                    181
                              _Translated by_
                        WILLIAM ARCHER and MARY MORISON

     “LOVE’S COMEDY”                                           285
                       _Translated by_ C. H. HERFORD




                            GENERAL PREFACE


    The eleven volumes of this edition contain all, save one, of the
    dramas which Henrik Ibsen himself admitted to the canon of his
    works. The one exception is his earliest, and very immature,
    tragedy, _Catilina_, first published in 1850, and republished in
    1875. This play is interesting in the light reflected from the
    poet’s later achievements, but has little or no inherent value. A
    great part of its interest lies in the very crudities of its style,
    which it would be a thankless task to reproduce in translation.
    Moreover, the poet impaired even its biographical value by largely
    rewriting it before its republication. He did not make it, or
    attempt to make it, a better play, but he in some measure corrected
    its juvenility of expression. Which version, then, should a
    translator choose? To go back to the original would seem a
    deliberate disregard of the poet’s wishes; while, on the other hand,
    the retouched version is clearly of far inferior interest. It seemed
    advisable, therefore, to leave the play alone, so far as this
    edition was concerned. Still more clearly did it appear unnecessary
    to include _The Warrior’s Barrow_ and _Olaf Liliekrans_, two early
    plays which were never admitted to any edition prepared by the poet
    himself. They were included in a Supplementary Volume of the
    Norwegian collected edition, issued in 1902, when Ibsen’s life-work
    was over. They have even less intrinsic value than _Catilina_, and
    ought certainly to be kept apart from the works by which he desired
    to be remembered. A fourth youthful production, _St. John’s Night_,
    remains to this day in manuscript. Not even German piety has dragged
    it to light.

    With two exceptions, the plays appear in their chronological order.
    The exceptions are _Love’s Comedy_, which ought by rights to come
    between _The Vikings_ and _The Pretenders_, and _Emperor and
    Galilean_, which ought to follow _The League of Youth_ instead of
    preceding it. The reasons of convenience which prompted these
    departures from the exact order are pretty obvious. It seemed highly
    desirable to bring the two Saga Plays, if I may so call them, into
    one volume; while as for _Emperor and Galilean_, it could not have
    been placed between _The League of Youth_ and _Pillars of Society_
    save by separating its two parts, and assigning _Caesar’s Apostasy_
    to Volume V., _The Emperor Julian_ to Volume VI.

    For the translations of all the plays in this edition, except
    _Love’s Comedy_ and _Brand_, I am ultimately responsible, in the
    sense that I have exercised an unrestricted right of revision. This
    means, of course, that, in plays originally translated by others,
    the merits of the English version belong for the most part to the
    original translator, while the faults may have been introduced, and
    must have been sanctioned, by me. The revision, whether fortunate or
    otherwise, has in all cases been very thorough.

    In their unrevised form, these translations have met with a good
    deal of praise and with some blame. I trust that the revision has
    rendered them more praiseworthy, but I can scarcely hope that it has
    met all the objections of those critics who have found them
    blameworthy. For, in some cases at any rate these objections
    proceeded from theories of the translator’s function widely
    divergent from my own—theories of which nothing, probably, could
    disabuse the critic’s mind, save a little experience of the
    difficulties of translating (as distinct from adapting) dramatic
    prose. Ibsen is at once extremely easy and extremely difficult to
    translate. It is extremely easy, in his prose plays, to realise his
    meaning; it is often extremely difficult to convey it in natural,
    colloquial, and yet not too colloquial, English. He is especially
    fond of laying barbed-wire entanglements for the translator’s feet,
    in the shape of recurrent phrases for which it is absolutely
    impossible to find an equivalent that will fit in all the different
    contexts. But this is only one of many classes of obstacles which
    encountered us on almost every page. I think, indeed, that my
    collaborators and I may take it as no small compliment that some of
    our critics have apparently not realised the difficulties of our
    task, or divined the laborious hours which have often gone to the
    turning of a single phrase. And, in not a few cases, the
    difficulties have proved sheer impossibilities. I will cite only one
    instance. Writing of _The Master Builder_, a very competent, and
    indeed generous, critic finds in it “a curious example of perhaps
    inevitable inadequacy.... ‘Duty! Duty! Duty!’ Hilda once exclaims in
    a scornful outburst. ‘What a short, sharp, stinging word!’ The
    epithets do not seem specially apt. But in the original she cries
    out ‘Pligt! Pligt! Pligt!’ and the very word stings and snaps.” I
    submit that in this criticism there is one superfluous word—to wit,
    the “perhaps” which qualifies “inevitable.” For the term used by
    Hilda, and for the idea in her mind, there is only one possible
    English equivalent: “Duty.” The actress can speak it so as more or
    less to justify Hilda’s feeling towards it; and, for the rest, the
    audience must “piece out our imperfections with their thoughts” and
    assume that the Norwegian word has rather more of a sting in its
    sound. It might be possible, no doubt, to adapt Hilda’s phrase to
    the English word, and say, “It sounds like the swish of a whip
    lash,” or something to that effect. But this is a sort of freedom
    which, rightly or wrongly, I hold inadmissible. Once grant the right
    of adaptation, even in small particulars, and it would be impossible
    to say where it should stop. The versions here presented (of the
    prose plays, at any rate) are translations, not paraphrases. If we
    have ever dropped into paraphrase, it is a dereliction of principle;
    and I do not remember an instance. For stage purposes, no doubt, a
    little paring of rough edges is here and there allowable; but even
    that, I think, should seldom go beyond the omission of lines which
    manifestly lose their force in translation, or are incomprehensible
    without a footnote.

    In the Introductions to previous editions I have always confined
    myself to the statement of biographical and historic facts, holding
    criticism no part of my business. Now that Henrik Ibsen has passed
    away, and his works have taken a practically uncontested place in
    world-literature, this reticence seemed no longer imposed upon me. I
    have consequently made a few critical remarks on each play, chiefly
    directed towards tracing the course of the poet’s technical
    development. Nevertheless, the Introductions are still mainly
    biographical, and full advantage has been taken of the stores of new
    information contained in Ibsen’s Letters, and in the books and
    articles about him that have appeared since his death. I have
    prefixed to _Lady Inger of Östråt_ a sketch of the poet’s life down
    to the date of that play; so that the Introductions, read in
    sequence, will be found to form a pretty full record of a career
    which, save for frequent changes of domicile, and the issuing of
    play after play, was singularly uneventful.

    The Introductions to _Loves Comedy_ and _Brand_, as well as the
    translations, are entirely the work of Professor Herford.

    A point of typography perhaps deserves remark. The Norwegian (and
    German) method of indicating emphasis by spacing the letters of a
    word, _thus_, has been adopted in this edition. It is preferable for
    various reasons to the use of italics. In dramatic work, for one
    thing, emphases have sometimes to be indicated so frequently that
    the peppering of the page with italics would produce a very ugly
    effect. But a more important point is this: the italic fount
    suggests a stronger emphasis than the author, as a rule, intends.
    The spacing of a word, especially if it be short, will often escape
    the eye which does not look very closely; and this is as it should
    be. Spacing, as Ibsen employs it, does not generally indicate any
    obtrusive stress, but is merely a guide to the reader in case a
    doubt should arise in his mind as to which of two words is intended
    to be the more emphatic. When such a doubt occurs, the reader, by
    looking closely at the text, will often find in the spacing an
    indication which may at first have escaped him. In almost all cases,
    a spaced word in the translation represents a spaced word in the
    original. I have very seldom used spacing to indicate an emphasis
    peculiar to the English phraseology. The system was first introduced
    in 1897, in the translation of _John Gabriel Borkman_. It has no
    longer even the disadvantage of unfamiliarity, since it has been
    adopted by Mr. Bernard Shaw in his printed plays, and, I believe, by
    other dramatists.

                  *       *       *       *       *

    Just thirty years have passed since I first put pen to paper in a
    translation of Ibsen. In October 1877, _Pillars of Society_ reached
    me hot from the press; and, having devoured it, I dashed off a
    translation of it in less than a week. It has since cost me five or
    six times as much work in revision as it originally did in
    translation. The manuscript was punctually returned to me by more
    than one publisher; and something like ten years elapsed before it
    slowly dawned on me that the translating and editing of Ibsen’s
    works was to be one of the chief labours, as it has certainly been
    one of the greatest privileges, of my life. Since 1887 or
    thereabouts, not many months have passed in which a considerable
    portion of my time has not been devoted to acting, in one form or
    another, as intermediary between Ibsen and the English-speaking
    public. The larger part of the work, in actual bulk, I have myself
    done; but I have had invaluable aid from many quarters, and not
    merely from those fellow workers who are named in the following
    pages as the original translators of certain of the plays. These
    “helpers and servers,” as Solness would say, are too many to be
    individually mentioned; but to all of them, and chiefly to one who
    has devoted to the service of Ibsen a good deal of the hard-won
    leisure of Indian official life, I hereby convey my heartfelt
    thanks.

    The task is now ended. Though it has involved not a little sheer
    drudgery, it has, on the whole, been of absorbing interest. And I
    should have been ungrateful indeed had I shrunk from drudgery in the
    cause of an author who had meant so much to me. I have experienced
    no other literary emotion at all comparable to the eagerness with
    which, ever since 1877, I awaited each new play of Ibsen’s, or the
    excitement with which I tore off the wrapper of the postal packets
    in which the little paper-covered books arrived from Copenhagen.
    People who are old enough to remember the appearance of the monthly
    parts of _David Copperfield_ or _Pendennis_ may have some inkling of
    my sensations; but they were all the intenser as they recurred at
    intervals, not of one month, but of two years. And it was not Ibsen
    the man of ideas or doctrines that meant so much to me; it was Ibsen
    the pure poet, the creator of men and women, the searcher of hearts,
    the weaver of strange webs of destiny. I can only trust that, by
    diligence in seeking for the best interpretation of his thoughts, I
    have paid some part of my debt to that great spirit, and to the
    glorious country that gave him birth.

                                                     WILLIAM ARCHER.

                          LADY INGER OF ÖSTRÅT

                              INTRODUCTION


    Henrik Johan Ibsen was born on March 20, 1828, at the little seaport
    of Skien, situated at the head of a long fiord on the south coast of
    Norway. His great-great-grandfather was a Dane who settled in Bergen
    about 1720. His great-grandmother, Wenche Dischington, was the
    daughter of a Scotchman, who had settled and become naturalised in
    Norway; and Ibsen himself was inclined to ascribe some of his
    characteristics to the Scottish strain in his blood. Both his
    grandmother (Plesner by name) and his mother, Maria Cornelia
    Altenburg, were of German descent. It has been said that there was
    not a drop of Norwegian blood in Ibsen’s composition; but it is
    doubtful whether this statement can be substantiated. Most of his
    male ancestors were sailors; but his father, Knud Ibsen, was a
    merchant. When Henrik (his first child) was born, he seems to have
    been prosperous, and to have led a very social and perhaps rather
    extravagant life. But when the poet was eight years old financial
    disaster overtook the family, and they had to withdraw to a
    comparatively small farmhouse on the outskirts of the little town,
    where they lived in poverty and retirement.

    As a boy, Ibsen appears to have been lacking in animal spirits and
    the ordinary childish taste for games. Our chief glimpses of his
    home life are due to his sister Hedvig, the only one of his family
    with whom, in after years, he maintained any intercourse, and whose
    name he gave to one of his most beautiful creations.[1] She relates
    that the only out-door amusement he cared for was “building”—in what
    material does not appear. Among indoor diversions, that to which he
    was most addicted was conjuring, a younger brother serving as his
    confederate. We also hear of his cutting out fantastically-dressed
    figures in pasteboard, attaching them to wooden blocks, and ranging
    them in groups or tableaux. He may be said, in short, to have had a
    toy theatre without the stage. In all these amusements it is
    possible, with a little goodwill, to divine the coming dramatist—the
    constructive faculty, the taste for technical legerdemain (which
    made him in his youth so apt a disciple of Scribe), and the
    fundamental passion for manipulating fictitious characters. The
    education he received was of the most ordinary, but included a
    little Latin. The subjects which chiefly interested him were history
    and religion. He showed no special literary proclivities, though a
    dream which he narrated in a school composition so impressed his
    master that he accused him (much to the boy’s indignation) of having
    copied it out of some book.

    His chief taste was for drawing, and he was anxious to become an
    artist; but his father could not afford to pay for his training.[2]
    At the age of fifteen, therefore, he had to set about earning his
    living, and was apprenticed to an apothecary in Grimstad, a town on
    the south-west coast of Norway, between Arendal and Christianssand.
    He was here in even narrower social surroundings than at Skien. His
    birthplace numbered some 3000 inhabitants, Grimstad about 800. That
    he was contented with his lot cannot be supposed; and the short,
    dark, taciturn youth seems to have made an unsympathetic and rather
    uncanny impression upon the burghers of the little township. His
    popularity was not heightened by a talent which he presently
    developed for drawing caricatures and writing personal lampoons. He
    found, however, two admiring friends in Christopher Lorentz Due, a
    custom-house clerk, and a law student named Olë Schulerud.

    The first political event which aroused his interest and stirred him
    to literary expression was the French Revolution of 1848. He himself
    writes:[3] “The times were much disturbed. The February revolution,
    the rising in Hungary and elsewhere, the Slesvig War—all this had a
    strong and ripening effect on my development, immature though it
    remained both then and long afterwards. I wrote clangorous poems of
    encouragement to the Magyars, adjuring them, for the sake of freedom
    and humanity, not to falter in their righteous war against ‘the
    tyrants’; and I composed a long series of sonnets to King Oscar,
    mainly, so far as I remember, urging him to set aside all petty
    considerations, and march without delay, at the head of his army, to
    the assistance of our Danish brothers on the Slesvig frontier.”
    These effusions remained in manuscript, and have, for the most part,
    perished. About the same time he was reading for his matriculation
    examination at Christiania University, where he proposed to study
    medicine; and it happened that the Latin books prescribed were
    Sallust’s _Catiline_ and Cicero’s Catilinarian Orations. “I devoured
    these documents,” says Ibsen, “and a few months later my drama
    [_Catilina_] was finished.” His friend Schulerud took it to
    Christiania, to offer it to the theatre and to the publishers. By
    both it was declined. Schulerud, however, had it printed at his own
    expense; and soon after its appearance, in the early spring of 1850,
    Ibsen himself came to Christiania.[4]

    For the most part written in blank verse, _Catilina_ towards the
    close breaks into rhyming trochaic lines of thirteen and fifteen
    syllables. It is an extremely youthful production, very interesting
    from the biographical point of view, but of small substantive merit.
    What is chiefly notable in it, perhaps, is the fact that it already
    shows Ibsen occupied with the theme which was to run through so many
    of his works—the contrast between two types of womanhood, one strong
    and resolute, even to criminality, the other comparatively weak,
    clinging, and “feminine” in the conventional sense of the word.

    In Christiania Ibsen shared Schulerud’s lodgings, and his poverty.
    There is a significant sentence in his preface to the re-written
    _Catilina_, in which he tells how the bulk of the first edition was
    sold as waste paper, and adds: “In the days immediately following we
    lacked none of the first necessities of life.” He went to a
    “student-factory,” or, as we should say, a “crammer’s,” managed by
    one Heltberg; and there he fell in with several of the leading
    spirits of his generation—notably with Björnson, A. O. Vinje, and
    Jonas Lie. In the early summer of 1850 he wrote a one-act play,
    _Kiæmpehöien_ (_The Warrior’s Barrow_), entirely in the sentimental
    and somewhat verbose manner of the Danish poet Oehlenschläger. It
    was accepted by the Christiania Theatre, and performed three times,
    but cannot have put much money in the poet’s purse. With Paul
    Botten-Hansen and A. O. Vinje he co-operated in the production of a
    weekly satirical paper, at first entitled _Manden_ (_The Man_), but
    afterwards _Andhrimner_, after the cook of the gods in Valhalla. To
    this journal, which lasted only from January to September 1851, he
    contributed, among other things, a satirical “music-tragedy,”
    entitled _Norma, or a Politician’s Love_. As the circulation of the
    paper is said to have been something under a hundred, it cannot have
    paid its contributors very lavishly. About this time, too, he
    narrowly escaped arrest on account of some political agitation, in
    which, however, he had not been very deeply concerned.

    Meanwhile a movement had been going forward in the capital of
    Western Norway, Bergen, which was to have a determining influence on
    Ibsen’s destinies.

    Up to 1850 there had been practically no Norwegian drama. The two
    great poets of the first half of the century, Wergeland and
    Welhaven, had nothing dramatic in their composition, though
    Wergeland more than once essayed the dramatic form. Danish actors
    and Danish plays held entire possession of the Christiania Theatre;
    and, though amateur performances were not uncommon in provincial
    towns, it was generally held that the Norwegians, as a nation, were
    devoid of all talent for acting. The very sound of Norwegian (as
    distinct from Danish) was held by Norwegians themselves to be
    ridiculous on the stage. Fortunately Olë Bull, the great violinist,
    was not of that opinion. With the insight of genius, he saw that the
    time had come for the development of a national drama; he set forth
    this view in a masterly argument addressed to the Storthing; and he
    gave practical effect to it by establishing, at his own risk, a
    Norwegian Theatre in Bergen. How rightly he had judged the situation
    may be estimated from the fact that among the raw lads who first
    presented themselves for employment was Johannes Brun, afterwards
    one of the greatest of comedians; while the first “theatre-poet”
    engaged by the management was none other than Henrik Ibsen.

    The theatre was opened on January 2, 1850; Ibsen entered upon his
    duties (at a salary of less than £70 a year) in November 1851.[5]

    Incredibly, pathetically small, according to our ideas, were the
    material resources of Bull’s gallant enterprise. The town of Bergen
    numbered only 25,000 inhabitants. Performances were given only
    twice, or, at the outside, three times, a week; and the highest
    price of admission was two shillings. What can have been attempted
    in the way of scenery and costumes it is hard to imagine. Of a
    three-act play, produced in 1852, we read that “the mounting, which
    cost £22 10s., left nothing to be desired.”

    Ibsen’s connection with the Bergen Theatre lasted from November 6,
    1851, until the summer of 1857—that is to say, from his
    twenty-fourth to his thirtieth year. He was engaged in the first
    instance “to assist the theatre as dramatic author,” but in the
    following year he received from the management a “travelling
    stipend” of £45 to enable him to study the art of theatrical
    production in Denmark and Germany, with the stipulation that, on his
    return, he should undertake the duties of “scene instructor”—that is
    to say, stage-manager or producer. In this function he seems to have
    been—as, indeed, he always was—extremely conscientious. A book
    exists in the Bergen Public Library containing (it is said) careful
    designs by him for every scene in the plays he produced, and full
    notes as to entrances, exits, groupings, costumes, accessories, &c.
    But he was not an animating or inspiring producer. He had none of
    the histrionic vividness of his successor in the post, Björnstjerne
    Björnson, who, like all great producers, could not only tell the
    actors what to do, but show them how to do it. Perhaps it was a
    sense of his lack of impulse that induced the management to give him
    a colleague, one Herman Låding, with whom his relations were none of
    the happiest. Ibsen is even said, on one occasion, to have
    challenged Låding to a duel.

    One of the duties of the “theatre-poet” was to have a new play ready
    for each recurrence of the “Foundation Day” of the theatre, January
    2. On that date, in 1853, Ibsen produced a romantic comedy, _St.
    John’s Night_. This is the only one of his plays that has never been
    printed. From the accounts of those who have seen the manuscript, it
    would appear to be a strange jumble of fantastic fairy-lore with
    modern comedy or melodrama. Perhaps it is not quite fanciful to
    regard it as a sort of half-way house between _A Midsummer Night’s
    Dream_ and _Peer Gynt_. In one of its scenes there appears to be an
    unmistakable foreshadowing of the episode in the Troll-King’s palace
    (_Peer Gynt_, Act II., Sc. 6). The play had no success, and was
    performed only twice. For the next Foundation Day, January 2, 1854,
    Ibsen prepared a revised version of _The Warrior’s Barrow_, already
    produced in Christiania. A year later, January 2, 1855, _Lady Inger
    of Östråt_ was produced—a work still immature, indeed, but giving,
    for the first time, no uncertain promise of the master dramatist to
    come.

    In an autobiographical letter to the Danish critic Peter Hansen,
    written from Dresden in 1870, Ibsen says: “_Lady Inger of Östråt_ is
    the result of a love-affair—hastily entered into and violently
    broken off—to which several of my minor poems may also be
    attributed, such as _Wild-flowers and Pot-plants_, _A Bird-Song_,
    &c.” The heroine of this love-affair can now be identified as a lady
    named Henrikke Holst, who seems to have preserved through a long
    life the fresh, bright spirit, the overflowing joyousness, which
    attracted Ibsen when she was only in her seventeenth year. Their
    relation was of the most innocent. It went no further than a few
    surreptitious rambles in the romantic surroundings of Bergen,
    usually with a somewhat older girl to play propriety, and with a bag
    of sugar-plums to fill up pauses in the conversation. The “violent”
    ending seems to have come when the young lady’s father discovered
    the secret of these excursions, and doubtless placed her under more
    careful control. What there was in this episode to suggest, or in
    any way influence, _Lady Inger_, I cannot understand. Nevertheless
    the identification seems quite certain. The affair had a charming
    little sequel. During the days of their love’s young dream, Ibsen
    treated the “wild-flower” with a sort of shy and distant chivalry at
    which the wood-gods must have smiled. He avoided even touching her
    hand, and always addressed her by the “De” (you) of formal
    politeness. But when they met again after many years, he a famous
    poet and she a middle-aged matron, he instinctively adopted the “Du”
    (thou) of affectionate intimacy, and she responded in kind. He asked
    her whether she had recognised herself in any of his works, and she
    replied: “I really don’t know, unless it be in the parson’s wife in
    _Love’s Comedy_, with her eight children and her perpetual
    knitting.” “Ibsen protested,” says Herr Paulsen, in whose _Samliv
    med Ibsen_ a full account of the episode may be read. It is
    interesting to note that the lady did not recognise herself in Eline
    Gyldenlöve, any more than we can.

    It must have been less than a year after the production of _Lady
    Inger_ that Ibsen made the acquaintance of the lady who was to be
    his wife. Susanna Dåe Thoresen was a daughter (by his second
    marriage) of Provost[6] Thoresen, of Bergen, whose third wife,
    Magdalene Krag, afterwards became an authoress of some celebrity. It
    is recorded that Ibsen’s first visit to the Thoresen household took
    place on January 7, 1856,[7] and that on that occasion, speaking to
    Susanna Thoresen, he was suddenly moved to say to her: “You are now
    Elina, but in time you will become Lady Inger.” Twenty years later,
    at Christmas 1876, he gave his wife a copy of the German translation
    of _Lady Inger_, with the following inscription on the fly-leaf:

                “This book is by right indefeasible thine,
                Who in spirit art born of the Östråt line.”

    In _Lady Inger_ Ibsen has chosen a theme from the very darkest hour
    of Norwegian history. King Sverre’s democratic monarchy, dating from
    the beginning of the thirteenth century, had paralysed the old
    Norwegian nobility. One by one the great families died out, their
    possessions being concentrated in the hands of the few survivors,
    who regarded their wealth as a privilege unhampered by obligations.
    At the beginning of the sixteenth century, then, patriotism and
    public spirit were almost dead among the nobles, while the monarchy,
    before which the old aristocracy had fallen, was itself dead, or
    rather merged (since 1380) in the Crown of Denmark. The peasantry,
    too, had long ago lost all effective voice in political affairs; so
    that Norway lay prone and inert at the mercy of her Danish rulers.
    It is at the moment of deepest national degradation that Ibsen has
    placed his tragedy; and the degradation was, in fact, even deeper
    than he represents it, for the longings for freedom, the stirrings
    of revolt, which form the motive-power of the action, are invented,
    or at any rate idealised, by the poet. Fru Inger Ottisdatter
    Gyldenlöve was, in fact, the greatest personage of her day in
    Norway. She was the best-born, the wealthiest, and probably the
    ablest woman in the land. At the time when Ibsen wrote, little more
    than this seems to have been known of her; so that in making her the
    victim of a struggle between patriotic duty and maternal love, he
    was perhaps poetising in the absence of positive evidence, rather
    than in opposition to it. Subsequent research, unfortunately, has
    shown that Fru Inger was but little troubled with patriotic
    aspirations. She was a hard and grasping woman, ambitious of social
    power and predominance, but inaccessible, or nearly so, to national
    feeling. It was from sheer social ambition, and with no qualms of
    patriotic conscience, that she married her daughters to Danish
    noblemen. True, she lent some support to the insurrection of the
    so-called “Dale-junker,” a peasant who gave himself out as the heir
    of Sten Sture, a former regent of Sweden; but there is not a tittle
    of ground for making this pretender her son. He might, indeed, have
    become her son-in-law, for, speculating on his chances of success,
    she had betrothed one of her daughters to him. Thus the Fru Inger of
    Ibsen’s play is, in her character and circumstances, as much a
    creation of the poet’s as though no historic personage of that name
    had ever existed. Olaf Skaktavl, Nils Lykke, and Eline Gyldenlöve
    are also historic names; but with them, too, Ibsen has dealt with
    the utmost freedom. The real Nils Lykke was married in 1528 to the
    real Eline Gyldenlöve. She died four years later, leaving him two
    children; and thereupon he would fain have married her sister Lucia.
    Such a union, however, was regarded as incestuous, and the lovers
    failed in their effort to obtain a special dispensation. Lucia then
    became her brother-in-law’s mistress, and bore him a son. But the
    ecclesiastical law was in those days not to be trifled with; Nils
    Lykke was thrown into prison for his crime, condemned, and killed in
    his dungeon, in the year of grace 1535. Thus there was a tragedy
    ready-made in Ibsen’s material, though it was not the tragedy he
    chose to write.

    The Bergen public did not greatly take to _Lady Inger_, and it was
    performed, in its novelty, only twice. Nor is the reason far to
    seek. The extreme complexity of the intrigue, and the lack of clear
    guidance through its mazes, probably left the Bergen audiences no
    less puzzled than the London audiences who saw the play at the Scala
    Theatre in 1906.[8] It is a play which can be appreciated only by
    spectators who know it beforehand. Such audiences it has often found
    in Norway, where it was revived at the Christiania Theatre in 1875;
    but in Denmark and Germany, though it has been produced several
    times, it has never been very successful. We need go no further than
    the end of the first act to understand the reason. On an audience
    which knows nothing of the play, the sudden appearance of a
    “Stranger,” to whose identity it has not the slightest clue, can
    produce no effect save one of bewilderment. To rely on such an
    incident for what was evidently intended to be a thrilling
    “curtain,” was to betray extreme inexperience; and this single trait
    is typical of much in the play. Nevertheless _Lady Inger_ marks a
    decisive advance in Ibsen’s development. It marks, one may say, the
    birth of his power of invention. He did not as yet know how to
    restrain or clarify his invention, and he made clumsy use of the
    stock devices of a bad school. But he had once for all entered upon
    that course of technical training which it took him five-and-twenty
    years to complete. He was learning much that he was afterwards to
    unlearn; but had he not undergone this apprenticeship, he would
    never have been the master he ultimately became.

    When Ibsen entered upon his duties at the Bergen Theatre, the
    influence of Eugène Scribe and his imitators was at its very height.
    Of the 145 plays produced during his tenure of office, more than
    half (seventy-five) were French, twenty-one being by Scribe himself,
    and at least half the remainder by adepts of his school, Bayard,
    Dumanoir, Mélesville, &c. It is to this school that Ibsen, in _Lady
    Inger_, proclaims his adherence; and he did not finally shake off
    its influence until he wrote the Third Act of _A Doll’s House_ in
    1879. Although the romantic environment of the play, and the tragic
    intensity of the leading character, tend to disguise the
    relationship, there can be no doubt that _Lady Inger_ is, in
    essence, simply a French drama of intrigue, constructed after the
    method of Scribe, as exemplified in _Adrienne Lecouvreur_, _Les
    Contes de la Reine de Navarre_,[9] and a dozen other French plays,
    with the staging of which the poet was then occupied. It might seem
    that the figure of Elina, brooding over the thought of her dead
    sister, coffined in the vault below the banqueting-hall, belonged
    rather to German romanticism; but there are plenty of traces of
    German romanticism even in the French plays with which the good
    people of Bergen were regaled. For the suggestion of grave-vaults
    and coffined heroines, for example, Ibsen need have gone no further
    than Dumas’s _Catherine Howard_, which he produced in March 1853. I
    do not, however, pretend that his romantic colouring came to him
    from France. It came to him, doubtless, from Germany, by way of
    Denmark. My point is that the conduct of the intrigue in _Lady
    Inger_ shows the most unmistakable marks of his study of the great
    French plot-manipulators. Its dexterity and its artificiality alike
    are neither German nor Danish, but French. Ibsen had learnt the
    great secret of Scribe—the secret of dramatic movement. The play is
    full of those ingenious complications, mistakes of identity, and
    rapid turns of fortune by which Scribe enchained the interest of his
    audiences. Its central theme—a mother plunging into intrigue and
    crime for the advancement of her son, only to find that her son
    himself has been her victim—is as old as Greek tragedy. The
    secondary story, too—that of Elina’s wild infatuation for the
    betrayer and practically the murderer of her sister—could probably
    be paralleled in the ballad literature of Scotland, Germany, or
    Denmark, and might, indeed, have been told, in verse or prose, by
    Sir Walter Scott. But these very un-Parisian elements are handled in
    a fundamentally Parisian fashion, and Ibsen is clearly fascinated,
    for the time, by the ideal of what was afterwards to be known as the
    “well-made play.” The fact that the result is in reality an ill-made
    play in no way invalidates this theory. It is perhaps the final
    condemnation of the well-made play that in nine cases out of ten—and
    even in the hands of far more experienced playwrights than the young
    Bergen “theatre-poet”—it is apt to prove ill-made after all.

    Far be it from me, however, to speak in pure disparagement of _Lady
    Inger_. With all its defects, it seems to me manifestly the work of
    a great poet—the only one of Ibsen’s plays prior to _The Vikings at
    Helgeland_ of which this can be said. It may be that early
    impressions mislead me; but I still cannot help seeing in Lady Inger
    a figure of truly tragic grandeur; in Nils Lykke one of the few
    really seductive seducers in literature; and in many passages of the
    dialogue, the touch of a master hand.

                                                               W. A.

-----

Footnote 1:

      See Introduction to _The Wild Duck_, p. xxiii.

Footnote 2:

      He continued to dabble in painting until he was thirty, or
      thereabouts.

Footnote 3:

      Preface to the second edition of _Catilina_, 1875.

Footnote 4:

      This is his own statement of the order of events. According to
      Halvdan Koht (_Samlede Værker_, vol. x. p. i) he arrived in
      Christiania in March 1850, and _Catilina_ did not appear until
      April.

Footnote 5:

      The history of Ibsen’s connection with the Bergen Theatre is
      written at some length in an article by me, entitled “Ibsen’s
      Apprenticeship,” published in the _Fortnightly Review_ for January
      1904. From that article I quote freely in the following pages.

Footnote 6:

      Provost (“Provst”) is an ecclesiastical title, roughly equivalent
      to Dean.

Footnote 7:

      See article by Dr. Julius Elias in _Die neue Rundschau_, December
      1906, p. 1463. Dr. Brahm, in the same magazine (p. 1414), writes
      as though this were Ibsen’s first meeting with his wife; and a
      note by Halvdan Koht, in the Norwegian edition of Ibsen’s Letters,
      seems to bear out this view. But it would appear that what Fru
      Ibsen told Dr. Elias was that on the date mentioned Ibsen for “the
      first time visited at her father’s house.” The terms of the
      anecdote almost compel us to assume that he had previously met her
      elsewhere. It seems almost inconceivable that Ibsen, of all
      people, should have made such a speech to a lady on their very
      first meeting.

Footnote 8:

      Stage Society performances, January 28 and 29, 1906. Lady Inger
      was played by Miss Edyth Olive, Elina by Miss Alice Crawford, Nils
      Lykke by Mr. Henry Ainley, Olaf Skaktavl by Mr. Alfred Brydone,
      and Nils Stenssön by Mr. Harcourt Williams.

Footnote 9:

      These two plays were produced, respectively, in March and October
      1854, at the very time when Ibsen must have been planning and
      composing _Lady Inger_.

-----




                          THE FEAST AT SOLHOUG

                              INTRODUCTION


    Exactly a year after the production of _Lady Inger of Östråt_—that
    is to say on the “Foundation Day” of the Bergen Theatre, January 2,
    1856—_The Feast at Solhoug_ was produced. The poet himself has
    written its history in full in the Preface to the second edition
    (see p. 183). 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:[10] “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 ever succeeded
    in inventing a metre suitable for dramatic purposes, which yet
    retained the mediæval 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 iambic 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 _Käthchen von Heilbronn_ 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.”

    The question is, to put it in a nutshell: Supposing Hertz had never
    adapted the ballad measures to dramatic purposes, would Ibsen have
    written _The Feast at Solhoug_, at any rate in its present form? I
    think we must answer: Almost certainly, no.

    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 crispness 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 five
    days after the production of _The Feast at Solhoug_. It seems
    doubtful whether this was actually his first meeting with her;[11]
    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 of 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.

-----

Footnote 10:

      _Ibsen and Björnson._ London, Heinemann, 1899, p. 88.

Footnote 11:

      See note, p. xxv.

-----




                             LOVE'S COMEDY

                              INTRODUCTION


    _Kærlighedens Komedie_ was published at Christiania in 1862. The
    polite world—so far as such a thing existed at that time in the
    Northern capital—received it with an outburst of indignation not now
    entirely easy to understand. It has indeed faults enough. The
    character-drawing is often crude, the action, though full of
    effective by-play, extremely slight, and the sensational climax has
    little relation to human nature as exhibited in Norway, or out of
    it, at that or any other time. But the sting lay in the unflattering
    veracity of the piece as a whole; in the merciless portrayal of the
    trivialities of persons, or classes, high in their own esteem; in
    the unexampled effrontery of bringing a clergyman upon the stage.
    All these have long since passed in Scandinavia, into the category
    of the things which people take with their Ibsen as a matter of
    course, and the play is welcomed with delight by every Scandinavian
    audience. But in 1862 the matter was serious, and Ibsen meant it to
    be so.

    For they were years of ferment—those six or seven which intervened
    between his return to Christiania from Bergen in 1857, and his
    departure for Italy in 1864. As director of the newly founded
    “Norwegian Theatre,” Ibsen was a prominent member of the little knot
    of brilliant young writers who led the nationalist revolt against
    Danish literary tradition, then still dominant in well-to-do, and
    especially in official, Christiania. Well-to-do and official
    Christiania met the revolt with contempt. Under such conditions, the
    specific literary battle of the Norwegian with the Dane easily
    developed into the eternal warfare of youthful idealism with
    “respectability” and convention. Ibsen had already started work upon
    the greatest of his Norse Histories—_The Pretenders_. But history
    was for him little more than material for the illustration of modern
    problems; and he turned with zest from the task of breathing his own
    spirit into the stubborn mould of the thirteenth century, to hold up
    the satiric mirror to the suburban drawing-rooms of Christiania, and
    to the varied phenomena current there,—and in suburban drawing-rooms
    elsewhere,—under the name of Love.

    Yet _Love’s Comedy_ is much more than a satire, and its exuberant
    humour has a bitter core; the laughter that rings through it is the
    harsh, implacable laughter of Carlyle. His criticism of commonplace
    love-making is at first sight harmless and ordinary enough. The
    ceremonial formalities of the continental _Verlobung_, the shrill
    raptures of aunts and cousins over the engaged pair, the satisfied
    smile of enterprising materfamilias as she reckons up the tale of
    daughters or of nieces safely married off under her auspices; or,
    again, the embarrassments incident to a prolonged _Brautstand_
    following a hasty wooing, the deadly effect of familiarity upon a
    shallow affection, and the anxious efforts to save the appearance of
    romance when its zest has departed—all these things had yielded such
    “comedy” as they possess to many others before Ibsen, and an Ibsen
    was not needed to evoke it. But if we ask what, then, is the right
    way from which these “comic” personages in their several fashions
    diverge; what is the condition which will secure courtship from
    ridicule, and marriage from disillusion, Ibsen abruptly parts
    company with all his predecessors. “‘Of course,’ reply the rest in
    chorus, ‘a deep and sincere love’;—‘together,’ add some, 'with
    prudent good sense.'” The prudent good sense Ibsen allows; but he
    couples with it the startling paradox that the first condition of a
    happy marriage is the absence of love, and the first condition of an
    enduring love the absence of marriage.

    The student of the latter-day Ibsen is naturally somewhat taken
    aback to find the grim poet of Doubt, whose task it seems to be to
    apply a corrosive criticism to modern institutions in general and to
    marriage in particular, gravely defending the “marriage of
    convenience.” And his amazement is not diminished by the sense that
    the author of this plea for the loveless marriage, which poets have
    at all times scorned and derided, was himself beyond question a
    poet, ardent, brilliant, and young, and himself, what is more, quite
    recently and beyond question happily, married. The truth is that
    there are two men—in Ibsen an idealist, exalted to the verge of
    sentimentality, and a critic, hard, inexorable, remorseless, to the
    verge of cynicism. What we call his “social philosophy” is a _modus
    vivendi_ arrived at between them. Both agree in repudiating
    “marriage for love”; but the idealist repudiates it in the name of
    love, the critic in the name of marriage. Love, for the idealist
    Ibsen, is a passion which loses its virtue when it reaches its goal,
    which inspires only while it aspires, and flags bewildered when it
    attains. Marriage, for the critic Ibsen, is an institution beset
    with pitfalls into which those are surest to step who enter in
    blinded with love. In the latter dramas the tragedy of married life
    is commonly generated by other forms of blindness—the childish
    innocence of Nora, the maidenly ignorance of Helena Alving, neither
    of whom married precisely “for love”; here it is blind Love alone
    who, to the jealous eye of the critic, plays the part of the Serpent
    in the Edens of wedded bliss. There is, it is clear, an element of
    unsolved contradiction in Ibsen’s thought;—Love is at once so
    precious and so deadly, a possession so glorious that all other
    things in life are of less worth, and yet capable of producing only
    disastrously illusive effects upon those who have entered into the
    relations to which it prompts. But with Ibsen—and it is a grave
    intellectual defect—there is an absolute antagonism between spirit
    and form. An institution is always, with him, a shackle for the free
    life of souls, not an organ through which they attain expression;
    and since the institution of marriage cannot but be, there remains
    as the only logical solution that which he enjoins—to keep the
    soul’s life out of it. To “those about to marry,” Ibsen therefore
    says in effect, “Be sure you are not in love!” And to those who are
    in love he says, “Part!”

    It is easy to understand the irony with which a man who thought thus
    of love contemplated the business of “love-making,” and the
    ceremonial discipline of Continental courtship. The whole unnumbered
    tribe of wooing and plighted lovers were for him unconscious actors
    in a world-comedy of Love’s contriving—naïve fools of fancy,
    passionately weaving the cords that are to strangle passion. Comedy
    like this cannot be altogether gay; and as each fresh romance decays
    into routine, and each aspiring passion goes out under the spell of
    a vulgar environment, or submits to the bitter salvation of a final
    parting, the ringing laughter grows harsh and hollow, and notes of
    ineffable sadness escape from the poet’s Stoic self-restraint.

    Ibsen had grown up in a school which cultivated the romantic,
    piquant, picturesque in style; which ran riot in wit, in vivacious
    and brilliant imagery, in resonant rhythms and telling double
    rhymes. It must be owned that this was not the happiest school for a
    dramatist, nor can _Love’s Comedy_ be regarded, in the matter of
    style, as other than a risky experiment which nothing but the sheer
    dramatic force of an Ibsen could have carried through. As it is,
    there are palpable fluctuations, discrepancies of manner; the
    realism of treatment often provokes a realism of style out of
    keeping with the lyric afflatus of the verse; and we pass with
    little warning from the barest colloquial prose to strains of
    high-wrought poetic fancy. Nevertheless, the style, with all its
    inequalities, becomes in Ibsen’s hands a singularly plastic medium
    of dramatic expression. The marble is too richly veined for ideal
    sculpture, but it takes the print of life. The wit, exuberant as it
    is, does not coruscate indiscriminately upon all lips; and it has
    many shades and varieties—caustic, ironical, imaginative, playful,
    passionate—which take their temper from the speaker’s mood.

    The present version of the play retains the metres of the original,
    and follows it in general line for line. For a long passage,
    occupying substantially the first twenty pages, the translator is
    indebted to the editor of the present work; and two other
    passages—Falk’s tirades on pp. 58 and 100—result from a fusion of
    versions made independently by us both.

                                                            C. H. H.

                          LADY INGER OF ÖSTRÅT
                                 (1855)

                               CHARACTERS

    LADY INGER OTTISDAUGHTER RÖMER, _widow of High Steward Nils
    Gyldenlöve._
    ELINA GYLDENLÖVE, _her daughter._
    NILS LYKKE, _Danish knight and councillor._
    OLAF SKAKTAVL, _an outlawed Norwegian noble._
    NILS STENSSON.
    JENS BIELKE, _Swedish commander._
    BIÖRN, _majordomo at Östråt._
    FINN, _a servant._
    EINAR HUK, _bailiff at Östråt._
    _Servants, peasants, and Swedish men-at-arms._

                                -------

    _The action takes place at Östråt Manor, on the Trondhiem Fiord, in
                              the year 1528._

    [PRONUNCIATION OF NAMES.—Östråt = _Östrot_; Elina (Norwegian, Eline)
    = _Eleena_; Stensson = _Staynson_; Biörn = _Byörn_; Jens Bielke =
    _Yens Byelke_; Huk = _Hook_. The _g_'s in “Inger” and in
    “Gyldenlöve” are, of course, hard. The final _e_'s and the _ö_'s
    pronounced much as in German.]

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                 LADY INGER OF ÖSTRÅT | DRAMA IN FIVE ACTS

                               ----------


                               ACT FIRST


        _A room at Östråt. Through an open door in the back, the
            Banquet Hall is seen in faint moonlight, which shines
            fitfully through a deep bow-window in the opposite wall.
            To the right, an entrance-door; further forward, a
            curtained window. On the left, a door leading to the
            inner rooms; further forward a large open fireplace,
            which casts a glow over the room. It is a stormy
            evening._

        BIÖRN _and_ FINN _are sitting by the fireplace. The latter
            is occupied in polishing a helmet. Several pieces of
            armour lie near them, along with a sword and shield._

                                   FINN.

        [_After a pause._] Who was Knut[12] Alfson?

                                   BIÖRN.

        My Lady says he was the last of Norway’s knighthood.

                                   FINN.

        And the Danes killed him at Oslo-fiord?

                                   BIÖRN.

        If you know not that, ask any child of five.

                                   FINN.

        So Knut Alfson was the last of our knighthood? And now he’s
        dead and gone! [_Holds up the helmet._] Well, thou must e’en
        be content to hang scoured and bright in the Banquet Hall;
        for what art thou now but an empty nut-shell? The kernel—the
        worms have eaten that many a winter agone.

        What say you, Biörn—may not one call Norway’s land an empty
        nut-shell, even like the helmet here; bright without,
        worm-eaten within?

                                   BIÖRN.

        Hold your peace, and mind your task!—Is the helmet ready?

                                   FINN.

        It shines like silver in the moonlight.

                                   BIÖRN.

        Then put it by.—See here; scrape the rust off the sword.

                                   FINN.

                        [_Turning the sword over and examining it._]

        Is it worth while?

                                   BIÖRN.

        What mean you?

                                   FINN.

        The edge is gone.

                                   BIÖRN.

        What’s that to you? Give it me.—Here, take the shield.

                                   FINN.

        [_As before._] There is no grip to it!

                                   BIÖRN.

        [_Mutters._] Let me get a grip on _you_——

                                [FINN _hums to himself for a while._

                                   BIÖRN.

        What now?

                                   FINN.

        An empty helmet, a sword with no edge, a shield with no
        grip—so it has all come to that. Who can blame Lady Inger if
        she leaves such weapons to hang scoured and polished on the
        walls, instead of rusting them in Danish blood?

                                   BIÖRN.

        Folly! Is there not peace in the land?

                                   FINN.

        Peace? Ay, when the peasant has shot away his last arrow,
        and the wolf has reft the last lamb from the fold, then is
        there peace between them. But ’tis a strange friendship.
        Well, well; let that pass. ’Tis fitting, as I said, that the
        harness hang bright in the hall; for you know the old saw:
        “Call none a man but the knightly man.” So now that we have
        never a knight in the land, we have never a man; and where
        no man is, there must women order things; therefore——

                                   BIÖRN.

        Therefore—therefore I bid you hold your foul prate!
           [_Rises._

        The evening wears on. Enough; you may hang the helmet and
        armour in the hall again.

                                   FINN.

        [_In a low voice._] Nay, best let it be till to-morrow.

                                   BIÖRN.

        What, do you fear the dark?

                                   FINN.

        Not by day. And if so be I fear it at even, I am not the
        only one. Ah, you may look; I tell you in the housefolk’s
        room there is talk of many things. [_Lower._] They say that,
        night by night, a tall figure, clad in black, walks the
        Banquet Hall.

                                   BIÖRN.

        Old wives’ tales!

                                   FINN.

        Ah, but they all swear ’tis true.

                                   BIÖRN.

        That I well believe.

                                   FINN.

        The strangest of all is that Lady Inger thinks the same——

                                   BIÖRN.

        [_Starting._] Lady Inger? What does she think?

                                   FINN.

        What Lady Inger thinks? I warrant few can tell that. But
        sure it is that she has no rest in her. See you not how day
        by day she grows thinner and paler? [_Looks keenly at him._]
        They say she never sleeps—and that it is because of the
        black figure——

                [_While he is speaking,_ ELINA GYLDENLÖVE _has
                    appeared in the half-open door on the left. She
                    stops and listens, unobserved._

                                   BIÖRN.

        And you believe such follies?

                                   FINN.

        Well, half and half. There be folk, too, that read
        things another way. But that is pure malice, I’ll be
        bound.—Hearken, Biörn—know you the song that is going
        round the country?

                                   BIÖRN.

        A song?

                                   FINN.

        Ay, ’tis on all folks’ lips. ’Tis a shameful scurril thing,
        for sure; yet it goes prettily. Just listen:    [_Sings in a
        low voice._

        Dame Inger sitteth in Östråt fair,
        She wraps her in costly furs—
        She decks her in velvet and ermine and vair,
        Red gold are the beads that she twines in her hair—
        But small peace in that soul of hers.

        Dame Inger hath sold her to Denmark’s lord.
        She bringeth her folk ’neath the stranger’s yoke—
        In guerdon whereof—

          [BIÖRN _enraged, seizes him by the throat._ ELINA
              GYLDENLÖVE _withdraws without having been seen._

                                   BIÖRN.

        I will send you guerdonless to the foul fiend, if you prate
        of Lady Inger but one unseemly word more.

                                   FINN.

        [_Breaking from his grasp._] Why—did _I_ make the song?

                     [_The blast of a horn is heard from the right._

                                   BIÖRN.

        Hark—what is that?

                                   FINN.

        A horn. Then there come guests to-night.

                                   BIÖRN.

        [_At the window._] They are opening the gate. I hear the
        clatter of hoofs in the courtyard. It must be a knight.

                                   FINN.

        A knight? Nay, that can scarce be.

                                   BIÖRN.

        Why not?

                                   FINN.

        Did you not say yourself: the last of our knighthood is dead
        and gone?

                                           [_Goes out to the right._

                                   BIÖRN.

        The accursed knave, with his prying and peering! What avails
        all my striving to hide and hush things? They whisper of her
        even now—; soon all men will be shouting aloud that——

                                   ELINA.

        [_Comes in again through the door on the left; looks round
        her, and says with suppressed emotion:_] Are you alone,
        Biörn?

                                   BIÖRN.

        Is it you, Mistress Elina?

                                   ELINA.

        Come, Biörn, tell me one of your stories; I know you can
        tell others than those that-—-

                                   BIÖRN.

        A story? Now—so late in the evening——?

                                   ELINA.

        If you count from the time when it grew dark at Östråt, then
        ’tis late indeed.

                                   BIÖRN.

        What ails you? Has aught crossed you? You seem so restless.

                                   ELINA.

        May be so.

                                   BIÖRN.

        There is something amiss. I have hardly known you this half
        year past.

                                   ELINA.

        Bethink you: this half year past my dearest sister Lucia has
        been sleeping in the vault below.

                                   BIÖRN.

        That is not all, Mistress Elina—it is not that alone that
        makes you now thoughtful and white and silent, now restless
        and ill at ease, as you are to-night.

                                   ELINA.

        Not that alone, you think? And wherefore not? Was she not
        gentle and pure and fair as a summer night? Biörn,—I tell
        you, Lucia was dear to me as my life. Have you forgotten how
        many a time, when we were children, we sat on your knee in
        the winter evenings? You sang songs to us, and told us
        tales——

                                   BIÖRN.

        Ay, then you were blithe and gay.

                                   ELINA.

        Ah, then, Biörn! Then I lived a glorious life in fable-land,
        and in my own imaginings. Can it be that the sea-strand was
        naked then as now? If it was so, I knew it not. ’Twas there
        I loved to go weaving all my fair romances; my heroes came
        from afar and sailed again across the sea; I lived in their
        midst, and set forth with them when they sailed away.
        [_Sinks on a chair._] Now I feel so faint and weary; I can
        live no longer in my tales. They are only—tales. [_Rising,
        vehemently._] Biörn, know you what has made me sick? A
        truth; a hateful, hateful truth, that gnaws me day and
        night.

                                   BIÖRN.

        What mean you?

                                   ELINA.

        Do you remember how sometimes you would give us good counsel
        and wise saws? Sister Lucia followed them; but I—ah,
        well-a-day!

                                   BIÖRN.

        [_Consoling her._] Well, well—-!

                                   ELINA.

        I know it—I was proud, overweening! In all our games, I
        would still be the Queen, because I was the tallest, the
        fairest, the wisest! I know it!

                                   BIÖRN.

        That is true.

                                   ELINA.

        Once you took me by the hand and looked earnestly at me, and
        said: “Be not proud of your fairness, or your wisdom; but be
        proud as the mountain eagle as often as you think: I am
        Inger Gyldenlöve’s daughter!”

                                   BIÖRN.

        And was it not matter enough for pride?

                                   ELINA.

        You told me so often enough, Biörn! Oh, you told me many a
        tale in those days. [_Presses his hand._] Thanks for them
        all!—Now, tell me one more; it might make me light of heart
        again, as of old.

                                   BIÖRN.

        You are a child no longer.

                                   ELINA.

        Nay, indeed! But let me dream that I am.—Come, tell on!

                [_Throws herself into a chair._ BIÖRN _sits on the
                    edge of the high hearth._

                                   BIÖRN.

        Once upon a time there was a high-born knight——

                                   ELINA.

        [_Who has been listening restlessly in the direction of the
        hall, seizes his arm and breaks out in a vehement whisper._]
        Hush! No need to shout so loud; I can hear well!

                                   BIÖRN.

        [_More softly._] Once upon a time there was a high-born
        knight, of whom there went the strange report——

                [ELINA _half rises, and listens in anxious suspense
                    in the direction of the hall._

                                   BIÖRN.

        Mistress Elina,—what ails you?

                                   ELINA.

        [_Sits down again._] Me? Nothing. Go on.

                                   BIÖRN.

        Well, as I was saying—did this knight but look straight in a
        woman’s eyes, never could she forget it after; her thoughts
        must follow him wherever he went, and she must waste away
        with sorrow.

                                   ELINA.

        I have heard that tale.—Moreover, ’tis no tale you are
        telling, for the knight you speak of is Nils Lykke, who sits
        even now in the Council of Denmark——

                                   BIÖRN.

        May be so.

                                   ELINA.

        Well, let it pass—go on!

                                   BIÖRN.

        Now it happened once on a time——

                                   ELINA.

        [_Rises suddenly._] Hush; be still!

                                   BIÖRN.

        What now? What is the matter?

                                   ELINA.

        [_Listening._] Do you hear?

                                   BIÖRN.

        What?

                                   ELINA.

        It is there! Yes, by the cross of Christ, it _is_ there!

                                   BIÖRN.

                     [_Rises._] _What_ is there? Where?

                                   ELINA.

        She herself—in the hall——

                                   [_Goes hastily towards the hall._

                                   BIÖRN.

        [_Following._] How can you think—? Mistress Elina,—go to
        your chamber!

                                   ELINA.

        Hush; stand still! Do not move; do not let her see you!
        Wait—the moon is coming out. Can you not see the black-robed
        figure——?

                                   BIÖRN.

        By all the saints——!

                                   ELINA.

        Do you see—she turns Knut Alfson’s picture to the wall.
        Ha-ha; be sure it looks her too straight in the eyes!

                                   BIÖRN.

        Mistress Elina, hear me!

                                   ELINA.

        [_Going back towards the fireplace._] Now I know what I
        know!

                                   BIÖRN.

        [_To himself._] Then it is true!

                                   ELINA.

        Who was it, Biörn? Who was it?

                                   BIÖRN.

        You saw as plainly as I.

                                   ELINA.

        Well? Whom did I see?

                                   BIÖRN.

        You saw your mother.

                                   ELINA.

        [_Half to herself._] Night after night I have heard her
        steps in there. I have heard her whispering and moaning like
        a soul in pain. And what says the song—? Ah, now I know! Now
        I know that——

                                   BIÖRN.

        Hush!

                [LADY INGER GYLDENLÖVE _enters rapidly from the
                    hall, without noticing the others; she goes to
                    the window, draws the curtain, and gazes out as
                    if watching for some one on the high road; after
                    a while, she turns and goes slowly back into the
                    hall._

                                   ELINA.

        [_Softly, following her with her eyes._] White, white as the
        dead——!

                [_An uproar of many voices is heard outside the door
                    on the right._

                                   BIÖRN.

        What can this be?

                                   ELINA.

        Go out and see what is amiss.

                [EINAR HUK, _the bailiff, appears in the anteroom,
                    with a crowd of_ RETAINERS _and_ PEASANTS.

                                 EINAR HUK.

        [_In the doorway._] Straight in to her! And be not abashed!

                                   BIÖRN.

        What seek you?

                                 EINAR HUK.

        Lady Inger herself.

                                   BIÖRN.

        Lady Inger? So late?

                                 EINAR HUK.

        Late, but time enough, I wot.

                               THE PEASANTS.

        Yes, yes; she must hear us now!

                [_The whole rabble crowds into the room. At the same
                    moment_ LADY INGER _appears in the doorway of
                    the hall. A sudden silence._

                                LADY INGER.

        What would you with me?

                                 EINAR HUK.

        We sought you, noble lady, to——

                                LADY INGER.

        Well—say on!

                                 EINAR HUK.

        Why, we are not ashamed of our errand. In one word—we come
        to pray you for weapons and leave——

                                LADY INGER.

        Weapons and leave—? And for what?

                                 EINAR HUK.

        There has come a rumour from Sweden that the people of the
        Dales have risen against King Gustav——

                                LADY INGER.

        The people of the Dales?

                                 EINAR HUK.

        Ay, so the tidings run, and they seem sure enough.

                                LADY INGER.

        Well—if it were so—what have you to do with, the Dale-folk’s
        rising?

                               THE PEASANTS.

        We will join them! We will help. We will free ourselves!

                                LADY INGER.

        [_To herself._] Can the time be come?

                                 EINAR HUK.

        From all our borderlands the peasants are pouring across to
        the Dales. Even outlaws that have wandered for years in the
        mountains are venturing down to the homesteads again, and
        drawing men together, and whetting their rusty swords.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_After a pause._] Tell me, men—have you thought well of
        this? Have you counted the cost, if King Gustav’s men should
        win?

                                   BIÖRN.

        [_Softly and imploringly to_ LADY INGER.] Count the cost to
        the Danes if King Gustav’s men should lose.

                                LADY INGER.

                [_Evasively._] That reckoning is not for me

        to make.    [_Turns to the people._

        You know that King Gustav is sure of help from Denmark. King
        Frederick is his friend, and will never leave him in the
        lurch—-—-

                                 EINAR HUK.

        But if the people were now to rise all over Norway’s
        land?—if we all rose as one man, nobles and peasants
        together?—Ay, Lady Inger Gyldenlöve, the time we have waited
        for is surely come. We have but to rise now to drive the
        strangers from the land.

                               THE PEASANTS.

        Ay, out with the Danish sheriffs! Out with the foreign
        masters! Out with the Councillors’ lackeys!

                                LADY INGER.

        [_To herself._] Ah, there is metal in them; and yet, yet——!

                                   BIÖRN.

        [_To himself._] She is of two minds. [_To Elina._] What say
        you now, Mistress Elina—have you not sinned in misjudging
        your mother?

                                   ELINA.

        Biörn—if my eyes have lied to me, I could tear them out of
        my head!

                                 EINAR HUK.

        See you not, my noble lady, King Gustav must be dealt with
        first. Were _his_ power once gone, the Danes cannot long
        hold this land——

                                LADY INGER.

        And then?

                                 EINAR HUK.

        Then we shall be free. We shall have no more foreign
        masters, and can choose ourselves a king, as the Swedes have
        done before us.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_With animation._] A king for ourselves! Are you thinking
        of the Sture[13] stock?

                                 EINAR HUK.

        King Christiern and others after him have swept bare our
        ancient houses. The best of our nobles are outlaws on the
        mountain paths, if so be they still live. Nevertheless, it
        might still be possible to find one or other shoot of the
        old stems——

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Hastily._] Enough, Einar Huk, enough! [_To herself._] Ah,
        my dearest hope!

                           [_Turns to the_ PEASANTS _and_ RETAINERS.

        I have warned you, now, as well as I can. I have told you
        how great is the risk you run. But if you are fixed in your
        purpose, ’twere folly in me to forbid what I have no power
        to prevent.

                                 EINAR HUK.

        Then we have your leave to——?

                                LADY INGER.

        You have your own firm will; take counsel with _that_. If it
        be as you say, that you are daily harassed and oppressed——I
        know but little of these matters. I will not know more! What
        can I, a lonely woman—? Even if you were to plunder the
        Banquet Hall—and there’s many a good weapon on the walls—you
        are the masters at Östråt to-night. You must do as seems
        good to you. Good-night!

                [_Loud cries of joy from the multitude. Candles are
                    lighted; the_ RETAINERS _bring out weapons of
                    different kinds from the hall._

                                   BIÖRN.

        [_Seizes_ LADY INGER’S _hand as she is going._] Thanks, my
        noble and high-souled mistress! I, that have known you from
        childhood up—I have never doubted you.

                                LADY INGER.

        Hush, Biörn—’tis a dangerous game I have ventured this
        night. The others stake only their lives; but I, trust me, a
        thousandfold more!

                                   BIÖRN.

        How mean you? Do you fear for your power and your favour
        with——?

                                LADY INGER.

        My power? O God in Heaven!

                                A RETAINER.

                         [_Comes from the hall with a large sword._]

        See, here’s a real good wolf’s-tooth! With this will I flay
        the blood-suckers’ lackeys!

                                 EINAR HUK.

        [_To another._] What is that you have found?

                               THE RETAINER.

        The breastplate they call Herlof Hyttefad’s.

                                 EINAR HUK.

        ’Tis too good for such as you. Look, here is the shaft of
        Sten Sture’s[14] lance; hang the breastplate upon it, and we
        shall have the noblest standard heart can desire.

                                   FINN.

        [_Comes from the door on the left, with a letter in his
        hand, and goes towards_ LADY INGER.] I have sought you
        through all the house——

                                LADY INGER.

        What would you?

                                   FINN.

        [_Hands her the letter._] A messenger is come from
        Trondhiem[15] with a letter for you.

                                LADY INGER.

        Let me see! [_Opening the letter._] From Trondhiem? What can
        it be? [_Runs through the letter._] O God! From him! and
        here in Norway——

                [_Reads on with strong emotion, while the men go on
                    bringing out arms from the hall._

                                LADY INGER.

        [_To herself._] He is coming here. He is coming here
        to-night!—Ay, then ’tis with our wits we must fight, not
        with the sword.

                                 EINAR HUK.

        Enough, enough, good fellows; we are well armed now. Set we
        forth now on our way!

                                LADY INGER.

        [_With a sudden change of tone._] No man shall leave my
        house to-night!

                                 EINAR HUK.

        But the wind is fair, noble lady; ’twill take us quickly up
        the fiord, and——

                                LADY INGER.

        It shall be as I have said.

                                 EINAR HUK.

        Are we to wait till to-morrow, then?

                                LADY INGER.

        Till to-morrow, and longer still. No armed man shall go
        forth from Östråt yet awhile.

                            [_Signs of displeasure among the crowd._

                           SOME OF THE PEASANTS.

        We will go all the same, Lady Inger!

                              THE CRY SPREADS.

        Ay, ay; we _will_ go!

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Advancing a step towards them._] Who dares to move?

                [_A silence. After a moment’s pause, she adds:_

        I have thought for you. What do you common folk know of the
        country’s needs? How dare you judge of such things? You must
        e’en bear your oppressions and burdens yet awhile. Why
        murmur at that, when you see that we, your leaders, are as
        ill bested as you?——Take all the weapons back to the hall.
        You shall know my further will hereafter. Go!

                [_The_ RETAINERS _take back the arms, and the whole
                    crowd then withdraws by the door on the right._

                                   ELINA.

        [_Softly to_ BIÖRN.] Say you still that I have sinned in
        misjudging—the Lady of Östråt?

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Beckons to_ BIÖRN, _and says_.] Have a guest-chamber
        ready.

                                   BIÖRN.

        It is well, Lady Inger!

                                LADY INGER.

        And let the gate be open to whoever shall knock.

                                   BIÖRN.

        But——?

                                LADY INGER.

        The gate open!

                                   BIÖRN.

        The gate open.    [_Goes out to the right._

                                LADY INGER.

        [_To_ ELINA, _who has already reached the door on the
        left._] Stay here!——Elina—my child—I have something to say
        to you alone.

                                   ELINA.

        I hear you.

                                LADY INGER.

        Elina——you think evil of your mother.

                                   ELINA.

        I think, to my sorrow, what your deeds have forced me to
        think.

                                LADY INGER.

        And you answer as your bitter spirit bids you.

                                   ELINA.

        Who has filled my spirit with bitterness? From my childhood
        I had been wont to look up to you as a great and high-souled
        woman. ’Twas in your likeness that I pictured the women of
        the chronicles and the Book of Heroes. I thought the Lord
        God himself had set his seal on your brow, and marked you
        out as the leader of the helpless and the oppressed. Knights
        and nobles sang your praise in the feast-hall; and even the
        peasants, far and near, called you the country’s pillar and
        its hope. All thought that through you the good times were
        to come again! All thought that through you a new day was to
        dawn over the land! The night is still here; and I scarce
        know if through you I dare look for any morning.

                                LADY INGER.

        ’Tis easy to see whence you have learnt such venomous words.
        You have let yourself give ear to what the thoughtless
        rabble mutters and murmurs about things it can little judge
        of.

                                   ELINA.

        “Truth is in the people’s mouth,” was your word when they
        praised you in speech and song.

                                LADY INGER.

        May be so. But if indeed I chose to sit here idle, though it
        was my part to act—think you not that such a choice were
        burden enough for me, without your adding to its weight?

                                   ELINA.

        The weight I add to your burden crushes me no less than you.
        Lightly and freely I drew the breath of life, so long as I
        had you to believe in. For my pride is my life; and well
        might I have been proud, had you remained what once you
        were.

                                LADY INGER.

        And what proves to you that I have not? Elina—how know you
        so surely that you are not doing your mother wrong?

                                   ELINA.

        [_Vehemently._] Oh, that I were!

                                LADY INGER.

        Peace! You have no right to call your mother to
        account.—With a single word I could——; but ’twould be an ill
        word for you to hear; you must await what time shall bring;
        may be that——

                                   ELINA.

        [_Turns to go._] Sleep well, my mother!

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Hesitates._] Nay—stay with me; I have still somewhat——
        Come nearer;—you must hear me, Elina!

                [_Sits down by the table in front of the window._

                                   ELINA.

        I hear you.

                                LADY INGER.

        For as silent as you are, I know well that you often long to
        be gone from here. Östråt is too lonely and lifeless for
        you.

                                   ELINA.

        Do you wonder at that, my mother?

                                LADY INGER.

        It rests with you whether all this shall henceforth be
        changed.

                                   ELINA.

        How so?

                                LADY INGER.

        Listen.—I look for a guest to-night.

                                   ELINA.

        [_Comes nearer._] A guest?

                                LADY INGER.

        A guest, who must remain a stranger to all. None must know
        whence he comes or whither he goes.

                                   ELINA.

        [_Throws herself, with a cry of joy, at her mother’s feet,
        and seizes her hands._] My mother! My mother! Forgive me, if
        you can, all the wrong I have done you!

                                LADY INGER.

        What do you mean? Elina, I do not understand you.

                                   ELINA.

        Then they were all deceived! You are still true at heart!

                                LADY INGER.

        Rise, rise and tell me——

                                   ELINA.

        Think you I do not know who the stranger is?

                                LADY INGER.

        You know? And yet——?

                                   ELINA.

        Think you the gates of Östråt shut so close, that never a
        whisper of the country’s woe can slip through them? Think
        you I do not know that the heir of many a noble line wanders
        outlawed, without rest or shelter, while Danish masters lord
        it in the home of his fathers?

                                LADY INGER.

        And what then?

                                   ELINA.

        I know well that many a high-born knight is hunted through
        the woods like a hungry wolf. No hearth has he to rest by,
        no bread to eat——

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Coldly._] Enough! Now I understand you.

                                   ELINA.

        [_Continuing._] And that is why the gates of Östråt must
        stand open by night! That is why he must remain a stranger
        to all, this guest of whom none must know whence he comes or
        whither he goes! You are setting at naught the harsh decree
        that forbids you to harbour or succour the outlaw——

                                LADY INGER.

        Enough, I say!

        [_After a short silence, adds with an effort:_ You mistake,
        Elina—’tis no outlaw I look for.

                                   ELINA.

        [_Rises._] Then I have understood you ill indeed.

                                LADY INGER.

        Listen to me, my child; but think as you listen; if indeed
        you can tame that wild spirit of yours.

                                   ELINA.

        I am tame, till you have spoken.

                                LADY INGER.

        Attend, then, to what I have to tell you.—I have sought, so
        far as lay in my power, to keep you in ignorance of all our
        griefs and miseries. What could it avail to fill your young
        heart with wrath and care? ’Tis not women’s weeping and
        wailing that can deliver us; we need the courage and
        strength of men.

                                   ELINA.

        Who has told you that, when courage and strength are needed,
        I shall be found wanting?

                                LADY INGER.

        Hush, child;—I might take you at your word.

                                   ELINA.

        How mean you, my mother?

                                LADY INGER.

        I might call on you for both; I might——; but let me say my
        say out first.

        Know then that the time seems now to be drawing nigh,
        towards which the Danish Council have been working for many
        a year—the time, I mean, for them to strike the last blow at
        our rights and our freedom. Therefore must we now——

                                   ELINA.

        [_Eagerly._] Openly rebel, my mother?

                                LADY INGER.

        No; we must gain breathing-time. The Council is now
        assembled at Copenhagen, considering how best to go to work.
        Most of them hold, ’tis said, that there can be no end to
        dissensions till Norway and Denmark are one; for should we
        still possess our rights as a free land when the time comes
        to choose the next king, ’tis most like that the feud will
        break out openly. Now the Danish councillors would hinder
        this——

                                   ELINA.

        Ay, they would hinder it—! But are we to endure such things?
        Are we to look on quietly while——?

                                LADY INGER.

        No, we will not endure it. But to take up arms—to declare
        open war—what would come of that, so long as we are not
        united? And were we ever less united in this land than we
        are even now?—No, if aught is to be accomplished, it must be
        secretly and in silence. Even as I said, we must have time
        to draw breath. In the South, a good part of the nobles are
        for the Dane; but here in the North they are still in doubt.
        Therefore has King Frederick sent hither one of his most
        trusted councillors, to assure himself with his own eyes how
        we stand affected.

                                   ELINA.

        [_In suspense._] Well—and then——?

                                LADY INGER.

        He is the guest I look for to-night.

                                   ELINA.

        He comes hither? And to-night?

                                LADY INGER.

        A trading ship brought him to Trondhiem yesterday. News has
        just reached me of his approach; he may be here within the
        hour.

                                   ELINA.

        And you do not bethink you, my mother, how ’twill endanger
        your fame thus to receive the Danish envoy? Do not the
        people already look on you with distrustful eyes? How can
        you hope that, when the time comes, they will let you rule
        and guide them, if it be known that——

                                LADY INGER.

        Fear not. All this I have fully weighed; but there is no
        danger. His errand in Norway is a secret; he has come
        unknown to Trondhiem, and unknown shall he be our guest at
        Östråt.

                                   ELINA.

        And the name of this Danish lord——?

                                LADY INGER.

        It sounds well, Elina; Denmark has scarce a nobler name.

                                   ELINA.

        But what then do you purpose? I cannot yet grasp your
        meaning.

                                LADY INGER.

        You will soon understand.—Since we cannot trample on the
        serpent, we must bind it.

                                   ELINA.

        Take heed that it burst not your bonds.

                                LADY INGER.

        It rests with you to tighten them as you will.

                                   ELINA.

        With me?

                                LADY INGER.

        I have long seen that Östråt is as a cage to you. The young
        falcon chafes behind the iron bars.

                                   ELINA.

        My wings are clipped. Even if you set me free—’twould avail
        me little.

                                LADY INGER.

        Your wings are not clipped, save by your own will.

                                   ELINA.

        Will? My will is in your hands. Be what you once were, and I
        too——

                                LADY INGER.

        Enough, enough. Hear me further.—It would scarce break your
        heart to leave Östråt?

                                   ELINA.

        Maybe not, my mother!

                                LADY INGER.

        You told me once, that you lived your happiest life in your
        tales and histories. What if that life were to be yours once
        more?

                                   ELINA.

        What mean you?

                                LADY INGER.

        Elina—if a mighty noble were to come and lead you to his
        castle, where you should find damsels and squires, silken
        robes and lofty halls awaiting you?

                                   ELINA.

        A noble, you say?

                                LADY INGER.

        A noble.

                                   ELINA.

        [_More softly._] And the Danish envoy comes hither to-night?

                                LADY INGER.

        To-night.

                                   ELINA.

        If so be, then I fear to read the meaning of your words.

                                LADY INGER.

        There is naught to fear if you misread them not. It is far
        from my thought to put force upon you. You shall choose for
        yourself in this matter, and follow your own rede.

                                   ELINA.

        [_Comes a step nearer._] Know you the tale of the mother who
        drove across the hills by night, with her little children in
        the sledge? The wolves were on her track; ’twas life or
        death with her;—and one by one she cast out her little ones,
        to win time and save herself.

                                LADY INGER.

        Nursery tales! A mother would tear the heart from her
        breast, before she would cast her child to the wolves!

                                   ELINA.

        Were I not my mother’s daughter, I would say you were right.
        But you are like that mother; one by one have you cast out
        your daughters to the wolves. The eldest went first. Five
        years ago Merete[16] went forth from Östråt; now she dwells
        in Bergen, and is Vinzents Lunge’s[17] wife. But think you
        she is happy as the Danish noble’s lady? Vinzents Lunge is
        mighty, well-nigh as a king; Merete has damsels and squires,
        silken robes and lofty halls; but the day has no sunshine
        for her, and the night no rest; for she has never loved him.
        He came hither and he wooed her, for she was the greatest
        heiress in Norway, and ’twas then needful for him to gain a
        footing in the land. I know it; I know it well! Merete bowed
        to your will; she went with the stranger lord.—But what has
        it cost her? More tears than a mother should wish to answer
        for at the day of reckoning!

                                LADY INGER.

        I know my reckoning, and I fear it not.

                                   ELINA.

        Your reckoning ends not here. Where is Lucia, your second
        child?

                                LADY INGER.

        Ask God, who took her.

                                   ELINA.

        ’Tis you I ask; ’tis you must answer for her young life. She
        was glad as a bird in spring when she sailed from Östråt to
        be Merete’s guest. A year passed, and she stood in this room
        once more; but her cheeks were white, and death had gnawed
        deep into her breast. Ah, I startle you, my mother! You
        thought the ugly secret was buried with her;—but she told me
        all. A courtly knight had won her heart. He would have
        wedded her. You knew that her honour was at stake; yet your
        will never bent—and your child had to die. You see, I know
        all!

                                LADY INGER.

        All? Then she told you his name?

                                   ELINA.

        His name? No; his name she did not tell me. She shrank from
        his name as though it stung her;—she never uttered it.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Relieved, to herself._] Ah, then you do _not_ know all——

        Elina—’tis true that the whole of this matter was well known
        to me. But there is one thing it seems you have overlooked.
        The lord whom Lucia met in Bergen was a Dane——

                                   ELINA.

        That, too, I know.

                                LADY INGER.

        And his love was a lie. With guile and soft speeches he had
        ensnared her.

                                   ELINA.

        I know it; but nevertheless she loved him; and had you had a
        mother’s heart, your daughter’s honour had been more to you
        than all.

                                LADY INGER.

        Not more than her happiness. Think you that, with Merete’s
        lot before my eyes, I could sacrifice my second child to a
        man that loved her not?

                                   ELINA.

        Cunning words may beguile many, but they beguile not me——

        Think not I know nothing of all that is passing in our land.
        I understand your counsels but too well. I know that in you
        the Danish lords have no true friend. It may be that you
        hate them; but you fear them too. When you gave Merete to
        Vinzents Lunge, the Danes held the mastery on all sides
        throughout our land. Three years later, when you forbade
        Lucia to wed the man to whom, though he had deceived her,
        she had given her life—things were far different then. The
        King’s Danish governors had shamefully misused the common
        people, and you deemed it not wise to link yourself still
        more closely to the foreign tyrants.

        And what have you done to avenge her that was sent so young
        to her grave? You have done nothing. Well then, I will act
        in your stead; I will avenge all the shame they have brought
        upon our people and our house!

                                LADY INGER.

        You? What will you do?

                                   ELINA.

        I will go my way, even as you go yours. What I shall do I
        myself know not; but I feel within me the strength to dare
        all for our righteous cause.

                                LADY INGER.

        Then have you a hard fight before you. I once promised as
        you do now—and my hair has grown grey under the burden of
        that promise.

                                   ELINA.

        Good-night! Your guest will soon be here, and at that
        meeting I should be one too many.

        It may be there is yet time for you——; well, God strengthen
        and guide you on your path! Forget not that the eyes of many
        thousands are fixed on you. Think on Merete, weeping late
        and early over her wasted life. Think on Lucia, sleeping in
        her black coffin.

        And one thing more. Forget not that in the game you play
        this night, your stake is your last child. [_Goes out to the
        left_.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Looks after her awhile._] My last child? You know not how
        true was that word——But the stake is not my child only. God
        help me, I am playing to-night for the whole of Norway’s
        land.

        Ah—is not that some one riding through the gateway?
        [_Listens at the window._

        No; not yet. Only the wind; it blows cold as the grave——

        Has God a right to do this?—To make me a woman—and then to
        lay on my shoulders a man’s work?

        For I have the welfare of the country in my hands. It is in
        my power to make them rise as one man. They look to _me_ for
        the signal; and if I give it not now—it may never be given.

        To delay? To sacrifice the many for the sake of one?—Were it
        not better if I could——? No, no, no—I _will_ not! I
        _cannot_!

                [_Steals a glance towards the Banquet Hall, but
                    turns away again as if in dread, and whispers:_

        I can see them in there now. Pale spectres—dead
        ancestors—fallen kinsfolk.—Ah, those eyes that pierce me
        from every corner!

                         [_Makes a gesture of repulsion, and cries:_

        Sten Sture! Knut Alfson! Olaf Skaktavl! Back—back!—I
        _cannot_ do this!

                [_A_ STRANGER, _strongly built, and with grizzled
                    hair and beard, has entered from the Banquet
                    Hall. He is dressed in a torn lambskin tunic;
                    his weapons are rusty._

                               THE STRANGER.

        [_Stops in the doorway, and says in a low voice._] Hail to
        you, Inger Gyldenlöve!

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Turns with a scream._] Ah, Christ in heaven save me!

                [_Falls back into a chair. The_ STRANGER _stands
                    gazing at her, motionless, leaning on his
                    sword._

-----




                               ACT SECOND

        _The room at Östråt, as in the first Act._

        LADY INGER GYLDENLÖVE _is seated at the table on the right,
            by the window._ OLAF SKAKTAVL _is standing a little way
            from her. Their faces show that they have been engaged
            in a heated discussion._

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        For the last time, Inger Gyldenlöve—you are not to be moved
        from your purpose?

                                LADY INGER.

        I can do nought else. And my counsel to you is: do as I do.
        If it be Heaven’s will that Norway perish utterly, perish it
        must, for all we may do to save it.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        And think you I can content my heart with that belief? Shall
        I sit and look idly on, now that the hour is come? Do you
        forget the reckoning I have against them? They have robbed
        me of my lands, and parcelled them out among themselves. My
        son, my only child, the last of my race, they have
        slaughtered like a dog. Myself they have outlawed and hunted
        through forest and fell these twenty years.—Once and again
        have folk whispered of my death; but this I believe, that
        they shall not lay me beneath the sod before I have seen my
        vengeance.

                                LADY INGER.

        There is there a long life before you. What have you in mind
        to do?

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        Do? How should I know what I will do? It has never been my
        part to plot and plan. That is where you must help me. You
        have the wit for that. I have but my sword and my two arms.

                                LADY INGER.

        Your sword is rusted, Olaf Skaktavl! All the swords in
        Norway are rusted.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        That is doubtless why some folk fight only with their
        tongues.—Inger Gyldenlöve—great is the change in you. Time
        was when the heart of a man beat in your breast.

                                LADY INGER.

        Put me not in mind of what _was_.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        ’Tis for that very purpose I am here. You _shall_ hear me,
        even if——

                                LADY INGER.

        Be it so then; but be brief; for—I must say it—this is no
        place of safety for you.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        Östråt is no place of safety for an outlaw? That I have long
        known. But you forget that an outlaw is unsafe wheresoever
        he may wander.

                                LADY INGER.

        Speak then; I will not hinder you.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        ’Tis nigh on thirty years now since first I saw you. It was
        at Akershus[18] in the house of Knut Alfson and his wife.
        You were little more than a child then; yet were you bold as
        the soaring falcon, and wild and headstrong too at times.
        Many were the wooers around you. I too held you dear—dear as
        no woman before or since. But you cared for nothing, thought
        of nothing, save your country’s evil case and its great
        need.

                                LADY INGER.

        I counted but fifteen summers then—remember that! And was it
        not as though a frenzy had seized us all in those days?

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        Call it what you will; but one thing I know—even the old and
        sober men among us thought it written in the counsels of the
        Lord on high that you were she who should break our thraldom
        and win us all our rights again. And more: you yourself then
        thought as we did.

                                LADY INGER.

        ’Twas a sinful thought, Olaf Skaktavl. ’Twas my proud heart,
        and not the Lord’s call, that spoke in me.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        You _could_ have been the chosen one had you but willed it.
        You came of the noblest blood in Norway; power and riches
        were soon to be yours; and you had an ear for the cries of
        anguish—then!

        Do you remember that afternoon when Henrik Krummedike and
        the Danish fleet anchored off Akershus? The captains of the
        fleet offered terms of peace, and, trusting to the
        safe-conduct, Knut Alfson rowed on board. Three hours later,
        we bore him through the castle gate——

                                LADY INGER.

        A corpse; a corpse!

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        The best heart in Norway burst, when Krummedike’s hirelings
        struck him down. Methinks I still can see the long
        procession that passed into the banquet-hall, heavily, two
        by two. There he lay on his bier, white as a spring cloud,
        with the axe-cleft in his brow. I may safely say that the
        boldest men in Norway were gathered there that night. Lady
        Margrete stood by her dead husband’s head, and we swore as
        one man to venture lands and life to avenge this last
        misdeed and all that had gone before.—Inger Gyldenlöve,—who
        was it that burst through the circle of men? A maiden—almost
        a child—with fire in her eyes and her voice half choked with
        tears.—What was it she swore? Shall I repeat your words?

                                LADY INGER.

        I swore what the rest of you swore; neither more nor less.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        You remember your oath—and yet you have forgotten it.

                                LADY INGER.

        And how did the others keep their promise? I speak not of
        you, Olaf Skaktavl, but of your friends, all Norway’s
        nobles? Not one of them, in all these years, has had the
        courage to be a man; yet they lay it to my charge that I am
        a woman.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        I know what you would say. Why have they bent to the yoke,
        and not defied the tyrants to the last? ’Tis but too true;
        there is base metal enough in our noble houses nowadays. But
        had they held together—who knows what then might have been?
        And you could have held them together, for before you all
        had bowed.

                                LADY INGER.

        My answer were easy enough, but ’twould scarce content you.
        So let us leave speaking of what cannot be changed. Tell me
        rather what has brought you to Östråt. Do you need harbour?
        Well, I will try to hide you. If you would have aught else,
        speak out; you shall find me ready——

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        For twenty years have I been homeless. In the mountains of
        Jæmteland my hair has grown grey. My dwelling has been with
        wolves and bears.—You see, Lady Inger—_I_ need you not; but
        both nobles and people stand in sore need of you.

                                LADY INGER.

        The old burden.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        Ay, it sounds but ill in your ears, I know; yet hear it you
        must, for all that. In brief, then: I come from Sweden:
        troubles are brewing: the Dales are ready to rise.

                                LADY INGER.

        I know it.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        Peter Kanzler[19] is with us—secretly, you understand.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Starting._] Peter Kanzler?

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        ’Tis he that has sent me to Östråt.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Rises._] Peter Kanzler, say you?

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        He himself;—but mayhap you no longer know him?

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Half to herself._] Only too well!—But tell me, I pray
        you,—what message do you bring?

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        When the rumour of the rising reached the border mountains,
        where I then was, I set off at once into Sweden. ’Twas not
        hard to guess that Peter Kanzler had a finger in the game. I
        sought him out and offered to stand by him;—he knew me of
        old, as you know, and knew that he could trust me; so he has
        sent me hither.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Impatiently._] Yes yes,—he sent you hither to——?

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        [_With secrecy._] Lady Inger—a stranger comes to Östråt
        to-night.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Surprised._] What? Know you that——?

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        Assuredly I know it. I know all. ’Twas to meet him that
        Peter Kanzler sent me hither.

                                LADY INGER.

        To meet him? Impossible, Olaf Skaktavl,—impossible!

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        ’Tis as I tell you. If he be not already come, he will
        soon——

                                LADY INGER.

        Doubtless, doubtless; but——

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        Then you knew of his coming?

                                LADY INGER.

        Ay, surely. He sent me a message. ’Twas therefore they
        opened to you as soon as you knocked.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        [_Listens._] Hush!—some one is riding along the road. [_Goes
        to the window._] They are opening the gate.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Looks out._] It is a knight and his attendant. They are
        dismounting in the courtyard.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        ’Tis he then. His name?

                                LADY INGER.

        You know not his name?

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        Peter Kanzler refused to tell it me. He would say no more
        than that I should find him at Östråt the third evening
        after Martinmas——

                                LADY INGER.

        Ay; even to-night.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        He was to bring letters with him; and from them, and from
        you, I was to learn who he is.

                                LADY INGER.

        Then let me lead you to your chamber. You have need of rest
        and refreshment. You shall soon have speech with the
        stranger.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        Well, be it as you will.

                                         [_Both go out to the left._

                [_After a short pause_, FINN _enters cautiously by
                    the door on the right, looks round the room, and
                    peeps into the Banquet Hall; he then goes back
                    to the door, and makes a sign to some one
                    outside. Immediately after, enter_ COUNCILLOR
                    NILS LYKKE _and the Swedish Commander_, JENS
                    BIELKE.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Softly._] No one?

                                   FINN.

        [_In the same tone._] No one, master!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        And we may depend on you in all things?

                                   FINN.

        The commandant in Trondhiem has ever given me a name for
        trustiness.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        ’Tis well; he has said as much to me. First of all, then—has
        there come any stranger to Östråt to-night, before us?

                                   FINN.

        Ay; a stranger came an hour since.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Softly, to_ JENS BIELKE.] He is here. [_Turns again to_
        FINN.] Would you know him again? Have you seen him?

                                   FINN.

        Nay, none has seen him, that I know, but the gatekeeper. He
        was brought at once to Lady Inger, and she——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Well? What of her? He is not gone again already?

                                   FINN.

        No; but it seems she holds him hidden in one of her own
        rooms; for——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        It is well.

                                JENS BIELKE.

        [_Whispers._] Then the first thing is to put a guard on the
        gate; so are we sure of him.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_With a smile._] H’m! [_To_ FINN.] Tell me—is there any way
        of leaving the castle, save by the gate? Gape not at me so!
        I mean—can one escape from Östråt unseen, though the castle
        gate be barred?

                                   FINN.

        Nay, that I know not. ’Tis true they talk of secret ways in
        the vaults beneath; but no one knows them save Lady
        Inger—and mayhap Mistress Elina.

                                JENS BIELKE.

        The devil!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        It is well. You may go.

                                   FINN.

        Should you need me in aught again, you have but to open the
        second door on the right in the Banquet Hall, and I shall
        presently be at hand.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Good.

        [_Points to the entrance-door._ FINN _goes out._

                                JENS BIELKE.

        Now, by my soul, dear friend and brother—this campaign is
        like to end but scurvily for both of us.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_With a smile._] Oh—not for me, I hope.

                                JENS BIELKE.

        Say you so? First of all, there is little honour to be won
        in hunting an overgrown whelp like this Nils Sture. Are we
        to think him mad or in his sober senses after the pranks he
        has played? First he breeds bad blood among the peasants;
        promises them help and all their hearts can desire;—and
        then, when it comes to the pinch, off he runs to hide behind
        a petticoat!

        Moreover, to say truth, I repent that I followed your
        counsel and went not my own way.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_To himself._] Your repentance comes somewhat late, my
        brother!

                                JENS BIELKE.

        For, let me tell you, I have never loved digging at a
        badger’s earth. I looked for quite other sport. Here have I
        ridden all the way from Jæmteland with my horsemen, and have
        got me a warrant from the Trondhiem commandant to search for
        the rebel wheresoever I please. All his tracks point towards
        Östråt——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        He is here! He is here, I tell you!

                                JENS BIELKE.

        Were it not liker, in that case, that we had found the gate
        barred and well guarded? Would that we had; then could I
        have found use for my men-at-arms——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        But instead, the gate is very courteously thrown open to us.
        Mark now—if Inger Gyldenlöve’s fame belie her not, I warrant
        she will not let her guests lack for either meat or drink.

                                JENS BIELKE.

        Ay, to turn us aside from our errand! And what wild whim was
        that of yours to have me leave my horsemen half a league
        from the castle? Had we come in force——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        She had made us none the less welcome for _that_. But mark
        well that then our coming had made a stir. The peasants
        round about had held it for an outrage against Lady Inger;
        she had risen high in their favour once more—and with that,
        look you, we were ill served.

                                JENS BIELKE.

        May be so. But what am I to do now? Count Sture is in
        Östråt, you say. Ay, but how does that profit me? Be sure
        Lady Inger Gyldenlöve has as many hiding-places as the fox,
        and more than one outlet to them. You and I, alone, may go
        snuffing about here as long as we please. I would the devil
        had the whole affair!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Well, then, my friend—if you like not the turn your errand
        has taken, you have but to leave the field to me.

                                JENS BIELKE.

        To you? What will you do?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Caution and cunning may in this matter prove of more avail
        than force of arms.—And to say truth, Captain Jens
        Bielke—something of the sort has been in my mind ever since
        we met in Trondhiem yesterday.

                                JENS BIELKE.

        Was that why you persuaded me to leave the men-at-arms?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Both your purpose at Östråt and mine could best be served
        without them; and so——

                                JENS BIELKE.

        The foul fiend seize you—I had almost said! And me to boot!
        Might I not have known that there is guile in all your
        dealings?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Be sure I shall need all my guile here, if I am to face my
        foe with even weapons. And let me tell you, ’tis of the
        utmost moment to me that I acquit me of my mission secretly
        and well. You must know that when I set forth I was scarce
        in favour with my lord the King. He held me in suspicion;
        though I dare swear I have served him as well as any man
        could, in more than one ticklish charge.

                                JENS BIELKE.

        That you may safely boast. God and all men know you for the
        craftiest devil in all the three kingdoms.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        I thank you! Though, after all, ’tis not much to say. But
        this present errand I count as indeed a crowning test of my
        powers; for here I have to outwit a woman——

                                JENS BIELKE.

        Ha-ha-ha! In _that_ art you have long since given crowning
        proofs of your skill, dear brother. Think you we in Sweden
        know not the song— Fair maidens a-many they sigh and they
        pine: “Ah God, that Nils Lykke were mine, mine, mine!”

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Alas, ’tis women of twenty and thereabouts that ditty
        speaks of. Lady Inger Gyldenlöve is nigh on fifty, and
        wily to boot beyond all women. ’Twill be no light matter
        to overmatch her. But it _must_ be done—at any cost.
        Should I contrive to win certain advantages over her that
        the King has long desired, I can reckon on the embassy to
        France next spring. You know that I spent three years at
        the University in Paris? My whole soul is set on coming
        thither again, most of all if I can appear in lofty place,
        a king’s ambassador.—Well, then—is it agreed—do you leave
        Lady Inger to me? Remember—when you were last at Court in
        Copenhagen, I made way for you with more than one fair
        lady——

                                JENS BIELKE.

        Nay, truly now—that generosity cost you little; one and all
        of them were at your beck and call. But let that pass; now
        that I have begun amiss in this matter, I had as lief that
        you should take it on your shoulders. Yet _one_ thing you
        must promise—if the young Count Sture be in Östråt, you will
        deliver him into my hands, dead or alive!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        You shall have him all alive. I, at any rate, mean not to
        kill him. But now you must ride back and join your people.
        Keep guard on the road. Should I mark aught that mislikes
        me, you shall know it forthwith.

                                JENS BIELKE.

        Good, good. But how am I to get out——?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        The fellow that brought us in will show the way. But go
        quietly——

                                JENS BIELKE.

        Of course, of course. Well—good fortune to you!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Fortune has never failed me in a war with women. Haste you
        now!

                               [JENS BIELKE _goes out to the right._

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Stands still for a while; then walks about the room,
        looking round him; then he says softly:_] At last, then, I
        am at Östråt—the ancient hall whereof a child, two years
        ago, told me so much.

        Lucia. Ay, two years ago she was still a child. And now—now
        she is dead. [_Hums with a half-smile._] “Blossoms plucked
        are blossoms withered——”

                                           [_Looks round him again._

        Östråt. ’Tis as though I had seen it all before; as though I
        were at home here.—In there is the Banquet Hall. And
        underneath is—the grave-vault. It must be there that Lucia
        lies.

                [_In a lower voice, half seriously, half with forced
                    gaiety._

        Were I timorous, I might well find myself fancying that when
        I set foot within Östråt gate she turned about in her
        coffin; as I crossed the courtyard she lifted the lid; and
        when I named her name but now, ’twas as though a voice
        summoned her forth from the grave-vault.—Maybe she is even
        now groping her way up the stairs. The face-cloth blinds
        her, but she gropes on and on in spite of it.

        Now she has reached the Banquet Hall! She stands watching me
        from behind the door!

                [_Turns his head backwards over one shoulder, nods,
                    and says aloud:_

        Come nearer, Lucia! Talk to me a little! Your mother keeps
        me waiting. ’Tis tedious waiting—and you have helped me to
        while away many a tedious hour——

                [_Passes his hand over his forehead, and takes one
                    or two turns up and down._

        Ah, there!—Right, right; there is the deep curtained window.
        ’Tis there that Inger Gyldenlöve is wont to stand gazing out
        over the road, as though looking for one that never comes.
        In there—[_looks towards the door on the left_]—somewhere in
        there is Sister Elina’s chamber. Elina? Ay, Elina is her
        name.

        Can it be that she is so rare a being—so wise and so brave
        as Lucia fancied her? Fair, too, they say. But for a wedded
        wife—? I should not have written so plainly.——

                [_Lost in thought, he is on the point of sitting
                    down by the table, but stands up again._

        How will Lady Inger receive me?—She will scarce burn the
        castle over our heads, or slip me through a trap-door. A
        stab from behind—? No, not that way either——

                                        [_Listens towards the hall._

        Aha!

                [LADY INGER GYLDENLÖVE _enters from the hall._

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Coldly._] My greeting to you, Sir Councillor——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Bows deeply._] Ah—the Lady of Östråt!

                                LADY INGER.

        ——and my thanks that you have forewarned me of your visit.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        I could do no less. I had reason to think that my coming
        might surprise you——

                                LADY INGER.

        Truly, Sir Councillor, therein you judged aright. Nils Lykke
        was indeed the last guest I looked to see at Östråt.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        And still less, mayhap, did you think to see him come as a
        friend?

                                LADY INGER.

        As a friend? You add mockery to all the shame and sorrow you
        have heaped upon my house? After bringing my child to the
        grave, you still dare——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        With your leave, Lady Inger Gyldenlöve—on that matter we
        should scarce agree; for you count as nothing what _I_ lost
        by that same unhappy chance. I purposed nought but in
        honour. I was tired of my unbridled life; my thirtieth year
        was already past; I longed to mate me with a good and gentle
        wife. Add to all this the hope of becoming your son-in-law——

                                LADY INGER.

        Beware, Sir Councillor! I have done all in my power to hide
        my child’s unhappy fate. But because it is out of sight,
        think not it is out of mind. There may yet come a time——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        You threaten me, Lady Inger? I have offered you my hand in
        amity; you refuse to take it. Henceforth, then, it is to be
        open war between us?

                                LADY INGER.

        I knew not there had ever been aught else?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Not on _your_ side, mayhap. _I_ have never been your
        enemy,—though, as a subject of the King of Denmark, I lacked
        not good cause.

                                LADY INGER.

        I understand you. I have not been pliant enough. It has not
        proved so easy as some of you hoped to lure me over into
        your camp.—Yet methinks you have nought to complain of. My
        daughter Merete’s husband is your countryman—further I
        cannot go. My position is no easy one, Nils Lykke!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        That I can well believe. Both nobles and people here in
        Norway think they have an ancient claim on you—a claim, ’tis
        said, you have but half fulfilled.

                                LADY INGER.

        Your pardon, Sir Councillor,—I account for my doings to none
        but God and myself. If it please you, then, let me
        understand what brings you hither.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Gladly, Lady Inger! The purpose of my mission to this
        country can scarce be unknown to you——?

                                LADY INGER.

        I know the mission that report assigns you. Our King would
        fain know how the Norwegian nobles stand affected towards
        him.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Assuredly.

                                LADY INGER.

        Then that is why you visit Östråt?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        In part. But it is far from my purpose to demand any
        profession of loyalty from you——

                                LADY INGER.

        What then?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Hearken to me, Lady Inger! You said yourself but now that
        your position is no easy one. You stand half way between two
        hostile camps, whereof neither dares trust you fully. Your
        own interest must needs bind you to _us_. On the other hand,
        you are bound to the disaffected by the bond of nationality,
        and—who knows?—mayhap by some secret tie as well.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_To herself._] A secret tie! Oh God, can he——?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Notices her emotion, but makes no sign, and continues
        without change of manner._] You cannot but see that such a
        position must ere long become impossible.—Suppose, now, it
        lay in my power to free you from these embarrassments
        which——

                                LADY INGER.

        In your power, you say?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        First of all, Lady Inger, I would beg you to lay no stress
        on any careless words I may have used concerning that which
        lies between us two. Think not that I have forgotten for a
        moment the wrong I have done you. Suppose, now, I had long
        purposed to make atonement, as far as might be, where I had
        sinned. Suppose it were for that reason I had contrived to
        have this mission assigned me.

                                LADY INGER.

        Speak your meaning more clearly, Sir Councillor;—I cannot
        follow you.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        I can scarce be mistaken in thinking that you, as well as I,
        know of the threatened troubles in Sweden. You know, or at
        least you can guess, that this rising is of far wider aim
        than is commonly supposed, and you understand therefore that
        our King cannot look on quietly and let things take their
        course. Am I not right?

                                LADY INGER.

        Go on.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Searchingly, after a short pause._] There is _one_
        possible chance that might endanger Gustav Vasa’s throne——

                                LADY INGER.

        [_To herself._] Whither is he tending?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        ——the chance, namely, that there should exist in Sweden a
        man entitled by his birth to claim election to the kingship.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Evasively._] The Swedish nobles have been even as bloodily
        hewn down as our own, Sir Councillor. Where would you seek
        for——?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_With a smile._] Seek? The man is found already——

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Starts violently._] Ah! He is found?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        ——and he is too closely akin to you, Lady Inger, to be far
        from your thoughts at this moment. [_Looks fixedly at her._

        The last Count Sture left a son——

                                LADY INGER.

        [_With a cry._] Holy Saviour, how know you——?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Surprised._] Be calm, Madam, and let me finish.—This young
        man has till now lived quietly with his mother, Sten Sture’s
        widow.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Breathes more freely._] With—? Ah, yes—true, true!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        But now he has come forward openly. He has shown himself in
        the Dales as leader of the peasants; their numbers are
        growing day by day; and—as mayhap you know—they are finding
        friends among the peasants on this side of the border-hills.

                                LADY INGER.

                 [_Who has in the meantime regained her composure._]

        Sir Councillor,—you speak of all these matters as though
        they must of necessity be known to me. What ground have I
        given you to believe so? I know, and wish to know, nothing.
        All my care is to live quietly within my own domain; I give
        no countenance to disturbers of the peace; but neither must
        you reckon on me if it be your purpose to suppress them.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_In a low voice._] Would you still be inactive, were it my
        purpose to come to their aid?

                                LADY INGER.

        How am I to understand you?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Have you not seen, then, whither I have been aiming all this
        time?—Well, I will tell you all, frankly and openly. Know,
        then, that the King and his Council see clearly that we can
        have no sure footing in Norway so long as the nobles and the
        people continue, as now, to think themselves wronged and
        oppressed. We understand to the full that willing allies are
        better than sullen subjects; and we have therefore no
        heartier wish than to loosen the bonds that hamper us, in
        effect, even as straitly as you. But you will scarce deny
        that the temper of Norway towards us makes such a step too
        dangerous—so long as we have no sure support behind us.

                                LADY INGER.

        And this support——?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Should naturally come from Sweden. But, mark well, not so
        long as Gustav Vasa holds the helm; his reckoning with
        Denmark is not yet settled, and mayhap never will be. But a
        new king of Sweden, who had the people with him, and who
        owed his throne to the help of Denmark——. Well, you begin to
        understand me? _Then_ we could safely say to you Norwegians:
        “Take back your old ancestral rights; choose you a ruler
        after your own mind; be our friends in need, as we will be
        yours!”—Mark you well, Lady Inger, herein is our generosity
        less than it may seem; for you must see that, far from
        weakening, ’twill rather strengthen us.

        And now that I have opened my heart to you so fully,
        do you too cast away all mistrust. And therefore
        [_confidently_]—the knight from Sweden, who came
        hither an hour before me——

                                LADY INGER.

        Then you already know of his coming?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Most certainly. ’Tis he whom I seek.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_To herself._] Strange! Then it must be as Olaf Skaktavl
        said. [_To_ NILS LYKKE.] I pray you wait here, Sir
        Councillor! I will go bring him to you.

                               [_Goes out through the Banquet Hall._

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Looks after her a while in exultant astonishment._] She is
        bringing him! Ay, truly—she is bringing him! The battle is
        half won. I little thought it would go so smoothly.—

        She is deep in the counsels of the rebels; she started in
        terror when I named Sten Sture’s son.—

        And now? H’m! Since Lady Inger has been simple enough to
        walk into the snare, Nils Sture will not make many
        difficulties. A hot-blooded boy, thoughtless and rash——.
        With my promise of help he will set forth at once—unhappily
        Jens Bielke will snap him up by the way—and the whole rising
        will be nipped in the bud.

        And then? Then one further point to our advantage. It is
        spread abroad that the young Count Sture has been at
        Östråt,—that a Danish envoy has had audience of Lady
        Inger—that thereupon the young Count Nils has been snapped
        up by King Gustav’s men-at-arms a mile from the castle.——Let
        Inger Gyldenlöve’s name among the people stand never so
        high—’twill scarce recover from such a blow. [_Starts up in
        sudden uneasiness._

        By all the devils—! What if she has scented mischief! It may
        be he is even now slipping through our fingers—[_Listens
        towards the hall, and says with relief._] Ah, there is no
        fear. Here they come.

                [LADY INGER GYLDENLÖVE _enters from the hall,
                    accompanied by_ OLAF SKAKTAVI.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_To_ NILS LYKKE.] Here is the man you seek.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Aside._] Powers of hell—what means this?

                                LADY INGER.

        I have told this knight your name and all that you have
        imparted to me——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Irresolutely._] Ay? Have you so? Well——

                                LADY INGER.

        ——and I will not hide from you that his faith in your help
        is none of the strongest.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Is it not?

                                LADY INGER.

        Can you marvel at that? Surely you know both his way of
        thinking and his bitter fate——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        This man’s—? Ah—yes, truly——

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        [_To_ NILS LYKKE.] But seeing ’tis Peter Kanzler himself
        that has appointed us this meeting——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Peter Kanzler—? [_Recovers himself quickly._] Ay, right,—I
        have a mission from Peter Kanzler——

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        He must know best whom he can trust. So why should I trouble
        my head with pondering how——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Ay, you are right, noble Sir; why waste time over that?

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        Rather let us come straight to the matter.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Straight to the point; no beating about the bush—’tis ever
        my fashion.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        Then will you tell me your errand here?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Methinks you can partly guess my errand——

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        Peter Kanzler said something of papers that——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Papers? Ay, true, the papers!

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        Doubtless you have them with you?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Of course; safely bestowed; so safely that I cannot at
        once——

                [_Appears to search the inner pockets of his
                    doublet; says to himself:_

        Who the devil is he? What pretext can I make? I may be on
        the brink of great discoveries——

                [_Notices that the_ SERVANTS _are laying the table
                    and lighting the lamps in the Banquet Hall, and
                    says to_ OLAF SKAKTAVL:

        Ah, I see Lady Inger has taken order for the evening meal.
        Mayhap we could better talk of our affairs at table.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        Good; as you will.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Aside._] Time gained—all gained!

                [_To_ LADY INGER _with a show of great
                    friendliness:_

        And meanwhile we might learn what part Lady Inger Gyldenlöve
        purposes to take in our design?

                                LADY INGER.

        I?—None.

                       NILS LYKKE AND OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        None!

                                LADY INGER.

        Can ye marvel, noble Sirs, that I venture not on a game
        wherein loss would mean loss of all? And that, too, when
        none of my allies dare trust me fully.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        That reproach touches not me. I trust you blindly; I pray
        you be assured of that.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        Who should believe in you, if not your countrymen?

                                LADY INGER.

        Truly,—this confidence rejoices me.

                [_Goes to a cupboard in the back wall and fills two
                    goblets with wine._

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Aside._] Curse her, will she slip out of the noose?

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Hands a goblet to each._] And since so it is, I offer you
        a cup of welcome to Östråt. Drink, noble knights! Pledge me
        to the last drop!

                [_Looks from one to the other after they have drunk,
                    and says gravely_:

        But now I must tell you—one goblet held a welcome for my
        friend; the other—death for my enemy!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Throws down the goblet._] Ah, I am poisoned!

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        [_At the same time, clutches his sword._] Death and hell,
        have you murdered me?

                                LADY INGER.

        [_To_ OLAF SKAKTAVL, _pointing to_ NILS LYKKE.] You see the
        Danes’ confidence in Inger Gyldenlöve——

        [_To_ NILS LYKKE, _pointing to_ OLAF SKAKTAVL.] ——and
        likewise my countrymen’s faith in me!    [_To both of them._

        Yet you would have me place myself in your power? Gently,
        noble Sirs—gently! The Lady of Östråt is not yet in her
        dotage.

                [ELINA GYLDENLÖVE _enters by the door on the left._

                                   ELINA.

        I heard loud voices—. What is amiss?

                                LADY INGER.

        [_To_ NILS LYKKE.] My daughter Elina.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Softly._] Elina! I had not pictured her thus.

                [ELINA _catches sight of_ NILS LYKKE, _and stands
                    still, as in surprise, gazing at him._

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Touches her arm._] My child—this knight is——

                                   ELINA.

        [_Motions her mother back with her hand, still looking
        intently at him, and says:_] There is no need! I see who he
        is. He is Nils Lykke.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Aside, to_ LADY INGER.] How? Does she know me? Can Lucia
        have—? Can she know——?

                                LADY INGER.

        Hush! She knows nothing.

                                   ELINA.

        [_To herself._] I knew it;—even so must Nils Lykke appear.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Approaches her._] Yes, Elina Gyldenlöve,—you have guessed
        aright. And as it seems that, in some sense, you know
        me,—and, moreover, as I am your mother’s guest,——you will
        not deny me the flower-spray you wear in your bosom. So long
        as it is fresh and fragrant, I shall have in it an image of
        yourself.

                                   ELINA.

        [_Proudly, but still gazing at him._] Pardon me, Sir
        Knight——’twas plucked in my own chamber, and _there_ can
        grow no flower for you.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Loosening a spray of flowers that he wears in the front of
        his doublet._] At least you will not disdain this humble
        gift. ’Twas a farewell token from a courtly dame when I set
        forth from Trondhiem this morning.——But mark me, noble
        maiden,——were I to offer you a gift that were fully worthy
        of you, it could be nought less than a princely crown.

                                   ELINA.

        [_Who has taken the flowers passively._] And were it the
        royal crown of Denmark you held forth to me——before I shared
        it with _you_, I would crush it to pieces between my hands,
        and cast the fragments at your feet!

                [_Throws down the flowers at his feet, and goes into
                    the Banquet Hall._

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        [_Mutters to himself._] Bold——as Inger Ottisdaughter by Knut
        Alfson’s bier!

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Softly, after looking alternately at_ ELINA _and_ NILS
        LYKKE.] The wolf _can_ be tamed. Now to forge the fetters.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Picks up the flowers and gazes in rapture after_ ELINA.]
        God’s holy blood, but she is proud and fair!

-----




                               ACT THIRD

        _The Banquet Hall. A high bow-window in the background; a
            smaller window in front on the left. Several doors on
            each side. The ceiling is supported by massive wooden
            pillars, on which, as well as on the walls, are hung all
            sorts of weapons. Pictures of saints, knights, and
            ladies hang in long rows. Pendent from the ceiling a
            large many-branched lamp, alight. In front, on the
            right, an ancient carven high-seat. In the middle of the
            hall, a table with the remnants of the evening meal._

        ELINA GYLDENLÖVE _enters from the left, slowly and in deep
            thought. Her expression shows that she is going over
            again in her mind the scene with_ NILS LYKKE. _At last
            she repeats the motion with which she flung away the
            flowers, and says in a low voice:_

                                   ELINA.

        ——And then he gathered up the fragments of the crown of
        Denmark—no, ’twas the flowers—and: “God’s holy blood, but
        she is proud and fair!”

        Had he whispered the words in the most secret spot, long
        leagues from Östråt,—still had I heard them!

        How I hate him! How I have always hated him,—this Nils
        Lykke!—There lives not another man like him, ’tis said. He
        plays with women—and treads them under his feet.

        And ’twas to _him_ my mother thought to offer me!—How I hate
        him!

        They say Nils Lykke is unlike all other men. It is not true!
        There is nothing strange in him. There are many, many like
        him! When Biörn used to tell me his tales, all the princes
        looked as Nils Lykke looks. When I sat lonely here in the
        hall and dreamed my histories, and my knights came and
        went,—they were one and all even as he.

        How strange and how good it is to hate! Never have I known
        how sweet it can be—till to-night. Ah—not to live a thousand
        years would I sell the moments I have lived since I saw
        him!—

        “God’s holy blood, but she is proud——”

                [_Goes slowly towards the back, opens the window and
                    looks out._ NILS LYKKE _comes in by the first
                    door on the right._

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_To himself._] “Sleep well at Östråt, Sir Knight,” said
        Inger Gyldenlöve as she left me. Sleep well? Ay, ’tis easily
        said, but——Out there, sky and sea in tumult; below, in the
        grave-vault, a young girl on her bier; the fate of two
        kingdoms in my hand;—and in my breast a withered flower that
        a woman has flung at my feet. Truly, I fear me sleep will be
        slow of coming.

                [_Notices_ ELINA, _who has left the window, and is
                    going out on the left._

        There she is. Her haughty eyes seem veiled with thought.—Ah,
        if I but dared—.    [_Aloud._] Mistress Elina!

                                   ELINA.

        [_Stops at the door._] What will you? Why do you pursue me?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        You err; I pursue you not$1 $2am myself pursued.

                                   ELINA.

        You?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        By a multitude of thoughts. Therefore ’tis with sleep as
        with you:—it flees me.

                                   ELINA.

        Go to the window, and there you will find pastime;—a
        storm-tossed sea——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Smiles._] A storm-tossed sea? That may I find in you as
        well.

                                   ELINA.

        In me?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Ay, of that our first meeting has assured me.

                                   ELINA.

        And that offends you?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Nay, in nowise; yet I could wish to see you of milder mood.

                                   ELINA.

        [_Proudly._] Think you that you will ever have your wish?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        I am sure of it. I have a welcome word to say to you.

                                   ELINA.

        What is it?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Farewell.

                                   ELINA.

        [_Comes a step nearer him._] Farewell? You are leaving
        Östråt—so soon?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        This very night.

                                  ELINA..

        [_Seems to hesitate for a moment; then says coldly._] Then
        take my greeting, Sir Knight!

                                         [_Bows and is about to go._

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Elina Gyldenlöve,—I have no right to keep you here; but
        ’twill be unlike your nobleness if you refuse to hear what I
        have to say to you.

                                   ELINA.

        I hear you, Sir Knight.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        I know you hate me.

                                   ELINA.

        You are keen-sighted, I perceive.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        But I know, too, that I have fully merited your hate.
        Unseemly and wounding were the words I wrote of you in my
        letter to Lady Inger.

                                   ELINA.

        Like enough; I have not read them.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        But at least their purport is not unknown to you; I know
        your mother has not left you in ignorance of the matter; at
        the least she has told you how I praised the lot of the man
        who—; surely you know the hope I nursed—

                                   ELINA.

        Sir Knight—if ’tis of that you would speak—

                                NILS LYKKE.

        I speak of it, only to ask pardon for my words; for no other
        reason, I swear to you. If my fame—as I have too much cause
        to fear—has gone before me to Östråt, you must needs know
        enough of my life not to wonder that in such things I should
        go to work something boldly. I have met many women, Elina
        Gyldenlöve; but not one have I found unyielding. Such
        lessons, look you, teach a man to be secure. He loses the
        habit of roundabout ways——

                                   ELINA.

        May be so. I know not of what metal those women can have
        been made.

        For the rest, you err in thinking ’twas your letter to my
        mother that aroused my soul’s hatred and bitterness against
        you. It is of older date.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Uneasily._] Of older date? What mean you?

                                   ELINA.

        ’Tis as you guessed:—your fame has gone before you, to
        Östråt, even as over all the land. Nils Lykke’s name is
        never spoken save with the name of some woman whom he has
        beguiled and cast off. Some speak it in wrath, others with
        laughter and wanton jeering at those weak-souled creatures.
        But through the wrath and the laughter and the jeers rings
        the song they have made of you, full of insolent challenge,
        like an enemy’s song of triumph.

        ’Tis all this together that has begotten my hate for you.
        You were ever in my thoughts, and ever I longed to meet you
        face to face, that you might learn that there are women on
        whom your subtle speeches are lost—if you should think to
        use them.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        You judge me unjustly, if you judge from what rumour has
        told of me. Even if there be truth in all you have
        heard,—you know not the causes behind it.—As a boy of
        seventeen I began my course of pleasure. I have lived full
        fifteen years since then. Light women granted me all that I
        would—even before the wish had shaped itself into a prayer;
        and what I offered them they seized with eager hands. You
        are the first woman that has flung back a gift of mine with
        scorn at my feet.

        Think not I reproach you. Rather I honour you for it, as
        never before have I honoured woman. But for this I reproach
        my fate—and the thought is a gnawing pain to me—that you and
        I were not sooner brought face to face.——Elina Gyldenlöve!
        Your mother has told me of you. While far from Östråt life
        ran its restless course, you went your lonely way in
        silence, living in your dreams and histories. Therefore you
        will understand what I have to tell you.—Know, then, that
        once I too lived even such a life as yours. Methought that
        when I stepped forth into the great world, a noble and
        stately woman would come to meet me, and would beckon to me
        and point out the path towards a glorious goal.—I was
        deceived, Elina Gyldenlöve! Women came to meet me; but _she_
        was not among them. Ere yet I had come to full manhood, I
        had learnt to despise them all.

        Was it my fault? Why were not the others even as you?—I know
        the fate of your fatherland lies heavy on your soul; and you
        know the part I have in these affairs——. ’Tis said of me
        that I am false as the sea-foam. Mayhap I am; but if I be,
        it is women who have made me so. Had I sooner found what I
        sought,—had I met a woman proud and noble and high-souled
        even as you, then had my path been different indeed. At this
        moment, maybe, I had been standing at your side as the
        champion of all that suffer wrong in Norway’s land. For
        _this_ I believe: a woman is the mightiest power in the
        world, and in her hand it lies to guide a man whither God
        Almighty would have him go.

                                   ELINA.

        [_To herself._] Can it be as he says? Nay, nay; there is
        falsehood in his eyes and deceit on his lips. And yet—no
        song is sweeter than his words.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Coming closer, speaks low and more intimately._] As you
        have dwelt here at Östråt, alone with your changeful
        thoughts, how often have you felt your bosom stifling; how
        often have the roof and walls seemed to shrink together till
        they crushed your very soul. Then have your longings taken
        wing with you; then have you yearned to fly far from here,
        you knew not whither.—How often have you not wandered alone
        by the fiord; far out a ship has sailed by in fair array,
        with knights and ladies on her deck, with song and music of
        stringed instruments;—a faint, far-off rumour of great
        events has reached your ears;—and you have felt a longing in
        your breast, an unconquerable craving to know all that lies
        beyond the sea. But you have not understood what ailed you.
        At times you have thought it was the fate of your fatherland
        that filled you with all these restless broodings. You
        deceived yourself;—a maiden so young as you has other food
        for musing.——Elina Gyldenlöve! Have you never had visions of
        an unknown power—a strong mysterious might, that binds
        together the destinies of mortals? When you dreamed of the
        many-coloured life far out in the wide world—when you
        dreamed of knightly jousts and joyous festivals—saw you
        never in your dreams a knight, who stood in the midst of the
        gayest rout, with a smile on his lips and with bitterness in
        his heart,—a knight that had once dreamed a dream as fair as
        yours, of a woman noble and stately, for whom he went ever
        a-seeking, and ever in vain?

                                   ELINA.

        Who are you, that have power to clothe my most secret
        thoughts in words? How can you tell me what I have borne in
        my inmost soul—yet knew it not myself? How know you——?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        All that I have told you, I have read in your eyes.

                                   ELINA.

        Never has any man spoken to me as you have spoken. I have
        understood you but dimly; and yet—all, all seems changed
        since——

        [_To herself._] Now I understand why they said that Nils
        Lykke was unlike all others.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        There is one thing in the world that might drive a man to
        madness, but to think of it; and that is the thought of what
        might have been, had things but fallen out in this way or
        that. Had I met you on my path while the tree of my life was
        yet green and budding, at this hour, mayhap, you had been——

        But forgive me, noble lady! Our speech of these past few
        moments has made me forget how we stand one to another.
        ’Twas as though a secret voice had told me from the first
        that to you I could speak openly, without flattery or
        dissimulation.

                                   ELINA.

        That can you.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        ’Tis well;—and it may be that this openness has already in
        part reconciled us. Ay—my hope is yet bolder. The time may
        yet come when you will think of the stranger knight without
        hate or bitterness in your soul. Nay,—mistake me not! I mean
        not _now_—but some time, in the days to come. And that this
        may be the less hard for you—and as I have begun once for
        all to speak to you plainly and openly —let me tell you——

                                   ELINA.

        Sir Knight——!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Smiling._] Ah, I see the thought of my letter still
        affrights you. Fear nought on that score. I would from my
        heart it were unwritten, for—I know ’twill concern you
        little enough, so I may even say it right out—for I love you
        not, and shall never come to love you. Fear nothing,
        therefore, as I said before; I shall in nowise seek to——

        But what ails you——?

                                   ELINA.

        Me? Nothing, nothing.—Tell me but one thing: why do you
        still wear those flowers? What would you with them?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        These? Are they not a gage of battle you have thrown down to
        the wicked Nils Lykke, on behalf of all womankind? What
        could I do but take it up?

        You asked what I would with them? [_Softly._] When I stand
        again amid the fair ladies of Denmark—when the music of the
        strings is hushed and there is silence in the hall—then will
        I bring forth these flowers and tell a tale of a young
        maiden sitting alone in a gloomy black-beamed hall, far to
        the north in Norway——   [_Breaks off and bows respectfully._

        But I fear I detain the noble daughter of the house too
        long. We shall meet no more; for before daybreak I shall be
        gone. So now I bid you farewell.

                                   ELINA.

        Fare you well, Sir Knight! [_A short silence._

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Again you are deep in thought, Elina Gyldenlöve! Is it the
        fate of your fatherland that weighs upon you still?

                                   ELINA.

        [_Shakes her head, absently gazing straight in front of
        her._] My fatherland?—I think not of my fatherland.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Then ’tis the strife and misery of the time that disquiets
        you.

                                   ELINA.

        The time? I had forgotten it——You go to Denmark? Said you
        not so

                                NILS LYKKE.

        I go to Denmark.

                                   ELINA.

        Can I look towards Denmark from this hall?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Points to the window on the left._] Ay, from this window.
        Denmark lies there, to the south.

                                   ELINA.

        And is it far from here? More than a hundred leagues?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Much more. The sea lies between you and Denmark.

                                   ELINA.

        [_To herself._] The sea? Thought has seagulls’ wings. The
        sea cannot stay it.

                                            [_Goes out to the left._

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Looks after her awhile; then says:_] If I could but spare
        two days now—or even one—I would have her in my power, even
        as the others.

        And yet is there rare stuff in this maiden. She is proud.
        Might I not after all——? No; rather humble her——

                                                  [_Paces the room._

        Verily, I believe she has set my blood afire. Who would have
        thought it possible after all these years?—Enough of this! I
        must get out of the tangle I have here thrust myself into.

                                    [_Sits in a chair on the right._

        What is the meaning of it? Both Olaf Skaktavl and Inger
        Gyldenlöve seem blind to the mistrust ’twill waken, when
        ’tis rumoured that I am in their league.—Or can Lady Inger
        have seen through my purpose? Can she have seen that all my
        promises were but designed to lure Nils Sture forth from his
        hiding-place?

                                                      [_Springs up._

        Damnation! Is it I that have been fooled? ’Tis like enough
        that Count Sture is not at Östråt at all. It may be the
        rumour of his flight was but a feint. He may be safe and
        sound among his friends in Sweden, while I——

                                    [_Walks restlessly up and down._

        And to think I was so sure of success! If I should effect
        nothing? If Lady Inger should penetrate all my designs—and
        publish my discomfiture—-. To be a laughing-stock both
        here and in Denmark! To have sought to lure Lady Inger
        into a trap—and given her cause the help it most
        needed—strengthened her in the people’s favour——! Ah, I
        could well-nigh sell myself to the Evil One, would he but
        help me to lay hands on Count Sture.

                [_The window in the background is pushed open._ NILS
                    STENSSON _appears outside._

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Clutches at his sword._] Who is there?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        [_Jumps down on to the floor._] Ah; here I am at last then!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Aside._] What means this?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        God’s peace, master!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Thanks, good Sir! Methinks you have chosen a strange way of
        entrance.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Ay, what the devil was I to do? The gate was shut. Folk must
        sleep in this house like bears at Yuletide.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        God be thanked! Know you not that a good conscience is the
        best pillow?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Ay, it must be even so; for with all my rattling and
        thundering, I——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        ——You won not in?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        You have hit it. So I said to myself: As you are bidden to
        be in Östråt to-night, if you have to go through fire and
        water, you may surely make free to creep through a window.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Aside._] Ah, if it should be——!

                                      [_Moves a step or two nearer._

        Was it, then, of the last necessity that you should reach
        Östråt to-night?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Was it? Ay, faith but it was. I love not to keep folk
        waiting, I can tell you.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Aha,—then Lady Inger Gyldenlöve looks for your coming?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Lady Inger Gyldenlöve? Nay, that I can scarce say for
        certain; [_with a sly smile_] but there might be some one
        else——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Smiles in answer._] Ah, so there might be some one else—?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Tell me—are you of the house?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        I? Well, in so far that I am Lady Inger’s guest this
        evening.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        A guest?—Is not to-night the third night after Martinmas?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        The third night after—? Ay, right enough.—Would you seek the
        lady of the house at once? I think she is not yet gone to
        rest. But might not _you_ sit down and rest awhile, dear
        young Sir? See, here is yet a flagon of wine remaining, and
        doubtless you will find some food. Come, fall to; you will
        do wisely to refresh your strength.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        You are right, Sir; ’twere not amiss.

                      [_Sits down by the table and eats and drinks._

        Both roast meat and sweet cakes! Why, you live like lords
        here! When one has slept, as I have, on the naked ground,
        and lived on bread and water for four or five days——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Looks at him with a smile._] Ay, such a life must be hard
        for one that is wont to sit at the high-table in noble
        halls——

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Noble halls——?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        But now can you take your ease at Östråt, as long as it
        likes you.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        [_Pleased._] Ay? Can I truly? Then I am not to begone again
        so soon?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Nay, that I know not. Sure you yourself can best say that.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        [_Softly._] Oh, the devil! [_Stretches himself in the
        chair._] Well, you see—’tis not yet certain. I, for my part,
        were nothing loath to stay quiet here awhile; but——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        ——But you are not in all points your own master? There be
        other duties and other affairs——?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Ay, that is just the rub. Were I to choose, I would rest me
        at Östråt at least the winter through; I have for the most
        part led a soldier’s life, and——

                [_Interrupts himself suddenly, fills a goblet, and
                    drinks._

        Your health, Sir!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        A soldier’s life? H’m!

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Nay, what I would have said is this: I have long been eager
        to see Lady Inger Gyldenlöve, whose fame has spread so wide.
        She must be a queenly woman,—is’t not so?——The one thing I
        like not in her, is that she is so cursedly slow to take
        open action.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Open action?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Ay, ay, you understand me; I mean she is so loath to take a
        hand in driving the foreign masters out of the land.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Ay, there you are right. But if now you do what you can, you
        will doubtless move her.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        I? God knows ’twould but little serve if _I_——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Yet ’tis strange you should seek her here if you have so
        little hope.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        What mean you?—Tell me, know you Lady Inger?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Surely; since I am her guest——

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Ay, but it in nowise follows that you know her. I too am her
        guest, yet have I never seen so much as her shadow.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Yet did you speak of her——

                               NILS STENSSON.

        ——as all folk speak. Why should I not? And besides, I have
        often enough heard from Peter Kanzler——

                [_Stops in confusion, and falls to eating busily._

                                NILS LYKKE.

        You would have said——?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        [_Eating._] I? Nay, ’tis all one.

                                               [_Nils Lykke laughs._

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Why laugh you, Sir?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        At nothing, Sir!

                               NILS STENSSON.

        [_Drinks._] A pretty vintage ye have in this house.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Approaches him confidentially._] Listen—were it not time
        now to throw off the mask?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        [_Smiling._] The mask? Why, do as seems best to you.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Then off with all disguise. You are known, Count Sture!

                               NILS STENSSON.

        [_Bursts out laughing._] Count Sture? Do you too take me for
        Count Sture?

                                            [_Rises from the table._

        You mistake, Sir! I am not Count Sture.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        You are not? Then who are you?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        My name is Nils Stensson.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Looks at him with a smile._] H’m! Nils Stensson? But you
        are not Sten Sture’s son Nils? The name chimes at least.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        True enough; but God knows what right I have to bear it. My
        father I never knew; my mother was a poor peasant-woman,
        that was robbed and murdered in one of the old feuds. Peter
        Kanzler chanced to be on the spot; he took me into his care,
        brought me up, and taught me the trade of arms. As you know,
        King Gustav has been hunting him this many a year; and I
        have followed him faithfully, wherever he went.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Peter Kanzler has taught you more than the trade of arms,
        meseems.——Well, well; then you are not Nils Sture. But at
        least you come from Sweden. Peter Kanzler has sent you
        hither to find a stranger, who——

                               NILS STENSSON.

        [_Nods cunningly._]——who is found already.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Somewhat uncertain._] And whom you do not know?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        As little as you know me; for I swear to you by God himself:
        I am not Count Sture!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        In sober earnest, Sir?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        As truly as I live! Wherefore should I deny it, if I were?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        But where, then, is Count Sture?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        [_In a low voice._] Ay, _that_ is just the secret.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Whispers._] Which is known to you? Is’t not so?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        [_Nods._] And which I am to tell you.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        To tell me? Well then,—where is he?

                                    [NILS STENSSON _points upwards._

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Up there? Lady Inger holds him hidden in the loft-room?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Nay, nay; you mistake me.

                                          [_Looks round cautiously._

        Nils Sture is in Heaven!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Dead? And where?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        In his mother’s castle,—three weeks since.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Ah, you are deceiving me! ’Tis but five or six days since he
        crossed the frontier into Norway.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Oh, that was I.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        But just before that the Count had appeared in the Dales.
        The people, who were restless already, broke out openly and
        would have chosen him for king.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Ha-ha-ha; that was me too!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        You?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        I will tell you how it came about. One day Peter Kanzler
        called me to him and gave me to know that great things were
        preparing. He bade me set out for Norway and fare to Östråt,
        where I must be on a certain fixed day——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Nods._] The third night after Martinmas.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        There I was to meet a stranger——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Ay, right; I am he.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        From him I should learn what more I had to do. Moreover, I
        was to let him know that the Count was dead of a sudden, but
        that as yet ’twas known to no one save to his mother the
        Countess, together with Peter Kanzler and a few old servants
        of the Stures.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        I understand. The Count was the peasants’ rallying-point.
        Were the tidings of his death to spread, they would fall
        asunder,—and ’twould all come to nought.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Ay, maybe so; I know little of such matters.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        But how came you to give yourself out for the Count?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        How came I to——? Nay, what know I? Many’s the mad prank I
        have hit on in my day. And yet ’twas not I hit on it
        neither; for whereever I appeared in the Dales, the people
        crowded round me and hailed me as Count Sture. Deny it as I
        pleased, ’twas wasted breath. The Count had been there two
        years before, they said—and the veriest child knew me again.
        Well, so be it, thought I; never again will you be a Count
        in this life; why not try what ’tis like for once?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Well,—and what did you more?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        I? I ate and drank and took my ease. The only pity was that
        I had to take the road again so soon. But when I set forth
        across the frontier—ha-ha-ha—I promised them I would soon be
        back with three or four thousand men—I know not how many I
        said—and then we would lay on in earnest.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        And you did not bethink you that you were acting rashly?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Ay, afterwards; but then, to be sure, ’twas too late.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        I grieve for you, my young friend; but you will soon come to
        feel the effects of your folly. Let me tell you that you are
        pursued. A troop of Swedish men-at-arms is out after you.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        After me? Ha-ha-ha! Nay, that is rare! And when they come
        and think they have Count Sture in their clutches—ha-ha-ha!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Gravely._]——Then ’tis all over with you.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        All over——? But I am not Count Sture.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        You have called the people to arms. You have given seditious
        promises, and raised troubles in the land.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Ay, but ’twas only in jest!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        King Gustav will scarce take that view of the affair.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Truly, there is something in what you say. To think I could
        be so featherwitted——Well, well, I’m not a dead man yet! You
        will protect me; and besides—-the men-at-arms can scarce be
        at my heels yet.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        But what else have you to tell me?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        I? Nothing. When once I have given you the packet——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Off his guard._] The packet?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Ay, sure you know——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Ah, right, right; the papers from Peter Kanzler——

                               NILS STENSSON.

        See, here they all are.

                [_Takes out a packet from inside his doublet, and
                    hands it to_ NILS LYKKE.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Aside._] Letters and papers for Olaf Skaktavl.    [_To_
        NILS STENSSON.

        The packet is open, I see. ’Tis like you know what it
        contains?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        No, good sir; I love not to read writing; and for reason
        good.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        I understand; you have given most care to the trade of arms.

                [_Sits down by the table on the right, and runs
                    through the papers._

        Aha! Here is light enough and to spare on what is brewing.

        This small letter tied with a silken thread—[_Examines the
        address._] This too for Olaf Skaktavl. [_Opens the letter,
        and glances through its contents._] From Peter Kanzler. I
        thought as much. [_Reads under his breath._] “I am hard
        bested, for—”; ay, sure enough; here it stands,—“Young Count
        Sture has been gathered to his fathers, even at the time
        fixed for the revolt to break forth”—“—but all may yet be
        made good—” What now? [_Reads on in astonishment._] “You
        must know, then, Olaf Skaktavl, that the young man who
        brings you this letter is a son of—” Heaven and earth—can it
        be so?—Ay, by the cross of Christ, even so ’tis written!
        [_Glances at_ NILS STENSSON.] Can he be—? Ah, if it were so!
        [_Reads on._] “I have nurtured him since he was a year old;
        but up to this day I have ever refused to give him back,
        trusting to have in him a sure hostage for Inger
        Gyldenlöve’s faithfulness to us and to our friends. Yet in
        that respect he has but little availed us. You may marvel
        that I told you not this secret when you were with me here
        of late; therefore will I confess freely that I feared you
        might seize upon him, even as I had done, and to the same
        intent. But now, when you have seen Lady Inger, and have
        doubtless assured yourself how loath she is to have a hand
        in our undertaking, you will see that ’tis wisest to give
        her back her own as soon as may be. Well might it come to
        pass that in her joy and security and thankfulness—” ——
        “—that is now our last hope.”

                [_Sits for a while as though struck dumb with
                    surprise; then exclaims in a low voice:_

        Aha,—what a letter! Gold would not buy it!

                               NILS STENSSON.

        ’Tis plain I have brought you weighty tidings. Ay, ay,—Peter
        Kanzler has many irons in the fire, folk say.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_To himself._] What to do with all this? A thousand paths
        are open to me—What if I were—? No, ’twere to risk too much.
        But if—ah, if I—? I will venture it!

                [_Tears the letter across, crumples up the pieces,
                    and hides them inside his doublet; puts back the
                    other papers into the packet, which he thrusts
                    inside his belt; rises and says:_

        A word, my young friend!

                               NILS STENSSON.

        [_Approaching him._] Well—your looks say that the game goes
        bravely.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Ay, by my soul it does. You have given me a hand of nought
        but court cards,—queens and knaves——

                               NILS STENSSON.

        But what of me, that have brought all these good tidings?
        Have I nought more to do?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        You? Ay, that have you. You belong to the game. You are a
        king—and king of trumps too.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        I a king? Oh, now I understand; you are thinking of my
        exaltation——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Your exaltation?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Ay; that which you foretold for me, if King Gustav’s men got
        me in their clutches——

                              [_Makes a motion to indicate hanging._

                                NILS LYKKE.

        True enough;—but let that trouble you no more. It now lies
        with yourself alone whether within a month you shall have
        the hempen noose or a chain of gold about your neck.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        A chain of gold? And it lies with me?

                                                 [NILS LYKKE _nods._

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Why then, the devil take doubting! Do you but tell me what I
        am to do.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        I will. But first you must swear me a solemn oath that no
        living creature in the wide world shall know what I confide
        to you.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Is that all? You shall have ten oaths, if you will.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Not so lightly, young Sir! ’Tis no jesting matter.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Well, well; I am grave enough.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        In the Dales you called yourself a Count’s son;—is’t not so?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Nay—begin you now on _that_ again? Have I not made free
        confession——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        You mistake me. What you said in the Dales was the truth.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        The truth? What mean you by that? Tell me but——!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        First your oath! The holiest, the most inviolable you can
        swear.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        That you shall have. Yonder on the wall hangs the picture of
        the Holy Virgin——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        The Holy Virgin has grown infirm of late. Know you not what
        the monk of Wittenberg maintains?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Fie! how can you heed the monk of Wittenberg? Peter Kanzler
        says he is a heretic.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Well, let us not dispute the matter. Here can I show you a
        saint will serve full well to make oath by.

                [_Points to a picture hanging on one of the panels._

        Come hither,—swear that you will be silent till I myself
        release your tongue—silent, as you hope for Heaven’s
        salvation for yourself and for the man whose picture hangs
        there.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        [_Approaching the picture._] I swear it—so help me God’s
        holy word!

                                  [_Falls back a step in amazement._

        But—Christ save me——!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        What now?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        The picture—! Sure ’tis I myself!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        ’Tis old Sten Sture, even as he lived and moved in his
        youthful years.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Sten Sture!—And the likeness—? And—said you not I spoke the
        truth, when I called myself a Count’s son? Was’t not so?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        So it was.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Ah, I have it, I have it! I am——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        You are Sten Sture’s son, good Sir!

                               NILS STENSSON.

        [_With the quiet of amazement._] _I_ Sten Sture’s son!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        On the mother’s side too your blood is noble. Peter Kanzler
        spoke not the truth, if he said that a poor peasant woman
        was your mother.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Oh strange! oh marvellous!—But can I believe——?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        You may believe all that I tell you. But remember, all this
        will be merely your ruin, if you should forget what you
        swore to me by your father’s salvation.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Forget it? Nay, _that_ you may be sure I never shall.—But
        you, to whom I have given my word,—tell me—who are you?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        My name is Nils Lykke.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        [_Surprised._] Nils Lykke? Surely not the Danish Councillor?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Even so.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        And it was you—? ’Tis strange. How come you——?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        ——to be receiving missives from Peter Kanzler? You marvel at
        that?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        I cannot deny it. He has ever named you as our bitterest
        foe——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        And therefore you mistrust me?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Nay, not wholly that; but—well, the devil take musing!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Well said. Go but your own way, and you are as sure of the
        halter as you are of a Count’s title and a chain of gold if
        you trust to me.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        That will I. My hand upon it, dear Sir! Do you but help me
        with good counsel as long as there is need; when counsel
        gives place to blows, I shall look to myself.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        ’Tis well. Come with me now into yonder chamber, and I will
        tell you how all these matters stand, and what you have
        still to do.

                                           [_Goes out to the right._

                                                      NILS STENSSON.

        [_With a glance at the picture._] _I_ Sten Sture’s son! Oh,
        marvellous as a dream——!

                                       [_Goes out after_ NILS LYKKE.




                               ACT FOURTH

        _The Banquet Hall, as before, but without the supper-table._

        BIÖRN, _the majordomo, enters carrying a lighted
            branch-candlestick, and lighting in_ LADY INGER _and_
            OLAF SKAKTAVL _by the second door on the left._ LADY
            INGER _has a bundle of papers in her hand._

                                LADY INGER.

        [_To_ BIÖRN.] And you are sure my daughter had speech with
        the knight, here in the hall?

                                   BIÖRN.

        [_Putting down the branch-candlestick on the table on the
        left_.] Sure as may be. I met her even as she stepped into
        the passage.

                                LADY INGER.

        And she seemed greatly moved? Said you not so?

                                   BIÖRN.

        She looked all pale and disturbed. I asked if she were sick;
        she answered not, but said: “Go to my mother and tell her
        the knight sets forth from here ere daybreak; if she have
        letters or messages for him, beg her not to delay him
        needlessly.” And then she added somewhat that I heard not
        rightly.

                                LADY INGER.

        Did you not hear it at all?

                                   BIÖRN.

        It sounded to me as though she said:—“Almost I fear he has
        already tarried too long at Östråt.”

                                LADY INGER.

        And the knight? Where is he?

                                   BIÖRN.

        In his chamber belike, in the gate-wing.

                                LADY INGER.

        It is well. What I have to send by him is ready. Go to him
        and say I await him here in the hall. [BIÖRN _goes out to
        the right._

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        Know you, Lady Inger,—’tis true that in such things I am
        blind as a mole; yet seems it to me as though——h’m!

                                LADY INGER.

        Well?

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        ——as though Nils Lykke bore a mind to your daughter.

                                LADY INGER.

        Then ’twould seem you are not so blind after all; for I am
        the more deceived if you be not right. Marked you not at the
        supper-board how eagerly he listened to the least word I let
        fall concerning Elina?

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        He forgot both food and drink.

                                LADY INGER.

        And our secret affairs as well.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        Ay, and what is more—the papers from Peter Kanzler.

                                LADY INGER.

        And from all this you conclude——?

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        From all this I chiefly conclude that, as you know Nils
        Lykke and the name he bears, especially in all that touches
        women——

                                LADY INGER.

        ——I should be right glad to know him outside my gates?

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        Ay; and that as soon as may be.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Smiling._] Nay—the case is just the contrary, Olaf
        Skaktavl!

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        How mean you?

                                LADY INGER.

        If things be as we both think, Nils Lykke must in nowise
        depart from Östråt yet awhile.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        [_Looks at her with disapproval._] Are you again embarked on
        crooked courses, Lady Inger? What guile are you now
        devising? Something that may increase your own power at the
        cost of our——

                                LADY INGER.

        Oh this blindness, that makes you all do me such wrong! I
        see well you think I purpose to make Nils Lykke my
        daughter’s husband. Were such a thought in my mind, why had
        I refused to take part in what is afoot in Sweden, when Nils
        Lykke and all the Danish crew seem willing to support it?

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        Then if it be not your wish to win him and bind him to
        you—what would you with him?

                                LADY INGER.

        I will tell you in few words. In a letter to me, Nils Lykke
        has spoken of the high fortune it were to be allied to our
        house; and I do not say but, for a moment, I let myself
        think of the matter.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        Ay, see you!

                                LADY INGER.

        To wed Nils Lykke to one of my house were doubtless a great
        step toward stanching many discords in our land.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        Meseems your daughter Merete’s marriage with Vinzents Lunge
        might have taught you what comes of such a step. Scarce had
        my lord gained firm footing among us, when he began to make
        free with both our goods and our rights——

                                LADY INGER.

        I know it even too well, Olaf Skaktavl! But times there be
        when my thoughts are manifold and strange. I cannot impart
        them fully either to you or to any one else. Often I know
        not the right course to choose. And yet—a second time to
        make a Danish lord my son-in-law,—nought but the uttermost
        need could drive me to that resource; and heaven be
        praised—things have not yet come to _that_!

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        I am no wiser than before, Lady Inger;—why would you keep
        Nils Lykke at Östråt?

                                LADY INGER.

        [_In a low voice._] Because I owe him an undying hate. Nils
        Lykke has done me deadlier wrong than any other man. I
        cannot tell you wherein it lies; but never shall I rest till
        I am avenged on him. See you not now? Say that Nils Lykke
        were to love my daughter—as meseems were like enough. I will
        persuade him to tarry here; he shall learn to know Elina
        well. She is both fair and wise.—Ah, if he should one day
        come before me, with hot love in his heart, to beg for her
        hand! Then—to chase him away like a dog; to drive him off
        with jibes and scorn; to make it known over all the land
        that Nils Lykke had come a-wooing to Östråt in vain—! I tell
        you I would give ten years of my life but to see that day!

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        In faith and truth, Inger Gyldenlöve—is _this_ your purpose
        towards him?

                                LADY INGER.

        This and nought else, as sure as God lives! Trust me, Olaf
        Skaktavl, I mean honestly by my countrymen; but I am in
        nowise my own mistress. Things there be that must be kept
        hidden, or ’twere my death-blow. But let me once be secure
        on _that_ side, and you shall see if I have forgotten the
        oath I swore by Knut Alfson’s bier.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        [_Shakes her by the hand._] Thanks for those words! I am
        loath indeed to think evil of you.—Yet, touching your design
        towards this knight, methinks ’tis a venturesome game you
        would play. What if you had misreckoned? What if your
        daughter—? ’Tis said no woman can stand against this subtle
        devil.

                                LADY INGER.

        My daughter? Think you that she—? Nay, have no fear of that;
        I know Elina better. All she has heard of his renown has but
        made her hate him the more. You saw with your own eyes——

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        Ay, but—a woman’s mind is shifting ground to build on.
        ’Twere best you looked well before you.

                                LADY INGER.

        That will I, be sure; I will watch them narrowly. But even
        were he to succeed in luring her into his toils, I have but
        to whisper two words in her ear, and——

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        What then?

                                LADY INGER.

        ——She will shrink from him as though he came straight from
        the foul Tempter himself.

        Hist, Olaf Skaktavl! Here he comes. Now be cautious.

        [NILS LYKKE _enters by the foremost door on the right._

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Approaches_ LADY INGER _courteously._] My noble hostess
        has summoned me.

                                LADY INGER.

        I have learned through my daughter that you are minded to
        leave us to-night.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Even so, to my sorrow;—since my business at Östråt is over.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        Not before I have the papers.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        True, true. I had well-nigh forgot the weightiest part of my
        errand. ’Twas the fault of our noble hostess. With such
        gracious skill did she keep her guests in talk at table——

                                LADY INGER.

        That you no longer remembered what had brought you hither? I
        rejoice to hear it; for that was my design. Methought that
        if my guest, Nils Lykke, were to feel at his ease in Östråt,
        he must forget——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        What, lady?

                                LADY INGER.

        ——First of all his errand—and then all that had gone before
        it.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_To_ OLAF SKAKTAVL, _as he takes out the packet and hands
        it to him._] The papers from Peter Kanzler. You will find in
        them a full account of our partizans in Sweden.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        It is well.

                [_Sits down by the table on the left, where he opens
                    the packet and examines its contents._

                                NILS LYKKE.

        And now, Lady Inger Gyldenlöve,—I know not that there is
        aught else for me to do here.

                                LADY INGER.

        Had it been things of state alone that brought us together,
        you might be right. But I should be loath to think so.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        You would say——?

                                LADY INGER.

        I would say that ’twas not alone as a Danish Councillor or
        as the ally of Peter Kanzler that Nils Lykke came to be my
        guest.—Do I err in fancying that somewhat you may have heard
        down in Denmark may have made you curious to know more of
        the Lady of Östråt.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Far be it from me to deny——

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        [_Turning over the papers._] Strange. No letter.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        ——Lady Inger Gyldenlöve’s fame is all too widely spread that
        I should not long have been eager to see her face to face.

                                LADY INGER.

        So I thought. But what, then, is an hour’s jesting talk at
        the supper-table? Let us try to sweep away all that has till
        now lain between us; it may well come to pass that the Nils
        Lykke I know may wipe out the grudge I bore the one I knew
        not. Prolong your stay here but a few days, Sir Councillor!
        I dare not persuade Olaf Skaktavl thereto, since his secret
        charge in Sweden calls him hence. But as for you, doubtless
        your sagacity has placed all things beforehand in such train
        that your presence can scarce be needed. Trust me, your time
        shall not pass tediously with us; at least you will find
        both me and my daughter heartily disposed to do all in our
        power to pleasure you.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        I doubt neither your goodwill towards me nor your
        daughter’s; of that I have had ample proof. And I trust you
        will not doubt that my presence elsewhere must be vitally
        needful, since, despite of all, I must declare my longer
        stay at Östråt impossible.

                                LADY INGER.

        Is it even so!—Know you, Sir Councillor, were I evilly
        minded, I might fancy you had come to Östråt to try a fall
        with me, and that, having lost, you cared not to linger on
        the battlefield among the witnesses of your defeat.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Smiling._] There might be some show of reason for such a
        reading of the case; but sure it is that as yet _I_ hold not
        the battle lost.

                                LADY INGER.

        However that may be, it might at any rate be retrieved, if
        you would tarry some days with us. You see yourself, I am
        still halting and wavering at the parting of the
        ways,—persuading my redoubtable assailant not to quit the
        field.—Well, to speak plainly, the thing is this: your
        alliance with the disaffected in Sweden still seems to me
        somewhat—how shall I call it?—somewhat miraculous, Sir
        Councillor! I tell you this frankly, dear Sir! The thought
        that has moved the King’s Council to this secret step is in
        truth most politic; but ’tis strangely at variance with the
        deeds of certain of your countrymen in bygone years. Be not
        offended, then, if my trust in your fair promises needs to
        be somewhat strengthened ere I can place my whole welfare in
        your hands.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        A longer stay at Östråt would scarce help towards that end;
        since I purpose not to make any further effort to shake your
        resolve.

                                LADY INGER.

        Then must I pity you from my heart. Ay, Sir Councillor—’tis
        true I stand here an unfriended widow; yet may you trust my
        word when I foretell that this visit to Östråt will strew
        your future path with thorns.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_With a smile._] Is that your forecast, Lady Inger?

                                LADY INGER.

        Truly it is! What can one say, dear Sir? ’Tis an age of
        tattling tongues. Many a scurril knave will make jeering
        rhymes at your expense. Ere half a year is out, you will be
        all men’s fable; people will stop and gaze after you on the
        high roads; ’twill be: “Look, look; there rides Sir Nils
        Lykke, that fared north to Östråt to trap Inger Gyldenlöve,
        and was caught in his own nets.”—Softly, softly, Sir Knight,
        why so impatient! ’Tis not that _I_ think so; I do but
        forecast the thoughts of the malicious and evil-minded; and
        of them, alas! there are many.— Ay, ’tis shame; but so it
        is—you will reap nought but mockery—mockery, because a woman
        was craftier than you. “Like a cunning fox,” men will say,
        “he crept into Östråt; like a beaten hound he slunk
        away.”—And one thing more: think you not that Peter Kanzler
        and his friends will forswear your alliance, when ’tis known
        that _I_ venture not to fight under a standard borne by you?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        You speak wisely, lady! Wherefore to secure me from
        mockery—and not to endanger the alliance with all our dear
        friends in Sweden—I must needs——

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Hastily._] ——prolong your stay at Östråt.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        [_Who has been listening._] He is in the trap!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        No, my noble lady;—I must needs bring you to terms within
        this hour.

                                LADY INGER.

        But what if you should fail?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        I shall _not_ fail.

                                LADY INGER.

        You lack not confidence, it seems.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        What shall be the wager that you make not common cause with
        myself and Peter Kanzler?

                                LADY INGER.

        Östråt Castle against your knee-buckles!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Slaps his breast and cries:_] Olaf Skaktavl—here stands
        the master of Östråt!

                                LADY INGER.

        Sir Councillor——!

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        [_Rises from the table._] What now?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_To_ LADY INGER.] I accept not the wager; for in a moment
        you will gladly give Östråt Castle, and more to boot, to be
        freed from the snare wherein not I but you are tangled.

                                LADY INGER.

        Your jest, Sir, grows a vastly merry one.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        ’Twill be merrier yet—at least for me. You boast that you
        have overreached me. You threaten to heap on me all men’s
        scorn and mockery. Ah, beware that you stir not up my
        vengefulness; for with two words I can bring you to your
        knees at my feet.

                                LADY INGER.

        Ha-ha——!

                [_Stops suddenly, as if struck by a foreboding._

        And these two words, Nils Lykke?—these two words——?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        ——The secret of Sten Sture’s son and yours.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_With a shriek._] Oh, God in heaven——!

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        Inger Gyldenlöve’s son! What say you?

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Half kneeling to_ NILS LYKKE.] Mercy! oh, be merciful——!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Raises her up._] Collect yourself, and let us talk
        together calmly.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_In a low voice, as though bewildered._] Did you hear it,
        Olaf Skaktavl? Or was it but a dream? Heard you what he
        said?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        It was no dream, Lady Inger!

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Clasping her hands._] And you know it! You,—you!—Where is
        he then? Where have you got him? What would you do with him?
        [_Screams._] Do not kill him, Nils Lykke! Give him back to
        me! Do not kill my child!

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        Ah, I begin to understand——

                                LADY INGER.

        And this fear—this torturing dread! Through all these weary
        years it has been ever with me——and then all fails at last,
        and I must bear this agony!—Oh Lord my God, is it right of
        thee? Was it for this thou gavest him to me?

                [_Controls herself and says with forced composure:_

        Nils Lykke—tell me _one_ thing. Where have you got him?
        Where is he?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        With his foster-father.

                                LADY INGER.

        Still with his foster-father. Oh, that merciless man—! For
        ever to deny me—. But it _must_ not go on thus! Help me,
        Olaf Skaktavl!

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        I?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        There will be no need, if only you——

                                LADY INGER.

        Hearken, Sir Councillor! What you know you shall know
        thoroughly. And you too, my old and faithful friend!

        Listen then. To-night you bade me call to mind that fatal
        day when Knut Alfson was slain at Oslo. You bade me remember
        the promise I made as I stood by his corpse amid the bravest
        men in Norway. I was scarce full-grown then; but I felt
        God’s strength in me, and methought, as many have thought
        since, that the Lord himself had set his mark on me and
        chosen me to fight in the forefront for my country’s cause.

        Was it pride of heart? Or was it a calling from on high?
        That I have never clearly known. But woe to whoso is charged
        with a mighty task.

        For seven years I fear not to say that I kept my promise
        faithfully. I stood by my countrymen in all their sufferings
        and their need. Playmates of mine, all over the land, were
        wives and mothers now. I alone could give ear to no
        wooer—not to one. That you know best, Olaf Skaktavl!

        Then I saw Sten Sture for the first time. Fairer man had
        never met my sight.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Ah, now it grows clear to me! Sten Sture was then in Norway
        on a secret errand. We Danes were not to know that he wished
        your friends well.

                                LADY INGER.

        In the guise of a mean serving-man he lived a whole winter
        under one roof with me.

        That winter I thought less and less of the country’s
        weal.——So fair a man had I never seen—and I had lived
        well-nigh five-and-twenty years.

        Next autumn Sten Sture came once more; and when he departed
        again he took with him, in all secrecy, a little child.
        ’Twas not folk’s evil tongues I feared; but our cause would
        have suffered had it got abroad that Sten Sture stood so
        near to me.

        The child was given to Peter Kanzler to rear. I waited for
        better times, that were soon to come. They never came. Sten
        Sture took a wife two years later in Sweden, and, when he
        died, he left a widow——

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        ——And with her a lawful heir to his name and rights.

                                LADY INGER.

        Time after time I wrote to Peter Kanzler beseeching him to
        give me back my child. But he was ever deaf to my prayers.
        “Cast in your lot with us once for all,” he said, “and I
        send your son back to Norway; not before.” But ’twas even
        that I dared not do. We of the disaffected party were then
        ill regarded by many timorous folk in the land. Had these
        learnt how things stood—oh, I know it!—to cripple the mother
        they had gladly meted to the child the fate that would have
        been King Christiern’s had he not saved himself by
        flight.[20]

        But, besides that, the Danes, too, were active. They spared
        neither threats nor promises to force me to join them.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        ’Twas but reason. The eyes of all men were fixed on you as
        on the vane that should show them how to shape their course.

                                LADY INGER.

        Then came Herlof Hyttefad’s rising. Do you remember that
        time, Olaf Skaktavl? Was it not as though a new spring had
        dawned over the whole land! Mighty voices summoned me to
        come forth;—yet I dared not. I stood doubting—far from the
        strife—in my lonely castle. At times it seemed as though the
        Lord God himself were calling me; but then would come the
        killing dread again to benumb my will. “Who will
        win?”—_that_ was the question that was ever ringing in my
        ears.

        ’Twas but a short spring that had come to Norway. Herlof
        Hyttefad, and many more with him, were broken on the wheel
        during the months that followed. None could call me to
        account; yet there lacked not covert threats from Denmark.
        What if they knew the secret? At last methought they _must_
        know; I knew not how else to understand their words.

        ’Twas even in that time of agony that Gyldenlöve, the High
        Steward, came hither and sought me in marriage. Let any
        mother anguished for her child think herself in my place!—A
        month after, I was the High Steward’s wife—and homeless in
        the hearts of my countrymen.

        Then came the quiet years. No one raised his head any more.
        Our masters might grind us down even as heavily as they
        listed. There were times when I loathed myself; for what had
        I to do? Nought but to endure terror and scorn and bring
        forth daughters into the world. My daughters! God must
        forgive me if I have had no mother’s heart towards them. My
        wifely duties were as serfdom to me; how then could I love
        my daughters? Oh, how different with my son! _He_ was the
        child of my very soul. He was the one thing that brought to
        mind the time when I was a woman and nought but a woman.—And
        him they had taken from me! He was growing up among
        strangers, who might, mayhap, be sowing in him the seed of
        corruption! Olaf Skaktavl—had I wandered, like you, on the
        lonely hills, hunted and forsaken, in winter and storm—if I
        had but held my child in my arms,—trust me, I had not
        sorrowed and wept so sore as I have sorrowed and wept for
        him from his birth even to this hour!

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        There is my hand. I have judged you too hardly, Lady Inger!
        Command me even as before; I will obey.—Ay, by all the
        saints, I know what it is to sorrow for a child.

                                LADY INGER.

        Yours was slain by men of blood. But what is death to the
        restless terror of all these long years?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Mark, then—’tis in your power to end this terror. You have
        but to make peace between the jarring factions, and neither
        will think of seizing on your child as a pledge of your
        faith.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_To herself._] This is the vengeance of Heaven. [_Looks at
        him._] In one word, what do you demand?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        I demand first that you shall call the people of the
        northern districts to arms, in support of the disaffected in
        Sweden.

                                LADY INGER.

        And next——?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        ——that you do your best to advance young Count Sture’s
        ancestral claim to the throne of Sweden.

                                LADY INGER.

        His? You demand that I——

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        [_Softly._] It is the wish of many Swedes, and ’twould serve
        our turn too.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        You hesitate, lady? You tremble for your son’s safety. What
        better can you wish than to see his half-brother on the
        throne?

                                LADY INGER.

        [_In thought._] True—true——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Looks at her sharply._] Unless there be other plans
        afoot——

                                LADY INGER.

        What mean you?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Inger Gyldenlöve might have a mind to be—a king’s mother.

                                LADY INGER.

        No, no! Give me back my child, and let who will have the
        crowns.

        But know you so surely that Count Sture is willing——?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Of that he will himself assure you.

                                LADY INGER.

        Himself? And when?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Even now.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        How now?

                                LADY INGER.

        What say you?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        In one word, Count Sture is in Östråt.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        Here?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_To_ Lady Inger.] You have doubtless heard that another
        rode through the gate along with me? The Count was my
        attendant.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Softly._] I am in his power. I have no longer any choice.

                                           [_Looks at him and says:_

        ’Tis well, Sir Councillor—you shall have full assurance of
        my support.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        In writing?

                                LADY INGER.

        As you will.

                [_Goes to the table on the left, sits down, and
                    takes writing materials from the drawer._

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Aside, standing by the table on the right._] At last,
        then, I win!

                                LADY INGER.

        [_After a moment’s thought, turns suddenly in her chair to_
        OLAF SKAKTAVL _and whispers._] Olaf Skaktavl—I am certain of
        it now—Nils Lykke is a traitor!

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        [_Softly._] What? You think——?

                                LADY INGER.

        He has treachery in his heart.

                [_Lays the paper before her and dips the pen in the
                    ink._

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        And yet you would give him a written promise that may be
        your ruin?

                                LADY INGER.

        Hush; leave me to act. Nay, wait and listen first——[_Talks
        with him in a whisper._

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Softly, watching them._] Ah, take counsel together as much
        as ye list! All danger is over now. With her written consent
        in my pocket, I can denounce her whenever I please. A secret
        message to Jens Bielke this very night—. I tell him but the
        truth—that the young Count Sture is not at Östråt. And then
        to-morrow, when the road is open—to Trondhiem with my young
        friend, and thence by ship to Copenhagen with him as my
        prisoner. Once we have him safe in the castle-tower, we can
        dictate to Lady Inger what terms we will. And I—? After
        this, methinks, the King will scarce place the French
        mission in other hands than mine.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Still whispering to_ OLAF SKAKTAVL.] Well, you understand
        me?

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        Ay, fully. Let us make the venture, even as you will. [_Goes
        out by the back, to the right._

                [NILS STENSSON _comes in by the first door on the
                    right, unseen by_ LADY INGER, _who has begun to
                    write._

                               NILS STENSSON.

        [_In a low voice._] Sir Knight,—Sir Knight!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Moves towards him._] Rash boy! What would you here? Said I
        not you should wait within until I called you?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        How could I? Now you have told me that Inger Gyldenlöve is
        my mother, I thirst more than ever to see her face to face——

        Oh, it is she! How proud and high her mien! Even thus did I
        ever picture her. Fear not, dear Sir,—I shall do nought
        rashly. Since I have learnt this secret, I feel, as it were,
        older and wiser. I will no longer be wild and heedless; I
        will be even as other well-born youths.—Tell me,—knows she
        that I am here? Surely you have prepared her?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Ay, sure enough; but——

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Well?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        ——She will not own you for her son.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Will not own me? But she is my mother.—Oh, if it be that she
        doubts _that_—[_takes out a ring which he wears on a cord
        round his neck_]—show her this ring. I have worn it since my
        earliest childhood; she must surely know its history.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Hide the ring, man! Hide it, I say!

        You mistake me. Lady Inger doubts not at all that you are
        her child; but—ay, look about you; look at all this wealth;
        look at these mighty forefathers and kinsmen whose pictures
        deck the walls both high and low; look lastly at herself,
        the haughty dame, used to bear sway as the first noblewoman
        in the kingdom. Think you it can be to her mind to take a
        poor ignorant youth by the hand before all men’s eyes and
        say: Behold my son!

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Ay, doubtless you are right. I am poor and ignorant. I have
        nought to offer her in return for what I crave. Oh, never
        have I felt my poverty weigh on me till this hour! But tell
        me—what think you I should do to win her favour? Tell me,
        dear Sir; sure you must know!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        You must win your father’s kingdom. But until that may be,
        look well that you wound not her ears by hinting at kinship
        or the like. She will bear her as though she believed you to
        be the real Count Sture, until you have made yourself worthy
        to be called her son.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Oh, but tell me——!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Hush; hush!

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Rises and hands him a paper._] Sir Knight—here is my
        promise.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        I thank you.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Notices_ NILS STENSSON.] Ah,—this young man is——?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Ay, Lady Inger, he is Count Sture.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Aside, looks at him stealthily._] Feature for feature;—ay,
        by God,—it is Sten Sture’s son!

                [_Approaches him and says with cold courtesy:_

        I bid you welcome under my roof, Count! It rests with you
        whether or not we shall bless this meeting a year hence.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        With me? Oh, do but tell me what I must do! Trust me, I have
        both courage and will——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Listens uneasily._] What is this noise and uproar, Lady
        Inger? There are people pressing hitherward. What does this
        mean?

                                LADY INGER.

        [_In a loud voice._] ’Tis the spirits awaking!

                [OLAF SKAKTAVL, EINAR HUK, BIÖRN, FINN, _and a
                    number of_ PEASANTS _and_ RETAINERS _come in
                    from the back, on the right._

                        THE PEASANTS AND RETAINERS.

        Hail to Lady Inger Gyldenlöve!

                                LADY INGER.

        [_To_ OLAF SKAKTAVL.] Have you told them what is afoot?

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        I have told them all they need to know.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_To the_ CROWD.] Ay, now, my faithful house-folk and
        peasants, now must ye arm you as best you can and will. That
        which earlier to-night I forbade you, ye have now my fullest
        leave to do. And here I present to you the young Count
        Sture, the coming ruler of Sweden—and Norway too, if God
        will it so.

                              THE WHOLE CROWD.

        Hail to him! Hail to Count Sture!

                [_General excitement. The_ PEASANTS _and_ RETAINERS
                    _choose out weapons and put on breastplates and
                    helmets, amid great noise_.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Softly and uneasily._] The spirits awaking, she said? I
        but feigned to conjure up the devil of revolt—’twere a
        cursed spite if he got the upper hand of us.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_To_ NILS STENSSON.] Here I give you the first earnest of
        our service—thirty mounted men, to follow you as a
        bodyguard. Trust me—ere you reach the frontier many hundreds
        will have ranged themselves under my banner and yours. Go,
        then, and God be with you!

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Thanks,—Inger Gyldenlöve! Thanks—and be sure you shall never
        have cause to shame you for—for Count Sture! If you see me
        again, I shall have won my father’s kingdom.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_To himself._] Ay, _if_ she see you again!

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        The horses wait, good fellows! Are ye ready——?

                               THE PEASANTS.

        Ay, ay, ay!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Uneasily_, to LADY INGER.] What?, You mean not to-night,
        even now——?

                                LADY INGER.

        This very moment, Sir Knight!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Nay, nay, impossible!

                                LADY INGER.

        I have said it.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Softly, to_ NILS STENSSON.] Obey her not!

                               NILS STENSSON.

        How can I do aught else? I _will_; I _must_!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        But ’tis your certain ruin——

                               NILS STENSSON.

        What then! _Her_ must I obey in all things——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_With authority._] And _me_?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        I shall keep my word; be sure of that. The secret shall not
        pass my lips till you yourself release me. But she is my
        mother!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Aside._] And Jens Bielke in wait on the road! Damnation!
        He will snatch the prize out of my fingers——

                                                   [_To_ LADY INGER.

        Wait till to-morrow!

                                LADY INGER.

        [_To_ NILS STENSSON.] Count Sture—do you obey me or not?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        To horse!

                                  [_Goes up towards the background._

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Aside._] Unhappy boy! He knows not what he does.

                                                   [_To_ LADY INGER.

        Well, since so it must be,—farewell!

                           [_Bows hastily, and begins to move away._

        Lady Inger.

        [_Detains him._] Nay, stay! Not so, Sir Knight,—not so!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        What mean you?

                                LADY INGER.

        [_In a low voice._] Nils Lykke—you are a traitor! Hush! Let
        no one see there is discord in the camp of the leaders. You
        have won Peter Kanzler’s trust by some devilish wile that as
        yet is dark to me. You have forced me to rebellious acts—not
        to help our cause, but to further your own plots, whatever
        they may be. I can draw back no more. But think not
        therefore that you have conquered! I shall know how to make
        you harmless——

                                NILS LYKKE.

                       [_Lays his hand involuntarily on his sword._]

        Lady Inger!

                                LADY INGER.

        Be calm, Sir Councillor! Your life is safe. But you come not
        outside the gates of Östråt before victory is ours.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Death and destruction!

                                LADY INGER.

        It boots not to resist. You come not from this place. So
        rest you quiet; ’tis your wisest course.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_To himself._] Ah,—I am overreached. She has been craftier
        than I. [_A thought strikes him._] But if I yet——?

                                LADY INGER.

        [_To_ OLAF SKAKTAVL.] Ride with Count Sture’s troops to the
        frontier; then without pause to Peter Kanzler, and bring me
        back my child. Now has he no longer any plea for keeping
        from me what is my own.

                [_Adds, as_ OLAF SKAKTAVL _is going:_

        Wait; a token—. He that wears Sten Sture’s ring, he is my
        son.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        By all the saints, you shall have him!

                                LADY INGER.

        Thanks,—thanks, my faithful friend!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_To_ FINN, _whom he has beckoned to him unobserved, and
        with whom he has been whispering._] Good—now contrive to
        slip out. Let none see you. The Swedes are in ambush half a
        league hence. Tell the commander that Count Sture is dead.
        The young man you see there must on no account be touched.
        Tell the commander so. Tell him the boy’s life is worth
        thousands to me.

                                   FINN.

        It shall be done.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Who has meanwhile been watching_ NILS LYKKE.] And now go,
        all of you, and God be with you! [_Points to_ NILS LYKKE.]
        This noble knight cannot find it in his heart to leave his
        friends at Östråt so hastily. He will abide here with me
        till the tidings of your victory arrive.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_To himself._] Devil!

                               NILS STENSSON.

        [_Seizes his hand._] Trust me—you shall not have long to
        wait!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        It is well; it is well! [_Aside._] All may yet be saved. If
        only my message reach Jens Bielke in time——

                                LADY INGER.

        [_To_ EINAR HUK, _the bailiff, pointing to_ FINN.] And let
        _that_ man be placed under close guard in the castle
        dungeon.

                                   FINN.

        Me?

                       THE BAILIFF AND THE SERVANTS.

        Finn!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Aside._] My last anchor gone!

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Imperatively._] To the dungeon with him!

                [EINAR HUK, BIÖRN, _and a couple of the
                    house-servants lead_ FINN _out to the left_.

                               ALL THE REST.

        [_Except_ NILS LYKKE, _rushing out to the right._] Away! To
        horse,—to horse! Hail to Lady Inger Gyldenlöve!

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Passing close to_ NILS LYKKE _as she goes out after the
        others._] Who wins?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Remains alone._] Who? Ay, woe to you;—your victory will
        cost you dear. _I_ wash my hands of it. ’Tis not _I_ that am
        murdering him.

        But my prey is escaping me none the less; and the revolt
        will grow and spread!—Ah, ’tis a foolhardy, a frantic game I
        have here taken in hand!

                                          [_Listens at the window._.

        There they ride clattering out through the gateway.—Now ’tis
        closed after them—and I am left here a prisoner.

        No way of escape! Within half-an-hour the Swedes will be
        upon him. He has thirty well-armed horsemen with him. ’Twill
        be life or death.

        But if, after all, they should take him alive?—Were I but
        free, I could overtake the Swedes ere they reach the
        frontier, and make them deliver him up. [_Goes towards the
        window in the background and looks out._] Damnation! Guards
        outside on every hand. Can there be no way of escape?

                [_Comes quickly forward again; suddenly stops and
                    listens._

        What is that? Music and singing. It seems to come from
        Elina’s chamber. Ay, ’tis she that is singing. Then she is
        still awake——

                                   [_A thought seems to strike him._

        Elina!—Ah, if _that_ could be! Were it possible to—And why
        should I not? Am I not still myself? Says not the song:—

              Fair maidens a-many they sigh and they pine:
              “Ah God, that Nils Lykke were mine, mine, mine.”

        And she—? ——Elina Gyldenlöve shall set me free!

                [_Goes quickly but stealthily towards the first door
                    on the left._




                               ACT FIFTH


        _The Banquet Hall. It is still night. The hall is but dimly
            lighted by a branch-candlestick on the table, in front,
            on the right._

        LADY INGER _is sitting by the table, deep in thought._

                                LADY INGER.

        [_After a pause._] They call me keen-witted beyond all
        others in the land. I believe they are right. The
        keenest-witted—No one knows how I became so. For more than
        twenty years I have fought to save my child. _That_ is the
        key to the riddle. Ay, that sharpens the wits!

        My wits? Where have they flown to-night? What has become of
        my forethought? There is a ringing and rushing in my ears. I
        see shapes before me, so lifelike that methinks I could lay
        hold on them.

                                                      [_Springs up._

        Lord Jesus—what is this? Am I no longer mistress of my
        reason? Is it to come to that——?

                [_Presses her clasped hands over her head; sits down
                    again, and says more calmly:_

        Nay, ’tis nought. ’Twill pass. There is no fear;—it will
        pass.

        How peaceful it is in the hall to-night! No threatening
        looks from forefathers or kinsfolk. No need to turn their
        faces to the wall.

                                                     [_Rises again._

        Ay, ’twas well that I took heart at last. We shall
        conquer;—and then am I at the goal of all my longings. I
        shall have my child again.

                [_Takes up the light as if to go, but stops and says
                    musingly:_

        At the goal? The goal? To have him back? Is that all?—is
        there nought further?

                                [_Sets the light down on the table._

        That heedless word that Nils Lykke threw forth at random—.
        How could he see my unborn thought?

                                                     [_More softly._

        A king’s mother? A king’s mother, he said—And why not? Have
        not my fathers before me ruled as kings, even though they
        bore not the kingly name? Has not _my_ son as good a title
        as the other to the rights of the house of Sture? In the
        sight of God he has—if so be there is justice in Heaven.

        And in an hour of terror I have signed away his rights. I
        have recklessly squandered them, as a ransom for his
        freedom.

        If they could be recovered?—Would Heaven be angered, if I—?
        Would it call down fresh troubles on my head if I were to—?
        Who knows;—who knows! It may be safest to refrain. [_Takes
        up the light again._] I shall have my child again. _That_
        must content me. I will try to rest. All these desperate
        thoughts,—I will sleep them away.

                [_Goes towards the back, but stops in the middle of
                    the hall, and says broodingly:_

        A king’s mother!

                [_Goes slowly out at the back, to the left._

                [_After a short pause, NILS LYKKE and ELINA
                    GYLDENLÖVE enter noiselessly by the first door
                    on the left. NILS LYKKE has a small lantern in
                    his hand._

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Throws the light from his lantern around, so as to search
        the room._] All is still. I must begone.

                                   ELINA.

        Oh, let me look but once more into your eyes, before you
        leave me.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Embraces her._] Elina!

                                   ELINA.

        [_After a short pause._] Will you come nevermore to Östråt?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        How can you doubt that I will come? Are you not henceforth
        my betrothed?—But will _you_ be true to _me_, Elina? Will
        you not forget me ere we meet again?

                                   ELINA.

        Do you ask if I _will_ be true? Have I any will left then?
        Have I power to be untrue to you, even if I would?—You came
        by night; you knocked upon my door;—and I opened to you. You
        spoke to me. What was it you said? You gazed in my eyes.
        What was the mystic might that turned my brain, and lured me
        as into a magic net? [_Hides her face on his shoulder._] Oh,
        look not on me, Nils Lykke! You must not look upon me after
        this—True, say you? Do you not own me? I am yours;—I _must_
        be yours—to all eternity.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Now, by my knightly honour, ere the year be past, you shall
        sit as my wife in the hall of my fathers!

                                   ELINA.

        No vows, Nils Lykke! No oaths to me.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        What ails you? Why do you shake your head so mournfully?

                                   ELINA.

        Because I know that the same soft words wherewith you turned
        my brain, you have whispered to so many a one before. Nay,
        nay, be not angry, my beloved! In nowise do I reproach you,
        as I did while yet I knew you not. Now I understand how high
        above all others is your goal. How can love be aught to
        _you_ but a pastime, or woman but a toy?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Elina,—hear me!

                                   ELINA.

        As I grew up, your name was ever in my ears. I hated the
        name, for meseemed that all women were dishonoured by your
        life. And yet,—how strange!—when I built up in my dreams the
        life that should be mine, you were ever my hero, though I
        knew it not. Now I understand it all. What was it that I
        felt? It was a foreboding, a mysterious longing for you, you
        only one—for you that were one day to come and reveal to me
        all the glory of life.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Aside, putting down the lantern on the table._] How is it
        with me? This dizzy fascination—. If this it be to love,
        then have I never known it till this hour.—Is there not yet
        time—? Oh horror—Lucia!    [_Sinks into the chair._

                                   ELINA.

        What is amiss with you? So heavy a sigh——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        O, ’tis nought,—nought!

        Elina,—now will I confess all to you. I have beguiled many
        with both words and glances; I have said to many a one what
        I whispered to you this night. But trust me——

                                   ELINA.

        Hush! No more of that. My love is no exchange for that you
        give me. No, no; I love you because your every glance
        commands it like a king’s decree. [_Lies down at his feet._
        Oh, let me once more stamp that kingly mandate deep into my
        soul, though well I know it stands imprinted there for all
        time and eternity.

        Dear God—how little I have known myself! ’Twas but to-night
        I said to my mother: “My pride is my life.” And what is now
        my pride? Is it to know my countrymen free, or my house held
        in honour throughout many lands? Oh, no, no! My love is my
        pride. The little dog is proud when he may sit by his
        master’s feet and eat bread-crumbs from his hand. Even so am
        I proud, so long as I may sit at your feet, while your looks
        and your words nourish me with the bread of life. See,
        therefore, I say to you, even as I said but now to my
        mother: “My love is my life;” for therein lies all my pride,
        now and evermore.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Raises her up on his lap._] Nay, nay—not at my feet, but
        at my side is your place,—how high soever fate may exalt me.
        Ay, Elina—you have led me into a better path; and should it
        one day be granted me to atone by a deed of fame for the
        sins of my reckless youth, then shall the honour be yours
        and mine together.

                                   ELINA.

        Ah, you speak as though I were still that Elina who but this
        evening flung down the flowers at your feet.

        I have read in my books of the many-coloured life in far-off
        lands. To the winding of horns, the knight rides forth into
        the greenwood, with his falcon on his wrist. Even so do you
        go your way through life;—your name rings out before you
        whithersoever you fare.—All that _I_ desire of the glory, is
        to rest like the falcon on your arm. Like him was I, too,
        blind to light and life, till you loosed the hood from my
        eyes and set me soaring high over the tree-tops.—But trust
        me—bold as my flight may be, yet shall I ever turn back to
        my cage.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Rises._] Then will I bid defiance to the past! See
        now;—take this ring, and be _mine_ before God and
        men—_mine_,—ay, though it should trouble the dreams of the
        dead.

                                   ELINA.

        You make me tremble. What is it that——?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        ’Tis nought. Come, let me place the ring on your
        finger.—Even so—now are you my betrothed!

                                   ELINA.

        _I_ Nils Lykke’s bride! It seems but a dream, all that has
        befallen this night. Oh, but so fair a dream! My breast is
        so light. No longer is there bitterness and hatred in my
        soul. I will atone to all whom I have wronged. I have been
        unloving to my mother. To-morrow will I go to her; she must
        forgive me where I have erred.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        And give her consent to our bond.

                                   ELINA.

        That will she. Oh, I am sure she will. My mother is kind;
        all the world is kind;—I can no longer feel hatred for any
        living soul—save _one_.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Save _one_?

                                   ELINA.

        Ah, ’tis a mournful history. I had a sister——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Lucia?

                                   ELINA.

        Did you know Lucia?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        No, no; I have but heard her name.

                                   ELINA.

        She too gave her heart to a knight. He betrayed her;—now she
        is in Heaven.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        And you——

                                   ELINA.

        I hate him.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Hate him not! If there be mercy in your heart, forgive him
        his sin. Trust me, he bears his punishment in his own
        breast.

                                   ELINA.

        Him will I never forgive! I _cannot_, even if I would; for I
        have sworn so dear an oath——

                                                       [_Listening._

        Hush! Can you hear——?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        What? Where?

                                   ELINA.

        Without; far off. The noise of many horsemen on the
        high-road.

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Ah, ’tis _they_! And I had forgotten—! They are coming
        hither. Then is the danger great! I must begone!

                                   ELINA.

        But whither? Oh, Nils Lykke, what are you hiding——?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Tomorrow, Elina—; for as God lives, I will return
        tomorrow.—Quickly now—where is the secret passage whereof
        you told me?

                                   ELINA.

        Through the grave-vault. See,—here is the trap-door——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        The grave-vault! [_To himself._] No matter, he _must_ be
        saved!

                                   ELINA.

        [_By the window._] The horsemen have reached the gate——
           [_Hands him the lantern._

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Oh, then——    [_Begins to descend._

                                   ELINA.

        Go forward along the passage till you reach the coffin with
        the death’s-head and the black cross; it is Lucia’s——

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Climbs back hastily and shuts the trapdoor._] Lucia’s!
        Pah——!

                                   ELINA.

        What said you?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Nay, nothing. ’Twas the air of the graves that made me
        dizzy.

                                   ELINA.

        Hark; they are hammering at the gate!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Lets the lantern fall._] Ah! too late——!

                [BIÖRN _enters hurriedly from the right, carrying a
                    light._

                                   ELINA.

        [_Goes towards him._] What is amiss, Biörn? What is it?

                                   BIÖRN.

        An ambuscade! Count Sture——

                                   ELINA.

        Count Sture? What of him?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Have they killed him?

                                   BIÖRN.

        [_To Elina._] Where is your mother?

                               TWO RETAINERS.

        [_Rushing in from the right._] Lady Inger! Lady Inger!

                [LADY INGER GYLDENLÖVE _enters by the furthest back
                    door on the left, with a branch-candlestick,
                    lighted, in her hand, and says quickly:_

                                LADY INGER.

        I know all. Down with you to the courtyard! Keep the gate
        open for our friends, but closed against all others!

                [_Puts down the candlestick on the table to the
                    left._ BIÖRN _and the two_ RETAINERS _go out
                    again to the right._

                                LADY INGER.

        [_To_ NILS LYKKE.] So _that_ was the trap, Sir Councillor!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        Inger Gyldenlöve, believe me——!

                                LADY INGER.

        An ambuscade that was to snap him up as soon as you had
        secured the promise that should destroy me!

                                NILS LYKKE.

        [_Takes out the paper and tears it to pieces._] There is
        your promise. I keep nothing that can bear witness against
        you.

                                LADY INGER.

        What is this?

                                NILS LYKKE.

        From this hour will I put your thoughts of me to shame. If I
        have sinned against you,—by Heaven I will strive to repair
        my crime. But now I _must_ out, if I have to hew my way
        through the gate!—Elina—tell your mother all!—And you, Lady
        Inger, let our reckoning be forgotten! Be generous—and
        silent! Trust me, ere dawn of day you shall owe me a life’s
        gratitude.    [_Goes out quickly to the right._

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Looks after him with exultation._] ’Tis well! I understand
        him.

                                                  [_Turns to_ ELINA.

        Nils Lykke—? Well——?

                                   ELINA.

        He knocked upon my door, and set this ring upon my finger.

                                LADY INGER.

        And from his soul he holds you dear?

                                   ELINA.

        He has said so, and I believe him.

                                LADY INGER.

        Bravely done, Elina! Ha-ha, Sir Knight, now is it my turn!

                                   ELINA.

        My mother—you are so strange. Ah, yes—I know—’tis my
        unloving ways that have angered you.

                                LADY INGER.

        Not so, dear Elina! You are an obedient child. You have
        opened your door to him; you have hearkened to his soft
        words. I know full well what it must have cost you; for I
        know your hatred——

                                   ELINA.

        But, my mother——

                                LADY INGER.

        Hush! We have played into each other’s hands. What wiles did
        you use, my subtle daughter? I saw the love shine out of his
        eyes. Hold him fast now! Draw the net closer and closer
        about him; and then—Ah, Elina, if we could but rend asunder
        his perjured heart within his breast!

                                   ELINA.

        Woe is me—what is it you say?

                                LADY INGER.

        Let not your courage fail you. Hearken to me. I know a word
        that will keep you firm. Know then— [_Listening._] They are
        fighting before the gate. Courage! Now comes the pinch!
        [_Turns again to_ ELINA.] Know then: Nils Lykke was the man
        that brought your sister to her grave.

                                   ELINA.

        [_With a shriek._] Lucia!

                                LADY INGER.

        He it was, as truly as there is an Avenger above us!

                                   ELINA.

        Then Heaven be with me!

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Appalled._] Elina——?!

                                   ELINA.

        I am his bride in the sight of God.

                                LADY INGER.

        Unhappy child,—what have you done?

                                   ELINA.

        [_In a toneless voice._] Made shipwreck of my
        soul.—Good-night, my mother!

                                        [_She goes out to the left._

                                LADY INGER.

        Ha-ha-ha! It goes down-hill apace with Inger Gyldenlöve’s
        house. _There_ went the last of my daughters.

        Why could I not keep silence? Had she known nought, it may
        be she had been happy—after a kind.

        It _was_ to be so. It is written up yonder in the stars that
        I am to break off one green branch after another till the
        trunk stand leafless at last.

        ’Tis well, ’tis well! I shall have my son again. Of the
        others, of my daughters, I will not think.

        My reckoning? To face my reckoning?—It falls not due till
        the last great day of wrath.—_That_ comes not yet awhile.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        [_Calling from outside on the right._] Ho—shut the gate!

                                LADY INGER.

        Count Sture’s voice——!

                               NILS STENSSON.

        [_Rushes in, unarmed, and with his clothes torn, and shouts
        with a laugh of desperation._] Well met again, Inger
        Gyldenlöve!

                                LADY INGER.

        What have you lost?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        My kingdom and my life!

                                LADY INGER.

        And the peasants? My servants?—where are they?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        You will find the carcasses along the highway. Who has the
        rest, I cannot tell you.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        [_Outside on the right._] Count Sture! Where are you?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Here, here!

                [OLAF SKAKTAVL _comes in with his right hand wrapped
                    in a clout._

                                LADY INGER.

        Alas, Olaf Skaktavl, you too——!

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        ’Twas impossible to break through.

                                LADY INGER.

        You are wounded, I see!

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        A finger the less; that is all.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Where are the Swedes?

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        At our heels. They are breaking open the gate——

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Oh, God! No, no! I _cannot_—I _will_ not die.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        A hiding-place, Lady Inger! Is there no corner where we can
        hide him?

                                LADY INGER.

        But if they search the castle——?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Ay, ay; they will find me! And then to be dragged away to
        prison, or be strung up——! No, no, Inger Gyldenlöve,—I know
        full well,—you will never suffer that to be!

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        [_Listening._] There burst the lock.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_At the window._] Many men rush in at the gateway.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        And to lose my life _now_! Now, when my true life was but
        beginning! Now, when I have so lately learnt that I have
        aught to live for. No, no, no!—Think not I am a coward,
        Inger Gyldenlöve! Might I but have time to show——

                                LADY INGER.

        I hear them now in the hall below.

                                         [_Firmly to_ OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        He _must_ be saved—cost what it will!

                               NILS STENSSON.

        [_Seizes her hand._] Oh, I knew it;—you are noble and good!

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        But how? Since we cannot hide him——

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Ah, I have it! I have it! The secret——!

                                LADY INGER.

        The secret?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Even so; yours and mine!

                                LADY INGER.

        Merciful Heaven—you know it?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        From first to last. And now when ’tis life or death—Where is
        Nils Lykke?

                                LADY INGER.

        Fled.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Fled? Then God help me; for he alone can unseal my lips.—But
        what is a promise against a life! When the Swedish captain
        comes——

                                LADY INGER.

        What then? What will you do?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Purchase life and freedom;—tell him all.

                                LADY INGER.

        Oh no, no;—be merciful!

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Nought else can save me. When I have told him what I know——

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Looks at him with suppressed agitation._] You will be
        safe?

                               NILS STENSSON.

        Ay, safe! Nils Lykke will speak for me. You see, ’tis the
        last resource.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Composedly, with emphasis._] The last resource? Right,
        right—the last resource all are free to try. [_Points to the
        left._] See, meanwhile you can hide in there.

                               NILS STENSSON.

        [_In a low voice._] Trust me—you will never repent of this.

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Half to herself._] God grant that you speak the truth!

                [NILS STENSSON _goes out hastily by the furthest
                    door on the left._ OLAF SKAKTAVL _is following;
                    but Lady Inger detains him._

                                LADY INGER.

        Did you understand his meaning?

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        The dastard! He would betray your secret. He would sacrifice
        your son to save himself.

                                LADY INGER.

        When life is at stake, he said, we must try the last
        resource.—’Tis well, Olaf Skaktavl,—let it be as he has
        said!

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        What mean you?

                                LADY INGER.

        Life against life! One of them must perish.

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        Ah—you would——?

                                LADY INGER.

        If we close not the lips of him that is within ere he come
        to speech with the Swedish captain, then is my son lost to
        me. But if, on the other hand, he be swept from my path,
        when the time comes I can claim all his rights for my own
        child. Then shall you see that Inger Ottis’ daughter has
        metal in her yet. Of this be assured—you shall not have long
        to wait for the vengeance you have thirsted after for twenty
        years.—Hark! They are coming up the stairs! Olaf
        Skaktavl,—it lies with you whether tomorrow I shall be no
        more than a childless woman, or ——

                               OLAF SKAKTAVL.

        So be it! I have yet one sound hand left.

        [_Gives her his hand._] Inger Gyldenlöve—your name shall not
        die out through me.

                      _Follows_ NILS STENSSON _into the inner room._

                                LADY INGER.

        [_Pale and trembling._] But dare I——?

                [_A noise is heard in the room; she rushes with a
                    scream towards the door._

        No, no,—it must not be!

                [_A heavy fall is heard within; she covers her ears
                    with her hands and hurries back across the hall
                    with a wild look. After a pause she takes her
                    hands cautiously away, listens again, and says
                    softly:_

        Now it is over. All is still within——

        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.

        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 wild 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.

                     The days that passed were but few
        Ere with tears my folly I ’gan to rue.
        To think, my kinsman and friend, on thee
        Was all the comfort left to me.
        How empty now seemed Solhoug’s hall,
        How hateful and drear its great rooms all!
        Hither came many a knight and dame,
        Came many a skald to sing my fame.
        But never a one who could fathom aright
        My spirit and all its yearning—
        I shivered, as though in the Hill-King’s might;
        Yet my head throbbed, my blood was burning.

                                  GUDMUND.

        But your husband—?

                                  MARGIT.

                             He never to me was dear.
        ’Twas his gold was my undoing.
        When he spoke to me, aye, or e’en drew near,
        My spirit writhed with ruing.

                                              [_Clasping her hands._

        And thus have I lived for three long years—
        A life of sorrow, of unstanched tears!
        Your coming was rumoured. You know full well
        What pride deep down in my heart doth dwell.
        I hid my anguish, I veiled my woe,
        For you were the last that the truth must know.

                                  GUDMUND.
                                 [_Moved._]

        ’Twas therefore, then, that you turned away—

                                  MARGIT.
                          [_Not looking at him._]

        I thought you came at my woe to jeer.

                                  GUDMUND.

        Margit, how could you think—?

                                  MARGIT.

                                        Nay, nay,
        There was reason enough for such a fear.
        But thanks be to Heaven, that fear is gone;
        And now no longer I stand alone;
        My spirit now is as light and free
        As a child’s at play ’neath the greenwood tree.

                                     [_With a sudden start of fear._

        Ah, where are my wits fled! How could I forget—?
        Ye saints, I need sorely your succor yet!
        An outlaw, you said—?

                                  GUDMUND.
                                [_Smiling._]

                                Nay, now I’m at home;
        Hither the King’s men scarce dare come.

                                  MARGIT.

        Your fall has been sudden. I pray you, tell
        How you lost the King’s favour.

                                  GUDMUND.

                                         ’Twas thus it befell.
        You know how I journeyed to France of late,
        When the Chancellor, Audun of Hegranes,
        Fared thither from Bergen, in royal state,
        To lead home the King’s bride, the fair Princess,
        With her squires, and maidens, and ducats bright.
        Sir Audun’s a fair and a stately knight,
        The Princess shone with a beauty rare—
        Her eyes seemed full of a burning prayer.
        They would oft talk alone and in whispers, the two—
        Of what? That nobody guessed or knew.
        There came a night when I leant at ease
        Against the galley’s railing;
        My thoughts flew onward to Norway’s leas,
        With the milk-white seagulls sailing.
        Two voices whispered behind my back;—
        I turned—it was he and she;
        I knew them well, though the night was black,
        But they—they saw not me.
        She gazed upon him with sorrowful eyes
        And whispered: “Ah, if to southern skies
        We could turn the vessel’s prow,
        And we were alone in the bark, we twain,
        My heart, methinks, would find peace again,
        Nor would fever burn my brow.”
        Sir Audun answers; and straight she replies,
        In words so fierce, so bold;
        Like glittering stars I can see her eyes;
        She begged him—          [_Breaking off._
                          My blood ran cold.

                                  MARGIT.

        She begged—?

                                  GUDMUND.

                       I arose, and they vanished apace;
        All was silent, fore and aft;—

                                         [_Producing a small phial._

        But this I found by their resting place.

                                  MARGIT.

        And that—?

                                  GUDMUND.
                          [_Lowering his voice._]

                     Holds a secret draught.
        A drop of this in your enemy’s cup
        And his life will sicken and wither up.
        No leechcraft helps ’gainst the deadly thing.

                                  MARGIT.

        And that—?

                                  GUDMUND.

                     That draught was meant for the King.

                                  MARGIT.

        Great God!

                                  GUDMUND.
                      [_Putting up the phial again._]

                    That I found it was well for them all.
        In three days more was our voyage ended;
        Then I fled, by my faithful men attended.
        For I knew right well, in the royal hall,
        That Audun subtly would work my fall,—
        Accusing me—

                                  MARGIT.

                       Aye, but at Solhoug he
        Cannot harm you. All as of old will be.

                                  GUDMUND.

        All? Nay, Margit—you then were free.

                                  MARGIT.

        You mean—?

                                  GUDMUND.

                     I? Nay, I meant naught. My brain
        Is wildered; but ah, I am blithe and fain
        To be, as of old, with you sisters twain.
        But tell me,—Signë—?

                                  MARGIT.
              [_Points smiling towards the door on the left._]

                                She comes anon.
        To greet her kinsman she needs must don
        Her trinkets—a task that takes time, ’tis plain.

                                  GUDMUND.

        I must see—I must see if she knows me again.

                                         [_He goes out to the left._

                                  MARGIT.

        [_Following him-with her eyes._] How fair and manlike he is!
        [_With a sigh._] There is little likeness ’twixt him
        and—[_Begins putting things in order on the table, but
        presently stops._] “You then were free,” he said. Yes, then!
        [_A short pause._] ’Twas a strange tale, that of the
        Princess who—She held another dear, and then—Aye, those
        women of far-off lands—I have heard it before—they are not
        weak as we are; they do not fear to pass from thought to
        deed. [_Takes up a goblet which stands on the table._] ’Twas
        in this beaker that Gudman and I, when he went away, drank
        to his happy return. ’Tis well-nigh the only heirloom I
        brought with me to Solhoug. [_Putting the goblet away in a
        cupboard._] How soft is this summer day; and how light it is
        in here! So sweetly has the sun not shone for three long
        years.

                [SIGNË, _and after her_ GUDMUND, _enters from the
                    left._

                                   SIGNË.
                      [_Runs laughing up to_ MARGIT.]

        Ha, ha, ha! He will not believe that ’tis I!

                                  MARGIT.
                          [_Smiling, to_ GUDMUND.]

        You see: while in far-off lands you strayed,
        She, too, has altered, the little maid.

                                  GUDMUND.

        Aye truly! But that she should be—Why,
        ’Tis a marvel in very deed.

                     [_Takes both_ SIGNË’S _hands and looks at her._

        Yet, when I look in these eyes so blue,
        The innocent child-mind I still can read—
        Yes, Signë, I know that ’tis you!
        I needs must laugh when I think how oft
        I have thought of you perched on my shoulder aloft
        As you used to ride. You were then a child;
        Now you are a nixie, spell-weaving, wild.

                                   SIGNË.
                      [_Threatening with her finger._]

        Beware! If the nixie’s ire you awaken,
        Soon in her nets you will find yourself taken.

                                  GUDMUND.
                              [_To himself._]

        I am snared already, it seems to me.

                                   SIGNË.

        But, Gudmund, wait—you have still to see
        How I’ve shielded your harp from the dust and the rust.

                                     [_As she goes out to the left._

        You shall teach me all of your songs! You must!

                                  GUDMUND.
                [_Softly, as he follows her with his eyes._]

        She has flushed to the loveliest rose of May,
        That was yet but a bud in the morning’s ray.

                                   SIGNË.
                        [_Returning with the harp._]

        Behold!

                                  GUDMUND.
                               [_Taking it._]

                 My harp! As bright as of yore!

                                      [_Striking one or two chords._

        Still the old chords ring sweet and clear—
        On the wall, untouched, thou shalt hang no more.

                                  MARGIT.
                        [_Looking out at the back._]

        Our guests are coming.

                                   SIGNË.

        [_While_ GUDMUND _preludes his song._]

        Hush—hush! Oh, hear!

                                  GUDMUND.
                                 [_Sings._]

        I roamed through the uplands so heavy of cheer;
        The little birds quavered in bush and in brere;
        The little birds quavered, around and above:
        Wouldst know of the sowing and growing of love?

        It grows like the oak tree through slow-rolling years;
        ’Tis nourished by dreams, and by songs, and by tears;
        But swiftly ’tis sown; ere a moment speeds by,
        Deep, deep in the heart love is rooted for aye.

                [_As he strikes the concluding chords, he goes
                    towards the back, where he lays down his harp._

                                   SIGNË.
                   [_Thoughtfully, repeats to herself._]

        But swiftly ’tis sown; ere a moment speeds by,
        Deep, deep in the heart love is rooted for aye.

                                  MARGIT.

        [_Absently._] Did you speak to me?—I heard not clearly—?

                                   SIGNË.

        I? No, no. I only meant—

                            [_She again becomes absorbed in dreams._

                                  MARGIT.
                [_Half aloud; looking straight before her._]

        It grows like the oak tree through slow-rolling years;
        ’Tis nourished by dreams, and by songs and by tears.

                                   SIGNË.

        [_Returning to herself._] You said that—?

                                  MARGIT.

        [_Drawing her hand over her brow._] Nay, ’twas nothing.
        Come, we must go meet our guests.

                [BENGT _enters with many_ GUESTS, _both men and
                    women, through the passageway._

                                  GUESTS.
                                 [_Sing._]

                    With song and harping enter we
                        The feast-hall opened wide;
                    Peace to our hostess kind and free,
                        All happiness to her betide.
                    O’er Solhoug’s roof for ever may
                        Bright as to-day
                        The heavens abide.




                               ACT SECOND

        _A birch grove adjoining the house, one corner of which is
            seen to the left. At the back, a footpath leads up the
            hillside. To the right of the footpath a river comes
            tumbling down a ravine and loses itself among boulders
            and stones. It is a light summer evening. The door
            leading to the house stands open; the windows are
            lighted up. Music is heard from within._

                                THE GUESTS.
                       [_Singing in the Feast Hall._]

                Set bow to fiddle! To sound of strings
                We’ll dance till night shall furl her wings,
                  Through the long hours glad and golden!
                Like blood-red blossom the maiden glows—
                Come, bold young wooer and hold the rose
                  In a soft embrace enfolden.

                [KNUT GESLING _and_ ERIK OF HEGGË _enter from the
                    house. Sounds of music, dancing and merriment
                    are heard from within during what follows._

                                   ERIK.

        If only you come not to repent it, Knut.

                                   KNUT.

        That is my affair.

                                   ERIK.

        Well, say what you will, ’tis a daring move. You are the
        King’s Sheriff. Commands go forth to you that you shall
        seize the person of Gudmund Alfson, wherever you may find
        him. And now, when you have him in your grasp, you proffer
        him your friendship, and let him go freely, whithersoever he
        will.

                                   KNUT.

        I know what I am doing. I sought him in his own dwelling,
        but there he was not to be found. If, now, I went about to
        seize him here—think you that Dame Margit would be minded to
        give me Signë to wife?

                                   ERIK.

        [_With deliberation._] No, by fair means it might scarcely
        be, but—

                                   KNUT.

        And by foul means I am loth to proceed. Moreover, Gudmund is
        my friend from bygone days; and he can be helpful to me.
        [_With decision._] Therefore it shall be as I have said.
        This evening no one at Solhoug shall know that Gudmund
        Alfson is an outlaw;—to-morrow he must look to himself.

                                   ERIK.

        Aye, but the King’s decree?

                                   KNUT.

        Oh, the King’s decree! You know as well as I that the King’s
        decree is but little heeded here in the uplands. Were the
        King’s decree to be enforced, many a stout fellow among us
        would have to pay dear both for bride-rape and for
        man-slaying. Come this way, I would fain know where Signë—?

                                        [_They go out to the right._

                [GUDMUND _and_ SIGNË _come down the footpath at the
                    back._

                                   SIGNË.

        Oh, speak! Say on! For sweeter far
        Such words than sweetest music are.

                                  GUDMUND.

        Signë, my flower, my lily fair!

                                   SIGNË.

                               [_In subdued, but happy wonderment._]

        I am dear to him—I!

                                  GUDMUND.

                              As none other I swear.

                                   SIGNË.

        And is it I that can bind your will!
        And is it I that your heart can fill!
        Oh, dare I believe you?

                                  GUDMUND.

                                 Indeed you may.
        List to me, Signë! The years sped away,
        But faithful was I in my thoughts to you,
        My fairest flowers, ye sisters two.
        My own heart I could not clearly read.
        When I left, my Signë was but a child,
        A fairy elf, like the creatures wild
        Who play, while we sleep, in wood and mead.
        But in Solhoug’s hall to-day, right loud
        My heart spake, and right clearly;
        It told me that Margit’s a lady proud,
        Whilst you’re the sweet maiden I love most dearly.

                                   SIGNË.
                [_Who has only half listened to his words._]

        I mind me, we sat in the hearth’s red glow,
        One winter evening—’tis long ago—
        And you sang to me of the maiden fair
        Whom the neckan had lured to his watery lair.
        There she forgot both father and mother,
        There she forgot both sister and brother;
        Heaven and earth and her Christian speech,
        And her God, she forgot them all and each.
        But close by the strand a stripling stood
        And he was heartsore and heavy of mood.
        He struck from his harpstrings notes of woe,
        That wide o’er the waters rang loud, rang low.
        The spell-bound maid in the tarn so deep,
        His strains awoke from her heavy sleep.
        The neckan must grant her release from his rule,
        She rose through the lilies afloat on the pool—
        Then looked she to heaven while on green earth she trod,
        And wakened once more to her faith and her God.

                                  GUDMUND.

        Signë, my fairest of flowers!

                                   SIGNË.

                                       It seems
        That I, too, have lived in a world of dreams.
        But the strange deep words you to-night have spoken,
        Of the power of love, have my slumber broken.
        The heavens seemed never so blue to me,
        Never the world so fair;
        I can understand, as I roam with thee,
        The song of the birds in air.

                                  GUDMUND.

        So mighty is love—it stirs in the breast
        Thoughts and longings and happy unrest.
        But come, let us both to your sister go.

                                   SIGNË.

        Would you tell her—?

                                  GUDMUND.

                               Everything she must know.

                                   SIGNË.

        Then go you alone;—I feel that my cheek
        Would be hot with blushes to hear you speak.

                                  GUDMUND.

        So be it, I go.

                                   SIGNË.

                         And here will I bide;

                                     [_Listening towards the right._

        Or better—down by the riverside,
        I hear Knut Gesling, with maidens and men.

                                  GUDMUND.

        There will you stay?

                                   SIGNË.

                              Till you come again.

                [_She goes out to the right._ GUDMUND _goes into the
                    house._

                    [MARGIT _enters from behind the house on the
                    left._

                                  MARGIT.

        In the hall there is gladness and revelry;
        The dancers foot it with jest and glee.
        The air weighed hot on my brow and breast;
        For Gudmund, he was not there.

                                         [_She draws a deep breath._

        Out here ’tis better: here’s quiet and rest.
        How sweet is the cool night air!

                                              [_A brooding silence._

        That horrible thought! Oh, why should it be
        That wherever I go it follows me?
        The phial—doth a secret draught contain;
        A drop of this in my—enemy’s cup,
        And his life would sicken and wither up;
        The leech’s skill would be tried in vain.

                                                 [_Again a silence._

        Were I sure that Gudmund—held me dear—
        Then little I’d care for—

                                   [_Gudmund enters from the house._

                                  GUDMUND.

                                    You, Margit, here?
        And alone? I have sought you everywhere.

                                  MARGIT.

        ’Tis cool here. I sickened of heat and glare.
        See you how yonder the white mists glide
        Softly over the marshes wide?
        Here it is neither dark nor light,
        But midway between them—

                                                      [_To herself._

                                   —as in my breast.

                                                  [_Looking at him._

        Is’t not so—when you wander on such a night
        You hear, though but half to yourself confessed,
        A stirring of secret life through the hush,
        In tree and in leaf, in flower and in rush?

                                    [_With a sudden change of tone_.

        Can you guess what I wish?

                                  GUDMUND.

                                    Well?

                                  MARGIT.

                                        That I could be
        The nixie that haunts yonder upland lea.
        How cunningly I should weave my spell!
        Trust me—!

                                  GUDMUND.

                     Margit, what ails you? Tell!

                                  MARGIT.
                         [_Paying no heed to him._]

        How I should quaver my magic lay!
        Quaver and croon it both night and day!

        [_With growing vehemence._

        How I would lure the knight so bold
        Through the greenwood glades to my mountain hold.
        There were the world and its woes forgot
        In the burning joys of our blissful lot.

                                  GUDMUND.

        Margit! Margit!

                                  MARGIT.
                           [_Ever more wildly._]

                         At midnight’s hour
        Sweet were our sleep in my lonely bower;—
        And if death should come with the dawn, I trow
        ’Twere sweet to die so;—what thinkest thou?

                                  GUDMUND.

        You are sick!

                                  MARGIT.
                        [_Bursting into laughter._]

                  Ha, ha!—Let me laugh! ’Tis good
        To laugh when the heart is in laughing mood!

                                  GUDMUND.

        I see that you still have the same wild soul
        As of old—

                                  MARGIT.
                        [_With sudden seriousness._]

                    Nay, let not that vex your mind,
        ’Tis only at midnight it mocks control;
        By day I am timid as any hind.
        How tame I have grown, you yourself must say,
        When you think on the women in lands far away—
        Of that fair Princess—ah, _she_ was wild!
        Beside her lamblike am I and mild.
        She did not helplessly yearn and brood,
        She would have acted; and that—

                                  GUDMUND.

                                        ’Tis good
        You remind me; straightway I’ll cast away
        What to me is valueless after this day—

        [_Takes out the phial._

                                  MARGIT.

        The phial! You meant—?

                                  GUDMUND.

                                  I thought it might be
        At need a friend that should set me free
        Should the King’s men chance to lay hands on me.
        But from to-night it has lost its worth;
        Now will I fight all the kings of earth,
        Gather my kinsfolk and friends to the strife,
        And battle right stoutly for freedom and life.

                      [_Is about to throw the phial against a rock._

                                  MARGIT.
                            [_Seizing his arm._]

        Nay, hold! Let me have it—

                                  GUDMUND.

                                     First tell me why?

                                  MARGIT.

        I’d fain fling it down to the neckan hard by,
        Who so often has made my dull hours fleet
        With his harping and songs, so strange and sweet.
        Give it me!

        [_Takes the phial from his hand._

                     There!

        [_Feigns to throw it into the river._

                                  GUDMUND.

        [_Goes to the right, and looks down into the ravine._]

                             Have you thrown it away?

                                  MARGIT.
                         [_Concealing the phial._]

        Aye, surely! You saw—

                          [_Whispers as she goes towards the house._

                                Now God help and spare me!
        The ice must now either break or bear me!

                                                           [_Aloud._

        Gudmund!

                                  GUDMUND.
                              [_Approaching_.]

                  What would you?

                                  MARGIT.

                                   Teach me, I pray,
        How to interpret the ancient lay
        They sing of the church in the valley there:
        A gentle knight and a lady fair,
        They loved each other well.
        That very day on her bier she lay
        He on his sword-point fell.
        They buried her by the northward spire,
        And him by the south kirk wall;
        And theretofore grew neither bush nor briar
        In the hallowed ground at all.
        But next spring from their coffins twain
        Two lilies fair upgrew—
        And by and by, o’er the roof-tree high,
        They twined and they bloomed the whole year through.
        How read you the riddle?

                                  GUDMUND.
                       [_Looks searchingly at her._]

                          I scarce can say.

                                  MARGIT.

        You may doubtless read it in many a way;
        But its truest meaning, methinks, is clear:
        The church can never sever two that hold each other dear.

                                  GUDMUND.
                              [_To himself._]

        Ye saints, if she should—? Lest worse befall,
        ’Tis time indeed I told her all!    [_Aloud._
        Do you wish for my happiness—Margit, tell!

                                  MARGIT.
                          [_In joyful agitation._]

        Wish for it! I!

                                  GUDMUND.

                        Then, wot you well,
        The joy of my life now rests with you—

                                  MARGIT.
                           [_With an outburst._]

        Gudmund!

                                  GUDMUND.

                  Listen! ’tis time you knew—

                                               [_He stops suddenly._

                [_Voices and laughter are heard by the river bank._
                    SIGNË _and some other_ GIRLS _enter from the
                    right, accompanied by_ KNUT, ERIK _and several_
                    YOUNGER MEN.

                                   KNUT.

        [_Still at a distance._] Gudmund Alfson! Wait; I must speak
        a word with you.

        [_He stops, talking to_ ERIK. _The other_ GUESTS _in the
        meantime enter the house._

                                  MARGIT.

        [_To herself._] The joy of his life—! What else can he mean
        but—! [_Half aloud._] Signë—my dear, dear sister!

        [_She puts her arm round SIGNË’S waist, and they go towards
        the back talking to each other._

                                  GUDMUND.

        [_Softly, as he follows them with his eyes._]

        Aye, so it were wisest. Both Signë and I must away from
        Solhoug. Knut Gesling has shown himself my friend; he will
        help me.

                                   KNUT.

        [_Softly, to_ ERIK.] Yes, yes, I say, Gudmund is her
        kinsman; he can best plead my cause.

                                   ERIK.

        Well, as you will. [_He goes into the house._

                                   KNUT.

        [_Approaching._] Listen, Gudmund—

                                  GUDMUND.

        [_Smiling._] Come you to tell me that you dare no longer let
        me go free.

                                   KNUT.

        Dare! Be at your ease as to that. Knut Gesling dares
        whatever he will. No, ’tis another matter. You know that
        here in the district, I am held to be a wild, unruly
        companion—

                                  GUDMUND.

        Aye, and if rumour lies not—

                                   KNUT.

        Why no, much that it reports may be true enough. But now, I
        must tell you—

        [_They go, conversing, up towards the back._

                                   SIGNË.

        [_To_ MARGIT, _as they come forward beside the house._] I
        understand you not. You speak as though an unlooked-for
        happiness had befallen you. What is in your mind?

                                  MARGIT.

        Signë—you are still a child; you know not what it means to
        have ever in your heart the dread of—[_Suddenly breaking
        off._] Think, Signë, what it must be to wither and die
        without ever having lived.

                                   SIGNË.

        [_Looks at her in astonishment, and shakes her head._] Nay,
        but, Margit—?

                                  MARGIT.

        Aye, aye, you do not understand, but none the less—

        [_They go up again, talking to each other._ GUDMUND _and_
        KNUT _come down on the other side._

                                  GUDMUND.

        Well, if so it be—if this wild life no longer contents
        you—then I will give you the best counsel that ever friend
        gave to friend: take to wife an honourable maiden.

                                   KNUT.

        Say you so? And if I now told you that ’tis even that I have
        in mind?

                                  GUDMUND.

        Good luck and happiness to you then, Knut Gesling! And now
        you must know that I too—

                                   KNUT.

        You? Are you, too, so purposed?

                                  GUDMUND.

        Aye, truly. But the King’s wrath;—I am a banished man—

                                   KNUT.

        Nay, to that you need give but little thought. As yet there
        is no one here, save Dame Margit, that knows aught of the
        matter; and so long as I am your friend, you have one in
        whom you can trust securely. Now I must tell you—

        [_He proceeds in a whisper as they go up again._

                                   SIGNË.

        [_As she and_ MARGIT _again advance._] But tell me then,
        Margit—!

                                  MARGIT.

        More I dare not tell you.

                                   SIGNË.

        Then will I be more open-hearted than you. But first answer
        me one question. [_Bashfully, with hesitation._] Is there—is
        there no one who has told you anything concerning me?

                                  MARGIT.

        Concerning you? Nay, what should that be?

                                   SIGNË.

        [_As before, looking downwards._] You said to me this
        morning: if a wooer came riding hither—?

                                  MARGIT.

        That is true. [_To herself._] Knut Gesling—has he already—?
        [_Eagerly, to_ SIGNË.] Well? What then?

                                   SIGNË.

        [_Softly, but with exultation._] The wooer has come! He has
        come, Margit! I knew not then whom you meant; but now—!

                                  MARGIT.

        And what have you answered him?

                                   SIGNË.

        Oh, how should I know? [_Flinging her arms round her
        sister’s neck._] But the world seems to me so rich and
        beautiful since the moment when he told me that he held me
        dear.

                                  MARGIT.

        Why, Signë, Signë, I cannot understand that you should so
        quickly—! You scarce knew him before to-day.

                                   SIGNË.

        Oh, ’tis but little I yet know of love; but this
        I know that what the song says is true:
        Full swiftly ’tis sown; ere a moment speeds by,
        Deep, deep in the heart love is rooted for aye—

                                  MARGIT.

        So be it; and since so it is, I need no longer hold aught
        concealed from you. Ah—

        [_She stops suddenly, as she sees_ KNUT _and_ GUDMUND
        _approaching._

                                   KNUT.

        [_In a tone of satisfaction._] Ha, this is as I would have
        it, Gudmund. Here is my hand!

                                  MARGIT.

        [_To herself._] What is this?

                                  GUDMUND.

        [_To_ KNUT.] And here is mine!

        [_They shake hands._

                                   KNUT.

        But now we must each of us name who it is—

                                  GUDMUND.

        Good. Here at Solhoug, among so many fair women, I have
        found her whom—

                                   KNUT.

        I too. And I will bear her home this very night, if it be
        needful.

                                  MARGIT.

        [_Who has approached unobserved._] All saints in heaven!

                                  GUDMUND.

        [_Nods to_ KNUT.] The same is my intent!

                                   SIGNË.

        [_Who has also been listening._] Gudmund!

                             GUDMUND AND KNUT.

        [_Whispering to each other, as they both point at_ SIGNË.]
        There she is!

                                  GUDMUND.

        [_Starting._] Aye, mine.

                                   KNUT.

        [_Likewise._] No, mine!

                                  MARGIT.

        [_Softly, half bewildered._] Signë!

                                  GUDMUND.

        [_As before, to_ KNUT.] What mean you by that?

                                   KNUT.

        I mean that ’tis Signë whom I—

                                  GUDMUND.

        Signë! Signë is my betrothed in the sight of God.

                                  MARGIT.

        [_With a cry._] It was she! No—no!

                                  GUDMUND.

        [_To himself, as he catches sight of her._] Margit! She has
        heard everything.

                                   KNUT.

        Ho, ho! So this is how it stands? Nay, Dame Margit, ’tis
        needless to put on such an air of wonder; now I understand
        everything.

                                  MARGIT.

        [_To_ SIGNË.] But not a moment ago you said—? [_Suddenly
        grasping the situation._] ’Twas Gudmund you meant!

                                   SIGNË.

        [_Astonished._] Yes, did you not know it! But what ails you,
        Margit?

                                  MARGIT.

        [_In an almost toneless voice._] Nay, nothing, nothing.

                                   KNUT.

        [_To_ MARGIT.] And this morning, when you made me give my
        word that I would stir no strife here to-night—you already
        knew that Gudmund Alfson was coming. Ha, ha, think not that
        you can hoodwink Knut Gesling! Signë has become dear to me.
        Even this morning ’twas but my hasty vow that drove me to
        seek her hand; but now—

                                   SIGNË.

        [_To_ MARGIT.] He? Was _this_ the wooer that was in your
        mind?

                                  MARGIT.

        Hush, hush!

                                   KNUT.

        [_Firmly and harshly._] Dame Margit—you are her elder
        sister; you shall give me an answer.

                                  MARGIT.

        [_Battling with herself._] Signë has already made her
        choice;—I have naught to answer.

                                   KNUT.

        Good; then I have nothing more to do at Solhoug. But after
        midnight—mark you this—the day is at an end; then you may
        chance to see me again, and then Fortune must decide whether
        it be Gudmund or I that shall bear Signë away from this
        house.

                                  GUDMUND.

        Aye, try if you dare; it shall cost you a bloody sconce.

                                   SIGNË.

        [_In terror._] Gudmund! By all the saints—!

                                   KNUT.

        Gently, gently, Gudmund Alfson! Ere sunrise you shall be in
        my power. And she—your lady-love—[_Goes up to the door,
        beckons and calls in a low voice._] Erik! Erik! come hither!
        we must away to our kinsfolk. [_Threateningly, while_ ERIK
        _shows himself in the doorway._] Woe upon you all when I
        come again!

        [_He and_ ERIK _go off to the left at the back._]

                                   SIGNË.

        [_Softly to_ GUDMUND.] Oh, tell me, what does all this mean?

                                  GUDMUND.

        [_Whispering._] We must both leave Solhoug this very night.

                                   SIGNË.

        God shield me—you would—!

                                  GUDMUND.

        Say nought of it! No word to any one, not even to your
        sister.

                                  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.[25]

                                   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 kin 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._]

                                   SIGNË.

        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._ SIGNË _stands on the left, near
                    the house._

                                  GUDMUND.
                                 [_Sings._]

                  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 had 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._

                                   SIGNË.

        [_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 THIRD

        _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 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 that 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._

        Signë, 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 passage-way; 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 mead from a cupboard, and fills
        the goblet which is on the table in front of 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 to his knee._] Ha, ha, ha! You are
        right fair, Margit! I love you 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.

        [_Stops at the door._] 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 Signë.

                                  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 Signë, 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 of 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_ SIGNË _enter quietly and
        cautiously by the door on the right._

                                   SIGNË.
                           [_In muffled tones._]

        It must, then, be so!

                                  GUDMUND.
                              [_Also softly._]

                              Necessity’s might
        Constrains us.

                                   SIGNË.

                        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.

                                  GUDMUND.

                              Only to be
        Ta’en by Knut Gesling, with bow and spear,
        Swung on the croup of his battle-horse,
        And made his wife by force.

                                   SIGNË.

        Quick, let us flee. But whither go?

                                  GUDMUND.

        Down by the fiord a friend I know;
        He’ll find us a ship. O’er the salt sea foam
        We’ll sail away south to Denmark’s bowers.
        There waits you there a happy home;
        Right joyously will fleet the hours;
        The fairest of flowers they bloom in the shade
        Of the beech-tree glade.

                                   SIGNË.
                           [_Bursts into tears._]

        Farewell, my poor sister! Like mother tender
        Thou hast guarded the ways my feet have trod,
        Hast guided my footsteps, aye praying to God,
        The Almighty, to be my defender.—
        Gudmund—here is a goblet filled with mead;
        Let us drink to her; let us wish that ere long
        Her soul may again be calm and strong,
        And that God may be good to her need.

                             [_She takes the goblet into her hands._

                                  GUDMUND.

        Aye, let us drain it, naming her name!

                                                          [_Starts._

        Stop!    [_Takes the goblet from her._
              For meseems it is the same—

                                   SIGNË.

        ’Tis Margit’s beaker.

                                  GUDMUND.

        [_Examining it carefully._]

                              By Heaven, ’tis so!
        I mind me still of the red wine’s glow
        As she drank from it on the day we parted
        To our meeting again in health and glad-hearted.
        To herself that draught betided woe.
        No, Signë, ne’er drink wine or mead
        From that goblet.

                            [_Pours its contents out at the window._

                          We must away with all speed.

                           [_Tumult and calls without, at the back._

                                   SIGNË.

        List, Gudmund! Voices and trampling feet!

                                  GUDMUND.

        Knut Gesling’s voice!

                                   SIGNË.

                              O save us, Lord!

                                  GUDMUND.
                    [_Places himself in front of her._]

        Nay, nay, fear nothing, Signë sweet—
        I am here, and my good sword.

        [MARGIT _comes in in haste from the left._

                                  MARGIT.

        [_Listening to the noise._] What means this? Is my husband—?

                             GUDMUND AND SIGNË.

        Margit!

                                  MARGIT.

        [_Catches sight of them._] Gudmund! And Signë! Are you here?

                                   SIGNË.

        [_Going towards her._] Margit—dear sister!

                                  MARGIT.

        [_Appalled, having seen the goblet which GUDMUND still holds
        in his hand._] The goblet! Who has drunk from it?

                                  GUDMUND.

        [_Confused._] Drunk—? I and Signë—we meant—

                                  MARGIT.

        [_Screams._] O God, have mercy! Help! Help! They will die.

                                  GUDMUND.

        [_Setting down the goblet._] Margit—!

                                   SIGNË.

        What ails you, sister?

                                  MARGIT.

        [_Towards the back._] Help, help! Will no one help?

                [_A_ HOUSE-CARL _rushes in from the passage-way._

                                HOUSE-CARL.

        [_Calls in a terrified voice._] Lady Margit! Your husband—!

                                  MARGIT.

        He—has he, too, drunk—!

                                  GUDMUND.

        [_To himself._] Ah! now I understand—

                                HOUSE-CARL.

        Knut Gesling has slain him.

                                   SIGNË.

        Slain!

                                  GUDMUND.

        [_Drawing his sword._] Not yet, I hope. [_Whispers to_
        MARGIT.] Fear not. No one has drunk from your goblet.

                                  MARGIT.

        Then thanks be to God, who has saved us all!

                [_She sinks down on a chair to the left._ GUDMUND
                    _hastens towards the door at the back._

                            ANOTHER HOUSE-CARL.

        [_Enters, stopping him._] You come too late. Sir Bengt is
        dead.

                                  GUDMUND.

        Too late, then, too late.

                                HOUSE-CARL.

        The guests and your men have prevailed against the murderous
        crew. Knut Gesling and his men are prisoners. Here they
        come.

                [GUDMUND’S _men, and a number of_ GUESTS _and_
                    HOUSE-CARLS, _lead in_ KNUT GESLING, ERIK OF
                    HEGGË, _and several of_ KNUT’S _men, bound_.

                                   KNUT.

        [_Who is pale, says in a low voice._] Manslayer, Gudmund.
        What say you to that?

                                  GUDMUND.

        Knut, Knut, what have you done?

                                   ERIK.

        ’Twas a mischance, of that I can take my oath.

                                   KNUT.

        He ran at me swinging his axe; I meant but to defend myself,
        and struck the death-blow unawares.

                                   ERIK.

        Many here saw all that befell.

                                   KNUT.

        Lady Margit, crave what fine you will. I am ready to pay it.

                                  MARGIT.

        I crave naught. God will judge us all. Yet stay—one thing I
        require. Forgo your evil design upon my sister.

                                   KNUT.

        Never again shall I essay to redeem my baleful pledge. From
        this day onward I am a better man. Yet would I fain escape
        dishonourable punishment for my deed. [_To_ GUDMUND.] Should
        you be restored to favour and place again, say a good word
        for me to the King!

                                  GUDMUND.

        I? Ere the sun sets, I must have left the country.

        [_Astonishment amongst the_ GUESTS. ERIK, _in whispers,
        explains the situation._

                                  MARGIT.

        [_To_ GUDMUND.] You go? And Signë with you?

                                   SIGNË.

        [_Beseechingly._] Margit!

                                  MARGIT.

        Good fortune follow you both!

                                   SIGNË.

        [_Flinging her arms round_ MARGIT’S _neck._]

        Dear sister!

                                  GUDMUND.

        Margit, I thank you. And now farewell. [_Listening._] Hush!
        I hear the tramp of hoofs in the court-yard.

                                   SIGNË.

        [_Apprehensively._] Strangers have arrived.

        [_A_ HOUSE-CARL _appears in the doorway at the back._

                                HOUSE-CARL.

        The King’s men are without. They seek Gudmund Alfson.

                                   SIGNË.

        Oh God!

                                  MARGIT.

        [_In great alarm._] The King’s men!

                                  GUDMUND.

        All is at an end, then. Oh Signë, to lose you now—could
        there be a harder fate?

                                   KNUT.

        Nay, Gudmund; sell your life dearly, man! Unbind us; we are
        ready to fight for you, one and all.

                                   ERIK.

        [_Looks out._] ’Twould be in vain; they are too many for us.

                                   SIGNË.

        Here they come. Oh Gudmund, Gudmund!

        [_The_ KING’S MESSENGER _enters from the back, with his
        escort._

                                 MESSENGER.

        In the King’s name I seek you, Gudmund Alfson, and bring you
        his behests.

                                  GUDMUND.

        Be it so. Yet am I guiltless; I swear it by all that is
        holy!

                                 MESSENGER.

        We know it.

                                  GUDMUND.

        What say you?

        [_Agitation amongst those present._

                                 MESSENGER.

        I am ordered to bid you as a guest to the King’s house. His
        friendship is yours as it was before, and along with it he
        bestows on you rich fiefs.

                                  GUDMUND.

        Signë!

                                   SIGNË.

        Gudmund!

                                  GUDMUND.

        But tell me—?

                                 MESSENGER.

        Your enemy, the Chancellor Audun Hugleikson, has fallen.

                                  GUDMUND.

        The Chancellor!

                                  GUESTS.

        [_To each other, in a half-whisper._] Fallen!

                                 MESSENGER.

        Three days ago he was beheaded at Bergen. [_Lowering his
        voice._] His offence was against Norway’s Queen.

                                  MARGIT.

                    [_Placing herself between_ GUDMUND _and_ SIGNË.]

        Thus punishment treads on the heels of crime!
        Protecting angels, loving and bright,
        Have looked down in mercy on me to-night,
        And come to my rescue while yet it was time.
        Now know I that life’s most precious treasure
        Is nor worldly wealth nor earthly pleasure,
        I have felt the remorse, the terror I know,
        Of those who wantonly peril their soul,
        To St. Sunniva’s cloister forthwith I go.—

                          [_Before_ GUDMUND _and_ SIGNË _can speak._

        Nay: think not to move me or control.

                              [_Places_ SIGNË’S _hand in_ GUDMUND’S.

        Take her then, Gudmund, and make her your bride.
        Your union is holy; God’s on your side.

                [_Waving farewell, she goes towards the doorway on
                    the left._ GUDMUND _and_ SIGNË _follow her, she
                    stops them with a motion of her hand, goes out,
                    and shuts the door behind her. At this moment
                    the sun rises and sheds its light into the
                    hall._

                                  GUDMUND.

        Signë—my wife! See, the morning glow!
        ’Tis the morning of our young love. Rejoice!

                                   SIGNË.

        All my fairest of dreams and of memories I owe
        To the strains of thy harp and the sound of thy voice.
        My noble minstrel, to joy or sadness
        Tune thou that harp as seems thee best;
        There are chords, believe me, within my breast
        To answer to thine, or of woe or of gladness.

                          CHORUS OF MEN AND WOMEN.

        Over earth keeps watch the eye of light,
        Guardeth lovingly the good man’s ways,
        Sheddeth round him its consoling rays;—
        Praise be to the Lord in heaven’s height!

-----

Footnote 24:

          This no doubt means a sort of arcaded veranda running
          along the outer wall of the house.

Footnote 25:

          A contest in impromptu verse-making.

-----




                             LOVE’S COMEDY




                           PERSONS OF THE COMEDY

    MRS. HALM, _widow of a government official._
    SVANHILD, } _her daughters._
    ANNA,     }
    FALK, _a young author_,    } _her boarders._
    LIND, _a divinity student_,}
    GULDSTAD, _a wholesale merchant._
    STIVER, _a law-clerk._
    MISS JAY, _his fiancée._
    STRAWMAN, _a country clergyman._
    MRS. STRAWMAN, _his wife._
    STUDENTS, GUESTS, MARRIED AND PLIGHTED PAIRS.
    THE STRAWMANS’ EIGHT LITTLE GIRLS.
    FOUR AUNTS, A PORTER, DOMESTIC SERVANTS.

                                -------

             SCENE.—_Mrs. Halm’s Villa on the Drammensvejen at
                               Christiania._




                             LOVE’S COMEDY
                           PLAY IN THREE ACTS


                               ACT FIRST

        _The_ SCENE _represents a pretty garden irregularly but
            tastefully laid out; in the background are seen the
            fjord and the islands. To the left is the house, with a
            verandah and an open dormer window above; to the right
            in the foreground an open summer-house with a table and
            benches. The landscape lies in bright afternoon
            sunshine. It is early summer; the fruit-trees are in
            flower_.

        _When the Curtain rises_, MRS. HALM, ANNA, _and_ MISS JAY
            _are sitting on the verandah, the first two engaged in
            embroidery, the last with a book. In the summer-house
            are seen_ FALK, LIND, GULDSTAD, _and_ STIVER: _a
            punch-bowl and glasses are on the table._ SVANHILD _sits
            alone in the background by the water._

                FALK [_rises, lifts his glass, and sings_].

                    Sun-glad day in garden shady
                      Was but made for thy delight:
                    What though promises of May-day
                      Be annulled by Autumn’s blight?
                    Apple-blossom white and splendid
                      Drapes thee in its glowing tent,—
                    Let it, then, when day is ended,
                      Strew the closes storm-besprent.

                            CHORUS OF GENTLEMEN.

                   Let it, then, when day is ended, etc.

                                   FALK.

                    Wherefore seek the harvest’s guerdon
                      While the tree is yet in bloom?
                    Wherefore drudge beneath the burden
                      Of an unaccomplished doom?
                    Wherefore let the scarecrow clatter
                      Day and night upon the tree?
                    Brothers mine, the sparrows’ chatter
                      Has a cheerier melody.

                                  CHORUS.

                 Brothers mine, the sparrow’s chatter, etc.

                                   FALK.

                    Happy songster! Wherefore scare him
                      From our blossom-laden bower?
                    Rather for his music spare him
                      All our future, flower by flower;
                    Trust me, ’twill be cheaply buying
                      Present song with future fruit;
                    List the proverb, “Time is flying;—”
                      Soon our garden music’s mute.

                                  CHORUS.

                           List the proverb, etc.

                                   FALK.

                  I will live in song and gladness,—
                    Then, when every bloom is shed,
                  Sweep together, scarce in sadness,
                    All that glory, wan and dead:
                  Fling the gates wide! Bruise and batter,
                    Tear and trample, hoof and tusk;
                  I have plucked the flower, what matter
                    Who devours the withered husk!

                                  CHORUS.

        I have plucked the flower, etc.

                              [_They clink and empty their glasses._

                          FALK [_to the ladies_].

        There—that’s the song you asked me for; but pray
        Be lenient to it—I can’t think to-day.

                                 GULDSTAD.

        Oh, never mind the sense—the sound’s the thing.

                        MISS JAY [_looking round_].

        But Svanhild, who was eagerest to hear—?
        When Falk began, she suddenly took wing
        And vanished—

                    ANNA [_pointing towards the back_].

                        No, for there she sits—I see her.

                           MRS. HALM [_sighing_].

        That child! Heaven knows, she’s past my comprehending!

                                 MISS JAY.

        But, Mr. Falk, I thought the lyric’s ending
        Was not so rich in—well, in poetry,
        As others of the stanzas seemed to be.

                                  STIVER.

        Why yes, and I am sure it could not tax
        Your powers to get a little more inserted—

                    FALK [_clinking glasses with him_].

        You cram it in, like putty into cracks,
        Till lean is into streaky fat converted.

                           STIVER [_unruffled_].

        Yes, nothing easier—I, too, in my day
        Could do the trick.

                                 GULDSTAD.

                             Dear me! Were you a poet?

                                 MISS JAY.

        My Stiver! Yes!

                                  STIVER.

                         Oh, in a humble way.

                        MISS JAY [_to the ladies_].

        His nature is romantic.

                                 MRS. HALM.

                                 Yes, we know it.

                                  STIVER.

        Not now; it’s ages since I turned a rhyme.

                                   FALK.

        Yes, varnish and romance go off with time.
        But in the old days—?

                                  STIVER.

                                Well, you see, ’twas when
        I was in love.

                                   FALK.

                        Is that time over, then?
        Have you slept off the sweet intoxication?

                                  STIVER.

        I’m now _engaged_—I hold official station—
        That’s better than in love, I apprehend!

                                   FALK.

        Quite so! You’re in the right, my good old friend.
        The worst is past—_vous voilà bien avancé_—
        Promoted from mere lover to _fiancé_.

            STIVER [_with a smile of complacent recollection_].

        It’s strange to think of it—upon my word,
        I half suspect my memory of lying—

                                                   [_Turns to_ FALK.

        But seven years ago—it sounds absurd!—
        I wasted office hours in versifying.

                                   FALK.

        What! Office hours—!

                                  STIVER.

                            Yes, such were my transgressions.

                     GULDSTAD [_ringing on his glass_].

        Silence for our solicitor’s confessions!

                                  STIVER.

        But chiefly after five, when I was free,
        I’d rattle off whole reams of poetry—
        Ten—fifteen folios ere I went to bed—

                                   FALK.

        I see—you gave your Pegasus his head,
        And off he tore—

                                  STIVER.

                           On stamped or unstamped paper—
        ’Twas all the same to him—he’d prance and caper—

                                   FALK.

        The spring of poetry flowed no less flush?
        But how, pray, did you teach it first to gush?

                                  STIVER.

        By aid of love’s divining-rod, my friend!
        Miss Jay it was that taught me where to bore,
        My _fiancée_—she became so in the end—
        For then she was—

                                   FALK.

                           Your love and nothing more.

                           STIVER [_continuing_].

        ’Twas a strange time; I could not read a bit;
        I tuned my pen instead of pointing it;
        And when along the foolscap sheet it raced,
        It twangled music to the words I traced;—
        At last by letter I declared my flame
        To her—to her—

                                   FALK.

                          Whose _fiancé_ you became.

                                  STIVER.

        In course of post her answer came to hand—
        The motion granted—judgment in my favour!

                                   FALK.

        And you felt bigger, as you wrote, and braver,
        To find you’d brought your venture safe to land!

                                  STIVER.

        Of course.

                                   FALK.

                   And then you bade the Muse farewell?

                                  STIVER.

        I’ve felt no lyric impulse, truth to tell,
        From that day forth. My vein appeared to peter
        Entirely out; and now, if I essay
        To turn a verse or two for New Year’s Day,
        I make the veriest hash of rhyme and metre,
        And—I’ve no notion what the cause can be—
        It turns to law and not to poetry.

                   GULDSTAD [_clinks glasses with him_].

        And, trust me, you’re no whit the worse for that!

                                                         [_To_ FALK.

        You think the stream of life is flowing solely
        To bear you to the goal you’re aiming at—
        But you may find yourself mistaken wholly.
        As for your song, perhaps it’s most poetic,
        Perhaps it’s not—on that point we won’t quarrel—
        But here I lodge a protest energetic,
        Say what you will, against its wretched moral.
        A masterly economy and new
        To let the birds play havoc at their pleasure
        Among your fruit-trees, fruitless now for you,
        And suffer flocks and herds to trample through
        Your garden, and lay waste its springtide treasure!
        A pretty prospect, truly, for next year!

                                   FALK.

        Oh, next, next, next! The thought I loathe and fear
        That these four letters timidly express—
        It beggars millionaires in happiness!
        If I could be the autocrat of speech
        But for one hour, that hateful word I’d banish;
        I’d send it packing out of mortal reach,
        As B and G from Knudsen’s Grammar vanish.

                                  STIVER.

        Why should the word of hope enrage you thus?

                                   FALK.

        Because it darkens God’s fair earth for us.
        “Next year,” “next love,” “next life,”—my soul is vext
        To see this world in thraldom to “the next.”
        ’Tis this dull forethought, bent on future prizes,
        That millionaires in gladness pauperises.
        Far as the eye can reach, it blurs the age;
        All rapture of the moment it destroys;
        No one dares taste in peace life’s simplest joys
        Until he’s struggled on another stage—
        And there arriving, can he there repose?
        No—to a new “next” off he flies again;
        On, on, unresting, to the grave he goes;
        And God knows if there’s any resting then.

                                 MISS JAY.

        Fie, Mr. Falk, such sentiments are shocking.

                            ANNA [_pensively_].

        Oh, I can understand the feeling quite;
        I am sure at bottom Mr. Falk is right.

                          MISS JAY [_perturbed_].

        My Stiver mustn’t listen to his mocking.
        He’s rather too eccentric even now.—
        My dear, I want you.

                 STIVER [_occupied in cleaning his pipe_].

                              Presently, my dear.

                           GULDSTAD [_to_ FALK].

        One thing at least to me is very clear;—
        And that is that you cannot but allow
        Some forethought indispensable. For see,
        Suppose that you to-day should write a sonnet,
        And, scorning forethought, you should lavish on it
        Your last reserve, your all, of poetry,
        So that, to-morrow, when you set about
        Your next song, you should find yourself cleaned out,
        Heavens! how your friends the critics then would crow!

                                   FALK.

        D’you think they’d notice I was bankrupt? No!
        Once beggared of ideas, I and they
        Would saunter arm in arm the selfsame way— [_Breaking off._
        But Lind! why, what’s the matter with you, pray?
        You sit there dumb and dreaming—I suspect you’re
        Deep in the mysteries of architecture.

                        LIND [_collecting himself_].

        I? What should make you think so?

                                   FALK.

                                           I observe.
        Your eyes are glued to the verandah yonder—
        You’re studying, mayhap, its arches’ curve,
        Or can it be its pillars’ strength you ponder,
        The door perhaps, with hammered iron hinges?
        The window blinds, and their artistic fringes?
        From something there your glances never wander.

                                   LIND.

        No, you are wrong—I’m just absorbed in being—
        Drunk with the hour—naught craving, naught foreseeing.
        I feel as though I stood, my life complete,
        With all earth’s riches scattered at my feet.
        Thanks for your song of happiness and spring—
        From out my inmost heart it seemed to spring.

                [_Lifts his glass and exchanges a glance,
                    unobserved, with_ ANNA.

        Here’s to the blossom in its fragrant pride!
        What reck we of the fruit of autumn-tide?

                                               [_Empties his glass._

        FALK [_looks at him with surprise and emotion, but assumes a
                               light tone_].

        Behold, fair ladies! though you scorn me quite,
        Here I have made an easy proselyte.
        His hymn-book yesterday was all he cared for—
        To-day e’en dithyrambics he’s prepared for!
        We poets must be born, cries every judge;
        But prose-folks, now and then, like Strasburg geese,
        Gorge themselves so inhumanly obese
        On rhyming balderdash and rhythmic fudge,
        That, when cleaned out, their very souls are thick
        With lyric lard and greasy rhetoric.

                                                         [_To_ LIND.

        Your praise, however, I shall not forget;
        We’ll sweep the lyre henceforward in duet.

                                 MISS JAY.

        You, Mr. Falk, are hard at work, no doubt,
        Here in these rural solitudes delightful,
        Where at your own sweet will you roam about—

                           MRS. HALM [_smiling_].

        Oh, no, his laziness is something frightful.

                                 MISS JAY.

        What! here at Mrs. Halm’s! that’s most surprising—
        Surely it’s just the place for poetising—

                                           [_Pointing to the right._

        That summer-house, for instance, in the wood
        Sequestered, name me any place that could
        Be more conducive to poetic mood—

                                   FALK.

        Let blindness veil the sunlight from mine eyes,
        I’ll chant the splendour of the sunlit skies!
        Just for a season let me beg or borrow
        A great, a crushing, a stupendous sorrow,
        And soon you’ll hear my hymns of gladness rise!
        But best, Miss Jay, to nerve my wings for flight,
        Find me a maid to be my life, my light—
        For that incitement long to Heaven I’ve pleaded;
        But hitherto, worse luck, it hasn’t heeded.

                                 MISS JAY.

        What levity!

                                 MRS. HALM.

                      Yes, most irreverent!

                                   FALK.

        Pray don’t imagine it was my intent
        To live with her on bread and cheese and kisses.
        No! just upon the threshold of our blisses,
        Kind Heaven must snatch away the gift it lent.
        I need a little spiritual gymnastic;
        The dose in that form surely would be drastic.

                                 SVANHILD.

                [_Has during the talk approached; she stands close
                    to the table, and says in a determined but
                    whimsical tone:_

        I’ll pray that such may be your destiny.
        But, when it finds you—bear it like a man.

                    FALK [_turning round in surprise_].

        Miss Svanhild!—well, I’ll do the best I can.
        But think you I may trust implicitly
        To finding your petitions efficacious?
        Heaven, as you know, to faith alone is gracious—
        And though you’ve doubtless will enough for two
        To make me bid my peace of mind adieu,
        Have you the faith to carry matters through?
        That is the question.

                         SVANHILD [_half in jest_].

                               Wait till sorrow comes,
        And all your being’s springtide chills and numbs,
        Wait till it gnaws and rends you, soon and late,
        Then tell me if my faith is adequate.

                                   [_She goes across to the ladies._

                        MRS. HALM [_aside to her_].

        Can you two never be at peace? you’ve made
        Poor Mr. Falk quite angry, I’m afraid.

                [_Continues reprovingly in a low voice._ MISS JAY
                    _joins in the conversation._ SVANHILD _remains
                    cold and silent._

            FALK [_after a pause of reflection goes over to the
                      summer-house, then to himself_].

        With fullest confidence her glances lightened.
        Shall I believe, as she does so securely,
        That Heaven intends—

                                 GULDSTAD.

                    No, hang it; don’t be frightened!
        The powers above would be demented surely
        To give effect to orders such as these.
        No, my good sir—the cure for your disease
        Is exercise for muscle, nerve, and sinew.
        Don’t lie there wasting all the grit that’s in you
        In idle dreams; cut wood, if that were all;
        And then I’ll say the devil’s in’t indeed
        If one brief fortnight does not find you freed
        From all your whimsies high-fantastical.

                                   FALK.

        Fetter’d by choice, like Burnell’s ass, I ponder—
        The flesh on this side, and the spirit yonder.
        Which were it wiser I should go for first?

                     GULDSTAD [_filling the glasses_].

        First have some punch—that quenches ire and thirst.

                    MRS. HALM [_looking at her watch_].

        Ha! Eight o’clock! my watch is either fast, or
        It’s just the time we may expect the Pastor.

        [_Rises, and puts things in order on the verandah._

                                   FALK.

        What! have we parsons coming?

                                 MISS JAY.

                                       Don’t you know?

                                 MRS. HALM.

        I told you, just a little while ago—

                                   ANNA.

        No, mother—Mr. Falk had not yet come.

                                 MRS. HALM.

        Why no, that’s true; but pray don’t look so glum.
        Trust me, you’ll be enchanted with his visit.

                                   FALK.

        A clerical enchanter; pray who is it?

                                 MRS. HALM.

        Why, Pastor Strawman, not unknown to fame.

                                   FALK.

        Indeed! Oh, yes, I think I’ve heard his name,
        And read that in the legislative game
        He comes to take a hand, with voice and vote.

                                  STIVER.

        He speaks superbly.

                                 GULDSTAD.

                            When he’s cleared his throat.

                                 MISS JAY.

        He’s coming with his wife—

                                 MRS. HALM.

                                  And all their blessings—

                                   FALK.

        To give them three or four days’ treat, poor dears—
        Soon he’ll be buried over head and ears
        In Swedish muddles and official messings—
        I see!

                           MRS. HALM [_to_ FALK].

                Now there’s a man for you, in truth!

                                 GULDSTAD.

        They say he was a rogue, though, in his youth.

                           MISS JAY [_offended_].

        There, Mr. Guldstad, I must break a lance!
        I’ve heard as long as I can recollect,
        Most worthy people speak with great respect
        Of Pastor Strawman and his life’s romance.

                           GULDSTAD [_laughing_].

        Romance?

                                 MISS JAY.

                  Romance! I call a match romantic
        At which mere worldly wisdom looks askance.

                                   FALK.

        You make my curiosity gigantic.

                          MISS JAY [_continuing_].

        But certain people always grow splenetic—
        Why, goodness knows—at everything pathetic,
        And scoff it down. We all know how, of late,
        An unfledged, upstart undergraduate
        Presumed, with brazen insolence, to declare
        That “William Russell” was a poor affair!

                                   FALK.

        But what has this to do with Strawman, pray?
        Is he a poem, or a Christian play?

                    MISS JAY [_with tears of emotion_].

        No, Falk,—a man, with heart as large as day.
        But when a—so to speak—mere lifeless thing
        Can put such venom into envy’s sting,
        And stir up evil passions fierce and fell
        Of such a depth—

                         FALK [_sympathetically_].

                        And such a length as well—

                                 MISS JAY.

        Why then, a man of your commanding brain
        Can’t fail to see—

                                   FALK.

                             Oh yes, that’s very plain.
        But hitherto I haven’t quite made out
        The nature, style, and plot of this romance.
        It’s something quite delightful I’ve no doubt—
        But just a little inkling in advance—

                                  STIVER.

        I will abstract, in rapid _résumé_,
        The leading points.

                                 MISS JAY.

                             No, I am more _au fait_,
        I know the ins and outs—

                                 MRS. HALM.

                                   I know them too!

                                 MISS JAY.

        Oh Mrs. Halm! now let me tell it, do!
        Well, Mr. Falk, you see—he passed at college
        For quite a miracle of wit and knowledge,
        Had admirable taste in books and dress—

                                 MRS. HALM.

        And acted—privately—with great success.

                                 MISS JAY.

        Yes, wait a bit—he painted, played and wrote—

                                 MRS. HALM.

        And don’t forget his gift of anecdote.

                                 MISS JAY.

        Do give me time; I know the whole affair:
        He made some verses, set them to an air,
        Also his own,—and found a publisher.
        O heavens! with what romantic melancholy
        He played and sang his “Madrigals to Molly”!

                                 MRS. HALM.

        He was a genius, that’s the simple fact.

                          GULDSTAD [_to himself_].

        Hm! Some were of opinion he was cracked.

                                   FALK.

        A gray old stager, whose sagacious head
        Was never upon mouldy parchments fed,
        Says “Love makes Petrarchs, just as many lambs
        And little occupation, Abrahams.”
        But who was Molly?

                                 MISS JAY.

                            Molly? His elect,
        His lady-love, whom shortly we expect.
        Of a great firm her father was a member—

                                 GULDSTAD.

        A timber house.

                            MISS JAY [_curtly_].

                         I’m really not aware.

                                 GULDSTAD.

        Did a large trade in scantlings, I remember.

                                 MISS JAY.

        That is the trivial side of the affair.

                                   FALK.

        A firm?

                          MISS JAY [_continuing_].

                 Of vast resources, I’m informed.
        You can imagine how the suitors swarm’d;
        Gentlemen of the highest reputation.—

                                 MRS. HALM.

        Even a baronet made application.

                                 MISS JAY.

        But Molly was not to be made their catch.
        She had met Strawman upon private stages;
        To see him was to love him—

                                   FALK.

                                      And despatch
        The wooing gentry home without their wages?

                                 MRS. HALM.

        Was it not just a too romantic match?

                                 MISS JAY.

        And then there was a terrible old father,
        Whose sport was thrusting happy souls apart;
        She had a guardian also, as I gather,
        To add fresh torment to her tortured heart.
        But each of them was loyal to his vow;
        A straw-thatched cottage and a snow-white ewe
        They dream’d of, just enough to nourish two—

                                 MRS. HALM.

        Or at the very uttermost a cow,—

                                 MISS JAY.

        In short, I’ve heard it from the lips of both,—
        A beck, a byre, two bosoms, and one troth.

                                   FALK.

        Ah yes! And then—?

                                 MISS JAY.

                             She broke with kin and class.

                                   FALK.

        She broke—?

                                 MRS. HALM.

                    Broke with them.

                                   FALK.

                                     There’s a plucky lass!

                                 MISS JAY.

        And fled to Strawman’s garret—

                                   FALK.

                                      How? Without—
        Ahem—the priestly consecration?

                                 MISS JAY.

                                       Shame!

                                 MRS. HALM.

        Fy, fy! my late beloved husband’s name
        Was on the list of sponsors—!

                          STIVER [_to_ MISS JAY].

                                     You’re to blame
        For leaving that important item out.
        In a report ’tis of the utmost weight
        That the chronology be accurate.
        But what I never yet could comprehend
        Is how on earth they managed—

                                   FALK.

                                     The one room
        Not housing sheep and cattle, I presume.

                          MISS JAY [_to_ STIVER].

        O, but you must consider this, my friend;
        There is no _Want_ where Love’s the guiding star;
        All’s right without if tender Troth’s within.

                                                         [_To_ FALK.

        He loved her to the notes of the guitar,
        And she gave lessons on the violin—

                                 MRS. HALM.

        Then all, of course, on credit they bespoke—

                                 GULDSTAD.

        Till, in a year, the timber merchant broke.

                                 MRS. HALM.

        Then Strawman had a call to north.

                                 MISS JAY.

                                          And there
        Vowed, in a letter that I saw (as few did),
        He lived but for his duty, and for her.

                  FALK [_as if completing her statement_].

        And with those words his Life’s Romance concluded.

                           MRS. HALM [_rising_].

        How if we should go out upon the lawn,
        And see if there’s no prospect of them yet?

                    MISS JAY [_drawing on her mantle_].

        It’s cool already.

                                 MRS. HALM.

                          Svanhild, will you get
        My woollen shawl?—Come ladies, pray!

               LIND [_to_ ANNA, _unobserved by the others_].

                                            Go on!

                [SVANHILD _goes into the house; the others, except_
                    FALK, _go towards the back and out to the left._
                    LIND, _who has followed, stops and returns._

                                   LIND.

        My friend!

                                   FALK.

                   Ah, ditto.

                                   LIND.

                             Falk, your hand! The tide
        Of joy’s so vehement, it will perforce
        Break out—

                                   FALK.

                  Hullo there; you must first be tried;
        Sentence and hanging follow in due course.
        Now, what on earth’s the matter? To conceal
        From me, your friend, this treasure of your finding;
        For you’ll confess the inference is binding:
        You’ve come into a prize off Fortune’s wheel!

                                   LIND.

        I’ve snared and taken Fortune’s blessed bird!

                                   FALK.

        How? Living,—and undamaged by the steel?

                                   LIND.

        Patience; I’ll tell the matter in one word.
        I am engaged! Conceive—!

                             FALK [_quickly_].

                                Engaged!

                                   LIND.

                                         It’s true.
        To-day,—with unimagined courage swelling,
        I said,—ahem, it will not bear re-telling;—
        But only think,—the sweet young maiden grew
        Quite rosy-red,—but not at all enraged!
        You see, Falk, what I ventured for a bride!
        She listened,—and I rather think she cried;
        That, sure, means “Yes“?

                                   FALK.

                                 If precedents decide;
        Go on.

                                   LIND.

                And so we really are—engaged?

                                   FALK.

        I should conclude so; but the only way
        To be quite certain, is to ask Miss Jay.

                                   LIND.

        O no, I feel so confident, so clear!
        So perfectly assured, and void of fear.

                                 [_Radiantly, in a mysterious tone._

        Hark! I had leave her fingers to caress
        When from the coffee-board she drew the cover.

                  FALK [_lifting and emptying his glass_].

        Well, flowers of spring your wedding garland dress!

                          LIND [_doing the same_].

        And here I swear by heaven that I will love her
        Until I die, with love as infinite
        As now glows in me,—for she is so sweet!

                                   FALK.

        Engaged! Aha, so that was why you flung
        The Holy Law and Prophets on the shelf!

                             LIND [_laughing_].

        And you believed it was the song you sung—!

                                   FALK.

        A poet believes all things of himself.

                            LIND [_seriously_].

        Don’t think, however, Falk, that I dismiss
        The theologian from my hour of bliss.
        Only, I find the Book will not suffice
        As Jacob’s ladder unto Paradise.
        I must into God’s world, and seek Him there.
        A boundless kindness in my heart upsprings,
        I love the straw, I love the creeping things;
        They also in my joy shall have a share.

                                   FALK.

        Yes, only tell me this, though—

                                   LIND.

                                       I have told it,—
        My precious secret, and our three hearts hold it!

                                   FALK.

        But have you thought about the future?

                                   LIND.

                                             Thought?
        I?—thought about the future? No, from this
        Time forth I live but in the hour that is.
        In home shall all my happiness be sought;
        We hold Fate’s reins, we drive her hither, thither,
        And neither friend nor mother shall have right
        To say unto my budding blossom: Wither!
        For I am earnest and her eyes are bright,
        And so it must unfold into the light!

                                   FALK.

        Yes, Fortune likes you, you will serve her turn!

                                   LIND.

        My spirits like wild music glow and burn;
        I feel myself a Titan: though a foss
        Opened before me—I would leap across!

                                   FALK.

        Your love, you mean to say, in simple prose,
        Has made a reindeer of you.

                                   LIND.

                                     Well, suppose;
        But in my wildest flight, I know the nest
        In which my heart’s dove longs to be at rest!

                                   FALK.

        Well then, to-morrow it may fly _con brio_;
        You’re off into the hills with the quartette.
        I’ll guarantee you against cold and wet—

                                   LIND.

        Pooh, the quartette may go and climb in _trio_,
        The lowly dale has mountain air for me;
        Here I’ve the immeasurable fjord, the flowers,
        Here I have warbling birds and choral bowers;
        And lady Fortune’s self,—for here is _she_!

                                   FALK.

        Ah, lady Fortune by our Northern water
        Is _rara avis_,—hold her if you’ve caught her!

                                 [_With a glance towards the house._

        Hist—Svanhild—

                                   LIND.

                          Well; I go,—disclose to none
        The secret that we share alone with one.
        ’Twas good of you to listen: now enfold it
        Deep in your heart,—warm, glowing, as I told it.

                [_He goes out in the background to the others._ FALK
                    _looks after him a moment, and paces up and down
                    in the garden, visibly striving to master his
                    agitation. Presently_ SVANHILD _comes out with a
                    shawl on her arm, and is going towards the
                    back_. FALK _approaches and gazes at her
                    fixedly._ SVANHILD _stops._

                     SVANHILD [_after a short pause_].

        You gaze so at me!

                         FALK [_half to himself_].

                            Yes, ’tis _there_—the same;
        The shadow in her eyes’ deep mirror sleeping,
        The roguish elf about her lips a-peeping,
        It is there.

                                 SVANHILD.

                      _What_? You frighten me.

                                   FALK.

                                                Your name
        Is Svanhild?

                                 SVANHILD.

                      Yes, you know it very well.

                                   FALK.

        But do _you_ know the name is laughable?
        I beg you to discard it from to-night!

                                 SVANHILD.

        That would be far beyond a daughter’s right—

                             FALK [_laughing_].

        Hm. “Svanhild! Svanhild!”

                                             [_With sudden gravity._

                                   With your earliest breath
        How came you by this prophecy of death?

                                 SVANHILD.

        Is it so grim?

                                   FALK.

                        No, lovely as a song,
        But for our age too great and stern and strong,
        How can a modern demoiselle fill out
        The ideal that heroic name expresses?
        No, no, discard it with your outworn dresses.

                                 SVANHILD.

        You mean the mythical princess, no doubt—

                                   FALK.

        Who, guiltless, died beneath the horse’s feet.

                                 SVANHILD.

        But now such acts are clearly obsolete.
        No, no, I’ll mount his saddle! There’s my place!
        How often have I dreamt, in pensive ease,
        He bore me, buoyant, through the world apace,
        His mane a flag of freedom in the breeze!

                                   FALK.

        Yes, the old tale. In “pensive ease” no mortal
        Is stopped by thwarting bar or cullis’d portal;
        Fearless we cleave the ether without bound;
        In practice, tho’, we shrewdly hug the ground;
        For all love life and, having choice, will choose it;
        And no man dares to leap where he may lose it.

                                 SVANHILD.

        Yes! show me but the end, I’ll spurn the shore;
        But let the end be worth the leaping for!
        A Ballarat beyond the desert sands—
        Else each will stay exactly where he stands.

                          FALK [_sarcastically_].

        I grasp the case;—the due conditions fail.

                           SVANHILD [_eagerly_].

        Exactly: what’s the use of spreading sail
        When there is not a breath of wind astir?

                            FALK [_ironically_].

        Yes, what’s the use of plying whip and spur
        When there is not a penny of reward
        For him who tears him from the festal board,
        And mounts, and dashes headlong to perdition?
        Such doing for the deed’s sake asks a knight,
        And knighthood’s now an idle superstition.
        That was your meaning, possibly?

                                 SVANHILD.

                                          Quite right.
        Look at that fruit tree in the orchard close,—
        No blossom on its barren branches blows.
        You should have seen last year with what brave airs
        It staggered underneath its world of pears.

                            FALK [_uncertain_].

        No doubt, but what’s the moral you impute?

                         SVANHILD [_with finesse_].

        O, among other things, the bold unreason
        Of modern Zacharies who seek for fruit.
        If the tree blossom’d to excess last season,
        You must not crave the blossoms back in this.

                                   FALK.

        I knew you’d find your footing in the ways
        Of old Romance.

                                 SVANHILD.

                         Yes, modern virtue is
        Of quite another stamp. Who now arrays
        Himself to battle for the truth? Who’ll stake
        His life and person fearless for truth’s sake?
        Where is the hero?

                      FALK [_looking keenly at her_].

                            Where is the Valkyria?

                       SVANHILD [_shaking her head_].

        Valkyrias find no market in this land!
        When the faith lately was assailed in Syria,
        Did you go out with the crusader-band?
        No, but on paper you were warm and willing,—
        And sent the “Clerical Gazette” a shilling.

                [_Pause._ FALK _is about to retort, but checks
                    himself, and goes into the garden._

                                 SVANHILD.

                [_After watching him a moment, approaches him and
                    asks gently:_

        Falk, are you angry?

                                   FALK.

                              No, I only brood,—

                   SVANHILD [_with thoughtful sympathy_].

        You seem to be two natures, still at feud,—
        Unreconciled—

                                   FALK.

                        I know it well.

                         SVANHILD [_impetuously_].

                                         But why?

                       FALK [_losing self-control_].

        Why, why? Because I hate to go about
        With soul bared boldly to the vulgar eye,
        As Jock and Jennie hang their passions out;
        To wear my glowing heart upon my sleeve,
        Like women in low dresses. You, alone,
        Svanhild, you only,—you, I did believe,—
        Well, it is past, _that_ dream, for ever flown.—

                [_She goes to the summer-house and looks out; he
                    follows._

        You listen—?

                                 SVANHILD.

                       To another voice, that sings.
        Hark! every evening when the sun’s at rest,
        A little bird floats hither on beating wings,—
        See there—it darted from its leafy nest—
        And, do you know, it is my faith,—as oft
        As God makes any songless soul, He sends
        A little bird to be her friend of friends,
        And sing for ever in her garden-croft.

                        FALK [_picking up a stone_].

        Then must the owner and the bird be near,
        Or its song’s squandered on a stranger’s ear.

                                 SVANHILD.

        Yes, that is true; but I’ve discovered mine.
        Of speech and song I am denied the power,
        But when it warbles in its leafy bower,
        Poems flow in upon my brain like wine—
        Ah, yes,—they fleet—they are not to be won—

                [FALK _throws the stone._ SVANHILD _screams._

        O God, you’ve hit it! Ah, what have you done!

                [_She hurries out to the right and then quickly
                    returns._

        O pity! pity!

                     FALK [_in passionate agitation_].

                       No,—but eye for eye,
        Svanhild, and tooth for tooth. Now you’ll attend
        No further greetings from your garden-friend,
        No guerdon from the land of melody.
        That is my vengeance: as you slew, I slay.

                                 SVANHILD.

        I slew?

                                   FALK.

                 You slew. Until this very day,
        A clear-voiced song-bird warbled in my soul;
        See,—now one passing bell for both may toll—
        You’ve killed it!

                                 SVANHILD.

                     Have I?

                                   FALK.

                              Yes, for you have slain
        My young, high-hearted, joyous exultation—

                                                  [_Contemptuously._

        By your betrothal!

                                 SVANHILD.

                            How! But pray, explain—!

                                   FALK.

        O, it’s in full accord with expectation;
        He gets his licence, enters orders, speeds to
        A post,—as missionary in the West—

                       SVANHILD [_in the same tone_].

        A pretty penny, also, he succeeds to;—
        For it is Lind you speak of—?

                                   FALK.

                                        You know best
        Of whom I speak.

                     SVANHILD [_with a subdued smile_].

                          As the bride’s sister, true,
        I cannot help—

                                   FALK.

                         Great God! It is not you—?

                                 SVANHILD.

        Who win this overplus of bliss? Ah no!

                     FALK [_with almost childish joy_].

        It is not you! O God be glorified!
        What love, what mercy does He not bestow!
        I shall not see you as another’s bride;—
        ’Twas but the fire of pain He bade me bear—

                                         [_Tries to seize her hand._

        O hear me, Svanhild, hear me then—

              SVANHILD [_pointing quickly to the background_].

                                          See there!

                [_She goes towards the house. At the same moment_
                    MRS. HALM, ANNA, MISS JAY, GULDSTAD, STIVER,
                    _and_ LIND _emerge from the background. During
                    the previous scene the sun has set; it is now
                    dark._

                         MRS. HALM [_to_ SVANHILD].

        The Strawmans may be momently expected.
        Where have you been?

                    MISS JAY [_after glancing at_ FALK].

                            Your colour’s very high.

                                 SVANHILD.

        A little face-ache; it will soon pass by.

                                 MRS. HALM.

        And yet you walk at nightfall unprotected?
        Arrange the room, and see that tea is ready;
        Let everything be nice; I know the lady.

                                                [SVANHILD _goes in._

                            STIVER [_to_ FALK].

        What is the colour of this parson’s coat?

                                   FALK.

        I guess bread-taxers would not catch his vote.

                                  STIVER.

        How if one made allusion to the store
        Of verses, yet unpublished, in my drawer?

                                   FALK.

        It might do something.

                                  STIVER.

                              Would to heaven it might!
        Our wedding’s imminent; our purses light.
        Courtship’s a very serious affair.

                                   FALK.

        Just so: “_Qu’allais-tu faire dans cette galère?_”

                                  STIVER.

        Is courtship a “galère”?

                                   FALK.

                                  No, married lives;—
        All servitude, captivity, and gyves.

                   STIVER [_seeing_ MISS JAY _approach_].

        You little know what wealth a man obtains
        From woman’s eloquence and woman’s brains.

                       MISS JAY [_aside to_ STIVER].

        Will Guldstad give us credit, think you?

                           STIVER [_peevishly_];

                                                  I
        Am not quite certain of it yet: I’ll try.

                [_They withdraw in conversation;_ LIND _and_ ANNA
                    _approach._

                          LIND [_aside to_ FALK].

        I can’t endure it longer; in post-haste
        I must present her—

                                   FALK.

                              You had best refrain,
        And not initiate the eye profane
        Into your mysteries—

                                   LIND.

                               That would be a jest!—
        From you, my fellow-boarder, and my mate,
        To keep concealed my new-found happy state!
        Nay, now, my head with Fortune’s oil anointed—

                                   FALK.

        You think the occasion good to get it _curled_?
        Well, my good friend, you won’t be disappointed;
        Go and announce your union to the world!

                                   LIND.

        Other reflections also weigh with me,
        And one of more especial gravity;
        Say that there lurked among our motley band
        Some sneaking, sly pretender to her hand;
        Say, his attentions became undisguised,—
        We should be disagreeably compromised.

                                   FALK.

        Yes, it is true; it had escaped my mind,
        You for a higher office were designed,
        Love as his young licentiate has retained you;
        Shortly you’ll get a permanent position;
        But it would be defying all tradition
        If at the present moment he ordained you.

                                   LIND.

        Yes if the merchant does not—

                                   FALK.

                                        What of him?

                             ANNA [_troubled_].

        Oh, it is Lind’s unreasonable whim.

                                   LIND.

        Hush; I’ve a deep foreboding that the man
        Will rob me of my treasure, if he can.
        The fellow, as we know, comes daily down,
        Is rich, unmarried, takes you round the town;
        In short, my own, regard it as we will,
        There are a thousand things that bode us ill.

                             ANNA [_sighing_].

        Oh, it’s too bad; to-day was so delicious!

                     FALK [_sympathetically to_ LIND].

        Don’t wreck your joy, unfoundedly suspicious,
        Don’t hoist your flag till time the truth disclose—

                                   ANNA.

        Great God! Miss Jay is looking; hush, be still!

                 [_She and_ LIND _withdraw in different directions._

                        FALK [_looking after_ LIND].

        So to the ruin of his youth he goes.

                                 GULDSTAD.

                [_Who has meantime been conversing on the steps
                    with_ MRS. HALM _and_ MISS JAY, _approaches_
                    FALK _and slaps him on the shoulder._

        Well, brooding on a poem?

                                   FALK.

                                   No, a play.

                                 GULDSTAD.

        The deuce;—I never heard it was your line.

                                   FALK.

        O no, the author is a friend of mine,
        And your acquaintance also, I daresay.
        The knave’s a dashing writer, never doubt.
        Only imagine, in a single day
        He’s worked a perfect little Idyll out.

                            GULDSTAD [_slily_].

        With happy ending, doubtless!

                                   FALK.

                                       You’re aware,
        No curtain falls but on a plighted pair.
        Thus with the Trilogy’s First Part we’ve reckoned;
        But now the poet’s labour-throes begin;
        The Comedy of Troth-plight, Part the Second,
        Thro’ five insipid Acts he has to spin,
        And of that staple, finally, compose
        Part Third,—or Wedlock’s Tragedy, in prose.

                           GULDSTAD [_smiling_].

        The poet’s vein is catching, it would seem.

                                   FALK.

        Really? How so, pray?

                                 GULDSTAD.

                               Since I also pore
        And ponder over a poetic scheme,—

                                                    [_Mysteriously._

        An actuality—and not a dream.

                                   FALK.

        And pray, who is the hero of your theme?

                                 GULDSTAD.

        I’ll tell you that to-morrow—not before.

                                   FALK.

        It is yourself!

                                 GULDSTAD.

                         You think me equal to it?

                                   FALK.

        I’m sure no other mortal man could do it.
        But then the heroine? No city maid,
        I’ll swear, but of the country, breathing balm?

                      GULDSTAD [_lifting his finger_].

        Ah,—that’s the point, and must not be betrayed!—

                                               [_Changing his tone._

        Pray tell me your opinion of Miss Halm.

                                   FALK.

        O you’re best able to pronounce upon her;
        My voice can neither credit nor dishonour,—

                                                         [_Smiling._

        But just take care no mischief-maker blot
        This fine poetic scheme of which you talk.
        Suppose I were so shameless as to balk
        The meditated climax of the plot?

                        GULDSTAD [_good-naturedly_].

        Well, I would cry “Amen,” and change my plan.

                                   FALK.

        What!

                                 GULDSTAD.

               Why, you see, you are a letter’d man;
        How monstrous were it if your skill’d design
        Were ruined by a bungler’s hand like mine!

                                       [_Retires to the background._

                       FALK [_in passing, to_ LIND].

        Yes, you were right; the merchant’s really scheming
        The ruin of your new-won happiness.

                          LIND [_aside to_ ANNA].

        Now then you see, my doubting was not dreaming;
        We’ll go this very moment and confess.

                [_They approach_ MRS. HALM, _who is standing with_
                    MISS JAY _by the house._

                    GULDSTAD [_conversing with_ STIVER].

        ’Tis a fine evening.

                                  STIVER.

                              Very likely,—when
        A man’s disposed—

                         GULDSTAD [_facetiously_].

                            What, all not running smooth
        In true love’s course?

                                  STIVER.

                              Not that exactly—

                            FALK [_coming up_].

                                                  Then
        With your engagement?

                                  STIVER.

                               That’s about the truth.

                                   FALK.

        Hurrah! Your spendthrift pocket has a groat
        Or two still left, it seems, of poetry.

                            STIVER [_stiffly_].

        I cannot see what poetry has got
        To do with my engagement, or with me.

                                   FALK.

        You are not meant to see; when lovers prove
        What love is, all is over with their love.

                          GULDSTAD [_to_ STIVER].

        But if there’s matter for adjustment, pray
        Let’s hear it.

                                  STIVER.

                        I’ve been pondering all day
        Whether the thing is proper to disclose,
        But still the Ayes are balanced by the Noes.

                                   FALK.

        I’ll right you in one sentence. Ever since
        As plighted lover you were first installed,
        You’ve felt yourself, if I may say so, galled—

                                  STIVER.

        And sometimes to the quick.

                                   FALK.

                                     You’ve had to wince
        Beneath a crushing load of obligations
        That you’d send packing, if good form permitted.
        That’s what’s the matter.

                                  STIVER.

                                   Monstrous accusations!
        My legal debts I’ve honestly acquitted;
        But other bonds next month are falling due;

                                                     [_To_ GULDSTAD.

        When a man weds, you see, he gets a wife—

                            FALK [_triumphant_].

        Now your youth’s heaven once again is blue,
        There rang an echo from your old song-life!
        That’s how it is: I read you thro’ and thro’;
        Wings, wings were all you wanted,—and a knife!

                                  STIVER.

        A knife?

                                   FALK.

                  Yes, Resolution’s knife, to sever
        Each captive bond, and set you free for ever,
        To soar—

                            STIVER [_angrily_].

                   Nay, now you’re insolent beyond
        Endurance! Me to charge with violation
        Of law,—me, me with plotting to abscond!
        It’s libellous, malicious defamation,
        Insult and calumny—

                                   FALK.

                              Are you insane?
        What is all this about? Explain! Explain!

                     GULDSTAD [_laughingly to_ STIVER].

        Yes, clear your mind of all this balderdash!
        What do you want?

                    STIVER [_pulling himself together_].

                           A trifling loan in cash.

                                   FALK.

        A loan!

                     STIVER [_hurriedly to_ GULDSTAD].

                  That is, I mean to say, you know,
        A voucher for a ten pound note, or so.

                      MISS JAY [_to_ LIND _and_ ANNA].

        I wish you joy! How lovely, how delicious!

                    GULDSTAD [_going up to the ladies_].

        Pray what has happened?

                            [_To himself_.]   This was unpropitious.

              FALK [_throws his arms about_ STIVER’S _neck_].

        Hurrah! the trumpet’s dulcet notes proclaim
        A brother born to you in Amor’s name!

                                         [_Drags him to the others._

                       MISS JAY [_to the gentlemen_].

        Think! Lind and Anna—think!—have plighted hearts,
        Affianced lovers!

                    MRS. HALM [_with tears of emotion_].

                           ’Tis the eighth in order Who
        well-provided from this house departs;

                                                         [_To_ FALK.

        Seven nieces wedded—always with a boarder—

               [_Is overcome; presses her handkerchief to her eyes._

                           MISS JAY [_to_ ANNA].

        Well, there will come a flood of gratulation!

                                       [_Caresses her with emotion_.

                      LIND [_seizing_ FALK’S _hand_].

        My friend, I walk in rapt intoxication!

                                   FALK.

        Hold! As a plighted man you are a member
        Of Rapture’s Temperance-association.
        Observe its rules;—no orgies here, remember!

                           [_Turning to_ GULDSTAD _sympathetically._

        Well, my good sir!

                    GULDSTAD [_beaming with pleasure_].

                            I think this promises
        All happiness for both.

                          FALK [_staring at him_].

                                 You seem to stand
        The shock with exemplary self-command.
        That’s well.

                                 GULDSTAD.

                      What do you mean, sir?

                                   FALK.

                                              Only this;
        That inasmuch as you appeared to feed
        Fond expectations of your own—

                                 GULDSTAD.

                                         Indeed?

                                   FALK.

        At any rate, you were upon the scent.
        You named Miss Halm; you stood upon this spot
        And asked me—

                           GULDSTAD [_smiling_].

                        There are two, though, are there not?

                                   FALK.

        It was—the other sister that you meant?

                                 GULDSTAD.

        _That_ sister, yes, the other one,—just so.
        Judge for yourself, when you have come to know
        That sister better, if she has not in her
        Merits which, if they were divined, would win her
        A little more regard than we bestow.

                              FALK [_coldly_].

        Her virtues are of every known variety
        I’m sure.

                                 GULDSTAD.

                    Not quite; the accent of society
        She cannot hit exactly; there she loses.

                                   FALK.

        A grievous fault.

                                 GULDSTAD.

                         But if her mother chooses
        To spend a winter on her, she’ll come out of it
        Queen of them all, I’ll wager.

                                   FALK.

                                        Not a doubt of it.

                           GULDSTAD [_laughing_].

        Young women are odd creatures, to be sure!

                              FALK [_gaily_].

        Like winter rye-seed, canopied secure
        By frost and snow, invisibly they sprout.

                                 GULDSTAD.

        Then in the festive ball-room bedded out—

                                   FALK.

        With equivoque and scandal for manure—

                                 GULDSTAD.

        And when the April sun shines—

                                   FALK.

                                         There the blade is;
        The seed shot up in mannikin green ladies!

                          [LIND _comes up and seizes_ FALK’S _hand._

                                   LIND.

        How well I chose,—past understanding well;—
        I feel a bliss that nothing can dispel.

                                 GULDSTAD.

        There stands your mistress; tell us, if you can,
        The right demeanor for a plighted man.

                            LIND [_perturbed_].

        That’s a third person’s business to declare.

                            GULDSTAD [_joking_].

        Ill-tempered! This to Anna’s ears I’ll bear.

                                              [_Goes to the ladies._

                        LIND [_looking after him_].

        Can such a man be tolerated?

                                   FALK.

                                      You
        Mistook his aim, however,—

                                   LIND.

                                     And how so?

                                   FALK.

        It was not Anna that he had in view.

                                   LIND.

        How, was it Svanhild?

                                   FALK.

                               Well, I hardly know.

                                                     [_Whimsically._

        Forgive me, martyr to another’s cause!

                                   LIND.

        What do you mean?

                                   FALK.

                           You’ve read the news to-night?

                                   LIND.

        No.

                                   FALK.

             Do so. There ’tis told in black and white
        Of one who, ill-luck’s bitter counsel taking,
        Had his sound teeth extracted from his jaws
        Because his cousin-german’s teeth were aching.

                   MISS JAY [_looking out to the left_].

        Here comes the priest!

                                 MRS. HALM.

                                Now see a man of might!

                                  STIVER.

        Five children, six, seven, eight—

                                   FALK.

                                    And, heavens, all recent!

                                 MISS JAY.

        Ugh! it is almost to be called indecent.

                [_A carriage has meantime been heard stopping
                    outside to the left._ STRAWMAN, _his wife, and
                    eight little girls, all in travelling dress,
                    enter one by one._

                   MRS. HALM [_advancing to meet them_].

        Welcome, a hearty welcome!

                                 STRAWMAN.

                                   Thank you.

                               MRS. STRAWMAN.

                                               Is it
        A party?

                                 MRS. HALM.

                  No, dear madam, not at all.

                               MRS. STRAWMAN.

        If we disturb you—

                                 MRS. HALM.

                             _Au contraire_, your visit
        Could in no wise more opportunely fall.
        My Anna’s just engaged.

              STRAWMAN [_shaking_ ANNA’S _hand with unction_].

                                 Ah then, I must
        Bear witness;—Lo! in wedded Love’s presented
        A treasure such as neither moth nor rust
        Corrupt—if it be duly supplemented.

                                 MRS. HALM.

        But how delightful that your little maids
        Should follow you to town.

                                 STRAWMAN.

                                    Four tender blades
        We have besides.

                                 MRS. HALM.

                          Ah, really?

                                 STRAWMAN.

                                       Three of whom
        Are still too infantine to take to heart
        A loving father’s absence, when I come
        To town for sessions.

               MISS JAY [_to_ MRS. HALM, _bidding farewell_].

                               Now I must depart.

                                 MRS. HALM.

        O, it is still so early!

                                 MISS JAY.

                                  I must fly
        To town and spread the news. The Storms, I know,
        Go late to rest, they will be up; and oh!
        How glad the aunts will be! Now, dear, put by
        Your shyness; for to-morrow a spring-tide
        Of callers will flow in from every side!

                                 MRS. HALM.

        Well, then, good-night.

                                                   [_To the others._

                            Now friends, what would you say
        To drinking tea?

                                                [_To_ MRS. STRAWMAN.

                          Pray, madam, lead the way.

                [MRS. HALM, STRAWMAN, _his wife and children, with_
                    GULDSTAD, LIND, _and_ ANNA _go into the house._

                    MISS JAY [_taking_ STIVER’S _arm_].

        Now let’s be tender! Look how softly floats
        Queen Luna on her throne o’er lawn and lea!—
        Well, but you are not looking!

                            STIVER [_crossly_].

                                        Yes, I see;
        I’m thinking of the promissory notes.

                [_They go out to the left._ FALK, _who has been
                    continuously watching_ STRAWMAN _and his wife,
                    remains behind alone in the garden. It is now
                    dark; the house is lighted up._

                                   FALK.

        All is as if burnt out;—all desolate, dead—!
        So thro’ the world they wander, two and two;
        Charred wreckage, like the blackened stems that strew
        The forest when the withering fire is fled.
        Far as the eye can travel, all is drought,
        And nowhere peeps one spray of verdure out!

                [SVANHILD _comes out on to the verandah with a
                    flowering rose-tree which she sets down._

        Yes one—yes one—!

                                 SVANHILD.

                             Falk, in the dark?

                                   FALK.

                                                 And fearless!
        Darkness to me is fair, and light is cheerless
        But are not _you_ afraid in yonder walls
        Where the lamp’s light on sallow corpses falls—

                                 SVANHILD.

        Shame!

        FALK [_looking after_ STRAWMAN _who appears at the window_].

                He was once so brilliant and so strong;
        Warred with the world to win his mistress; passed
        For Custom’s doughtiest iconoclast;
        And poured forth love in pæans of glad song—!
        Look at him now! In solemn robes and wraps,
        A two-legged drama on his own collapse!
        And she, the limp-skirt slattern, with the shoes
        Heel-trodden, that squeak and clatter in her traces,
        This is the winged maid who was his Muse
        And escort to the kingdom of the graces!
        Of all that fire this puff of smoke’s the end!
        _Sic transit gloria amoris_, friend.

                                 SVANHILD.

        Yes, it is wretched, wretched past compare.
        I know of no one’s lot that I would share.

                             FALK [_eagerly_].

        Then let us two rise up and bid defiance
        To this same order Art, not Nature, bred!

                       SVANHILD [_shaking her head_].

        Then were the cause for which we made alliance
        Ruined, as sure as this is earth we tread.

                                   FALK.

        No, triumph waits upon two souls in unity.
        To Custom’s parish-church no more we’ll wend,
        Seatholders in the Philistine community.
        See, Personality’s one aim and end
        Is to be independent, free and true.
        In that I am not wanting, nor are you.
        A fiery spirit pulses in your veins,
        For thoughts that master, you have words that burn;
        The corslet of convention, that constrains
        The beating hearts of other maids, you spurn.
        The voice that you were born with will not chime to
        The chorus Custom’s baton gives the time to.

                                 SVANHILD.

        And do you think pain has not often pressed
        Tears from my eyes, and quiet from my breast?
        I longed to shape my way to my own bent—

                                   FALK.

        “In pensive ease?”

                                 SVANHILD.

                            O no, ’twas sternly meant.
        But then the aunts came in with well-intended
        Advice, the matter must be sifted, weighed—

                                                   [_Coming nearer._

        “In pensive ease,” you say; oh no, I made
        A bold experiment—in art.

                                   FALK.

        Which ended—?

                                 SVANHILD.

                        In failure. I lacked talent for the brush.
        The thirst for freedom, tho’, I could not crush;
        Checked at the easel, it essayed the stage—

                                   FALK.

        That plan was shattered also, I engage?

                                 SVANHILD.

        Upon the eldest aunt’s suggestion, yes;
        She much preferred a place as governess—

                                   FALK.

        But of all this I never heard a word!

                           SVANHILD [_smiling_].

        No wonder; they took care that none was heard.
        They trembled at the risk “my future” ran
        If this were whispered to unmarried Man.

             FALK [_after gazing a moment at her in meditative
                                sympathy_].

        That such must be your lot I long had guessed.
        When first I met you, I can well recall,
        You seemed to me quite other than the rest,
        Beyond the comprehension of them all.
        They sat at table,—fragrant tea a-brewing,
        And small-talk humming with the tea in tune,
        The young girls blushing and the young men cooing,
        Like pigeons on a sultry afternoon.
        Old maids and matrons volubly averred
        Morality and faith’s supreme felicity,
        Young wives were loud in praise of domesticity,
        While you stood lonely like a mateless bird.
        And when at last the gabbling clamour rose
        To a tea-orgy, a debauch of prose,
        You seemed a piece of silver, newly minted,
        Among foul notes and coppers dulled and dinted.
        You were a coin imported, alien, strange,
        Here valued at another rate of change,
        Not passing current in that babel mart
        Of poetry and butter, cheese and art.
        Then—while Miss Jay in triumph took the field—

                           SVANHILD [_gravely_].

        Her knight behind her, like a champion bold,
        His hat upon his elbow, like a shield—

                                   FALK.

        Your mother nodded to your untouched cup:
        “Drink, Svanhild dear, before your tea grows cold.”
        And then you drank the vapid liquor up,
        The mawkish brew beloved of young and old.
        But that name gripped me with a sudden spell;
        The grim old Völsungs as they fought and fell,
        With all their faded æons, seemed to rise
        In never-ending line before my eyes.
        In you I saw a Svanhild, like the old,
        But fashioned to the modern age’s mould.
        Sick of its hollow warfare is the world;
        Its lying banner it would fain have furled;
        But when the world does evil, its offence
        Is blotted in the blood of innocence.

                      SVANHILD [_with gentle irony_].

        I think, at any rate, the fumes of tea
        Must answer for that direful fantasy;
        But ’tis your least achievement, past dispute,
        To hear the spirit speaking, when ’tis mute.

                           FALK [_with emotion_].

        Nay, Svanhild, do not jest: behind your scoff
        Tears glitter,—O, I see them plain enough.
        And I see more: when you to dust are fray’d,
        And kneaded to a formless lump of clay,
        Each bungling dilettante’s scalpel-blade
        On you his dull devices shall display.
        The world usurps the creature of God’s hand
        And sets its image in the place of His,
        Transforms, enlarges that part, lightens this;
        And when upon the pedestal you stand
        Complete, cries out in triumph: “_Now_ she is
        At last what woman ought to be: Behold,
        How plastically calm, how marble-cold!
        Bathed in the lamplight’s soft irradiation,
        How well in keeping with the decoration!”

                                   [_Passionately seizing her hand._

        But if you are to die, live first! Come forth
        With me into the glory of God’s earth!
        Soon, soon the gilded cage will claim its prize.
        The Lady thrives there, but the Woman dies,
        And I love nothing but the Woman in you.
        There, if they will, let others woo and win you,
        But here, my spring of life began to shoot,
        Here my Song-tree put forth its firstling fruit;
        Here I found wings and flight:—Svanhild, I know it,
        Only be mine,—here I shall grow a poet!

           SVANHILD [_in gentle reproof, withdrawing her hand_].

        O, why have you betrayed yourself? How sweet
        It was when we as friends could freely meet!
        You should have kept your counsel. Can we stake
        Our bliss upon a word that we may break?
        Now you have spoken, all is over.

                                   FALK.

                                           No!
        I’ve pointed to the goal,—now leap with me,
        My high-souled Svanhild—if you dare, and show
        That you have heart and courage to be free.

                                 SVANHILD.

        Be free?

                                   FALK.

                  Yes, free, for freedom’s all-in-all
        Is absolutely to fulfil our Call.
        And you by heaven were destined, I know well,
        To be my bulwark against beauty’s spell.
        I, like my falcon namesake, have to swing
        Against the wind, if I would reach the sky!
        You are the breeze I must be breasted by,
        You, only you, put vigour in my wing:
        Be mine, be mine, until the world shall take you,
        When leaves are falling, then our paths shall part
        Sing unto me the treasures of your heart,
        And for each song another song I’ll make you;
        So may you pass into the lamplit glow
        Of age, as forests fade without a throe.

                  SVANHILD [_with suppressed bitterness_].

        I cannot thank you, for your words betray
        The meaning of your kind solicitude.
        You eye me as a boy a sallow, good
        To cut and play the flute on for a day.

                                   FALK.

        Yes, better than to linger in the swamp
        Till autumn choke it with her grey mists damp!

                                                      [_Vehemently._

        You must! you shall! To me you must present
        What God to you so bountifully lent.
        I speak in song what you in dreams have meant.
        See yonder bird I innocently slew,
        Her warbling was Song’s book of books for you.
        O, yield your music as she yielded hers!
        My life shall be that music set to verse!

                                 SVANHILD.

        And when you know me, when my songs are flown,
        And my last requiem chanted from the bough,—
        What then?

                          FALK [_observing her_].

                   What then? Ah well, remember now!

                                          [_Pointing to the garden._

                            SVANHILD [_gently_].

        Yes, I remember you can drive a stone.

                      FALK [_with a scornful laugh_].

        This is your vaunted soul of freedom therefore!
        All daring, if it had an end to dare for!

                                                      [_Vehemently._

        I’ve shown you one; now, once for all, your yea
        Or nay.

                                 SVANHILD.

                 You know the answer I must make you:
        I never can accept you in your way.

                       FALK [_coldly, breaking off_].

        Then there’s an end of it; the world may take you!

                [SVANHILD _has silently turned away. She supports
                    her hands upon the verandah railing, and rests
                    her head upon them._

                                   FALK.

                [_Walks several times up and down, takes a cigar,
                    stops near her and says, after a pause:_

        You think the topic of my talk to-night
        Extremely ludicrous, I should not wonder?

                      [_Pauses for an answer._ SVANHILD _is silent._

        I’m very conscious that it was a blunder;
        Sister’s and daughter’s love alone possess you;
        Henceforth I’ll wear kid gloves when I address you,
        Sure, so, of being understood aright.

                [_Pauses, but as_ SVANHILD _remains motionless, he
                    turns and goes towards the right._

         SVANHILD [_lifting her head after a brief silence, looking
                        at him and drawing nearer_].

        Now I will recompense your kind intent
        To save me, with an earnest admonition.
        That falcon-image gave me sudden vision
        What your “emancipation” really meant.
        You said you were the falcon, that must fight
        Athwart the wind if it would reach the sky,
        I was the breeze you must be breasted by,
        Else vain were all your faculty of flight;
        How pitifully mean! How paltry! Nay
        How ludicrous, as you yourself divined!
        That seed, however, fell not by the way,
        But bred another fancy in my mind
        Of a far more illuminating kind.
        You, as I saw it, were no falcon, but
        A tuneful dragon, out of paper cut,
        Whose Ego holds a secondary station,
        Dependent on the string for animation;
        Its breast was scrawled with promises to pay
        In cash poetic,—at some future day;
        The wings were stiff with barbs and shafts of wit
        That wildly beat the air, but never hit;
        The tail was a satiric rod in pickle
        To castigate the town’s infirmities,
        But all it compass’d was to lightly tickle
        The casual doer of some small amiss.
        So you lay helpless at my feet, imploring:
        “O raise me, how and where is all the same!
        Give me the power of singing and of soaring.
        No matter at what cost of bitter blame!”

             FALK [_clenching his fists in inward agitation_].

        Heaven be my witness—!

                                 SVANHILD.

                                 No, you must be told:—
        For such a childish sport I am too old.
        But you, whom Nature made for high endeavour,
        Are you content the fields of air to tread
        Hanging your poet’s life upon a thread
        That at my pleasure I can slip and sever?

                            FALK [_hurriedly_].

        What is the date to-day?

                         SVANHILD [_more gently_].

                                  Why, now, that’s right!
        Mind well this day, and heed it, and beware;
        Trust to your own wings only for your flight,
        Sure, if they do not break, that they will bear.
        The paper poem for the desk is fit,
        That which is lived alone has life in it;
        _That_ only has the wings that scale the height;
        Choose now between them, poet: be, or write!

                                                   [_Nearer to him._

        Now I have done what you besought me; now
        My requiem is chanted from the bough;
        My only one; now all my songs are flown;
        Now, if you will, I’m ready for the stone!

                [_She goes into the house;_ FALK _remains
                    motionless, looking after her; far out on the
                    fjord is seen a boat, from which the following
                    chorus is faintly heard:_

                                  CHORUS.

        My wings I open, my sails spread wide,
        And cleave like an eagle life’s glassy tide;
          Gulls follow my furrow’s foaming;
        Overboard with the ballast of care and cark;
        And what if I shatter my roaming bark,
          It is passing sweet to be roaming!

                     FALK [_starting from a reverie_].

        What, music? Ah, it will be Lind’s quartette
        Getting their jubilation up.—Well met!

                [_To_ GULDSTAD, _who enters with an overcoat on his
                    arm_.

        Ah, slipping off, sir?

                                 GULDSTAD.

                                Yes, with your goodwill.
        But let me first put on my overcoat.
        We prose-folks are susceptible to chill;
        The night wind takes us by the tuneless throat.
        Good evening!

                                   FALK.

                       Sir, a word ere you proceed!
        Show me a task, a mighty one, you know—!
        I’m going in for life—!

                    GULDSTAD [_with ironical emphasis_].

                                  Well, in you go!
        You’ll find that you are in for it, indeed.

             FALK [_looking reflectively at him, says slowly_].

        There is my program, furnished in a phrase.

                                            [_In a lively outburst._

        _Now_ I have wakened from my dreaming days,
        I’ve cast the die of life’s supreme transaction,
        I’ll show you—else the devil take me—

                                 GULDSTAD.

                                                 Fie,
        No cursing: curses never scared a fly.

                                   FALK.

        Words, words, no more, but action, only action!
        I will reverse the plan of the Creation;—
        Six days were lavish’d in that occupation;
        My world’s still lying void and desolate,
        Hurrah, to-morrow, Sunday—I’ll create!

                           GULDSTAD [_laughing_].

        Yes, strip, and tackle it like a man, that’s right!
        But first go in and sleep on it. Good-night!

                [_Goes out to the left._ SVANHILD _appears in the
                    room over the verandah; she shuts the window and
                    draws down the blind._

                                   FALK.

        No, first I’ll act. I’ve slept too long and late.

                [_Looks up at_ SVANHILD’S _window, and exclaims, as
                    if seized with a sudden resolution:_

        Good-night! Good-night! Sweet dreams to-night be thine;
        To-morrow, Svanhild, thou art plighted mine!

                [_Goes out quickly to the right; from the water the_
                    CHORUS _is heard again._

                                  CHORUS.

        Maybe I shall shatter my roaming bark,
        But it’s passing sweet to be roaming!

                [_The boat slowly glides away as the curtain falls._




                              ACT SECOND.

        _Sunday afternoon. Well-dressed ladies and gentlemen are
            drinking coffee on the verandah. Several of the guests
            appear through the open glass door in the garden-room;
            the following song is heard from within._


                                  CHORUS.

        Welcome, welcome, new plighted pair
        To the merry ranks of the plighted!
        Now you may revel as free as air,
        Caress without stint and kiss without care,—
        No longer of footfall affrighted.

        Now you are licensed, wherever you go,
        To the rapture of cooing and billing;
        Now you have leisure love’s seed to sow,
        Water, and tend it, and make it grow;—
        Let us see you’ve a talent for tilling!

                            MISS JAY [_within_].

        Ah Lind, if I only had chanced to hear,
        I would have teased you!

                             A LADY [_within_].

                                  How vexatious though!

                      ANOTHER LADY [_in the doorway_].

        Dear Anna, did he ask in writing?

                                  AN AUNT.

                                           No!

                                 MISS JAY.

        _Mine_ did.

                        A LADY [_on the verandah_].

                          How long has it been secret, dear?

                                              [_Runs into the room._

                                 MISS JAY.

        To-morrow there will be the ring to choose.

                            LADIES [_eagerly_].

        We’ll take his measure!

                                 MISS JAY.

                                 Nay; that _she_ must do.

        MRS. STRAWMAN [_on the verandah, to a lady who is busy with
                               embroidery_].

        What kind of knitting-needles do you use?

                A SERVANT [_in the door with a coffee-pot_].

        More coffee, madam?

                                  A LADY.

                             Thanks, a drop or two.

                           MISS JAY [_to_ ANNA].

        How fortunate you’ve got your new manteau
        Next week to go your round of visits in!

                     AN ELDERLY LADY [_at the window_].

        When shall we go and order the trousseau?

                               MRS. STRAWMAN.

        How are they selling cotton-bombasine?

              A GENTLEMAN [_to some ladies on the verandah_].

        Just look at Lind and Anna; what’s his sport?

                      LADIES [_with shrill ecstasy_].

        Gracious, he kissed her glove!

                    OTHERS [_similarly, springing up_].

                                        No! Kiss’d it? Really?

           LIND [_appears, red and embarrassed, in the doorway_].

        O, stuff and nonsense!

                                                      [_Disappears._

                                 MISS JAY.

                              Yes, I saw it clearly.

                                   STIVER

              [_in the door, with a coffee-cup in one hand and
                         a biscuit in the other_].

        The witnesses must not mislead the court;
        I here make affidavit, they’re in error.

                            MISS JAY [_within_].

        Come forward, Anna; stand before this mirror!

                          SOME LADIES [_calling_].

        You, too, Lind!

                                 MISS JAY.

                         Back to back! A little nearer!

                                  LADIES.

        Come, let us see by how much she is short.

                [_All run into the garden-room; laughter and shrill
                    talk are heard for a while from within_.

                [FALK, _who during the preceding scene has been
                    walking about in the garden, advances into the
                    foreground, stops and looks in until the noise
                    has somewhat abated._

                                   FALK.

        There love’s romance is being done to death.—
        The butcher once who boggled at the slaughter,
        Prolonging needlessly the ox’s breath,—
        He got his twenty days of bread and water;
        But these—these butchers yonder—they go
        free.        [_Clenches his fist._
        I could be tempted—; hold, words have no worth,
        I’ve sworn it, action only from henceforth!

                LIND [_coming hastily but cautiously out_].

        Thank God, they’re talking fashions; now’s my chance
        To slip away—

                                   FALK.

                    Ha, Lind, _you’ve_ drawn the prize
        Of luck,—-congratulations buzz and dance
        All day about you, like a swarm of flies.

                                   LIND.

        They’re all at heart so kindly and so nice;
        But rather fewer clients would suffice.
        Their helping hands begin to gall and fret me;
        I’ll get a moment’s respite, if they’ll let me.

                                          [_Going out to the right._

                                   FALK.

        Whither away?

                                   LIND.

                       Our den;—it has a lock;
        In case you find the oak is sported, knock.

                                   FALK.

        But shall I not fetch Anna to you?

                                   LIND.

                                            No—
        If she wants anything, she’ll let me know.
        Last night we were discussing until late;
        We’ve settled almost everything of weight;
        Besides I think it scarcely goes with piety
        To have too much of one’s beloved’s society.

                                   FALK.

        Yes, you are right; for daily food we need
        A simple diet.

                                   LIND.

                        Pray excuse me, friend.
        I want a whiff of reason and the weed;
        I haven’t smoked for three whole days on end.
        My blood was pulsing in such agitation,
        I trembled for rejection all the time—

                                   FALK.

        Yes, you may well desire recuperation—

                                   LIND.

        And won’t tobacco’s flavour be sublime!

                [_Goes out to the right._ MISS JAY _and some other_
                    LADIES _come out of the garden-room._

                           MISS JAY [_to_ FALK].

        That was _he_ surely?

                                   FALK.

                             Yes, your hunted deer.

                                  LADIES.

        To run away from us!

                                  OTHERS.

                              For shame! For shame!

                                   FALK.

        ’Tis a bit shy at present, but, no fear,
        A week of servitude will make him tame.

                        MISS JAY [_looking round_].

        Where is he hid?

                                   FALK.

                          His present hiding-place
        Is in the garden loft, our common lair;

                                                         [_Blandly._

        But let me beg you not to seek him there;
        Give him a breathing time!

                                 MISS JAY.

                                    Well, good: the grace
        Will not be long, tho’.

                                   FALK.

                                 Nay, be generous!
        Ten minutes,—then begin the game again.
        He has an English sermon on the brain.

                                 MISS JAY.

        An English—?

                                  LADIES.

                       O you laugh! You’re fooling us!

                                   FALK.

        I’m in grim earnest. ’Tis his fixed intention
        To take a charge among the emigrants,
        And therefore—

                         MISS JAY [_with horror_].

                         Heavens, he had the face to mention
        That mad idea?

                                                   [_To the ladies._

                        O quick—fetch all the aunts!
        Anna, her mother, Mrs. Strawman too.

                            LADIES [_agitated_].

        This must be stopped!

                                    ALL.

                               We’ll make a great ado!

                                 MISS JAY.

        Thank God, they’re coming.

                [_To_ ANNA, _who comes from the garden-room with_
                    STRAWMAN, _his wife and children_, STIVER,
                    GULDSTAD, MRS. HALM _and the other guests._

                                 MISS JAY.

                                    Do you know what Lind
        Has secretly determined in his mind?
        To go as missionary—

                                   ANNA.

                               Yes, I know.

                                 MRS. HALM.

        And you’ve agreed—!

                           ANNA [_embarrassed_].

                              That I will also go.

                          MISS JAY [_indignant_].

        He’s talked this stuff to you!

                 LADIES [_clasping their hands together_].

                                        What tyranny!

                                   FALK.

        But think, his Call that would not be denied—!

                                 MISS JAY.

        Tut, that’s what people follow when they’re free:
        A bridegroom follows nothing but his bride.—
        No, my sweet Anna, ponder, I entreat:
        You, reared in comfort from your earliest breath—?

                                   FALK.

        Yet, sure, to suffer for the faith is sweet!

                                 MISS JAY.

        Is one to suffer for one’s bridegroom’s faith?
        That is a rather novel point of view.

                                                   [_To the ladies_.

        Ladies, attend!

                                              [_Takes_ ANNA’S _arm._

                         Now listen; then repeat
        For his instruction what he has to do.

                [_They go into the background and out to the right
                    in eager talk with several of the ladies; the
                    other guests disperse in groups about the
                    garden._ FALK _stops_ STRAWMAN, _whose wife and
                    children keep close to him._ GULDSTAD _goes to
                    and fro during the following conversation._

                                   FALK.

        Come, pastor, help young fervour in its fight,
        Before they lure Miss Anna from her vows.

                     STRAWMAN [_in clerical cadence_].

        The wife must be submissive to the spouse;—

                                                      [_Reflecting._

        But if I apprehended him aright,
        His Call’s a problematical affair,
        The Offering altogether in the air—

                                   FALK.

        Pray do not judge so rashly. I can give
        You absolute assurance, as I live,
        His Call is definite and incontestable—

                   STRAWMAN [_seeing it in a new light_].

        Ah—if there’s something fixed—investable—
        _Per annum_—then I’ve nothing more to say.

                           FALK [_impatiently_].

        You think the most of what I count the least;
        I mean the _inspiration_,—not the _pay_!

                     STRAWMAN [with an unctuous smile].

        Pay is the first condition of a priest
        In Asia, Africa, America,
        Or where you will. Ah yes, if he were free,
        My dear young friend, I willingly agree,
        The thing might pass; but, being pledged and bound,
        He’ll scarcely find the venture very sound.
        Reflect, he’s young and vigorous, sure to found
        A little family in time; assume his will
        To be the very best on earth—but still
        The _means_, my friend—? ‘Build not upon the sand,’
        Says Scripture. If, upon the other hand,
        The Offering—

                                   FALK.

                        That’s no trifle, I’m aware.

                                 STRAWMAN.

        Ah, come—that wholly alters the affair.
        When men are zealous in their Offering,
        And liberal—

                                   FALK.

                       There he far surpasses most.

                                 STRAWMAN.

        “He” say you? How? In virtue of his post
        The Offering is not what he has to _bring_
        But what he has to _get_.

             MRS. STRAWMAN [_looking towards the background_].

                                 They’re sitting there.

                FALK [_after staring a moment in amazement, suddenly
                    understands and bursts out laughing_].

        Hurrah for Offerings—the ones that caper
        And strut—on Holy-days—in bulging paper!

                                 STRAWMAN.

        All the year round the curb and bit we bear,
        But Whitsuntide and Christmas make things square.

                              FALK [_gaily_].

        Why then, provided only there’s enough of it,
        Even family-founders will obey their Calls.

                                 STRAWMAN.

        Of course; a man assured the _quantum suff_ of it
        Will preach the Gospel to the cannibals.

                                                      [_Sotto voce._

        Now I must see if she cannot be led,

                                      [_To one of the little girls._

        My little Mattie, fetch me out my head—
        My pipe-head I should say, my little dear—

                                   [_Feels in his coat-tail pocket._

        Nay, wait a moment tho’: I have it here.

                [_Goes across and fills his pipe, followed by his
                    wife and children._

                         GULDSTAD [_approaching_].

        You seem to play the part of serpent in
        This paradise of lovers.

                                   FALK.

                                  O, the pips
        Upon the tree of knowledge are too green
        To be a lure for anybody’s lips.

                          [_To_ LIND, _who comes in from the right._

        Ha, Lind!

                                   LIND.

                   In heaven’s name, who’s been ravaging
        Our sanctum? There the lamp lies dashed
        To pieces, curtain dragged to floor, pen smashed,
        And on the mantelpiece the ink pot splashed—

                   FALK [_clapping him on the shoulder_].

        This wreck’s the first announcement of my spring;
        No more behind drawn curtains I will sit,
        Making pen poetry with lamp alit;
        My dull domestic poetising’s done,
        I’ll walk by day, and glory in the sun:
        My spring is come, my soul has broken free,
        Action henceforth shall be my poetry.

                                   LIND.

        Make poetry of what you please for me;
        But how if Mrs. Halm should take amiss
        Your breaking of her furniture to pieces?

                                   FALK.

        What!—she, who lays her daughters and her nieces
        Upon the altar of her boarders’ bliss,—
        She frown at such a bagatelle as this?

                             LIND [_angrily_].

        It’s utterly outrageous and unfair,
        And compromises me as well as you!
        But that’s her business, settle it with her.
        The lamp was mine, tho’, shade and burner too—

                                   FALK.

        Tut, on that head, I’ve no account to render;
        You have God’s summer sunshine in its splendour,—
        What would you with the lamp?

                                   LIND.

                                       You are grotesque;
        You utterly forget that summer passes;
        If I’m to make a figure in my classes
        At Christmas I must buckle to my desk.

                          FALK [_staring at him_].

        What, you look _forward_?

                                   LIND.

                                 To be sure I do,
        The examination’s amply worth it too.

                                   FALK.

        Ah but—you ‘only sit and live’—remember!
        Drunk with the moment, you demand no more—
        Not even a modest third-class next December.
        You’ve caught the bird of Fortune fair and fleet,
        You feel as if the world with all its store
        Were scattered in profusion at your feet.

                                   LIND.

        Those were my words; they must be understood,
        Of course, _cum grano salis_—

                                   FALK.

                                             Very good!

                                   LIND.

        In the _forenoons_ I will enjoy my bliss;
        That I am quite resolved on—

                                   FALK.

                                       Daring man!

                                   LIND.

        I have my round of visits to the clan;
        Time will run anyhow to waste in this;
        But any further dislocation of
        My study-plan I strongly disapprove.

                                   FALK.

        A week ago, however, you were bent
        On going out into God’s world with song.

                                   LIND.

        Yes, but I thought the tour a little long;
        The fourteen days might well be better spent.

                                   FALK.

        Nay, but you had another argument
        For staying; how the lovely dale for you
        Was mountain air and winged warble too.

                                   LIND.

        Yes, to be sure, this air is unalloyed;
        But all its benefits may be enjoyed
        Over one’s book without the slightest bar.

                                   FALK.

        But it was just the _Book_ which failed, you see,
        As Jacob’s ladder—

                                   LIND.

                             How perverse you are!
        That is what people say when they are _free_—

                                    FALK

              [_looking at him and folding his hands in silent
                                amazement_].

        Thou also, Brutus!

             LIND [_with a shade of confusion and annoyance_].

                            Pray remember, do!
        That I have other duties now than you;
        I have my _fiancée_. Every plighted pair,
        Those of prolonged experience not excepted,—
        Whose evidence you would not wish rejected,—
        Will tell you, that if two are bound to fare
        Through life together, they must—

                                   FALK.

                                         Prithee spare
        The comment; who supplied it?

                                   LIND.

                                       Well, we’ll say
        Stiver, he’s honest surely; and Miss Jay,
        Who has such very great experience here,
        She says—

                                   FALK.

                    Well, but the Parson and his—dear?

                                   LIND.

        Yes, they’re remarkable. There broods above
        Them such placidity, such quietude,—
        Conceive, she can’t remember being wooed,
        Has quite forgotten what is meant by love.

                                   FALK.

        Ah yes, when one has slumber’d over long,
        The birds of memory refuse their song.

                [_Laying his hand on_ LIND’S _shoulder, with an
                    ironical look._

        You, Lind, slept sound last night, I guarantee?

                                   LIND.

        And long. I went to bed in such depression,
        And yet with such a fever in my brain,
        I almost doubted if I could be sane.

                                   FALK.

        Ah yes, a sort of witchery, you see.

                                   LIND.

        Thank God I woke in perfect self-possession.

                [_During the foregoing scene_ STRAWMAN _has been
                    seen from time to time walking in the background
                    in lively conversation with_ ANNA; MRS. STRAWMAN
                    _and the children follow._ MISS JAY _now appears
                    also, and with her_ MRS. HALM _and other
                    ladies._

                      MISS JAY [_before she enters_].

        Ah, Mr. Lind.

                             LIND [_to_ FALK].

                       They’re after me again!
        Come, let us go.

                                 MISS JAY.

                          Nay, nay, you must remain,
        Let us make speedy end of the division
        That has crept in between your love and you.

                                   LIND.

        Are we divided?

         MISS JAY [_pointing to_ ANNA, _who is standing further off
                              in the garden_].

                         Gather the decision
        From yon red eyes. The foreign mission drew
        Those tears.

                                   LIND.

                      But heavens, she was glad to go—

                           MISS JAY [_scoffing_].

        Yes, to be sure, one would imagine so!
        No, my dear Lind, you’ll take another view
        When you have heard the whole affair discussed;

                                   LIND.

        But then this warfare for the faith, you know,
        Is my most cherished dream!

                                 MISS JAY.

                                     O who would build
        On dreaming in this century of light?
        Why, Stiver had a dream the other night;
        There came a letter singularly sealed—

                               MRS. STRAWMAN.

        It’s _treasure_ such a dream prognosticates.

                           MISS JAY [_nodding_].

        Yes, and next day they sued him for the rates.

                [_The ladies make a circle round LIND and go in
                    conversation with him into the garden._

           STRAWMAN [_continuing, to_ ANNA, _who faintly tries to
                                 escape_].

        From these considerations, daughter mine,
        From these considerations, buttressed all
        With reason, morals, and the Word Divine,
        You now perceive that to desert your Call
        Were absolutely inexcusable.

                           ANNA [_half crying_].

        Oh! I’m so young—

                                 STRAWMAN.

                            And it is natural,
        I own, that one should tremble to essay
        These perils, dare the lures that there waylay;
        But from doubt’s tangle you must now break free,—
        Be of good cheer and follow Moll and me!

                               MRS. STRAWMAN.

        Yes, your dear mother tells me that I too
        Was just as inconsolable as you
        When we received our Call—

                                 STRAWMAN.

                                   And for like cause—
        The fascination of the town—it was;
        But when a little money had come in,
        And the first pairs of infants, twin by twin,
        She quite got over it.

                      FALK [_sotto voce to_ STRAWMAN].

                               Bravo, you able
        Persuader.

           STRAWMAN [_nodding to him and turning again to_ ANNA].

                   Now you’ve promised me, be stable.
        Shall man renounce his work? Falk says the Call
        Is not so very slender after all.
        Did you not, Falk?

                                   FALK.

                          Nay, pastor—

                                 STRAWMAN.

                                        To be sure—!

                                                         [_To_ ANNA.

        Of something then at least you are secure.
        What’s gained by giving up, if that is so?
        Look back into the ages long ago,
        See, Adam, Eve—the Ark, see, pair by pair,
        Birds in the field—the lilies in the air,
        The little birds—the little birds—the fishes—

                [_Continues in a lower tone, as he withdraws with_
                    ANNA.

                [MISS JAY _and the_ AUNTS _return with_ LIND.

                                   FALK.

        Hurrah! Here come the veterans in array;
        The old guard charging to retrieve the day!

                                 MISS JAY.

        Ah, in exact accordance with our wishes!

                                                           [_Aside._

        We _have_ him, Falk!—Now let us tackle _her_!

                                                 [_Approaches_ ANNA.

                  STRAWMAN [_with a deprecating motion_].

        She needs no secular solicitation;
        The Spirit has spoken, what can Earth bestead—?

                                                        [_Modestly._

        If in some small degree my words have sped,
        Power was vouchsafed me—!

                                 MRS. HALM.

                                    Come, no more evasion,
        Bring them together!

                          AUNTS [_with emotion_].

                             Ah, how exquisite!

                                 STRAWMAN.

        Yes, can there be a heart so dull and dead
        As not to be entranced at such a sight!
        It is so thrilling and so penetrating,
        So lacerating, so exhilarating,
        To see an innocent babe devoutly lay
        Its offering on Duty’s altar.

                                 MRS. HALM.

                                       Nay,
        Her family have also done their part.

                                 MISS JAY.

        I and the Aunts—I should imagine so.
        You, Lind, may have the key to Anna’s heart,

                                                [_Presses his hand._

        But we possess a picklock, you must know,
        Able to open where the key avails not.
        And if in years to come, cares throng and thwart,
        Only apply to us, our friendship fails not.

                                 MRS. HALM.

        Yes, we shall hover round you all your life,—

                                 MISS JAY.

        And shield you from the fiend of wedded strife.

                                 STRAWMAN.

        Enchanting group! Love, friendship, hour of gladness,
        Yet so pathetically touched with sadness.

                                                 [_Turning to_ LIND.

        But now, young man, pray make an end of this.

                                           [_Leading_ ANNA _to him._

        Take thy betrothed—receive her—with a kiss!

                     LIND [_giving his hand to_ ANNA].

        I stay at home!

                        ANNA [_at the same moment_].

        I go with you!

                              ANNA [_amazed_].

                       You stay?

                            LIND [_equally so_].

                                      You go with me?

              ANNA [_with a helpless glance at the company_].

        Why, then, we are divided as before!

                                   LIND.

        What’s this?

                                THE LADIES.

                    What now?

                          MISS JAY [_excitedly_].

                           Our wills are all at war—

                                 STRAWMAN.

        She gave her solemn word to cross the sea
        With him!

                                 MISS JAY.

                   And he gave his to stay ashore
        With her!

                             FALK [_laughing_].

                   They both complied; what would you more!

                                 STRAWMAN.

        These complications are too much for me.

                                     [_Goes towards the background._

                         AUNTS [_to one another_].

        How in the world came they to disagree?

                                 MRS. HALM.

                [_To_ GULDSTAD _and_ STIVER, _who have been walking
                    in the garden and now approach._

        The spirit of discord’s in possession here.

                                             [_Talks aside to them._

                               MRS. STRAWMAN.

                [_To_ MISS JAY, _noticing that the table is being
                    laid._

        There comes the tea.

                            MISS JAY [_curtly_].

                              Thank heaven.

                                   FALK.

                                             Hurrah! a cheer
        For love and friendship, maiden aunts and tea!

                                  STIVER.

        But if the case stands thus, the whole proceeding
        May easily be ended with a laugh;
        All turns upon a single paragraph,
        Which bids the wife attend the spouse. No pleading
        Can wrest an ordinance so clearly stated—

                                 MISS JAY.

        Doubtless, but does that help us to agree?

                                 STRAWMAN.

        She must obey a law that heaven dictated.

                                  STIVER.

        But Lind can circumvent that law, you see.

                                                         [_To_ LIND.

        Put off your journey, and then—budge no jot.

                            AUNTS [_delighted_].

        Yes, that’s the way!

                                MRS. HALM..

                              Agreed!

                                 MISS JAY.

                                       That cuts the knot.

                [SVANHILD _and the maids have meantime laid the
                    tea-table beside the verandah steps. At_ MRS.
                    HALM’S _invitation the ladies sit down. The rest
                    of the company take their places, partly on the
                    verandah and in the summer-house, partly in the
                    garden._ FALK _sits on the verandah. During the
                    following scene they drink tea._

                           MRS. HALM [_smiling_].

        And so our little storm is overblown.
        Such summer showers do good when they are gone;
        The sunshine greets us with a double boon,
        And promises a cloudless afternoon.

                                 MISS JAY.

        Ah yes, Love’s blossom without rainy skies
        Would never thrive according to our wishes.

                                   FALK.

        In dry land set it, and it forthwith dies;
        For in so far the flowers are like the fishes—

                                 SVANHILD.

        Nay, for Love lives, you know, upon the air—

                                 MISS JAY.

        Which is the death of fishes—

                                   FALK.

                                        So I say.

                                 MISS JAY.

        Aha, we’ve put a bridle on you there!

                               MRS. STRAWMAN.

        The tea is good, one knows by the bouquet.

                                   FALK.

        Well, let us keep the simile you chose.
        Love is a flower; for if heaven’s blessed rain
        Fall short, it all but pines to death—    [_Pauses._

                                 MISS JAY.

                                                  What then?

                        FALK [_with a gallant bow_].

        Then come the aunts with the reviving hose.—
        But poets have this simile employed,
        And men for scores of centuries enjoyed,—
        Yet hardly one its secret sense has hit;
        For flowers are manifold and infinite.
        Say, then, what flower is love? Name me, who knows,
        The flower most like it?

                                 MISS JAY.

                                   Why, it is the rose;
        Good gracious, that’s exceedingly well known;—
        Love, all agree, lends life a rosy tone.

                               A YOUNG LADY.

        It is the snowdrop; growing, snow enfurled;
        Till it peer forth, undreamt of by the world.

                                  AN AUNT.

        It is the dandelion,—made robust
        By dint of human heel and horse hoof thrust;
        Nay, shooting forth afresh when it is smitten,
        As Pedersen so charmingly has written.

                                   LIND.

        It is the bluebell,—ringing in for all
        Young hearts life’s joyous Whitsun festival.

                                 MRS. HALM.

        No, ’tis an evergreen,—as fresh and gay
        In desolate December as in May.

                                 GULDSTAD.

        No, Iceland moss, dry gathered,—far the best
        Cure for young ladies with a wounded breast.

                                A GENTLEMAN.

        No, the wild chestnut tree,—in high repute
        For household fuel, but with a bitter fruit.

                                 SVANHILD.

        No, a camellia; at our balls, ’tis said,
        The chief adornment of a lady’s head.

                               MRS. STRAWMAN.

        No, it is like a flower, O such a bright one;—
        Stay now—a blue one, no, it was a white one—
        What is its name—? Dear me—the one I met—;
        Well it is singular how I forget!

                                  STIVER.

        None of these flower similitudes will run.
        The flowerpot is a likelier candidate.
        There’s only room in it, at once, for _one_;
        But by progressive stages it holds _eight_.

               STRAWMAN [_with his little girls round him_].

        No, love’s a pear tree; in the spring like snow
        With myriad blossoms, which in summer grow
        To pearlets; in the parent’s sap each shares;—
        And with God’s help they’ll all alike prove pears.

                                   FALK.

        So many heads, so many sentences!
        No, you all grope and blunder off the line.
        Each simile’s at fault; I’ll tell you mine;—
        You’re free to turn and wrest it as you please.

                                    [_Rises as if to make a speech._

        In the remotest east there grows a plant;
        And the sun’s cousin’s garden is its haunt—

                                THE LADIES.

        Ah, it’s the tea-plant!

                                   FALK.

                                 Yes.

                               MRS. STRAWMAN.

                                       His voice is so
        Like Strawman’s when he—

                                 STRAWMAN.

                                   Don’t disturb his flow.

                                   FALK.

        It has its home in fabled lands serene;
        Thousands of miles of desert lie between;—
        Fill up, Lind!—So.—Now in a tea-oration,
        I’ll show of tea and Love the true relation.

                                    [_The guests cluster round him._

        It has its home in the romantic land;
        Alas, Love’s home is also in Romance,
        Only the Sun’s descendants understand
        The herb’s right cultivation and advance.
        With Love it is not otherwise than so.
        Blood of the Sun along the veins must flow
        If Love indeed therein is to strike root,
        And burgeon into blossom, into fruit.

                                 MISS JAY.

        But China is an ancient land; you hold
        In consequence that tea is very old—

                                 STRAWMAN.

        Past question antecedent to Jerusalem.

                                   FALK.

        Yes, ’twas already famous when Methusalem
        His picture-books and rattles tore and flung—

                         MISS JAY [_triumphantly_].

        And Love is in its very nature young!
        To find a likeness there is pretty bold.

                                   FALK.

        No; Love, in truth, is also very old;
        That principle we here no more dispute
        Than do the folks of Rio or Beyrout.
        Nay, there are those from Cayenne to Caithness,
        Who stand upon its everlastingness;—
        Well, that may be a slight exaggeration,
        But old it is beyond all estimation.

                                 MISS JAY.

        But Love is all alike; whereas we see
        Both good and bad and middling kinds of tea!

                               MRS. STRAWMAN.

        Yes, they sell tea of many qualities.

                                   ANNA.

        The green spring shoots I count the very first—

                                 SVANHILD.

        Those serve to quench celestial daughters’ thirst.

                               A YOUNG LADY.

        Witching as ether fumes they say it is—

                                  ANOTHER.

        Balmy as lotus, sweet as almond, clear—

                                 GULDSTAD.

        That’s not an article we deal in here.

          FALK [_who has meanwhile come down from the verandah_].

        Ah, ladies, every mortal has a small
        Private celestial empire in his heart.
        There bud such shoots in thousands, kept apart
        By Shyness’s soon shatter’d Chinese Wall.
        But in her dim fantastic temple bower
        The little Chinese puppet sits and sighs,
        A dream of far-off wonders in her eyes—
        And in her hand a golden tulip flower.
        For _her_ the tender firstling tendrils grew;—
        Rich crop or meagre, what is that to you?
        Instead of it we get an after crop
        They kick the tree for, dust and stalk and stem,—
        As hemp to silk beside what goes to them—

                                 GULDSTAD.

        That is the black tea.

                             FALK [_nodding_].

                                That’s what fills the shop.

                                A GENTLEMAN.

        There’s beef tea too, that Holberg says a word of—

                           MISS JAY [_sharply_].

        To modern taste entirely out of date.

                                   FALK.

        And a _beef love_ has equally been heard of,
        Wont—in romances—to brow-beat its mate,
        And still they say its trace may be detected
        Amongst the henpecked of the married state.
        In short there’s likeness where ’twas least expected.
        So, as you know, an ancient proverb tells,
        That something ever passes from the tea
        Of the bouquet that lodges in its cells,
        If it be carried hither over sea.
        It must across the desert and the hills,—
        Pay toll to Cossack and to Russian tills;—
        It gets their stamp and licence, that’s enough,
        We buy it as the true and genuine stuff.
        But has not Love the self-same path to fare?
        Across Life’s desert? How the world would rave
        And shriek if you or I should boldly bear
        Our Love by way of Freedom’s ocean wave!
        “Good heavens, his moral savour’s passed away,
        “And quite dispersed Legality’s bouquet!”—

                            STRAWMAN [_rising_].

        Yes, happily,—in every moral land
        Such wares continue to be contraband!

                                   FALK.

        Yes, to pass current here, Love must have cross’d
        The great Siberian waste of regulations,
        Fann’d by no breath of ocean to its cost;
        It must produce official attestations
        From friends and kindred, devils of relations,
        From church curators, organist and clerk,
        And other fine folks—over and above
        The primal licence which God gave to Love.—
        And then the last great point of likeness;—mark
        How heavily the hand of culture weighs
        Upon that far Celestial domain;
        Its power is shatter’d, and its wall decays,
        The last true Mandarin’s strangled; hands profane
        Already are put forth to share the spoil;
        Soon the Sun’s realm will be a legend vain,
        An idle tale incredible to sense;
        The world is gray in gray—we’ve flung the soil
        On buried Faery,—we have made her mound.
        But if we have,—then where can Love be found?
        Alas, Love also is departed hence!

                                                   [_Lifts his cup._


        Well let him go, since so the times decree;—
        A health to Amor, late of Earth,—in tea!

        [_He drains his cup; indignant murmurs amongst the company._

                                 MISS JAY.

        A very odd expression! “Dead” indeed!

                                THE LADIES.

        To say that Love is dead—!

                                 STRAWMAN.

                                     Why, here you see
        Him sitting, rosy, round and sound, at tea,
        In all conditions! Here in her sable weed
        The widow—

                                 MISS JAY.

                     Here a couple, true and tried,—

                                  STIVER.

        With many ample pledges fortified.

                                 GULDSTAD.

        Then Love’s light cavalry, of maid and man,
        The plighted pairs in order—

                                 STRAWMAN.

                                       In the van
        The veterans, whose troth has laughed to scorn
        The tooth of Time—

                     MISS JAY [_hastily interrupting_].

                             And then the babes new-born—
        The little novices of yester-morn—

                                 STRAWMAN.

        Spring, summer, autumn, winter, in a word,
        Are here; the truth is patent, past all doubt,
        It can be clutched and handled, seen and heard,—

                                   FALK.

        What then?

                                 MISS JAY.

                    And yet you want to thrust it out!

                                   FALK.

        Madam, you quite mistake. In all I spoke
        I cast no doubt on anything you claim;
        But I would fain remind you that, from smoke,
        We cannot logically argue flame.
        That men are married, and have children, I
        Have no desire whatever to deny;
        Nor do I dream of doubting that such things
        Are in the world as troth and wedding-rings;
        That billets-doux some tender hands indite
        And seal with pairs of turtle doves that—fight;
        That sweethearts swarm in cottage and in hall,
        That chocolate rewards the wedding-call;
        That usage and convention have decreed,
        In every point, how “Lovers” shall proceed:—
        But, heavens! We’ve majors also by the score,
        Arsenals heaped with muniments of war,
        With spurs and howitzers and drums and shot,
        But what does that permit us to infer?
        That we have men who dangle swords, but not
        That they will wield the weapons that they wear.
        Tho’ all the plain with gleaming tents you crowd,
        Does that make heroes of the men they shroud?

                                 STRAWMAN.

        Well, all in moderation; I must own,
        It is not quite conducive to the truth
        That we should paint the enamourment of youth
        So bright, as if—ahem—it stood alone.
        Love-making still a frail foundation is.
        Only the snuggery of wedded bliss
        Provides a rock where Love may builded be
        In unassailable security.

                                 MISS JAY.

        There I entirely differ. In my view,
        A free accord of lovers, heart with heart,
        Who hold together, having leave to part,
        Gives the best warrant that their love is true.

                              ANNA [_warmly_].

        O no—Love’s bond when it is fresh and young
        Is of a stuff more precious and more strong.

                           LIND [_thoughtfully_].

        Possibly the ideal flower may blow,
        Even as that snowdrop,—hidden by the snow.

                      FALK [_with a sudden outburst_].

        You fallen Adam! There a heart was cleft
        With longing for the Eden it has left!

                                   LIND.

        What stuff!

                 MRS. HALM [_offended, to_ FALK, _rising_].

                     ’Tis not a very friendly act
        To stir a quarrel where we’ve made a peace.
        As for your friend’s good fortune, be at ease—

                                SOME LADIES.

        Nay that’s assured—

                                  OTHERS.

                              A very certain fact.

                                 MRS. HALM.

        The cooking-class at school, I must confess,
        She did not take; but she shall learn it still.

                                 MISS JAY.

        With her own hands she’s trimming her own dress

                     AN AUNT [_patting_ ANNA’S _hand_].

        And growing exquisitely sensible.

                          FALK [_laughing aloud_].

        O parody of sense, that rives and rends
        In maniac dance upon the lips of friends!
        Was it good sense he wanted? Or a she-
        Professor of the lore of Cookery?
        A joyous son of springtime he came here,
        For the wild rosebud on the bush he burned.
        You reared the rosebud for him; he returned—
        And for his rose found what? The hip!

                           MISS JAY [_offended_].

                                           You jeer!

                                   FALK.

        A useful household condiment, heaven knows!
        But yet the hip was not his bridal rose.

                                 MRS. HALM.

        O, if it is a ball-room queen he wants,
        I’m very sorry; these are not their haunts.

                                   FALK.

        O yes, I know the pretty coquetry
        They carry on with “Domesticity.”
        It is a suckling of the mighty Lie
        That, like hop-tendrils, spreads itself on high.
        , madam, reverently bare my head
        To the ball queen; a child of beauty she—
        And the ideal’s golden woof is spread
        In ball-rooms, hardly in the nursery.

                 MRS. HALM [_with suppressed bitterness_].

        Your conduct, sir, is easily explained;
        A plighted lover cannot be a friend;
        That is the kernel of the whole affair;
        I have a very large experience there.

                                   FALK.

        No doubt,—with seven nieces, each a wife—

                                 MRS. HALM.

        And each a happy wife—

                          FALK [_with emphasis_].

                                 Ah, do we know?

                                 GULDSTAD.

        How!

                                 MISS JAY.

              Mr. Falk!

                                   LIND.

                         Are you resolved to sow
        Dissension?

                            FALK [_vehemently_].

                     Yes, war, discord, turmoil, strife!

                                  STIVER.

        What you, a lay, profane outsider here!

                                   FALK.

        No matter, still the battle-flag I’ll rear!
        Yes, it is war I mean with nail and tooth
        Against the Lie with the tenacious root,
        The lie that you have fostered into fruit,
        For all its strutting in the guise of truth!

                                  STIVER.

        Against these groundless charges I protest,
        Reserving right of action—

                                 MISS JAY.

                                     Do be still!

                                   FALK.

        So then it is Love’s ever-running rill
        That tells the widow what she once possess’d,—
        That very Love that, in the days gone by,
        Out of her language blotted “moan” and “sigh”!
        So then it is Love’s brimming tide that rolls
        Along the placid veins of wedded souls,—
        That very Love that faced the iron sleet,
        Trampling inane Convention under feet,
        And scoffing at the impotent discreet!
        So then it is Love’s beauty-kindled flame
        That keeps the plighted from the taint of time
        Year after year! Ah yes, the very same
        That made our young bureaucrat blaze in rhyme!
        So it is Love’s young bliss that will not brave
        The voyage over vaulted Ocean’s wave,
        But asks a sacrifice when, like the sun,
        Its face should fill with glory, _making_ one!
        Ah no, you vulgar prophets of the Lie,
        Give things the names we ought to know them by;
        Call widows’ passion—wanting what they miss,
        And wedlock’s _habit_—call it what it is!

                                 STRAWMAN.

        Young man, this insolence has gone too far!
        In every word there’s scoffing and defiance.

                                           [_Goes close up to Falk._

        Now I’ll gird up my aged loins to war
        For hallowed custom against modern science!

                                   FALK.

        I go to battle as it were a feast!

                                 STRAWMAN.

        Good! For your bullets I will be a beacon!—

                                                          [_Nearer._

        A wedded pair is holy, like a priest—

                     STIVER [_at_ FALK’S _other side_].

        And a betrothed—

                                   FALK.

                           Half-holy, like the deacon.

                                 STRAWMAN.

        Behold these children;—see,—this little throng!
        _Io triumphe_ may for them be sung!
        How was it possible—how practicable—;
        The words of truth are strong, inexorable;—
        He has no hearing whom they cannot move.
        See,—every one of them’s a child of Love—!

                                              [_Stops in confusion._

        That is—you understand—I would have said—!

            MISS JAY [_fanning herself with her handkerchief_].

        This is a very mystical oration!

                                   FALK.

        There you yourself provide the demonstration,—
        A good old Norse one, sound, true-born, homebred.
        You draw distinction between wedded pledges
        And those of Love: your Logic’s without flaw.
        They are distinguished just as roast from raw,
        As hothouse bloom from wilding of the hedges!
        Love is with us a science and an art;
        It long since ceased to animate the heart.
        Love is with us a trade, a special line
        Of business, with its union, code and sign;
        It is a guild of married folks and plighted,
        Past-masters with apprentices united;
        For they cohere compact as jelly-fishes,
        A singing-club their single want and wish is—

                                 GULDSTAD.

        And a gazette!

                                   FALK.

                        A good suggestion, yes!
        We too must have our organ in the press,
        Like ladies, athletes, boys, and devotees.
        Don’t ask the price at present, if you please.
        There I’ll parade each amatory fetter
        That John and Thomas to our town unites,
        There publish every pink and perfumed letter
        That William to his tender Jane indites;
        There you shall read, among “Distressing Scenes”—
        Instead of murders and burnt crinolines,
        The broken matches that the week’s afforded;
        There under “goods for sale” you’ll find what firms
        Will furnish cast-off rings on easy terms;
        There double, treble births will be recorded;
        No wedding, but our rallying rub-a-dub
        Shall drum to the performance all the club;
        No suit rejected, but we’ll set it down,
        In letters large, with other news of weight
        Thus: “Amor-Moloch, we regret to state,
        Has claimed another victim in our town.”
        You’ll see, we’ll catch subscribers: once in sight
        Of the propitious season when they bite,
        By way of throwing them the bait they’ll brook
        I’ll stick a nice young man upon my hook.
        Yes, you will see me battle for our cause,
        With tiger’s, nay with editorial, claws
        Rending them—

                                 GULDSTAD.

                     And the paper’s name will be—?

                                   FALK.

        Amor’s Norse Chronicle of Archery.

                          STIVER [_going nearer_].

        You’re not in earnest, you will never stake
        Your name and fame for such a fancy’s sake!

                                   FALK.

        I’m in grim earnest. We are often told
        Men cannot live on love; I’ll show that this
        Is an untenable hypothesis;
        For Love will prove to be a mine of gold:
        Particularly if Miss Jay, perhaps,
        Will Mr. Strawman’s “Life’s Romance” unfold,
        As appetising feuilleton, in scraps.

                          STRAWMAN [_in terror_].

        Merciful heaven! My “life’s romance!” What, what!
        When was my life romantic, if you please?

                                 MISS JAY.

        I never said so.

                                  STIVER.

                          Witness disagrees.

                                 STRAWMAN.

        That I have ever swerved a single jot
        From social prescript,—is a monstrous lie.

                                   FALK.

        Good.

                               [_Clapping_ STIVER _on the shoulder_.

               Here’s a friend who will not put me by.
        We’ll start with Stiver’s lyric ecstasies.

              STIVER [_after a glance of horror at_ STRAWMAN].

        Are you quite mad! Nay then I must be heard!
        You dare accuse me for a poet—

                                 MISS JAY.

                                         How—!

                                   FALK.

        Your office has averred it anyhow.

                       STIVER [_in towering anger_].

        Sir, by our office nothing is averred.

                                   FALK.

        Well, leave me then, you also: I have by me
        One comrade yet whose loyalty will last.
        “A true heart’s story” Lind will not deny me,
        Whose troth’s too tender for the ocean blast,
        Who for his mistress makes surrender of
        His fellow-men—pure quintessence of Love!

                                 MRS. HALM.

        My patience, Mr. Falk, is now worn out.
        The same abode no longer can receive us:—
        I beg of you this very day to leave us—

        FALK [_with a bow as_ MRS. HALM _and the company withdraw_].

        That this would come I never had a doubt!

                                 STRAWMAN.

        Between us two there’s battle to the death;
        You’ve slandered me, my wife, nay little flock,
        From Molly down to Millie, in one breath.
        Crow on, crow on—Emancipation’s cock,—

                      [_Goes in, followed by his wife and children._

                                   FALK.

        And go you on observing Peter’s faith
        To Love your lord—who, thanks to your advice,
        Was thrice denied before the cock crew thrice!

                        MISS JAY [_turning faint_].

        Attend me, Stiver! help me get unlaced
        My corset—this way, this way—do make haste!

         STIVER [_to_ FALK _as he withdraws with_ MISS JAY _on his
                                   arm_].

        I here renounce your friendship.

                                   LIND.

                                          I likewise.

                            FALK [_seriously_].

        You too, my Lind?

                                   LIND.

                           Farewell.

                                   FALK.

                                      You were my nearest one—

                                   LIND.

        No help, it is the pleasure of my dearest one.

                [_He goes in:_ SVANHILD _has remained standing on
                    the verandah steps._

                                   FALK.

        So, now I’ve made a clearance, have free course
        In all directions!

                                 SVANHILD.

                            Falk, one word with you!

                  FALK [_pointing politely to the house_].

        That way, Miss Halm;—that way, with all the force
        Of aunts and inmates, Mrs. Halm withdrew.

                        SVANHILD [_nearer to him_].

        Let them withdraw; their ways and mine divide;
        I will not swell the number of their band.

                                   FALK.

        You’ll stay?

                                 SVANHILD.

                      If you make war on lies, I stand
        A trusty armour-bearer by your side.

                                   FALK.

        You, Svanhild, you who—

                                 SVANHILD.

        Were you yourself, Falk, yesterday the same?
        You bade me be a sallow, for your play.

                                   FALK.

        And a sweet sallow sang me into shame.
        No, you are right: I was a child to ask;
        But you have fired me to a nobler task.
        Eight in the midst of men the Church is founded
        Where Truth’s appealing clarion must be sounded
        We are not called, like demigods, to gaze on
        The battle from the far-off mountain’s crest,
        But in our hearts to bear our fiery blazon,
        An Olaf’s cross upon a mailed breast,—
        To look afar across the fields of flight,
        Tho’ pent within the mazes of its might,—
        Beyond the mirk descry one glimmer still
        Of glory—that’s the Call we must fulfil.

                                 SVANHILD.

        And you’ll fulfil it when you break from men,
        Stand free, alone,—

                                   FALK.

                              Did I frequent them _then_?
        And there lies duty. No, that time’s gone by,—
        My solitary compact with the sky.
        My four-wall-chamber poetry is done;
        My verse shall live in forest and in field,
        I’ll fight under the splendour of the sun;—
        I or the Lie—one of us two must yield!

                                 SVANHILD.

        Then forth with God from Verse to Derringdoe!
        I did you wrong: you have a feeling heart;
        Forgive me,—and as good friends let us part—

                                   FALK.

        Nay, in my future there is room for two!
        We part not. Svanhild, if you dare decide,
        We’ll battle on together side by side.

                                 SVANHILD.

        _We_ battle?

                                   FALK.

                          See, I have no friend, no mate,
        By all abandoned, I make war on all:
        At me they aim the piercing shafts of hate;
        Say, do you dare with me to stand or fall?
        Henceforth along the beaten walks I’ll move
        Heedful of each constraining etiquette;
        Spread, like the rest of men, my board, and set
        The ring upon the finger of my love!

                    [_Takes a ring from his finger and holds it up._

                     SVANHILD [in breathless suspense].

        You mean _that_?

                                   FALK.

                        Yes, by us the world shall see,
        Love has an everlasting energy,
        That suffers not its splendour to take hurt
        From the day’s dust, the common highway’s dirt.
        Last night I showed you the ideal aflame,
        Beaconing from a dizzy mountain’s brow.
        You shuddered, for you were a woman,—now
        I show you woman’s veritable aim;—
        A soul like yours, what it has vowed, will keep.
        You see the abyss before you,—Svanhild, leap!

                       SVANHILD [_almost inaudibly_].

        If we should fail—!

                             FALK [_exulting_].

                              No, in your eyes I see
        A gleam that surely prophesies our winning!

                                 SVANHILD.

        Then take me as I am, take all of me!
        Now buds the young leaf; now my spring’s beginning!

                [_She flings herself boldly into his arms as the
                    curtain falls._




                               ACT THIRD.

        _Evening. Bright moonlight. Coloured lanterns are hung about
            the trees. In the background are covered tables with
            bottles, glasses, biscuits, etc. From the house, which
            is lighted up from top to bottom, subdued music and
            singing are heard during the following scene._ SVANHILD
            _stands on the verandah._ FALK _comes from the right
            with some books and a portfolio under his arm. The_
            PORTER _follows with a portmanteau and a knapsack._


                                   FALK.

        That’s all, then?

                                  PORTER.

                           Yes, sir, all is in the pack,
        But just a satchel, and the paletot.

                                   FALK.

        Good; when I go, I’ll take them on my back.
        Now off. See, this is the portfolio.

                                  PORTER.

        It’s locked, I see.

                                   FALK.

                           Locked, Peter.

                                  PORTER.

                                          Good, sir.

                                   FALK.

                                                         Pray,
        Make haste and burn it.

                                  PORTER.

                                 Burn it?

                                   FALK.

                                           Yes, to ash—

                                                         [_Smiling._

        With every draft upon poetic cash;
        As for the books, you’re welcome to them.

                                  PORTER.

                                                   Nay,
        Such payment is above a poor man’s earning.
        But, sir, I’m thinking, if you can bestow
        Your books, you must have done with all your learning?

                                   FALK.

        Whatever can be learnt from books I know,
        And rather more.

                                  PORTER.

                          More? Nay, that’s hard, I doubt!

                                   FALK.

        Well, now be off; the carriers wait without.
        Just help them load the barrow ere you go.

                               [_The_ PORTER _goes out to the left._

             FALK [approaching SVANHILD who comes to meet him].

        One moment’s ours, my Svanhild, in the light
        Of God and of the lustrous summer night.
        How the stars glitter thro’ the leafage, see,
        Like bright fruit hanging on the great world-tree.
        Now slavery’s last manacle I slip,
        Now for the last time feel the wealing whip;
        Like Israel at the Passover I stand,
        Loins girded for the desert, staff in hand.
        Dull generation, from whose sight is hid
        The Promised Land beyond that desert flight,
        Thrall tricked with knighthood, never the more knight,
        Tomb thyself kinglike in the Pyramid,—
        I cross the barren desert to be free.
        My ship strides on despite an ebbing sea;
        But there the Legion Lie shall find its doom,
        And glut one deep, dark, hollow-vaulted tomb.

               [_A short pause; he looks at her and takes her hand._

        You are so still!

                                 SVANHILD.

                           So happy! Suffer me,
        O suffer me in silence still to dream.
        Speak you for me; my budding thoughts, grown strong,
        One after one will burgeon into song,
        Like lilies in the bosom of the stream.

                                   FALK.

        O say it once again, in truth’s pure tone
        Beyond the fear of doubt, that thou art mine!
        O say it, Svanhild, say—

                 SVANHILD [_throwing herself on his neck_].

                                   Yes, I am thine!

                                   FALK.

        Thou singing-bird God sent me for my own!

                                 SVANHILD.

        Homeless within my mother’s house I dwelt,
        Lonely in all I thought, in all I felt,
        A guest unbidden at the feast of mirth,—
        Accounted nothing—less than nothing—worth.
        Then you appeared! For the first time I heard
        My own thought uttered in another’s word;
        To my lame visions you gave wings and feet—
        You young unmasker of the Obsolete!
        Half with your caustic keenness you alarmed me,
        Half with your radiant eloquence you charmed me,
        As sea-girt forests summon with their spell
        The sea their flinty beaches still repel.
        Now I have read the bottom of your soul,
        Now you have won me, undivided, whole;
        Dear forest, where my tossing billows beat,
        My tide’s at flood and never will retreat!

                                   FALK.

        And I thank God that in the bath of Pain
        He purged my love. What strong compulsion drew
        Me on I knew not, till I saw in you
        The treasure I had blindly sought in vain.
        I praise Him, who our love has lifted thus
        To noble rank by sorrow,—licensed us
        To a triumphal progress, bade us sweep
        Thro’ fen and forest to our castle-keep,
        A noble pair, astride on Pegasus!

                    SVANHILD [_pointing to the house_].

        The whole house, see, is making feast to-night.
        There, in their honour, every room’s alight,
        There cheerful talk and joyous song ring out;
        On the highroad no passer-by will doubt
        That men are happy where they are so gay.

                                                 [_With compassion._

        Poor sister!—happy in the great world’s way!

                                   FALK.

        “Poor” sister, say you?

                                 SVANHILD.

                                 Has she not divided
        With kith and kin the treasure of her soul,
        Her capital to fifty hands confided,
        So that not one is debtor for the whole?
        From no one has she _all_ things to receive,
        For no one has she utterly to live.
        O beside my wealth hers is little worth;
        I have but one possession upon earth.
        My heart was lordless when with trumpet blare
        And multitudinous song you came, its king,
        The banners of my thought your ensign bear,
        You fill my soul with glory, like the spring.
        Yes, I must needs thank God, when it is past,
        That I was lonely till I found out thee,—
        That I lay dead until the trumpet blast
        Waken’d me from the world’s frivolity.

                                   FALK.

        Yes we, who have no friends on earth, we twain
        Own the true wealth, the golden fortune,—we
        Who stand without, beside the starlit sea,
        And watch the indoor revel thro’ the pane.
        Let the lamp glitter and the song resound,
        Let the dance madly eddy round and round;—
        Look up, my Svanhild, into yon deep blue,—
        There glitter little lamps in thousands, too—

                                 SVANHILD.

        And hark, beloved, thro’ the limes there floats
        This balmy eve a chorus of sweet notes—

                                   FALK.

        It is for us that fretted vault’s aglow—

                                 SVANHILD.

        It is for us the vale is loud below!

                                   FALK.

        I feel myself like God’s lost prodigal;
        I left Him for the world’s delusive charms.
        With mild reproof He wooed me to His arms;
        And when I come, He lights the vaulted hall,
        Prepares a banquet for the son restored,
        And makes His noblest creature my reward.
        From this time forth I’ll never leave that Light,—
        But stand its armed defender in the fight;
        Nothing shall part us, and our life shall prove
        A song of glory to triumphant love!

                                 SVANHILD.

        And see how easy triumph is for two,
        When he’s a man—

                                   FALK.

                           She, woman thro’ and thro’;—
        It is impossible for such to fall!

                                 SVANHILD.

        Then up, and to the war with want and sorrow;
        This very hour I will declare it all!

                         [_Pointing to_ FALK’S _ring on her finger._

                             FALK [_hastily_].

        No, Svanhild, not to-night, wait till to-morrow!
        To-night we gather our young love’s red rose;
        ’Twere sacrilege to smirch it with the prose
        Of common day.

                             [_The door into the garden-room opens._

                        Your mother’s coming! Hide!
        No eye this night shall see thee as my bride!

                [_They go out among the trees by the summer-house._
                    MRS. HALM _and_ GULDSTAD _come out on the
                    balcony._

                                 MRS. HALM.

        He’s really going?

                                 GULDSTAD.

                            Seems so, I admit.

                             STIVER [_coming_].

        He’s going, madam!

                                 MRS. HALM.

                            We’re aware of it!

                                  STIVER.

        A most unfortunate punctilio.
        He’ll keep his word; his stubbornness I know.
        In the Gazette he’ll put us all by name;
        My love will figure under leaded headings,
        With jilts, and twins, and countermanded weddings.
        Listen; I tell you, if it weren’t for shame,
        I would propose an armistice, a truce—

                                 MRS. HALM.

        You think he would be willing?

                                  STIVER.

                                        I deduce
        The fact from certain signs, which indicate
        That his tall talk about his Amor’s News
        Was uttered in a far from sober state.
        One proof especially, if not transcendent,
        Yet tells most heavily against defendant:
        It has been clearly proved that after dinner
        To his and Lind’s joint chamber he withdrew,
        And there displayed such singular demeanour
        As leaves no question—

                                 GULDSTAD.

                [_Sees a glimpse of_ FALK _and_ SVANHILD, _who
                    separate_, FALK _going to the background_;
                    SVANHILD _remains standing hidden by the
                    summer-house._

                                 Hold, we have the clue!
        Madam, one word!—Falk does not mean to go,
        Or if he does, he means it as a friend.

                                  STIVER.

        How, you believe then—?

                                 MRS. HALM.

                                  What do you intend?

                                 GULDSTAD.

        With the least possible delay I’ll show
        That matters move precisely as you would.
        Merely a word in private—

                                 MRS. HALM.

                                    Very good.

                [_They go together into the garden and are seen from
                    time to time in lively conversation._

                                  STIVER.

                [_Descending into the garden discovers_ FALK, _who
                    is standing by the water and gazing over it._

        These poets are mere men of vengeance, we
        State servants understand diplomacy.
        I need to labour for myself—

              [_Seeing_ STRAWMAN, _who enters from the garden-room._

                                       Well met!

                       STRAWMAN [_on the verandah_].

        He’s really leaving!

                                            [_Going down to_ STIVER.

                              Ah, my dear sir, let
        Me beg you just a moment to go in
        And hold my wife—

                                  STIVER.

                          I—hold her, sir?

                                 STRAWMAN.

                                             I mean
        In talk. The little ones and we are so
        Unused to be divided, there is no
        Escaping—

                        [_His wife and children appear in the door._

                    Ha! already on my trail.

                               MRS. STRAWMAN.

        Where are you, Strawman?

                       STRAWMAN [_aside to_ STIVER].

                                  Do invent some tale,
        Something amusing—something to beguile!

                    STIVER [_going on to the verandah_].

        Pray, madam, have you read the official charge?
        A masterpiece of literary style.

                                    [_Takes a book from his pocket._

        Which I shall now proceed to cite at large.

                [_Ushers her politely into the room, and follows
                    himself._ FALK _comes forward; he and_ STRAWMAN
                    _meet; they regard one another a moment in
                    silence._

                                 STRAWMAN.

        Well?

                                   FALK.

               Well?

                                 STRAWMAN.

                      Falk!

                                   FALK.

                             Pastor!

                                 STRAWMAN.

                                      Are you less
        Intractable than when we parted?

                                   FALK.

                                          Nay,
        I go my own inexorable way—

                                 STRAWMAN.

        Even tho’ you crush another’s happiness?

                                   FALK.

        I plant the flower of knowledge in its place.

                                                         [_Smiling._

        If, by the way, you have not ceased to think
        Of the Gazette—

                                 STRAWMAN.

                          Ah, that was all a joke?

                                   FALK.

        Yes, pluck up courage, that will turn to smoke;
        I break the ice in action, not in ink.

                                 STRAWMAN.

        But even though you spare me, sure enough
        There’s one who won’t so lightly let me off;
        He has the advantage, and he won’t forego it,
        That lawyer’s clerk—and ’tis to you I owe it;
        You raked the ashes of our faded flames,
        And you may take your oath he won’t be still
        If once I mutter but a syllable
        Against the brazen bluster of his claims.
        These civil-service gentlemen, they say,
        Are very potent in the press to-day.
        A trumpery paragraph can lay me low,
        Once printed in that Samson-like Gazette
        That with the jaw of asses fells its foe,
        And runs away with tackle and with net,
        Especially towards the quarter day—

                           FALK [_acquiescing_].

        Ah, were there scandal in the case, indeed—

                         STRAWMAN [_despondently_].

        No matter. Read its columns with good heed,
        You’ll see me offered up to Vengeance.

                           FALK [_whimsically_].

                                                Nay,
        To retribution—well-earned punishment.
        Thro’ all our life there runs a Nemesis,
        Which may delay, but never will relent,
        And grants to none exception or release.
        Who wrongs the Ideal? Straight there rushes in
        The Press, its guardian with the Argus eye,
        And the offender suffers for his sin.

                                 STRAWMAN.

        But in the name of heaven, what pledge have I
        Given this “Ideal” that’s ever on your tongue?
        I’m married, have a family, twelve young
        And helpless innocents to clothe and keep;
        I have my daily calls on every side,
        Churches remote and glebe and pasture wide,
        Great herds of breeding cattle, ghostly sheep—
        All to be watched and cared for, clipt and fed,
        Grain to be winnowed, compost to be spread;—
        Wanted all day in shippon and in stall,
        What time have _I_ to serve the “Ideal” withal?

                                   FALK.

        Then get you home with what dispatch you may,
        Creep snugly in before the winter-cold;
        Look, in young Norway dawns at last the day,
        Thousand brave hearts are in its ranks enroll’d,
        Its banners in the morning breezes play!

                                 STRAWMAN.

        And if, young man, I were to take my way
        With bag and baggage home, with everything
        That made me yesterday a little king,
        Were mine the only _volte face_ to-day?
        Think you I carry back the wealth I brought?

                                      [_As FALK is about to answer._

        Nay, listen, let me first explain my thought.

                                                   [_Coming nearer._

        Time was when I was young, like you, and played
        Like you, the unconquerable Titan’s part;
        Year after year I toiled and moiled for bread,
        Which hardens a man’s hand, but not his heart.
        For northern fells my lonely home surrounded,
        And by my parish bounds my world was bounded.
        My home—Ah, Falk, I wonder, do you know
        What home is?

                              FALK [_curtly_].

                       I have never known.

                                 STRAWMAN.

                                            Just so.
        That is a home, where five may dwell with ease,
        Tho’ two would be a crowd, if enemies.
        That is a home, where all your thoughts play free
        As boys and girls about their father’s knee,
        Where speech no sooner touches heart, than tongue
        Darts back an answering harmony of song;
        Where you may grow from flax-haired snowy-polled,
        And not a soul take note that you grow old;
        Where memories grow fairer as they fade,
        Like far blue peaks beyond the forest glade.

                     FALK [_with constrained sarcasm_].

        Come, you grow warm—

                                 STRAWMAN.

                         Where you but jeered and flouted.
        So utterly unlike God made us two!
        I’m bare of that he lavished upon you.
        But I have won the game where you were routed.
        Seen from the clouds, full many a wayside grain
        Of truth seems empty chaff and husks. You’d soar
        To heaven, I scarcely reach the stable door,
        One bird’s an eagle born—

                                   FALK.

                                    And one a hen.

                                 STRAWMAN.

        Yes, laugh away, and say it be so, grant
        I am a hen. There clusters to my cluck
        A crowd of little chickens,—which you want!
        And I’ve the hen’s high spirit and her pluck,
        And for my little ones forget myself.
        You think me dull, I know it. Possibly
        You pass a harsher judgment yet, decree
        Me over covetous of worldly pelf.
        Good, on that head we will not disagree.

                [_Seizes FALK’S arm and continues in a low tone but
                    with gathering vehemence._

        You’re right, I’m dull and dense and grasping, yes;
        But grasping for my God-given babes and wife,
        And dense from struggling blindly for bare life,
        And dull from sailing seas of loneliness.
        Just when the pinnace of my youthful dream
        Into the everlasting deep went down,
        Another started from the ocean stream
        Borne with a fair wind onward to life’s crown.
        For every dream that vanished in the wave,
        For every buoyant plume that broke asunder,
        God sent me in return a little Wonder,
        And gratefully I took the good He gave.
        For them I strove, for them amassed, annexed,—
        For them, for them, explained the Holy text;
        My clustering girls, my garden of delight!
        On them you’ve poured the venom of your spite!
        You’ve proved, with all the cunning of the schools,
        My bliss was but the paradise of fools,
        That all I took for earnest was a jest;—
        Now I implore, give me my quiet breast
        Again, the flawless peace of mind I had—

                                   FALK.

        Prove, in a word, your title to be glad?

                                 STRAWMAN.

        Yes, in my path you’ve cast the stone of doubt,
        And nobody but you can cast it out.
        Between my kin and me you’ve set a bar,—
        Remove the bar, the strangling noose undo—

                                   FALK.

        You possibly believe I keep the glue
        Of lies for Happiness’s broken jar?

                                 STRAWMAN.

        I do believe, the faith your reasons tore
        To shreds, your reasons may again restore;
        The limb that you have shatter’d, you can set;
        Reverse your judgment,—the whole truth unfold,
        Restate the case—I’ll fly my banner yet—

                            FALK [_haughtily_].

        I stamp no copper Happiness as gold.

                    STRAWMAN [_looking fixedly at him_].

        Remember then that, lately, one whose scent
        For truth is of the keenest told us this:

                                            [_With uplifted finger._

        “There runs through all our life a Nemesis,
        Which may delay, but never will relent.”

                                       [_He goes towards the house._

                                  STIVER.

                [_Coming out with glasses on, and an open book in
                    his hand._

        Pastor, you must come flying like the blast!
        Your girls are sobbing—

                      THE CHILDREN [_in the doorway_].

                                  Pa!

                                  STIVER.

                                       And Madam waiting!

                                                [_STRAWMAN goes in._

        This lady has no talent for debating.

                [_Puts the book and glasses in his pocket, and
                    approaches_ FALK.

        Falk!

                                   FALK.

               Yes!

                                  STIVER.

                     I hope you’ve changed your mind at last?

                                   FALK.

        Why so?

                                  STIVER.

                 For obvious reasons. To betray
        Communications made in confidence,
        Is conduct utterly without defence.
        They must not pass the lips.

                                   FALK.

                                      No, I’ve heard say
        It is at times a risky game to play.

                                  STIVER.

        The very devil!

                                   FALK.

                          Only for the great.

                           STIVER [_zealously_].

        No, no, for all us servants of the state.
        Only imagine how my future chances
        Would dwindle, if the governor once knew
        I keep a Pegasus that neighs and prances
        In office hours—and such an office, too!
        From first to last, you know, in our profession,
        The winged horse is viewed with reprobation:
        But worst of all would be, if it got wind
        That I against our primal law had sinn’d
        By bringing secret matters to the light—

                                   FALK.

        That’s penal, is it—such an oversight?

                          STIVER [_mysteriously_].

        It can a servant of the state compel
        To beg for his dismissal out of hand.
        On us officials lies a strict command,
        Even by the hearth to be inscrutable.

                                   FALK.

        O those despotical authorities,
        Muzzling the—clerk that treadeth out the grain!

                    STIVER [_shrugging his shoulders_].

        It is the law; to murmur is in vain.
        Moreover, at a moment such as this,
        When salary revision is in train,
        It is not well to advertise one’s views
        Of office time’s true function and right use.
        That’s why I beg you to be silent; look,
        A word may forfeit my—

                                   FALK.

                                 Portfolio?

                                  STIVER.

        Officially it’s called a transcript book;
        A protocol’s the clasp upon the veil of snow
        That shrouds the modest breast of the Bureau.
        What lies beneath you must not seek to know.

                                   FALK.

        And yet I only spoke at your desire;
        You hinted at your literary crop.

                                  STIVER.

        How should I guess he’d grovel in the mire
        So deep, this parson perch’d on fortune’s top,
        A man with snug appointments, children, wife,
        And money to defy the ills of life?
        If such a man prove such a Philistine,
        What shall of us poor copyists be said?
        Of me, who drive the quill and rule the line,
        A man engaged and shortly to be wed,
        With family in prospect—and so forth?

                                                 [_More vehemently._

        O, if I only had a well-lined berth,
        I’d bind the armour’d helmet on my head,
        And cry defiance to united earth!
        And were I only unengaged like you,
        Trust me, I’d break a road athwart the snow
        Of Prose, and carry the Ideal through!

                                   FALK.

        To work then, man!

                                  STIVER.

                            How?

                                   FALK.

                                  You may still do so!
        Let the world’s prudish owl unheeded flutter by;
        Freedom converts the grub into a butterfly!

                         STIVER [_stepping back_].

        You mean, to break the engagement—?

                                   FALK.

                                        That’s my mind;—
        The fruit is gone, why keep the empty rind?

                                  STIVER.

        Such a proposal’s for a green young shoot,
        Not for a man of judgment and repute.
        I heed not what King Christian in his time
        (The Fifth) laid down about engagements broken-off;
        For that relationship is nowhere spoken of
        In any rubric of the code of crime.
        The act would not be criminal in name,
        It would in no way violate the laws—

                                   FALK.

        Why there, you see then!

                             STIVER [_firmly_].

                                  Yes, but all the same,—
        I must reject all pleas in such a cause.
        Staunch comrades we have been in times of dearth;
        Of life’s disport she asks but little share,
        And I’m a homely fellow, long aware
        God made me for the ledger and the hearth.
        Let others emulate the eagle’s flight,
        Life in the lowly plains may be as bright.
        What does his Excellency Goethe say
        About the white and shining milky way?
        Man may not there the milk of fortune skim,
        Nor is the butter of it meant for him.

                                   FALK.

        Why, even were fortune-churning our life’s goal,
        The labour must be guided by the soul;—
        Be citizens of the time that is—but then
        Make the time worthy of the citizen.
        In homely things lurks beauty, without doubt,
        But watchful eye and brain must draw it out.
        Not every man who loves the soil he turns
        May therefore claim to be another Burns.

                                  STIVER.

        Then let us each our proper path pursue,
        And part in peace; we shall not hamper you;
        We keep the road, you hover in the sky,
        There where we too once floated, she and I.
        But work, not song, provides our daily bread,
        And when a man’s alive, his music’s dead.
        A young man’s life’s a lawsuit, and the most
        Superfluous litigation in existence:
        Withdraw, make terms, abandon all resistance:
        Plead where and how you will, your suit is lost.

              FALK [_bold and confident, with a glance at the
                              summer-house_].

        Nay, tho’ I took it to the highest place,—
        Judgment, I know, would be reversed by grace!
        I know two hearts can live a life complete,
        With hope still ardent, and with faith still sweet;
        You preach the wretched gospel of the hour,
        That the Ideal is secondary!

                                  STIVER.

                                     No!
        It’s primary: appointed, like the flower,
        To generate the fruit, and then to go.

                [_Indoors_, MISS JAY _plays and sings: “In the
                    Gloaming.”_ STIVER _stands listening in silent
                    emotion._

        With the same melody she calls me yet
        Which thrilled me to the heart when first we met.

                [_Lays his hand on FALK’S arm and gazes intently at
                    him._

        Oft as she wakens those pathetic notes,
        From the white keys reverberating floats
        An echo of the “yes” that made her mine.
        And when our passions shall one day decline,
        To live again as friendship, to the last
        That song shall link that present to this past.
        And what tho’ at the desk my back grow round,
        And my day’s work a battle for mere bread,
        Yet joy will lead me homeward, where the dead
        Enchantment will be born again in sound.
        If one poor bit of evening we can claim,
        I shall come off undamaged from the game!

                [_He goes into the house._ FALK _turns towards the
                    summer-house._ SVANHILD _comes out, she is pale
                    and agitated. They gaze at each other in silence
                    a moment, and fling themselves impetuously into
                    each other’s arms._

                                   FALK.

        O, Svanhild, let us battle side by side!
        Thou fresh glad blossom flowering by the tomb,—
        See what the life is that they call youth’s bloom!
        There’s coffin-stench of bridegroom and of bride;
        There’s coffin-stench wherever two go by
        At the street corner, smiling outwardly,
        With falsehood’s reeking sepulchre beneath,
        And in their blood the apathy of death.
        And this they think is living! Heaven and earth,
        Is such a load so many antics worth?
        For such an end to haul up babes in shoals,
        To pamper them with honesty and reason,
        To feed them fat with faith one sorry season,
        For service, after killing-day, as souls?

                                 SVANHILD.

        Falk, let us travel!

                                   FALK.

                              Travel? Whither, then?
        Is not the whole world everywhere the same?
        And does not Truth’s own mirror in its frame
        Lie equally to all the sons of men?
        No, we will stay and watch the merry game,
        The conjurer’s trick, the tragi-comedy
        Of liars that are dupes of their own lie;
        Stiver and Lind, the Parson and his dame,
        See them,—prize oxen harness’d to love’s yoke,
        And yet at bottom very decent folk!
        Each wears for others and himself a mask,
        Yet one too innocent to take to task;
        Each one, a stranded sailor on a wreck,
        Counts himself happy as the gods in heaven;
        Each his own hand from Paradise has driven,
        Then, splash! into the sulphur to the neck!
        But none has any inkling where he lies,
        Each thinks himself a knight of Paradise,
        And each sits smiling between howl and howl;
        And if the Fiend come by with jeer and growl,
        With horns, and hoofs, and things yet more abhorred,—
        Then each man jogs the neighbour at his jowl:
        “Off with your hat, man! See, there goes the Lord!”

               SVANHILD [_after a brief thoughtful silence_].

        How marvellous a love my steps have led
        To this sweet trysting place! My life that sped
        In frolic and fantastic visions gay,
        Henceforth shall grow one ceaseless working day!
        O God! I wandered groping,—all was dim:
        Thou gavest me light—and I discovered _him_!

                             [_Gazing at_ FALK _in love and wonder._

        Whence is that strength of thine, thou mighty tree
        That stand’st unshaken in the wind-wrecked wood,
        That stand’st alone, and yet canst shelter me—?

                                   FALK.

        God’s truth, my Svanhild;—that gives fortitude.

             SVANHILD [_with a shy glance towards the house_].

        They came like tempters, evilly inclined,
        Each spokesman for his half of humankind,
        One asking: How can true love reach its goal
        When riches’ leaden weight subdues the soul?
        The other asking: How can true love speed
        When life’s a battle to the death with Need?
        O horrible!—to bid the world receive
        That teaching as the truth, and yet to live!

                                   FALK.

        How if ’twere meant for us?

                                 SVANHILD.

                                     For us?—What, then?
        Can outward fate control the wills of men?
        I have already said: if thou’lt stand fast,
        I’ll dare and suffer by thee to the last.
        How light to listen to the gospel’s voice,
        To leave one’s home behind, to weep, rejoice,
        And take with God the husband of one’s choice!

                          FALK [_embracing her_].

        Come then, and blow thy worst, thou winter weather!
        We stand unshaken, for we stand together!

                [MRS. HALM _and_ GULDSTAD _come in from the right in
                    the background._

                             GULDSTAD [aside].

        Observe!

                [FALK _and_ SVANHILD _remain standing by the
                    summer-house._

                          MRS. HALM [_surprised_].

                  Together!

                                 GULDSTAD.

                            Do you doubt it now?

                                 MRS. HALM.

        This is most singular.

                                 GULDSTAD.

                                O, I’ve noted how
        His work of late absorb’d his interest.

                         MRS. HALM [_to herself_].

        Who would have fancied Svanhild was so sly?

                                         [_Vivaciously to_ GULDSTAD.

        But no—I can’t think.

                                 GULDSTAD.

                                Put it to the test.

                                 MRS. HALM.

        Now, on the spot?

                                  GULDSTAD

                           Yes, and decisively!

                     MRS. HALM [_giving him her hand_].

        God’s blessing with you!

                           GULDSTAD [_gravely_].

                                  Thanks, it may bestead.

                                              [_Comes to the front._

         MRS. HALM [_looking back as she goes towards the house_].

        Whichever way it goes, my child is sped.

                                                         [_Goes in._

                       GULDSTAD [_approaching FALK_].

        It’s late, I think?

                                   FALK.

                             Ten minutes and I go.

                                 GULDSTAD.

        Sufficient for my purpose.

                            SVANHILD [_going_].

                                    Farewell.

                                 GULDSTAD.

                                               No,
        Remain.

                                 SVANHILD.

                 Shall I?

                                 GULDSTAD.

                           Until you’ve answered me.
        It’s time we squared accounts. It’s time we three
        Talked out for once together from the heart.

                           FALK [_taken aback_].

        We three?

                                 GULDSTAD.

                   Yes,—all disguises flung apart.

                       FALK [_suppressing a smile_].

        O, at your service.

                                 GULDSTAD.

                             Very good, then hear.
        We’ve been acquainted now for half a year;
        We’ve wrangled—

                                   FALK.

                          Yes.

                                 GULDSTAD.

                                We’ve been in constant feud;
        We’ve changed hard blows enough. You fought—alone—
        For a sublime ideal; I as one
        Among the money-grubbing multitude.
        And yet it seemed as if a chord united
        Us two, as if a thousand thoughts that lay
        Deep in my own youth’s memory benighted
        Had started at your bidding into day.
        Yes, I amaze you. But this hair grey-sprinkled
        Once fluttered brown in spring-time, and this brow,
        Which daily occupation moistens now
        With sweat of labour, was not always wrinkled.
        Enough; I am a man of business, hence—

                       FALK [_with gentle sarcasm_].

        You are the type of practical good sense.

                                 GULDSTAD.

        And you are hope’s own singer young and fain.

                                           [_Stepping between them._

        Just therefore, Falk and Svanhild, I am here.
        Now let us talk, then; for the hour is near
        Which brings good hap or sorrow in its train.

                           FALK [_in suspense_].

        Speak, then!

                           GULDSTAD [_smiling_].

                      My ground is, as I said last night,
        A kind of poetry—

                                   FALK.

                            In practice.

                        GULDSTAD [_nodding slowly_].

                                         Right!

                                   FALK.

        And if one asked the source from which you drew—?

                                 GULDSTAD.

                [_Glancing a moment at_ SVANHILD, _and then turning
                    again to_ FALK.

        A common source discovered by us two.

                                 SVANHILD.

        Now I must go.

                                 GULDSTAD.

                        No, wait till I conclude.
        I should not ask so much of others. You,
        Svanhild, I’ve learnt to fathom thro’ and thro’;
        You are too sensible to play the prude.
        I watched expand, unfold, your little life;
        A perfect woman I divined within you,
        But long I only saw a daughter in you;—
        Now I ask of you—will you be my wife?

                            [SVANHILD _draws back in embarrassment._

                         FALK [_seizing his arm_].

        Hold!

                                 GULDSTAD.

               Patience; she must answer. Put your own
        Question;—then her decision will be free.

                                   FALK.

        I—do you say?

                   GULDSTAD [_looking steadily at him_].

                        The happiness of three
        Lives is at stake to-day,—not mine alone.
        Don’t fancy it concerns you less than me;
        For tho’ base matter is my chosen sphere,
        Yet nature made me something of a seer.
        Yes, Falk, you love her. Gladly, I confess,
        I saw your young love bursting into flower.
        But this young passion, with its lawless power,
        May be the ruin of her happiness.

                            FALK [_firing up_].

        You have the face to say so?

                           GULDSTAD [_quietly_].

                                     Years give right.
        Say now you won her—

                            FALK [_defiantly_].

                            And what then?

                   GULDSTAD [_slowly and emphatically_].

                                           Yes, say
        She ventured in one bottom to embark
        Her _all_, her all upon one card to play,—
        And then life’s tempest swept the ship away,
        And the flower faded as the day grew dark?

                          FALK [_involuntarily_].

        She must not!

                 GULDSTAD [_looking at him with meaning_].

                       Hm. So I myself decided
        When I was young, like you. In days of old
        I was afire for one. Our paths divided.
        Last night we met again;—the fire was cold.

                                   FALK.

        Last night?

                                 GULDSTAD.

                     Last night. You know the parson’s dame—

                                   FALK.

        What? It was _she_, then, who—

                                 GULDSTAD.

                                   Who lit the flame.
        Long I remembered her with keen regret,
        And still in my remembrance she arose
        As the young lovely woman that she was
        When in life’s buoyant spring-time first we met.
        And that same foolish fire you now are fain
        To light, that game of hazard you would dare.
        See, that is why I call to you—beware!
        The game is perilous! Pause, and think again!

                                   FALK.

        No, to the whole tea-caucus I declared
        My fixed and unassailable belief—

                   GULDSTAD [_completing his sentence_].

        That heartfelt love can weather unimpaired
        Custom, and Poverty, and Age, and Grief.
        Well, say it be so; possibly you’re right;
        But see the matter in another light.
        What _love_ is, no man ever told us—whence
        It issues, that ecstatic confidence
        That one life may fulfil itself in two,—
        To this no mortal ever found the clue.
        But _marriage_ is a practical concern,
        As also is betrothal, my good sir—
        And by experience easily we learn
        That we are fitted just for _her_, or _her_.
        But love, you know, goes blindly to its fate,
        Chooses a woman, not a wife, for mate;
        And what if now this chosen woman was
        No wife for you—?

                           FALK [_in suspense_].

                          Well?

                   GULDSTAD [_shrugging his shoulders_].

                         Then you’ve lost your cause.
        To make a happy bridegroom and a bride
        Demands not love alone, but much beside,
        Relations one can meet with satisfaction,
        Ideas that do not wholly disagree.
        And marriage? Why, it is a very sea
        Of claims and calls, of taxing and exaction,
        Whose bearing upon love is very small.
        Here mild domestic virtues are demanded,
        A kitchen soul, inventive and neat handed,
        Making no claims, and executing all;—
        And much which in a lady’s presence I
        Can hardly with decorum specify.

                                   FALK.

        And therefore—?

                                 GULDSTAD.

                          Hear a golden counsel then.
        Use your experience; watch your fellow-men,
        How every loving couple struts and swaggers
        Like millionaires among a world of beggars.
        They scamper to the altar, lad and lass,
        They make a home and, drunk with exultation,
        Dwell for awhile within its walls of glass.
        Then comes the day of reckoning;—out, alas,
        They’re bankrupt, and their house in liquidation!
        Bankrupt the bloom of youth on woman’s brow,
        Bankrupt the flower of passion in her breast,
        Bankrupt the husband’s battle-ardour now,
        Bankrupt each spark of passion he possessed.
        Bankrupt the whole estate, below, above,—
        And yet this broken pair were once confessed
        A first-class house in all the wares of love!

                            FALK [_vehemently_].

        That is a lie!

                           GULDSTAD [_unmoved_].

                        Some hours ago ’twas true
        However. I have only quoted you;—
        In these same words you challenged to the field
        The “caucus” with love’s name upon your shield.
        Then rang repudiation fast and thick
        From all directions, as from you at present;
        Incredible, I know; who finds it pleasant
        To hear the name of death when he is sick?
        Look at the priest! A painter and composer
        Of taste and spirit when he wooed his bride;—
        What wonder if the man became a proser
        When she was snugly settled by his side?
        To be his lady-love she was most fit;
        To be his wife, tho’—not a bit of it.
        And then the clerk, who once wrote clever numbers?
        No sooner was the gallant plighted, fixed,
        Than all his rhymes ran counter and got mixed;
        And now his Muse continuously slumbers,
        Lullabied by the law’s eternal hum.
        Thus you see—    [_Looks at_ SVANHILD.

                      Are you cold?

                            SVANHILD [_softly_].

                                  No.

                        FALK [_with forced humour_].

                                     Since the sum
        Works out a _minus_ then in every case
        And never shows a _plus_,—why should you be
        So resolute your capital to place
        In such a questionable lottery?
        It almost looks as if you fancied Fate
        Had meant you for a bankrupt from your birth?

          GULDSTAD [_looks at him, smiles, and shakes his head_].

        My bold young Falk, reserve a while your mirth.—
        There are two ways of founding an estate.
        It may be built on credit—drafts long-dated
        On pleasure in a never-ending bout,
        On perpetuity of youth unbated,
        And permanent postponement of the gout.
        It may be built on lips of rosy red,
        On sparkling eyes and locks of flowing gold,
        On trust these glories never will be shed,
        Nor the dread hour of periwigs be tolled.
        It may be built on thoughts that glow and quiver,—
        Flowers blowing in the sandy wilderness,—
        On hearts that, to the end of life, for ever
        Throb with the passion of the primal “yes.”
        To dealings such as this the world extends
        One epithet: ’tis known as “humbug,” friends.

                                   FALK.

        I see, you are a dangerous attorney,
        You—well-to-do, a millionaire may-be;
        While two broad backs could carry in one journey
        All that beneath the sun belongs to me.

                           GULDSTAD [_sharply_].

        What do you mean?

                                   FALK.

                           That is not hard to see.
        For the sound way of building, I suppose,
        Is just with cash—the wonder-working paint
        That round the widow’s batten’d forehead throws
        The aureole of a young adored saint.

                                 GULDSTAD.

        O no, ’tis something better that I meant.
        ’Tis the still flow of generous esteem,
        Which no less honours the recipient
        Than does young rapture’s giddy-whirling dream.
        It is the feeling of the blessedness
        Of service, and home quiet, and tender ties,
        The joy of mutual self-sacrifice,
        Of keeping watch lest any stone distress
        Her footsteps wheresoe’er her pathway lies;
        It is the healing arm of a true friend,
        The manly muscle that no burdens bend,
        The constancy no length of years decays,
        The arm that stoutly lifts and firmly stays.
        This, Svanhild, is the contribution I
        Bring to your fortune’s fabric: now, reply.

                [SVANHILD _makes an effort to speak;_ GULDSTAD
                    _lifts his hand to check her._

        Consider well before you give your voice!
        With clear deliberation make your choice.

                                   FALK.

        And how have you discovered—

                                 GULDSTAD.

                                   That you love her?
        That in your eyes ’twas easy to discover.
        Let her too know it.    [_Presses his hand._
                            Now I will go in.
        Let the jest cease and earnest work begin;
        And if you undertake that till the end
        You’ll be to her no less a faithful friend,
        A staff to lean on, and a help in need,
        Than I can be—    [_Turning to_ SVANHILD.
                      Why, good, my offer’s nought;
        Cancel it from the tables of your thought.
        Then it is I who triumph in very deed;
        You’re happy, and for nothing else I fought.

                                                         [_To_ FALK.

        And, apropos—just now you spoke of cash,
        Trust me, ’tis little more than tinsell’d trash.
        I have no ties, stand perfectly alone;
        To you I will make over all I own;
        My daughter she shall be, and you my son.
        You know I have a business by the border:
        There I’ll retire, you set your home in order,
        And we’ll foregather when a year is gone.
        Now, Falk, you know me; with the same precision
        Observe yourself: the voyage down life’s stream,
        Remember, is no pastime and no dream.
        Now, in the name of God—make your decision!

                [_Goes into the house. Pause._ FALK _and_ SVANHILD
                    _look shyly at each other._

                                   FALK.

        You are so pale.

                                 SVANHILD.

                         And you so silent.

                                   FALK.

                                           True.

                                 SVANHILD.

        He smote us hardest.

                           FALK. [_to himself_].

                            Stole my armour, too.

                                 SVANHILD.

        What blows he struck!

                                   FALK.

                             He knew to place them well.

                                 SVANHILD.

        All seemed to go to pieces where they fell.

                                            [_Coming nearer to him._

        How rich in one another’s wealth before
        We were, when all had left us in despite,
        And Thought rose upward like the echoing roar
        Of breakers in the silence of the night.
        With exultation then we faced the fray,
        And confidence that Love is lord of death;—
        He came with worldly cunning, stole our faith,
        Sowed doubt,—and all the glory pass’d away!

                       FALK [_with wild vehemence_].

        Tear, tear it from thy memory! All his talk
        Was true for others, but for us a lie!

                   SVANHILD [_slowly shaking her head_].

        The golden grain, hail-stricken on its stalk,
        Will never more wave wanton to the sky.

                   FALK [_with an outburst of anguish_].

        Yes, we two, Svanhild—!

                                 SVANHILD.

                            Hence with hopes that snare!
        If you sow falsehood, you must reap despair.
        For others true, you say? And do you doubt
        That each of them, like us, is sure, alike,
        That he’s the man the lightning will not strike,
        And no avenging thunder will find out,
        Whom the blue storm-cloud, scudding up the sky
        On wings of tempest, never can come nigh?

                                   FALK.

        The others split their souls on scattered ends:
        Thy single love my being comprehends.
        They’re hoarse with yelling in life’s Babel din:
        I in this quiet shelter fold thee in.

                                 SVANHILD.

        But if love, notwithstanding, should decay,
        —Love being Happiness’s single stay—
        Could you avert, then, Happiness’s fall?

                                   FALK.

        No, my love’s ruin were the wreck of all.

                                 SVANHILD.

        And can you promise me before the Lord
        That it will last, not drooping like the flower,
        But smell as sweet as now till life’s last hour?

                       FALK [_after a short pause_].

        It will last long.

                         SVANHILD [_with anguish_].

                          “Long!” “Long!”—Poor starveling word!
        Can “long” give any comfort in Love’s need?
        It is her death-doom, blight upon her seed.
        “My faith is, Love will never pass away”—
        _That_ song must cease, and in its stead be heard:
        “My faith is, that I loved you yesterday!”

                                      [_As uplifted by inspiration._

        No, no, not thus our day of bliss shall wane,
        Flag drearily to west in clouds and rain;—
        But at high noontide, when it is most bright,
        Plunge sudden, like a meteor, into night!

                           FALK. [_in anguish_].

        What would you, Svanhild?

                                 SVANHILD.

                               We are of the Spring;
        No Autumn shall come after, when the bird
        Of music in thy breast shall not be heard,
        And long not thither where it first took wing.
        Nor ever Winter shall his snowy shroud
        Lay on the clay-cold body of our bliss;—
        This Love of ours, ardent and glad and proud,
        Pure of disease’s taint and age’s cloud,
        Shall die the young and glorious thing it is!

                           FALK [_in deep pain_].

        And far from thee—what would be left of life?

                                 SVANHILD.

        And near me what were left—if Love depart?

                                   FALK.

        A home!

                                 SVANHILD.

                 Where Joy would gasp in mortal strife.

                                                          [_Firmly._

        It was not given to me to be your wife.
        That is the clear conviction of my heart!
        In courtship’s merry pastime I can lead,
        But not sustain your spirit in its need.

                                  [_Nearer and with gathering fire._

        Now we have revell’d out a feast of spring;
        No thought of slumber’s sluggard couch come nigh!
        Let Joy amid delirious song make wing
        And flock with choirs of cherubim on high.
        And tho’ the vessel of our fate capsize,
        One plank yet breasts the waters, strong to save;—
        The fearless swimmer reaches Paradise!
        Let Joy go down into his watery grave;
        Our Love shall yet in triumph, by God’s hand,
        Be borne from out the wreckage safe to land!

                                   FALK.

        O, I divine thee! But—to sever thus!
        Now, when the portals of the world stand wide,—
        When the blue spring is bending over us,
        On the same day that plighted thee my bride!

                                 SVANHILD.

        Just therefore must we part. Our joy’s torch fire
        Will from this moment wane till it expire!
        And when at last our worldly days are spent,
        And face to face with our great Judge we stand,
        And, as a righteous God, he shall demand
        Of us the earthly treasure that he lent—
        Then, Falk, we cry—past power of Grace to save—
        “O Lord, we lost it going to the grave!”

                       FALK [_with strong resolve_].

        Pluck off the ring!

                          SVANHILD [_with fire_].

                             Wilt thou?

                                   FALK.

                                         Now I divine!
        Thus and no otherwise canst thou be mine!
        As the grave opens into life’s Dawn-fire,
        So Love with Life may not espoused be
        Till, loosed from longing and from wild desire,
        It soars into the heaven of memory!
        Pluck off the ring, Svanhild!

                          SVANHILD [_in rapture_].

                                       My task is done!
        Now I have filled thy soul with song and sun.
        Forth! Now thou soarest on triumphant wings,—
        Forth! Now thy Svanhild is the swan that sings!

                   [_Takes off the ring and presses a kiss upon it._

        To the abysmal ooze of ocean bed
        Descend, my dream!—I fling thee in its stead!

                [_Goes a few steps back, throws the ring into the
                    fjord, and approaches_ FALK _with a transfigured
                    expression._

        Now for this earthly life I have foregone thee,—
        But for the life eternal I have won thee!

                              FALK [_firmly_].

        And now to the day’s duties, each, alone.
        Our paths no more will mingle. Each must wage
        His warfare single-handed, without moan.
        We caught the fevered frenzy of the age,
        Fain without fighting to secure the spoil,
        Win Sabbath ease, and shirk the six days’ toil,
        Tho’ we are called to strive and to forego.

                                 SVANHILD.

        But not in sickness.

                                   FALK.

                              No,—made strong by truth.
        Our heads no penal flood will overflow;
        This never-dying memory of our youth
        Shall gleam against the cloud-wrack like the bow
        Of promise flaming in its colours seven,—
        Sign that we are in harmony with heaven.
        That gleam your quiet duties shall make bright—

                                 SVANHILD.

        And speed the poet in his upward flight!

                                   FALK.

        The poet, yes; for poets all men are
        Who see, thro’ all their labours, mean or great,
        In pulpit or in schoolroom, church or state,
        The Ideal’s lone beacon-splendour flame afar.
        Yes, upward is my flight; the winged steed
        Is saddled; I am strung for noble deed.
        And now, farewell!

                                 SVANHILD.

                          Farewell!

                          FALK [_embracing her_].

                                   One kiss!

                                 SVANHILD.

                                             The last!

                                              [_Tears herself free._

        Now I can lose thee gladly till life’s past!

                                   FALK.

        Tho’ quenched were all the light of earth and sky,—
        The thought of light is God, and cannot die.

              SVANHILD [_withdrawing towards the background_].

        Farewell!

                                                    [_Goes further._

                                   FALK.

                   Farewell—gladly I cry again—

                                                   [_Waves his hat._

        Hurrah for love, God’s glorious gift to men!

                [_The door opens._ FALK _withdraws to the right; the
                    younger guests come out with merry laughter._

                              THE YOUNG GIRLS.

        A lawn dance!

                               A YOUNG GIRL.

                       Dancing’s life!

                                  ANOTHER.

                                     A garland spread
        With dewy blossoms fresh on every head!

                                  SEVERAL.

        Yes, to the dance, the dance!

                                    ALL.

                                    And ne’er to bed!

                [STIVER _comes out with_ STRAWMAN _arm in arm._ MRS.
                    STRAWMAN _and the children follow._

                                  STIVER.

        Yes, you and I henceforward are fast friends.

                                 STRAWMAN.

        Allied in battle for our common ends.

                                  STIVER.

        When the twin forces of the State agree—

                                 STRAWMAN.

        They add to all men’s—

                            STIVER [_hastily_].

                                 Gains!

                                 STRAWMAN.

                                         And gaiety.

                [MRS. HALM, LIND, ANNA, GULDSTAD, _and_ MISS JAY,
                    _with the other guests, come out. All eyes are
                    turned upon_ FALK _and_ SVANHILD. _General
                    amazement when they are seen standing apart._

            MISS JAY [_among the_ AUNTS, _clasping her hands_].

        What! Am I awake or dreaming, pray?

                     LIND [_who has noticed nothing_].

        I have a brother’s compliments to pay.

                [_He, with the other guests, approaches_ FALK, _but
                    starts involuntarily and steps back on looking
                    at him._

        What is the matter with you? You’re a Janus
        With double face!

                             FALK [_smiling_].

                           I cry, like old Montanus,
        The earth is flat, Messieurs;—my optics lied;
        Flat as a pancake—are you satisfied?

                                   [_Goes quickly out to the right._

                                 MISS JAY.

        Refused!

                                 THE AUNTS.

                  Refused!

                                 MRS. HALM.

                            Hush, ladies, if you please!

                                         [_Goes across to_ SVANHILD.

                       MRS. STRAWMAN [_to STRAWMAN_].

        Fancy, refused!

                                 STRAWMAN.

                         It cannot be!

                                 MISS JAY.

                                        It is!

                    THE LADIES [_from mouth to mouth_].

        Refused! Refused! Refused!

                [_They gather in little groups about the garden._

                           STIVER [_dumfounded_].

                                    _He_ courting? How?

                                 STRAWMAN.

        Yes, think! He laugh’d at us, ha, ha—but
        now—

                              [_They gaze at each other speechless._

                             ANNA [_to_ LIND].

        That’s good! He was too horrid, to be sure!

                          LIND [_embracing her_].

        Hurrah, now thou art mine, entire and whole.

                                 [_They go outside into the garden._

                GULDSTAD [_looking back towards_ SVANHILD].

        Something is shattered in a certain soul;
        But what is yet alive in it I’ll cure.

           STRAWMAN [_recovering himself and embracing_ STIVER].

        Now then, you can be very well contented
        To have your dear _fiancée_ for a spouse.

                                  STIVER.

        And you complacently can see your house
        With little Strawmans every year augmented.

                                  STRAWMAN

                [_Rubbing his hands with satisfaction and looking
                    after_ FALK.

        Insolent fellow! Well, it served him right;—
        Would all these knowing knaves were in his plight!

                [_They go across in conversation_; MRS. HALM
                    _approaches with_ SVANHILD.

                       MRS. HALM [_aside, eagerly_].

        And nothing binds you?

                                 SVANHILD.

                               Nothing.

                                 MRS. HALM.

                                       Good, you know
        A daughter’s duty—

                                 SVANHILD.

                             Guide me, I obey.

                                 MRS. HALM

        Thanks, child.

                                            [_Pointing to_ GULDSTAD.

                        He is a rich and _comme il faut
        Parti_; and since there’s nothing in the way—

                                 SVANHILD.

        Yes, there is one condition I require!— To leave this place.

                                 MRS. HALM.

                            Precisely his desire.

                                 SVANHILD.

        And time—

                                 MRS. HALM.

                  How long? Bethink you, fortune’s calling!

                      SVANHILD [_with a quiet smile_].

        Only a little; till the leaves are falling.

                [_She goes towards the verandah;_ MRS. HALM _seeks
                    out_ GULDSTAD.

                       STRAWMAN [_among the guests_].

        One lesson, friends, we learn from this example!
        Tho’ Doubt’s beleaguering forces hem us in,
        Yet Truth upon the Serpent’s head shall trample,
        The cause of Love shall win—

                                  GUESTS.

                                     Yes, Love shall win!

                [_They embrace and kiss, pair by pair. Outside to
                    the left are heard song and laughter._

                                 MISS JAY.

        What can this mean?

                                   ANNA.

                          The students!

                                   LIND.

                                      The quartette,
        Bound for the mountains;—and I quite forgot
        To tell them—

                [_The_ STUDENTS _come in to the left and remain
                    standing at the entrance._

                           A STUDENT [_to_ LIND].

                  Here we are upon the spot!

                                 MRS. HALM.

        It’s Lind you seek, then?

                                 MISS JAY.

                                That’s unfortunate.
        He’s just engaged—

                                  AN AUNT.

                            And so, you may be sure,
        He cannot think of going on a tour.

                               THE STUDENTS.

        Engaged!

                             ALL THE STUDENTS.

                      Congratulations!

                         LIND [_to his comrades_].

                                     Thanks, my friends!

                      THE STUDENT [_to his comrades_].

        There goes our whole fish-kettle in the fire!
        Our tenor lost! No possible amends!

                                    FALK

                [_Coming from the right, in summer suit, with
                    student’s cap, knapsack and stick._

        _I_’ll sing the tenor in young Norway’s choir!

                               THE STUDENTS.

        You, Falk! hurrah!

                                   FALK.

                     Forth to the mountains, come!
        As the bee hurries from her winter home!
        A twofold music in my breast I bear,
        A cither with diversely sounding strings,
        One for life’s joy, a treble loud and clear,
        And one deep note that quivers as it sings.

                               [_To individuals among the_ STUDENTS.

        You have the palette?—You the note-book? Good,
        Swarm then, my bees, into the leafy wood,
        Till at night-fall with pollen-laden thigh,
        Home to our mighty mother-queen we fly!

                [_Turning to the company, while the_ STUDENTS
                    _depart and the Chorus of the First Act is
                    faintly heard outside._

        Forgive me my offences great and small,
        I resent nothing;—

                                                          [_Softly._

                              but remember all.

                    STRAWMAN [_beaming with happiness_].

        Now fortune’s garden once again is green!
        My wife has hopes,—a sweet presentiment—

                                      [_Draws him whispering apart._

        She lately whispered of a glad event—

                                       [_Inaudible words intervene._

        If all goes well ... at Michaelmas ... thirteen!

                                   STIVER

                [_With_ MISS JAY _on his arm, turning to_ FALK,
                    _smiles triumphantly, and says, pointing to_
                    STRAWMAN:

        I’m going to start a household, flush of pelf!

                  MISS JAY [_with an ironical courtesy_].

        I shall put on my wedding-ring next Yule.

               ANNA [_similarly, as she takes_ LIND’S _arm_].

        My Lind will stay, the Church can mind itself—

                     LIND [_hiding his embarrassment_].

        And seek an opening in a ladies’ school.

                                 MRS. HALM.

        I cultivate my Anna’s capabilities—

                           GULDSTAD [_gravely_].

        An unromantic poem I mean to make
        Of one who only lives for duty’s sake.

                FALK [_with a smile to the whole company_].

        I go to scale the Future’s possibilities!
        Farewell!    [_Softly to_ SVANHILD.

                   God bless thee, bride of my life’s dawn,
        Where’er I be, to nobler deed thou’lt wake me.



        [_Waves his hat and follows the_ STUDENTS.

                                 SVANHILD.

                [_Looks after him a moment, then says, softly but
                    firmly:_

        Now over is my life, by lea and lawn,
        The leaves are falling;—now the world may take me.

                [_At this moment the piano strikes up a dance, and
                    champagne corks explode in the background. The
                    gentlemen hurry to and fro with their ladies on
                    their arms._ GULDSTAD _approaches_ SVANHILD _and
                    bows: she starts momentarily, then collects
                    herself and gives him her hand._ MRS. HALM _and
                    her family, who have watched the scene in
                    suspense, throng about them with expressions of
                    rapture, which are overpowered by the music and
                    the merriment of the dancers in the garden._

                [_But from the country the following chorus rings
                    loud and defiant through the dance music:_

                      CHORUS OF FALK AND THE STUDENTS.

                And what if I shattered my roaming bark, It was
                    passing sweet to be roaming!

                            MOST OF THE COMPANY.

                Hurrah!

                          [_Dance and merriment; the curtain falls._




                                 NOTES


    P. 18. “_William Russel._” An original historic tragedy, founded
    upon the career of the ill-fated Lord William Russell, by Andreas
    Munch, cousin of the historian P. A. Munch. It was produced at
    Christiania in 1857, the year of Ibsen’s return from Bergen, and
    reviewed by him in the _Illustreret Nyhedsblad_ for that year, Nos.
    51 and 52. Professor Johan Storm of Christiania, to whose kindness I
    owe these particulars, adds that “it is rather a fine play and
    created a certain sensation in its time; but Munch is forgotten.”

    P. 20. _A grey old stager._ Ibsen’s friend P. Botten-Hansen, author
    of the play _Hyldrebryllupet_.

    P. 59. _A Svanhild like the old._ In the tale of the Völsungs
    Svanhild was the daughter of Sigurd and Gudrun,—the Siegfried and
    Kriemhild of the _Nibelungenlied_. The fierce king Jormunrek,
    hearing of her matchless beauty, sends his son Randwer to woo her in
    his name. Randwer is, however, induced to woo her in his own, and
    the girl approves. Jormunrek thereupon causes Randwer to be arrested
    and hanged, and meeting with Svanhild, as he and his men ride home
    from the hunt, tramples her to death under their horses’ hoofs.
    Gudrun incites her sons Sorli and Hamdir to avenge their sister;
    they boldly enter Jormunrek’s hall, and succeed in cutting off his
    hands and feet, but are themselves slain by his men. This last
    dramatic episode is told in the Eddic _Hamthismol_.

    P. 94. _In the remotest east there grows a plant._ The germ of the
    famous tea-simile is due to Fru Collett’s romance, “The Official’s
    Daughters” (_cf._ Introduction, p. ix.). But she exploits the idea
    only under a single and obvious aspect, viz., the comparison of the
    tender bloom of love with the precious firstling blade which brews
    the quintessential tea for the Chinese emperor’s table; what the
    world calls love being, like what it calls tea, a coarse and
    flavourless aftercrop. Ibsen has, it will be seen, given a number of
    ingenious developments to the analogy. I know Fru Collett’s work
    only through the accounts of it given by Brandes and Jæger.

    P. 135. _Another Burns._ In the original: “Dölen” (“The Dalesman”),
    that is A. O. Vinje, Ibsen’s friend and literary comrade, editor of
    the journal so-called and hence known familiarly by its name. See
    the Introduction.

    P. 160. _Like Old Montanus._ The hero of Holberg’s comedy _Erasmus
    Montanus_, who returns from foreign travel to his native parish with
    the discovery that the world is not flat. Public indignation is
    aroused, and Montanus finds it expedient to announce that his eyes
    had deceived him, that “the world _is_ flat, gentlemen.”




                        ERRATA IN LATER VOLUMES

                               VOLUME II

    Page 65, lines 13 and 15 from bottom, _for_ “Thorold” _read_
       “Thorolf.”
    Page 223, line 10 from top, _for_ “our” _read_ “your.”
    Page 306, last line, _for_ “comes” _read_ “come.”

                               VOLUME III

    Page  31, last line, first word “Ha!”
    Page  41, line  9 from bottom, _for_ “wing” _read_ “wings.”
    Page 106, last line, first word “But.”
    Page 136, line 13 from bottom, _for_ “in” _read_ “is.”
    Page 163, line  4 from bottom, _before_ “must” insert “I.”
    Page 204, first line, _for_ “Babe” _read_ “Babel.”

                               VOLUME IV

    Page  68, line  2 from top, _after_ “Black” _read_ “it.”
    Page 165, line  2 from bottom, _for_ “than” _read_ “that.”
    Page 226, line 10 from top, _for_ “mus” _read_ “muss.”
    Page 239, line  5 from top, _for_ “That” _read_ “That’s.”

                               VOLUME VI

    Page 288, line 10 from bottom, _for_ “railways” _read_ “railway.”

                              VOLUME VIII

    Page   9, line  6 from top, _for_ “it” _read_ “is.”
    Page 125, line 14 from top, _for_ “doubt” _read_ “doubts.”
    Page 227, line  2 from top, _after_ “us” _insert_ “is.”
    Page 296, line 14 from bottom, _after_ “takes” _delete_ comma.
    Page 366, line 10 from bottom, _after_ “getting” _insert_ “some.”

                               VOLUME IX

    Page 170, line 14 from top, _for_ “waters” _read_ “water.”
    Page 243, line  8 from top, _for_ “rises” _read_ “rise.”

                                VOLUME X

    Page  81, line 2 from bottom, _after_ “if” _insert_ “I.”
    Page 151, line 2 from top, _delete_ second “the.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                             Transcriber’s Note

    The Notes that follow “Love’s Comedy” are indexed to page numbers
    relative to the start of that play. Page 18, for instance, is
    printed as page 304, and is the 18th page. The sole exception is the
    final note, referenced to p. 160, which should be p. 168 according
    to this scheme. The situation is moot in this text, as page numbers
    are not preserved.

    Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected,
    and are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the
    original. The following issues should be noted, along with the
    resolutions.

  374.19   MISS JAY [(/[]_scoffing_.]                     Replaced.
  431.30   my steps ha[s/ve] led                          Replaced.
  465.3    _for_ “Thorold” _read_ “Thorolf[.”]            Added.