Complete Works of Henrik Ibsen (39 page)

SECOND AC
T

[The enclosure on Lady Kirsten’s estate. To the right is seen the main building with an opening in the gable; neither windows nor doors are visible. Further towards the back of the stage on the same side a small log church and a churchyard. On the left side a storehouse and other out-buildings. On both sides in the foreground simple benches of stone. It is afternoon.]

SCENE
I

[LADY KIRSTEN. Servants and Maids occupied with preparations for the wedding.]

LADY KIRSTEN. Let there be no lack of food or drink.

LADY KIRSTEN.
[To herself.]
Hard have I labored and struggled to bring things to this point; but now I shall give a feast that shall be heralded far and wide.

LADY KIRSTEN.
[To the servants.]
Be sure to see that on the banquet table — yet no, I shall attend to that myself. The wine shall be poured into the silver flagons; the large drinking horns shall be filled with the Italian cider; the ale is for the servants only, and likewise the homebrewed mead; — and listen, be sure to see that there are enough yellow candles in the church; the bridal party are not to go to the altar until late in the evening, and with red lights shall they be escorted on their way from the banquet hall to the church. Go now, all of you, and see that you remember, every one of you, the things I have told you.

[The people go.]

LADY KIRSTEN. God knows this wedding is costing me more than I well can bear; but Ingeborg brings with her a good dowry and besides — Oh, well, Arne I shall no doubt be able to manage and rule as I see fit, if he is first —

[Looks out to the right.]

LADY KIRSTEN. There comes Olaf! If only I knew that he —

SCENE I
I

[LADY KIRSTEN. OLAF comes from the house in festive garb; he is pale and thoughtful.]

OLAF.
[To himself.]
Yesterday and today! There is but a midsummer night between the two, and yet it seems to me that both autumn and winter have overtaken my soul since the time I wandered up there on the mountain side — with her, with Alfhild!

OLAF.
[Notices Lady Kirsten.]
Alas, my dear mother, are you there?

LADY KIRSTEN. Quite so, my son! I like to see you dressed in gold and in silk. Now one can see by your dress who it is that is bridegroom tonight. I see you have rested.

OLAF. I have slept, but little have I rested; for all the while
I was dreaming.

LADY KIRSTEN. A bridegroom must dream, — that is an ancient custom.

OLAF. My fairest dream is ended; let us not think any longer about that.

LADY KIRSTEN.
[Changing the subject.]
We shall have a merry time today, I think.

OLAF. It does not appear that heaven is pleased with my wedding day.

LADY KIRSTEN. How so?

OLAF. There are indications of a storm. Do you see how heavily the clouds are gathering in the west?

LADY KIRSTEN. The brighter the festive candles will shine when you go to the church tonight.

OLAF.
[Paces back and forth a few times; at length he stops before his mother and says.]
If I had married a poor man’s daughter, without family or wealth, — tell me, mother, what would you have done?

LADY KIRSTEN.
[Looks at him sharply.]
Why do you ask?

OLAF. Answer me first. What would you have done?

LADY KIRSTEN. Cursed you and gone to my grave in sorrow! — But tell me, why do you ask?

OLAF. Ah, it was only a jest; I little thought of doing so.

LADY KIRSTEN. That I can believe; for you have always held your family in high honor. But be merry and gay; tomorrow Ingeborg will sit in there as your wife, and then you will find both peace and happiness.

OLAF. Peace and happiness. One thing there is lacking.

LADY KIRSTEN. What do you mean?

OLAF. The fairest of flowers which I was to pick asunder and scatter far to the winds.

LADY KIRSTEN. The silly dream; — think no longer about it.

OLAF. Perhaps it would be best for me if I could forget.

LADY KIRSTEN. In the ladies’ room your betrothed sits with all her maids; little have you talked with her today. Do you not want to go in?

OLAF.
[In thought.]
Yes, yes! Where is she?

LADY KIRSTEN. In the ladies’ room, as I said.

OLAF.
[Lively.]
Nothing shall be lacking to her from this day. Shoes with silver buckles I shall give her; she shall wear brooches and rings. The withered twigs shall be put away; I shall give her a golden necklace to wear.

LADY KIRSTEN. Of whom do you speak?

OLAF. Of Alfhild!

LADY KIRSTEN. I was speaking of Ingeborg, your betrothed. Olaf! Olaf! You make me anxious and worried, — so strange are you. I could really almost believe that she had bewitched you.

OLAF. That she has! Yes, forsooth, mother, I have been bewitched. I have been in the elf maidens’ play; happy and gay I was as long as it lasted, but now — . Through long, long years I shall be weighed down with woe as often as I call it to mind.

LADY KIRSTEN. If she were a witch, the stake would surely be hers; but she is a crafty and wily woman who has lured you on with her fair speech.

OLAF. She is pure as the mother of God herself!

LADY KIRSTEN. Yes, yes, but beware! Remember, whatever she is, tomorrow you are wed; it would be both sin and shame to you if you longer took notice of her.

OLAF. I realize it, mother, full well!

LADY KIRSTEN. And Ingeborg, whom you have betrothed and who loves you, yes, Olaf! loves you with all her heart — the punishment of heaven would be visited on you, in case you —

OLAF. True, true!

LADY KIRSTEN. I will not speak of our own circumstances; but you can easily see that Arne’s daughter can help us greatly in one thing or another; our affairs have been going from bad to worse, and if the harvest should fail this year I should not in the least be surprised if we had to take up the beggar’s staff.

OLAF. Yes, I know it.

LADY KIRSTEN. With Arne’s money we can mend everything; an honorable place you will win for yourself among the king’s men. Think this carefully over; if you have promised Alfhild more than you can fulfil — and I seem to notice in her something like that in spite of her quiet demeanor — why, speak with her about it. Tell her, — well, tell her anything you please; empty-handed she shall not go away from here, — that you can freely promise. See, here she comes! Olaf, my son! think of your betrothed and your noble race, think of your old mother who would have to go to her grave in shame, in case — be a man, Olaf! Now I go in to look after the banqueting table.

[Goes into the house.]

SCENE II
I

[OLAF alone.]

OLAF.
[Gazes out to the right.]
As merry she is as the youthful roe,
As it plays with no thought of the morrow;
But soon will she wring her small hands in woe,
And suffer in anguish and sorrow!
Soon must I destroy the faith in her heart,
And waken her out of her dreams.
And then — yes, then we forever must part.
Poor Alfhild! So bitter your fate to me seems!

OLAF.
[Brooding.]
What cared I for honor, what cared I for power,
What mattered my race when I wandered with you!
It seemed in your eyes was reflected a flower,
More precious than any the world ever knew!
Forgotten I had both struggle and strife,
But since I again came home to this life,
Since at table I sat in my father’s hall,
Since I went to answer my mother’s call —

OLAF.
[Abruptly.]
‘Tis true from a noble race I am born,
And Alfhild lives up in the mountains forlorn.
In her I should find but a constant sorrow.
I must tell her — yet, no, I can’t let her know!
Yet truly — I must — I must ere the morrow,
She must hear what to me is the bitterest woe!

SCENE I
V

[OLAF. ALFHILD from the church.]

ALFHILD.
[Runs eagerly to meet him.]
Olaf! Olaf! You have led me to the land
Where I walk amid flowers, where before I trod on sand.
In truth you have here so pleasant an isle,
O here I can live without worry or guile!
So much I would question, so little I know,
The riddles must you explain as we go. —
Is it green here always in summer and spring?

OLAF. Alfhild!

ALFHILD. Your answer delay!
You see yon house with its spire and wing?
There went I this morning to play;
Without there was joy, there was laughter and mirth;
Within it was still as nowhere on earth.
I stepped through the door, I saw a great hall,
Within was a peace that was fair;
A dawn softly breaking pervaded it all,
And people were kneeling in prayer.
But high from above them a virgin looked down,
She sailed upon clouds of white,
Her head shone forth like a crimson crown,
Like heaven when dawns the light.
Calm was her face, a blue dress she wore,
A beautiful elf in her arms she bore,
And round about her played angels of love,
That laughed when they saw me below in the door
From their place in the heavens above!

OLAF.
[Aside.]
Alas! I have wrought so woeful a play,
Soon will her sorrow begin!

ALFHILD. O, tell me, Olaf! what people are they
Who live in the house I was in?

OLAF. Each one who like you is good and kind,
Each one who is child-like in spirit and mind.
‘Tis the church, God’s house, — it belongs to him.

ALFHILD. The mighty father! ‘Tis only your whim!
His house is high over the stars in the sky,
Where the white swan sails undefiled,
So high ‘tis beyond any mortal eye
Save that of the dreaming child! —
The church that you spoke of! So then it is there
We shall ride in festal procession,
As bridegroom and bride!

OLAF.
[Aside.]
No longer I dare
Delay my wretched confession!

ALFHILD. Ah, each of your words has burned like a coal,
And deep its mark it has left on my soul!
My bosom is filled with joy and with song;
Wherever I wander in field or at home,
They shine on my path, they light me along, —
Like stars at night in the heavenly dome!
You said the whole world would be asked to the feast,
And foremost should ride the minstrel and priest,
Knights should go forward and guide my steed,
And roses should blossom on every side,
Each lily we met should bow like a weed,
The flowers should curtsy before the bride!

OLAF. Have I said —

ALFHILD. Olaf, you surely recall!
All things have followed your every desire;
The lindens stand yonder so green and so tall;
The roses are decked in their festive attire
And dance like elves at an elfen ball.
Never did heaven’s illumining eye
So radiantly shine as here from the sky;
Never before sang the birds so sweet!
They sing the bride and the bridegroom to greet! —
O, you — you make me so happy and blessed,
Both heaven and earth could I hold to my breast!
Nowhere can so humble a weed be found
Which under my feet I could crush and destroy,
Nowhere a creature so deep in the ground,
But I would share in its sorrow and joy!
My bosom is filled with the glory of spring;
It surges and roars like a wood in a storm!

OLAF.
[Aside.]
And soon this youthful and lovely form
Shall writhe beneath sorrow’s tormenting sting!

ALFHILD. O, glorious life!

[She kneels with upstretched arms.]

ALFHILD. O father of love,
In the distant heaven! Had I but the power,
The tongues of the angels above,
Thy praise I should sing every hour;
I cannot, for I am of little worth,
I can only bow down before you to the earth —
O thanks, thou unspeakable! Glory and praise
For all I can here understand of thy ways!

[She rises.]

ALFHILD. Yes, lovely is life in its every breath,
As lovely almost as the journey to death!

OLAF. In the grave you think it is pleasant to lie?

ALFHILD. I know not your meaning, but I brooded long.
And asked of my father “What means it to die?”
In answer thereto he sang me a song:

 ”When the child of man is weighted with grief
  And longs to be rocked to rest,
  Then comes there an elf with wings of white
  And frees its spirit oppressed.

 ”The little elf with his wings of white
  Makes ready a downy bed,
  Of lilies he weaves the linen sheets
  And pillows of roses red.

 ”Away on the pillows he carries the child,
  He carries it safe on his arm,
  He takes it to heaven aloft on a cloud
  Away from all earthly harm.

 ”And cherubs there are in the heaven above
  (I tell what is true to you);
  They strew the pillows of rosy red
  With pearls of white and of blue.

 ”Then wakens the little earthly child,
  It wakens to heavenly mirth, —
  But all that happiness, all that joy
  There’s no one that knows here on earth.”

OLAF. ‘Twere better, alas! had you never come here,
Had you lived in the mountain your peaceful life.
Your joy like a weed will wither and sear,
Your faith will be killed —

ALFHILD. But as Olaf’s wife
I am strong as the torrent and have no fear!
With you by my side let happen what may,
With you I will laugh and suffer and languish.

ALFHILD.
[Listening.]
Hush, Olaf! You hear that mournful lay,
It sounds like a song of the bitterest anguish!

CHORUS OF PALLBEARERS.
[Softly outside to the right.]
  The little child we carry
  With sorrow to the grave,
  Beneath the mould we bury
  What soon the worms will crave.

 Hard is this lot and dreary:
  With mournful dirge and sigh
  To carry sad and weary
  The child where it shall lie!

ALFHILD.
[Uncertain and anxious.]
What is it, Olaf? What is it, I say?

OLAF. A child that death is bearing away,
A mother and children weep on the way.

ALFHILD. Death! Then where are the pillows of red,
The lily-white linen, and where is the dead?

OLAF. I see no pillows of red or of gray,
But only the dark black boards of the bier;
And thereon the dead sleeps on shavings and hay.

ALFHILD. On shavings and hay?

OLAF. That is all there is here!

ALFHILD. And where is the elf who bears on his arm
The child far away from all earthly harm?

OLAF. I see but a mother whose heart will break,
And little children who follow the wake.

ALFHILD. And where are the pearls of blue and of white,
That the angels strew in the heaven of light?

OLAF. I see only this, — they weep many a tear
As they stand at the side of the bier.

ALFHILD. And where is the home, the house of God,
Where the dead dream only of mirth?

OLAF. Behold! Now they place him beneath the sod
And cover him over with earth.

ALFHILD.
[Quiet and thoughtful, after a pause.]
Not so was death in the song — not so.

OLAF. ‘Tis true; but no such joy and pleasure
Has any one felt here below. —
Have you never heard of the mountain king’s treasure,
Which night after night like gold would glow;
But if you would seize the gold in your hand,
You nothing would find save gravel and sand;
And listen, Alfhild! it often is true
That life turns out in the selfsame way;
Approach not too near, it may happen to you,
That you burn your fingers some day.
‘Tis true it may shine like a heavenly star,
But only when seen from afar.

[He becomes aware of Lady Kirsten off the stage to the right.]

OLAF. My mother — she’ll tell you — I shall depart.
The angels above send their peace to your heart!

[He goes towards the house but is stopped by LADY KIRSTEN. — The sky becomes overcast with dark clouds; the wind begins to howl in the tree-tops. — ALFHILD stands absorbed in deep thought.]