Complete Works of Henrik Ibsen (28 page)

The Hill-King rode to Sir Hakon’s hold;
 
— Oh, sad are my days and dreary —
Little Kirsten sat combing her locks of gold.
 
— I am waiting for thee, I am weary. —

The Hill-King wedded the maiden fair;
 
— Oh, sad are my days and dreary —
A silvern girdle she ever must wear.
 
— I am waiting for thee, I am weary. —

The Hill-King wedded the lily-wand,
 
— Oh, sad are my days and dreary —
With fifteen gold rings on either hand.
 
— I am waiting for thee, I am weary. —

Three summers passed, and there passed full five;
 
— Oh, sad are my days and dreary —
In the hill little Kirsten was buried alive.
 
— I am waiting for thee, I am weary. —

Five summers passed, and there passed full nine;
 
— Oh, sad are my days and dreary —
Little Kirsten ne’er saw the glad sunshine.
 
— I am waiting for thee, I am weary. —

In the dale there are flowers and the birds’ blithe song;
 
— Oh, sad are my days and dreary —
In the hill there is gold and the night is long.
 
— I am waiting for thee, I am weary. —
     [She rises and crosses the room.

How oft in the gloaming would Gudmund sing
This song in may father’s hall.
There was somewhat in it — some strange, sad thing
That took my heart in thrall;
Though I scarce understood, I could ne’er forget —
And the words and the thoughts they haunt me yet.
     [Stops horror-struck.

Rings of red gold! And a belt beside — !
‘Twas with gold the Hill-King wedded his bride!
     [In despair; sinks down on a bench beside the table on
       the left.

Woe! Woe! I myself am the Hill-King’s wife!
And there cometh none to free me from the prison of my life.

  [SIGNE, radiant with gladness, comes running in from
       the back.

SIGNE.

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

MARGIT.

[Starting up.] Coming? Who is coming?

SIGNE.

Gudmund, our kinsman!

MARGIT.

Gudmund Alfson! Here! How can you think — ?

SIGNE.

Oh, I am sure of it.

MARGIT.

[Crosses to the right.] Gudmund Alfson is at the wedding-feast in the King’s hall; you know that as well as I.

SIGNE.

Maybe; but none the less I am sure it was he.

MARGIT.

Have you seen him?

SIGNE.

Oh, no, no; but I must tell you —

MARGIT.

Yes, haste you — tell on!

SIGNE.

‘Twas early morn, and the church bells rang,
To Mass I was fain to ride;
The birds in the willows twittered and sang,
In the birch-groves far and wide.
All earth was glad in the clear, sweet day;
And from church it had well-nigh stayed me;
For still, as I rode down the shady way,
Each rosebud beguiled and delayed me.
Silently into the church I stole;
The priest at the altar was bending;
He chanted and read, and with awe in their soul,
The folk to God’s word were attending.
Then a voice rang out o’er the fiord so blue;
And the carven angels, the whole church through,
Turned round, methought, to listen thereto.

MARGIT.

O Signe, say on! Tell me all, tell me all!

SIGNE.

‘Twas as though a strange, irresistible call
Summoned me forth from the worshipping flock,
Over hill and dale, over mead and rock.
‘Mid the silver birches I listening trod,
Moving as though in a dream;
Behind me stood empty the house of God;
Priest and people were lured by the magic ‘twould seem,
Of the tones that still through the air did stream.
No sound they made; they were quiet as death;
To hearken the song-birds held their breath,
The lark dropped earthward, the cuckoo was still,
As the voice re-echoed from hill to hill.

MARGIT.

Go on.

SIGNE.

They crossed themselves, women and men;
     [Pressing her hands to her breast.

But strange thoughts arose within me then;
For the heavenly song familiar grew:
Gudmund oft sang it to me and you —
Ofttimes has Gudmund carolled it,
And all he e’er sang in my heart is writ.

MARGIT.

And you think that it may be — ?

SIGNE.

I know it is he! I know it? I know it! You soon shall see!
     [Laughing.

From far-off lands, at the last, in the end,
Each song-bird homeward his flight doth bend!
I am so happy — though why I scarce know — !
Margit, what say you? I’ll quickly go
And take down his harp, that has hung so long
In there on the wall that ‘tis rusted quite;
Its golden strings I will polish bright,
And tune them to ring and to sing with his song.

MARGIT. [Absently.]

Do as you will —

SIGNE. [Reproachfully.]

      Nay, this in not right.
     [Embracing her.

But when Gudmund comes will your heart grow light —
Light, as when I was a child, again.

MARGIT.

So much has changed — ah, so much! — since then —

SIGNE.

Margit, you shall be happy and gay!
Have you not serving-maids many, and thralls?
Costly robes hang in rows on your chamber walls;
How rich you are, none can say.
By day you can ride in the forest deep,
Chasing the hart and the hind;
By night in a lordly bower you can sleep,
On pillows of silk reclined.

MARGIT. [Looking toward the window.]

And he comes to Solhoug! He, as a guest!

SIGNE.

What say you?

MARGIT. [Turning.]

        Naught. — Deck you out in your best.
That fortune which seemeth to you so bright
May await yourself.

SIGNE.

Margit, say what you mean!

MARGIT. [Stroking her hair.]

I mean — nay, no more! ‘Twill shortly be seen — ;
I mean — should a wooer ride hither to-night — ?

SIGNE.

A wooer? For whom?

MARGIT.

For you.

SIGNE. [Laughing.]

                          For me?
That he’d ta’en the wrong road full soon he would see.

MARGIT.

What would you say if a valiant knight
Begged for your hand?

SIGNE.

                 That my heart was too light
To think upon suitors or choose a mate.

MARGIT.

But if he were mighty, and rich, and great?

SIGNE.

O, were he a king, did his palace hold
Stores of rich garments and ruddy gold,
‘Twould ne’er set my heart desiring.
With you I am rich enough here, meseeems,
With summer and sun and the murmuring streams,
And the birds in the branches quiring.
Dear sister mine — here shall my dwelling be;
And to give any wooer my hand in fee,
For that I am too busy, and my heart too full of glee!

[SIGNE runs out to the left, singing.

MARGIT.

[After a pause.] Gudmund Alfson coming hither! Hither — to Solhoug? No, no, it cannot be. — Signe heard him singing, she said! When I have heard the pine-trees moaning in the forest afar, when I have heard the waterfall thunder and the birds pipe their lure in the tree-tops, it has many a time seemed to me as though, through it all, the sound of Gudmund’s songs came blended. And yet he was far from here. — Signe has deceived herself. Gudmund cannot be coming.

[BENGT enters hastily from the back.

BENGT.

[Entering, calls loudly.] An unlooked-for guest my wife!

MARGIT.

What guest?

BENGT.

Your kinsman, Gudmund Alfson! [Calls through the doorway on the right.] Let the best guest-room be prepared — and that forthwith!

MARGIT.

Is he, then, already here?

BENGT.

[Looking out through the passage-way.] Nay, not yet; but he cannot be far off. [Calls again to the right.] The carved oak bed, with the dragon-heads! [Advances to MARGIT.] His shield- bearer brings a message of greeting from him; and he himself is close behind.

MARGIT.

His shield-bearer! Comes he hither with a shield-bearer!

BENGT.

Aye, by my faith he does. He has a shield-bearer and six armed men in his train. What would you? Gudmund Alfson is a far other man than he was when he set forth to seek his fortune. But I must ride forth to seek him. [Calls out.] The gilded saddle on my horse! And forget not the bridle with the serpents’ heads! [Looks out to the back.] Ha, there he is already at the gate! Well, then, my staff — my silver-headed staff! Such a lordly knight — Heaven save us! — we must receive him with honour, with all seemly honour!

[Goes hastily out to the back.

MARGIT. [Brooding]

Alone he departed, a penniless swain;
With esquires and henchmen now comes he again.
What would he? Comes he, forsooth, to see
My bitter and gnawing misery?
Would he try how long, in my lot accurst,
I can writhe and moan, ere my heart-strings burst —
Thinks he that — ? Ah, let him only try!
Full little joy shall he reap thereby.
     [She beckons through the doorway on the right. Three
       handmaidens enter.

List, little maids, what I say to you:
Find me my silken mantle blue.
Go with me into my bower anon:
My richest of velvets and furs do on.
Two of you shall deck me in scarlet and vair,
The third shall wind pearl-strings into my hair.
All my jewels and gauds bear away with ye!
     [The handmaids go out to the left, taking the ornaments
       with them.

Since Margit the Hill-King’s bride must be,
Well! don we the queenly livery!

  [She goes out to the left.
     [BENGT ushers in GUDMUND ALFSON, through the pent-house
       passage at the back.

BENGT.

And now once more — welcome under Solhoug’s roof, my wife’s kinsman.

GUDMUND.

I thank you. And how goes it with her? She thrives well in every way, I make no doubt?

BENGT.

Aye, you may be sure she does. There is nothing she lacks. She has five handmaidens, no less, at her beck and call; a courser stands ready saddled in the stall when she lists to ride abroad. In one word, she has all that a noble lady can desire to make her happy in her lot.

GUDMUND.

And Margit — is she then happy?

BENGT.

God and all men would think that she must be; but, strange to say —

GUDMUND.

What mean you?