Transcriber’s Note:

Footnotes have been collected at the end of each section or act, and are linked for ease of reference.

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.

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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 viiias 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 ixedition, 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 xthat 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 xisomething 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 xiiLady 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 xiiiwhich 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 xivactual 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 xvof 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.

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.

xviiAs 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 xviiiapprenticed 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 xixthe 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 xxplay, 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 xxithe 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 xxiitheatrical 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 xxiiiprepared 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 xxivpoliteness. 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 xxvChristmas 1876, he gave his wife a copy of the German translation of Lady Inger, with the following inscription on the fly-leaf:

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 xxvievidence, 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.

xxviiThe 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 xxviiiapprenticeship, 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 xxixhim 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 xxxpoet—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.

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 xxxiiiproblem 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 xxxivthe 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 xxxvhis 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.

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 xxxviifrom 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 xxxviiizest 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, xxxixis 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 xlactors 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 xliof 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.

• 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.

[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.]

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.

[After a pause.] Who was Knut^[12] Alfson?

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

And the Danes killed him at Oslo-fiord?

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

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?

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

It shines like silver in the moonlight.

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

Is it worth while?

What mean you?

The edge is gone.

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

[As before.] There is no grip to it!

[Mutters.] Let me get a grip on you——

What now?

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?

Folly! Is there not peace in the land?

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 6the 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——

Therefore—therefore I bid you hold your foul prate!

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

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

What, do you fear the dark?

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.

Old wives’ tales!

Ah, but they all swear ’tis true.

That I well believe.

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

[Starting.] Lady Inger? What does she think?

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——

And you believe such follies?

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?

A song?

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

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

[Breaking from his grasp.] Why—did I make the song?

Hark—what is that?

A horn. Then there come guests to-night.

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

A knight? Nay, that can scarce be.

Why not?

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

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——

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

Is it you, Mistress Elina?

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

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

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

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

May be so.

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

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

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.

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——

Ay, then you were blithe and gay.

Ah, then, Biörn! Then I lived a glorious life in fable-land, and in my own imaginings. Can 11it 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.

What mean you?

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

[Consoling her.] Well, well—-!

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!

That is true.

Once you took me by the hand and looked earnestly at me, and said: “Be not proud of your 12fairness, or your wisdom; but be proud as the mountain eagle as often as you think: I am Inger Gyldenlöve’s daughter!”

And was it not matter enough for pride?

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.

You are a child no longer.

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

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

[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!

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

Mistress Elina,—what ails you?

[Sits down again.] Me? Nothing. Go on.

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.

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——

May be so.

Well, let it pass—go on!

Now it happened once on a time——

[Rises suddenly.] Hush; be still!

What now? What is the matter?

[Listening.] Do you hear?

What?

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

She herself—in the hall——

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

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——?

By all the saints——!

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

Mistress Elina, hear me!

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

[To himself.] Then it is true!

Who was it, Biörn? Who was it?

You saw as plainly as I.

Well? Whom did I see?

You saw your mother.

[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——

Hush!

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

What can this be?

Go out and see what is amiss.

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

What seek you?

Lady Inger herself.

Lady Inger? So late?

Late, but time enough, I wot.

Yes, yes; she must hear us now!

What would you with me?

We sought you, noble lady, to——

Well—say on!

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

Weapons and leave—? And for what?

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

The people of the Dales?

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

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

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

[To herself.] Can the time be come?

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.

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

[Softly and imploringly to Lady Inger.] Count the cost to the Danes if King Gustav’s men should lose.

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—-—-

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.

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

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

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

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

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——

And then?

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.

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

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——

[Hastily.] Enough, Einar Huk, enough! [To herself.] Ah, my dearest hope!

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.

Then we have your leave to——?

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!

[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.

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

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

My power? O God in Heaven!

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

[To another.] What is that you have found?

The breastplate they call Herlof Hyttefad’s.

’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.

[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——

What would you?

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

Let me see! [Opening the letter.] From Trondhiem? What can it be? [Runs through 23the letter.] O God! From him! and here in Norway——

[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.

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

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

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

It shall be as I have said.

Are we to wait till to-morrow, then?

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

We will go all the same, Lady Inger!

Ay, ay; we will go!

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

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!

[Softly to Biörn.] Say you still that I have sinned in misjudging—the Lady of Östråt?

[Beckons to Biörn, and says.] Have a guest-chamber ready.

It is well, Lady Inger!

And let the gate be open to whoever shall knock.

But——?

The gate open!

The gate open. [Goes out to the right.

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

I hear you.

Elina——you think evil of your mother.

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

And you answer as your bitter spirit bids you.

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 26in 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.

’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.

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

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?

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 27in. For my pride is my life; and well might I have been proud, had you remained what once you were.

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

[Vehemently.] Oh, that I were!

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——

[Turns to go.] Sleep well, my mother!

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

I hear you.

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.

Do you wonder at that, my mother?

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

How so?

Listen.—I look for a guest to-night.

[Comes nearer.] A guest?

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

[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!

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

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

Rise, rise and tell me——

Think you I do not know who the stranger is?

You know? And yet——?

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?

And what then?

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——

[Coldly.] Enough! Now I understand you.

[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 30whither he goes! You are setting at naught the harsh decree that forbids you to harbour or succour the outlaw——

Enough, I say!

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

[Rises.] Then I have understood you ill indeed.

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

I am tame, till you have spoken.

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.

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

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

How mean you, my mother?

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——

[Eagerly.] Openly rebel, my mother?

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——

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

No, we will not endure it. But to take up arms—to declare open war—what would come 32of 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.

[In suspense.] Well—and then——?

He is the guest I look for to-night.

He comes hither? And to-night?

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

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——

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.

And the name of this Danish lord——?

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

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

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

Take heed that it burst not your bonds.

It rests with you to tighten them as you will.

With me?

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe not, my mother!

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?

What mean you?

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?

A noble, you say?

A noble.

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

To-night.

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

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.

[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.

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

Were I not my mother’s daughter, I would say you were right. But you are like that 36mother; 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!

I know my reckoning, and I fear it not.

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

Ask God, who took her.

’Tis you I ask; ’tis you must answer for her young life. She was glad as a bird in spring 37when 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!

All? Then she told you his name?

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

[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——

That, too, I know.

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

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.

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?

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!

You? What will you do?

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.

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.

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.

[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.

40Ah—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!

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

Sten Sture! Knut Alfson! Olaf Skaktavl! Back—back!—I cannot do this!

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

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

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.

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

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.

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 43forest 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.

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

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.

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

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.

Put me not in mind of what was.

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

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

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.

Speak then; I will not hinder you.

’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.

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

Call it what you will; but one thing I know—even the old and sober men among us thought 45it 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.

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

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——

A corpse; a corpse!

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 46were 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?

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

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

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.

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.

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——

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.

The old burden.

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.

I know it.

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

[Starting.] Peter Kanzler?

’Tis he that has sent me to Östråt.

[Rises.] Peter Kanzler, say you?

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

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

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.

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

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

[Surprised.] What? Know you that——?

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

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

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

Doubtless, doubtless; but——

Then you knew of his coming?

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

[Listens.] Hush!—some one is riding along the road. [Goes to the window.] They are opening the gate.

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

’Tis he then. His name?

You know not his name?

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——

Ay; even to-night.

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

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

Well, be it as you will.

[Softly.] No one?

[In the same tone.] No one, master!

And we may depend on you in all things?

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

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

Ay; a stranger came an hour since.

[Softly, to Jens Bielke.] He is here. [Turns again to Finn.] Would you know him again? Have you seen him?

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

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

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

It is well.

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

[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?

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.

The devil!

It is well. You may go.

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.

Good.

[Points to the entrance-door. Finn goes out.

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

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

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.

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

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 54got me a warrant from the Trondhiem commandant to search for the rebel wheresoever I please. All his tracks point towards Östråt——

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

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——

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.

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——

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.

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!

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

To you? What will you do?

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.

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

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

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?

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.

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

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——

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— 57Fair maidens a-many they sigh and they pine: “Ah God, that Nils Lykke were mine, mine, mine!”

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——

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!

You shall have him all alive. I, at any rate, mean not to kill him. But now you must ride 58back and join your people. Keep guard on the road. Should I mark aught that mislikes me, you shall know it forthwith.

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

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

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

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

[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——”

Östråt. ’Tis as though I had seen it all before; as though I were at home here.—In there 59is the Banquet Hall. And underneath is—the grave-vault. It must be there that Lucia lies.

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!

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——

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, 60they say. But for a wedded wife—? I should not have written so plainly.——

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——

Aha!

[Coldly.] My greeting to you, Sir Councillor——

[Bows deeply.] Ah—the Lady of Östråt!

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

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

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

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

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——

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——

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——

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?

I knew not there had ever been aught else?

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.

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!

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.

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.

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

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

Assuredly.

Then that is why you visit Östråt?

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

What then?

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.

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

[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——

In your power, you say?

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.

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

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?

Go on.

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

[To herself.] Whither is he tending?

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

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

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

[Starts violently.] Ah! He is found?

——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——

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

How am I to understand you?

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 67and 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.

And this support——?

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——

Then you already know of his coming?

Most certainly. ’Tis he whom I seek.

[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.

[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 69snapped 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.

[To Nils Lykke.] Here is the man you seek.

[Aside.] Powers of hell—what means this?

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

[Irresolutely.] Ay? Have you so? Well——

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

Is it not?

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

This man’s—? Ah—yes, truly——

[To Nils Lykke.] But seeing ’tis Peter Kanzler himself that has appointed us this meeting——

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

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

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

Rather let us come straight to the matter.

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

Then will you tell me your errand here?

Methinks you can partly guess my errand——

Peter Kanzler said something of papers that——

Papers? Ay, true, the papers!

Doubtless you have them with you?

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

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

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

Good; as you will.

[Aside.] Time gained—all gained!

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

I?—None.

None!

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.

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

Who should believe in you, if not your countrymen?

Truly,—this confidence rejoices me.

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

[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!

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

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

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

[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.

I heard loud voices—. What is amiss?

[To Nils Lykke.] My daughter Elina.

[Softly.] Elina! I had not pictured her thus.

[Touches her arm.] My child—this knight is——

[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.

[Aside, to Lady Inger.] How? Does she know me? Can Lucia have—? Can she know——?

Hush! She knows nothing.

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

[Approaches her.] Yes, Elina Gyldenlöve,—you have guessed aright. And as it seems that, in some sense, you know me,—and, moreover, 75as 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.

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

[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.

[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!

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

[Softly, after looking alternately at Elina and Nils Lykke.] The wolf can be tamed. Now to forge the fetters.

[Picks up the flowers and gazes in rapture after Elina.] God’s holy blood, but she is proud and fair!

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:

——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!

78How 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——”

[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.

79

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

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

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

You?

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

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

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

In me?

Ay, of that our first meeting has assured me.

And that offends you?

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

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

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

What is it?

Farewell.

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

This very night.

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

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.

I hear you, Sir Knight.

I know you hate me.

You are keen-sighted, I perceive.

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.

Like enough; I have not read them.

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—

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

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 82such 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——

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.

[Uneasily.] Of older date? What mean you?

’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.

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 84part 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.

[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.

[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 85craving 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?

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——?

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

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

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

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.

That can you.

’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——

Sir Knight——!

[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——?

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

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.

Fare you well, Sir Knight! [A short silence.

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

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

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

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

I go to Denmark.

Can I look towards Denmark from this hall?

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

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

Much more. The sea lies between you and Denmark.

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

[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——

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.

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?

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 90a feint. He may be safe and sound among his friends in Sweden, while I——

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.

[Clutches at his sword.] Who is there?

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

[Aside.] What means this?

God’s peace, master!

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

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

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

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

——You won not in?

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.

[Aside.] Ah, if it should be——!

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

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

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

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

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

Tell me—are you of the house?

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

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

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.

You are right, Sir; ’twere not amiss.

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——

[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——

Noble halls——?

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

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

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

[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——

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

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——

Your health, Sir!

A soldier’s life? H’m!

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.

Open action?

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

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

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

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

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

Surely; since I am her guest——

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.

Yet did you speak of her——

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

You would have said——?

[Eating.] I? Nay, ’tis all one.

Why laugh you, Sir?

At nothing, Sir!

[Drinks.] A pretty vintage ye have in this house.

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

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

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

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

You mistake, Sir! I am not Count Sture.

You are not? Then who are you?

My name is Nils Stensson.

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

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.

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——

[Nods cunningly.]——who is found already.

[Somewhat uncertain.] And whom you do not know?

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

In sober earnest, Sir?

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

But where, then, is Count Sture?

[In a low voice.] Ay, that is just the secret.

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

[Nods.] And which I am to tell you.

To tell me? Well then,—where is he?

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

Nay, nay; you mistake me.

Nils Sture is in Heaven!

Dead? And where?

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

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

Oh, that was I.

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.

Ha-ha-ha; that was me too!

You?

I will tell you how it came about. One day Peter Kanzler called me to him and gave me to 100know 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——

[Nods.] The third night after Martinmas.

There I was to meet a stranger——

Ay, right; I am he.

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.

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.

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

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

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?

Well,—and what did you more?

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.

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

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

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.

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!

[Gravely.]——Then ’tis all over with you.

All over——? But I am not Count Sture.

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

Ay, but ’twas only in jest!

King Gustav will scarce take that view of the affair.

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 103me; and besides—-the men-at-arms can scarce be at my heels yet.

But what else have you to tell me?

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

[Off his guard.] The packet?

Ay, sure you know——

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

See, here they all are.

[Aside.] Letters and papers for Olaf Skaktavl. [To Nils Stensson.

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

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

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

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 105yourself 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.”

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

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

[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!

A word, my young friend!

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

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

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

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

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

Your exaltation?

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

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.

A chain of gold? And it lies with me?

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

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.

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

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

Well, well; I am grave enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

But—Christ save me——!

What now?

The picture—! Sure ’tis I myself!

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

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?

So it was.

Ah, I have it, I have it! I am——

You are Sten Sture’s son, good Sir!

[With the quiet of amazement.] I Sten Sture’s son!

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.

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

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.

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?

My name is Nils Lykke.

[Surprised.] Nils Lykke? Surely not the Danish Councillor?

Even so.

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

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

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

And therefore you mistrust me?

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

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.

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.

’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.

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

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.

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

[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.

And she seemed greatly moved? Said you not so?

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 113or messages for him, beg her not to delay him needlessly.” And then she added somewhat that I heard not rightly.

Did you not hear it at all?

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

And the knight? Where is he?

In his chamber belike, in the gate-wing.

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.

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!

Well?

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

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?

He forgot both food and drink.

And our secret affairs as well.

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

And from all this you conclude——?

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

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

Ay; and that as soon as may be.

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

How mean you?

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

[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——

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?

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

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.

Ay, see you!

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

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——

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!

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

[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!

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

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 118if I have forgotten the oath I swore by Knut Alfson’s bier.

[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.

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——

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

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——

What then?

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

119Hist, Olaf Skaktavl! Here he comes. Now be cautious.

[Nils Lykke enters by the foremost door on the right.

[Approaches Lady Inger courteously.] My noble hostess has summoned me.

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

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

Not before I have the papers.

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——

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——

What, lady?

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

[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.

It is well.

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

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

You would say——?

I would say that ’twas not alone as a Danish Councillor or as the ally of Peter Kanzler that 121Nils 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.

Far be it from me to deny——

[Turning over the papers.] Strange. No letter.

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

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.

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.

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.

[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.

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 123in 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.

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

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.

[With a smile.] Is that your forecast, 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.— 124Ay, ’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?

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——

[Hastily.] ——prolong your stay at Östråt.

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

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

But what if you should fail?

I shall not fail.

You lack not confidence, it seems.

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

Östråt Castle against your knee-buckles!

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

Sir Councillor——!

[Rises from the table.] What now?

[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.

Your jest, Sir, grows a vastly merry one.

’Twill be merrier yet—at least for me. You boast that you have overreached me. You 126threaten 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.

Ha-ha——!

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

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

[With a shriek.] Oh, God in heaven——!

Inger Gyldenlöve’s son! What say you?

[Half kneeling to Nils Lykke.] Mercy! oh, be merciful——!

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

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

It was no dream, 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!

Ah, I begin to understand——

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?

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

With his foster-father.

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!

I?

There will be no need, if only you——

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.

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.

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——

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

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 130’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.

’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.

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. 131“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 132and 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!

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.

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

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.

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

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

And next——?

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

His? You demand that I——

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

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

[In thought.] True—true——

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

What mean you?

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

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

134But know you so surely that Count Sture is willing——?

Of that he will himself assure you.

Himself? And when?

Even now.

How now?

What say you?

In one word, Count Sture is in Östråt.

Here?

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

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

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

In writing?

As you will.

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

[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!

[Softly.] What? You think——?

He has treachery in his heart.

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

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

[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.

[Still whispering to Olaf Skaktavl.] Well, you understand me?

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

[In a low voice.] Sir Knight,—Sir Knight!

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

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?

Ay, sure enough; but——

Well?

——She will not own you for her son.

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.

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!

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!

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.

Oh, but tell me——!

Hush; hush!

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

I thank you.

[Notices Nils Stensson.] Ah,—this young man is——?

Ay, Lady Inger, he is Count Sture.

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

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

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

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

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

Hail to Lady Inger Gyldenlöve!

[To Olaf Skaktavl.] Have you told them what is afoot?

I have told them all they need to know.

[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.

Hail to him! Hail to Count Sture!

[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.

[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!

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.

[To himself.] Ay, if she see you again!

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

Ay, ay, ay!

[Uneasily, to Lady Inger.] What?, You mean not to-night, even now——?

This very moment, Sir Knight!

Nay, nay, impossible!

I have said it.

[Softly, to Nils Stensson.] Obey her not!

How can I do aught else? I will; I must!

But ’tis your certain ruin——

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

[With authority.] And me?

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!

[Aside.] And Jens Bielke in wait on the 143road! Damnation! He will snatch the prize out of my fingers——

Wait till to-morrow!

[To Nils Stensson.] Count Sture—do you obey me or not?

To horse!

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

Well, since so it must be,—farewell!

Lady Inger.

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

What mean you?

[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 144rebellious 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——

Lady Inger!

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

Death and destruction!

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

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

[To Olaf Skaktavl.] Ride with Count Sture’s troops to the frontier; then without pause to Peter Kanzler, and bring me back my child. 145Now has he no longer any plea for keeping from me what is my own.

Wait; a token—. He that wears Sten Sture’s ring, he is my son.

By all the saints, you shall have him!

Thanks,—thanks, my faithful friend!

[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.

It shall be done.

[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.

[To himself.] Devil!

[Seizes his hand.] Trust me—you shall not have long to wait!

It is well; it is well! [Aside.] All may yet be saved. If only my message reach Jens Bielke in time——

[To Einar Huk, the bailiff, pointing to Finn.] And let that man be placed under close guard in the castle dungeon.

Me?

Finn!

[Aside.] My last anchor gone!

[Imperatively.] To the dungeon with him!

[Except Nils Lykke, rushing out to the right.] Away! To horse,—to horse! Hail to Lady Inger Gyldenlöve!

[Passing close to Nils Lykke as she goes out after the others.] Who wins?

[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!

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?

148What is that? Music and singing. It seems to come from Elina’s chamber. Ay, ’tis she that is singing. Then she is still awake——

Elina!—Ah, if that could be! Were it possible to—And why should I not? Am I not still myself? Says not the song:—

And she—? ——Elina Gyldenlöve shall set me free!

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.

[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.

Lord Jesus—what is this? Am I no longer mistress of my reason? Is it to come to that——?

Nay, ’tis nought. ’Twill pass. There is no fear;—it will pass.

How peaceful it is in the hall to-night! No 150threatening looks from forefathers or kinsfolk. No need to turn their faces to the wall.

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.

At the goal? The goal? To have him back? Is that all?—is there nought further?

That heedless word that Nils Lykke threw forth at random—. How could he see my unborn thought?

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.

151

A king’s mother!

[Throws the light from his lantern around, so as to search the room.] All is still. I must begone.

Oh, let me look but once more into your eyes, before you leave me.

[Embraces her.] Elina!

[After a short pause.] Will you come nevermore to Östråt?

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?

Do you ask if I will be true? Have I any will left then? Have I power to be untrue to 152you, 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.

Now, by my knightly honour, ere the year be past, you shall sit as my wife in the hall of my fathers!

No vows, Nils Lykke! No oaths to me.

What ails you? Why do you shake your head so mournfully?

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?

Elina,—hear me!

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.

[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.

What is amiss with you? So heavy a sigh——

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——

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. 154Oh, 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.

[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.

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 155his 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.

[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.

You make me tremble. What is it that——?

’Tis nought. Come, let me place the ring on your finger.—Even so—now are you my betrothed!

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.

And give her consent to our bond.

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.

Save one?

Ah, ’tis a mournful history. I had a sister——

Lucia?

Did you know Lucia?

No, no; I have but heard her name.

She too gave her heart to a knight. He betrayed her;—now she is in Heaven.

And you——

I hate him.

Hate him not! If there be mercy in your heart, forgive him his sin. Trust me, he bears his punishment in his own breast.

Him will I never forgive! I cannot, even if I would; for I have sworn so dear an oath——

Hush! Can you hear——?

What? Where?

Without; far off. The noise of many horsemen on the high-road.

Ah, ’tis they! And I had forgotten—! They are coming hither. Then is the danger great! I must begone!

But whither? Oh, Nils Lykke, what are you hiding——?

Tomorrow, Elina—; for as God lives, I will return tomorrow.—Quickly now—where is the secret passage whereof you told me?

Through the grave-vault. See,—here is the trap-door——

The grave-vault! [To himself.] No matter, he must be saved!

[By the window.] The horsemen have reached the gate—— [Hands him the lantern.

Oh, then—— [Begins to descend.

Go forward along the passage till you reach the coffin with the death’s-head and the black cross; it is Lucia’s——

[Climbs back hastily and shuts the trapdoor.] Lucia’s! Pah——!

What said you?

Nay, nothing. ’Twas the air of the graves that made me dizzy.

Hark; they are hammering at the gate!

[Lets the lantern fall.] Ah! too late——!

[Goes towards him.] What is amiss, Biörn? What is it?

An ambuscade! Count Sture——

Count Sture? What of him?

Have they killed him?

[To Elina.] Where is your mother?

[Rushing in from the right.] Lady Inger! Lady Inger!

I know all. Down with you to the courtyard! Keep the gate open for our friends, but closed against all others!

[To Nils Lykke.] So that was the trap, Sir Councillor!

Inger Gyldenlöve, believe me——!

An ambuscade that was to snap him up as soon as you had secured the promise that should destroy me!

[Takes out the paper and tears it to pieces.] There is your promise. I keep nothing that can bear witness against you.

What is this?

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.

[Looks after him with exultation.] ’Tis well! I understand him.

Nils Lykke—? Well——?

He knocked upon my door, and set this ring upon my finger.

And from his soul he holds you dear?

He has said so, and I believe him.

Bravely done, Elina! Ha-ha, Sir Knight, now is it my turn!

My mother—you are so strange. Ah, yes—I know—’tis my unloving ways that have angered you.

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——

But, my mother——

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 162closer about him; and then—Ah, Elina, if we could but rend asunder his perjured heart within his breast!

Woe is me—what is it you say?

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.

[With a shriek.] Lucia!

He it was, as truly as there is an Avenger above us!

Then Heaven be with me!

[Appalled.] Elina——?!

I am his bride in the sight of God.

Unhappy child,—what have you done?

[In a toneless voice.] Made shipwreck of my soul.—Good-night, my mother!

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.

[Calling from outside on the right.] Ho—shut the gate!

Count Sture’s voice——!

[Rushes in, unarmed, and with his clothes torn, and shouts with a laugh of desperation.] Well met again, Inger Gyldenlöve!

What have you lost?

My kingdom and my life!

And the peasants? My servants?—where are they?

You will find the carcasses along the highway. Who has the rest, I cannot tell you.

[Outside on the right.] Count Sture! Where are you?

Here, here!

Alas, Olaf Skaktavl, you too——!

’Twas impossible to break through.

You are wounded, I see!

A finger the less; that is all.

Where are the Swedes?

At our heels. They are breaking open the gate——

Oh, God! No, no! I cannot—I will not die.

A hiding-place, Lady Inger! Is there no corner where we can hide him?

But if they search the castle——?

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!

[Listening.] There burst the lock.

[At the window.] Many men rush in at the gateway.

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. 166No, no, no!—Think not I am a coward, Inger Gyldenlöve! Might I but have time to show——

I hear them now in the hall below.

He must be saved—cost what it will!

[Seizes her hand.] Oh, I knew it;—you are noble and good!

But how? Since we cannot hide him——

Ah, I have it! I have it! The secret——!

The secret?

Even so; yours and mine!

Merciful Heaven—you know it?

From first to last. And now when ’tis life or death—Where is Nils Lykke?

Fled.

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——

What then? What will you do?

Purchase life and freedom;—tell him all.

Oh no, no;—be merciful!

Nought else can save me. When I have told him what I know——

[Looks at him with suppressed agitation.] You will be safe?

Ay, safe! Nils Lykke will speak for me. You see, ’tis the last resource.

[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.

[In a low voice.] Trust me—you will never repent of this.

[Half to herself.] God grant that you speak the truth!

Did you understand his meaning?

The dastard! He would betray your secret. He would sacrifice your son to save himself.

When life is at stake, he said, we must try the last resource.—’Tis well, Olaf Skaktavl,—let it be as he has said!

What mean you?

Life against life! One of them must perish.

Ah—you would——?

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 ——

So be it! I have yet one sound hand left.

[Gives her his hand.] Inger Gyldenlöve—your name shall not die out through me.

[Pale and trembling.] But dare I——?

No, no,—it must not be!

Now it is over. All is still within——

170Thou sawest it, God—I repented me! But Olaf Skaktavl was too swift of hand.

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

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

[As before.] Then he is dumb?

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

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

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.

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

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

Is it Count Sture ye seek?

The same.

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

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

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

His own life!

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 172in the secret chamber. [To the Men-at-Arms.] I pray that in it you will bear Count Sture’s body to Sweden.

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——

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.

I will write to all my friends throughout the land. They must rise as one man to support 173the great cause. A new king,—regent first, and then king——

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.

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

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?

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?

174Hereafter 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——

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

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

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

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.

175How long is it, commonly, ere a body begins to rot? All the rooms must be aired. ’Tis not wholesome here till that be done.

[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?

They are still screwing down the coffin-lid.

[Writing.] Are they screwing it down tight?

As tight as need be.

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

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.

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

[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!

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

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!

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 177the monk of Wittenberg is right: There is no mediator between God and man!

’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.

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.

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

[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.

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

Peace, I say! look how the people swarm.

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.

God’s blood!—what has befallen here?

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.

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

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?

[Clutches at her head and shrieks.] The corpse! [Whispers.] Pah! ’Tis a hideous dream. [Sinks back into the high-seat.

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

’Twas he himself that——

[With a look at Nils Lykke.] He himself——?

Hush!

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

[To the Men-at-Arms.] Set down the corpse. It is not Count Sture.

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

[Seizes his arm.] Be still!

[Starts up.] The ring? The ring!

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

Her son?

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

So is it.

But why did you not tell me——?

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

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

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, 184and 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 185critic 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. 186Their 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 187Dyring’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 188namesakes^[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.

189But, 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; 190I 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 191its 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 192upon 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.

Rome, April, 1883.

• 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.

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.”

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.

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

[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.

[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.

[To Knut.] In high favour—so say I too.

And doubtless my sister could choose her no doughtier mate—

None doughtier; that is what I say too.

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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 198you must e’en choose me for your sister’s husband—be it with your will or against it.

[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.

Oh, for that matter, I too could—

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

A feast?

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

[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.

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.

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

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

But he himself is far away.

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

[Whispers.] Hold your peace!

Nearer? What mean you?

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.

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.

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

[Aside to Knut.] Then Dame Margit knows not that—?

[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.

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

Aye, mark you that.

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

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

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

Nay, that is our firm resolve.

[To Margit.] Have no fear.

And what we have firmly resolved stands fast.

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!

[Returning.] Methought he seemed to threaten us as he departed.

[Absently.] Aye, so it seemed.

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.

[With a weary smile.] Aye, surely, surely.

’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.

[To herself.] Yet was I then so rich.

What said you, my wife?

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?

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.

[Calling.] Margit, Margit,—he is coming!

[Starting up.] Coming? Who is coming?

Gudmund, our kinsman!

Gudmund Alfson! Here! How can you think—?

Oh, I am sure of it.