Margit.
[Looking out at the back.]
[While Gudmund preludes his song.]
Hush—hush! Oh, hear!
I roamed through the uplands so heavy of cheer;
The little birds quavered in bush and in brere;
The little birds quavered, around and above:
Wouldst know of the sowing and growing of love?
It grows like the oak tree through slow-rolling years;
’Tis nourished by dreams, and by songs, and by tears;
But swiftly ’tis sown; ere a moment speeds by,
Deep, deep in the heart love is rooted for aye.
[As he strikes the concluding chords, he
goes towards the back, where he lays
down his harp.
Signë.
[Thoughtfully, repeats to herself.]
But swiftly ’tis sown; ere a moment speeds by,
Deep, deep in the heart love is rooted for aye.
[Absently.] Did you speak to me?—I heard
not clearly—?
I? No, no. I only meant—
[She again becomes absorbed in dreams.
Margit.
[Half aloud; looking straight before her.]
It grows like the oak tree through slow-rolling years;
’Tis nourished by dreams, and by songs and by tears.
[Returning to herself.] You said that—?
[Drawing her hand over her brow.] Nay,
’twas nothing. Come, we must go meet our
guests.
[Bengt enters with many Guests, both
men and women, through the passageway.
With song and harping enter we
The feast-hall opened wide;
Peace to our hostess kind and free,
All happiness to her betide.
O’er Solhoug’s roof for ever may
Bright as to-day
The heavens abide.
ACT SECOND
A birch grove adjoining the house, one corner of
which is seen to the left. At the back, a
footpath leads up the hillside. To the right
of the footpath a river comes tumbling down
a ravine and loses itself among boulders
and stones. It is a light summer evening.
The door leading to the house stands open;
the windows are lighted up. Music is heard
from within.
The Guests.
[Singing in the Feast Hall.]
Set bow to fiddle! To sound of strings
We’ll dance till night shall furl her wings,
Through the long hours glad and golden!
Like blood-red blossom the maiden glows—
Come, bold young wooer and hold the rose
In a soft embrace enfolden.
[Knut Gesling and Erik of Heggë enter
from the house. Sounds of music,
dancing and merriment are heard from
within during what follows.
If only you come not to repent it, Knut.
That is my affair.
Well, say what you will, ’tis a daring move.
You are the King’s Sheriff. Commands go forth
to you that you shall seize the person of Gudmund
Alfson, wherever you may find him. And
now, when you have him in your grasp, you
proffer him your friendship, and let him go
freely, whithersoever he will.
I know what I am doing. I sought him in his
own dwelling, but there he was not to be found.
If, now, I went about to seize him here—think
you that Dame Margit would be minded to give
me Signë to wife?
[With deliberation.] No, by fair means it
might scarcely be, but—
And by foul means I am loth to proceed.
Moreover, Gudmund is my friend from bygone
days; and he can be helpful to me. [With decision.]
Therefore it shall be as I have said.
This evening no one at Solhoug shall know that
Gudmund Alfson is an outlaw;—to-morrow he
must look to himself.
Aye, but the King’s decree?
Oh, the King’s decree! You know as well as
I that the King’s decree is but little heeded here
in the uplands. Were the King’s decree to be
enforced, many a stout fellow among us would
have to pay dear both for bride-rape and for
man-slaying. Come this way, I would fain
know where Signë—?
[They go out to the right.
[Gudmund and Signë come down the footpath
at the back.
Oh, speak! Say on! For sweeter far
Such words than sweetest music are.
Signë, my flower, my lily fair!
Signë.
[In subdued, but happy wonderment.]
And is it I that can bind your will!
And is it I that your heart can fill!
Oh, dare I believe you?
Indeed you may.
List to me, Signë! The years sped away,
But faithful was I in my thoughts to you,
My fairest flowers, ye sisters two.
My own heart I could not clearly read.
When I left, my Signë was but a child,
A fairy elf, like the creatures wild
Who play, while we sleep, in wood and mead.
But in Solhoug’s hall to-day, right loud
My heart spake, and right clearly;
It told me that Margit’s a lady proud,
Whilst you’re the sweet maiden I love most dearly.
Signë.
[Who has only half listened to his words.]
I mind me, we sat in the hearth’s red glow,
One winter evening—’tis long ago—
And you sang to me of the maiden fair
Whom the neckan had lured to his watery lair.
There she forgot both father and mother,
There she forgot both sister and brother;
Heaven and earth and her Christian speech,
And her God, she forgot them all and each.
But close by the strand a stripling stood
And he was heartsore and heavy of mood.
He struck from his harpstrings notes of woe,
That wide o’er the waters rang loud, rang low.
The spell-bound maid in the tarn so deep,
His strains awoke from her heavy sleep.
The neckan must grant her release from his rule,
She rose through the lilies afloat on the pool—
Then looked she to heaven while on green earth she trod,
And wakened once more to her faith and her God.
Signë, my fairest of flowers!
It seems
That I, too, have lived in a world of dreams.
But the strange deep words you to-night have spoken,
Of the power of love, have my slumber broken.
The heavens seemed never so blue to me,
Never the world so fair;
I can understand, as I roam with thee,
The song of the birds in air.
So mighty is love—it stirs in the breast
Thoughts and longings and happy unrest.
But come, let us both to your sister go.
Everything she must know.
Then go you alone;—I feel that my cheek
Would be hot with blushes to hear you speak.
And here will I bide;
[Listening towards the right.
Or better—down by the riverside,
I hear Knut Gesling, with maidens and men.
[She goes out to the right. Gudmund goes
into the house.
[Margit enters from behind the house on
the left.
In the hall there is gladness and revelry;
The dancers foot it with jest and glee.
The air weighed hot on my brow and breast;
For Gudmund, he was not there.
[She draws a deep breath.
Out here ’tis better: here’s quiet and rest.
How sweet is the cool night air!
[A brooding silence.
That horrible thought! Oh, why should it be
That wherever I go it follows me?
The phial—doth a secret draught contain;
A drop of this in my—enemy’s cup,
And his life would sicken and wither up;
The leech’s skill would be tried in vain.
[Again a silence.
Were I sure that Gudmund—held me dear—
Then little I’d care for—
[Gudmund enters from the house.
You, Margit, here?
And alone? I have sought you everywhere.
’Tis cool here. I sickened of heat and glare.
See you how yonder the white mists glide
Softly over the marshes wide?
Here it is neither dark nor light,
But midway between them—
[To herself.
—as in my breast.
[Looking at him.
Is’t not so—when you wander on such a night
You hear, though but half to yourself confessed,
A stirring of secret life through the hush,
In tree and in leaf, in flower and in rush?
[With a sudden change of tone.
Can you guess what I wish?
That I could be
The nixie that haunts yonder upland lea.
How cunningly I should weave my spell!
Trust me—!
Margit, what ails you? Tell!
Margit.
[Paying no heed to him.]
How I should quaver my magic lay!
Quaver and croon it both night and day!
[With growing vehemence.
How I would lure the knight so bold
Through the greenwood glades to my mountain hold.
There were the world and its woes forgot
In the burning joys of our blissful lot.
Margit.
[Ever more wildly.]
At midnight’s hour
Sweet were our sleep in my lonely bower;—
And if death should come with the dawn, I trow
’Twere sweet to die so;—what thinkest thou?
Margit.
[Bursting into laughter.]
Ha, ha!—Let me laugh! ’Tis good
To laugh when the heart is in laughing mood!
I see that you still have the same wild soul
As of old—
Margit.
[With sudden seriousness.]
Nay, let not that vex your mind,
’Tis only at midnight it mocks control;
By day I am timid as any hind.
How tame I have grown, you yourself must say,
When you think on the women in lands far away—
Of that fair Princess—ah, she was wild!
Beside her lamblike am I and mild.
She did not helplessly yearn and brood,
She would have acted; and that—
’Tis good
You remind me; straightway I’ll cast away
What to me is valueless after this day—
[Takes out the phial.
I thought it might be
At need a friend that should set me free
Should the King’s men chance to lay hands on me.
But from to-night it has lost its worth;
Now will I fight all the kings of earth,
Gather my kinsfolk and friends to the strife,
And battle right stoutly for freedom and life.
[Is about to throw the phial against a rock.
Margit.
[Seizing his arm.]
Nay, hold! Let me have it—
I’d fain fling it down to the neckan hard by,
Who so often has made my dull hours fleet
With his harping and songs, so strange and sweet.
Give it me!
[Takes the phial from his hand.
[Feigns to throw it into the river.
[Goes to the right, and looks down into the
ravine.]
Margit.
[Concealing the phial.]
Aye, surely! You saw—
[Whispers as she goes towards the house.
Now God help and spare me!
The ice must now either break or bear me!
[Aloud.
Gudmund!
Teach me, I pray,
How to interpret the ancient lay
They sing of the church in the valley there:
A gentle knight and a lady fair,
They loved each other well.
That very day on her bier she lay
He on his sword-point fell.
They buried her by the northward spire,
And him by the south kirk wall;
And theretofore grew neither bush nor briar
In the hallowed ground at all.
But next spring from their coffins twain
Two lilies fair upgrew—
And by and by, o’er the roof-tree high,
They twined and they bloomed the whole year through.
How read you the riddle?
Gudmund.
[Looks searchingly at her.]
You may doubtless read it in many a way;
But its truest meaning, methinks, is clear:
The church can never sever two that hold each other dear.
Ye saints, if she should—? Lest worse befall,
’Tis time indeed I told her all!
[Aloud.
Do you wish for my happiness—Margit, tell!
Margit.
[In joyful agitation.]
Then, wot you well,
The joy of my life now rests with you—
Margit.
[With an outburst.]
Listen! ’tis time you knew—
[He stops suddenly.
[Voices and laughter are heard by the river
bank. Signë and some other Girls enter
from the right, accompanied by
Knut, Erik and several Younger
Men.
[Still at a distance.] Gudmund Alfson!
Wait; I must speak a word with you.
[He stops, talking to Erik. The other
Guests in the meantime enter the
house.
[To herself.] The joy of his life—! What
else can he mean but—! [Half aloud.] Signë—my
dear, dear sister!
[She puts her arm round Signë’s waist,
and they go towards the back talking
to each other.
[Softly, as he follows them with his eyes.]
Aye, so it were wisest. Both Signë and I must
away from Solhoug. Knut Gesling has shown
himself my friend; he will help me.
[Softly, to Erik.] Yes, yes, I say, Gudmund
is her kinsman; he can best plead my cause.
Well, as you will. [He goes into the house.
[Approaching.] Listen, Gudmund—
[Smiling.] Come you to tell me that you
dare no longer let me go free.
Dare! Be at your ease as to that. Knut
Gesling dares whatever he will. No, ’tis another
matter. You know that here in the district,
I am held to be a wild, unruly companion—
Aye, and if rumour lies not—
Why no, much that it reports may be true
enough. But now, I must tell you—
[They go, conversing, up towards the back.
[To Margit, as they come forward beside
the house.] I understand you not. You speak
as though an unlooked-for happiness had befallen
you. What is in your mind?
Signë—you are still a child; you know not
what it means to have ever in your heart the
dread of—[Suddenly breaking off.] Think,
Signë, what it must be to wither and die without
ever having lived.
[Looks at her in astonishment, and shakes her
head.] Nay, but, Margit—?
Aye, aye, you do not understand, but none the
less—
[They go up again, talking to each other.
Gudmund and Knut come down on the
other side.
Well, if so it be—if this wild life no longer
contents you—then I will give you the best
counsel that ever friend gave to friend: take to
wife an honourable maiden.
Say you so? And if I now told you that ’tis
even that I have in mind?
Good luck and happiness to you then, Knut
Gesling! And now you must know that I
too—
You? Are you, too, so purposed?
Aye, truly. But the King’s wrath;—I am a
banished man—
Nay, to that you need give but little thought.
As yet there is no one here, save Dame Margit,
that knows aught of the matter; and so long as
I am your friend, you have one in whom you
can trust securely. Now I must tell you—
[He proceeds in a whisper as they go up
again.
[As she and Margit again advance.] But
tell me then, Margit—!
More I dare not tell you.
Then will I be more open-hearted than you.
But first answer me one question. [Bashfully,
with hesitation.] Is there—is there no one who
has told you anything concerning me?
Concerning you? Nay, what should that be?
[As before, looking downwards.] You said
to me this morning: if a wooer came riding
hither—?
That is true. [To herself.] Knut Gesling—has
he already—? [Eagerly, to Signë.] Well?
What then?
[Softly, but with exultation.] The wooer has
come! He has come, Margit! I knew not then
whom you meant; but now—!
And what have you answered him?
Oh, how should I know? [Flinging her arms
round her sister’s neck.] But the world seems
to me so rich and beautiful since the moment
when he told me that he held me dear.
Why, Signë, Signë, I cannot understand that
you should so quickly—! You scarce knew him
before to-day.
Oh, ’tis but little I yet know of love; but this
I know that what the song says is true:
Full swiftly ’tis sown; ere a moment speeds by,
Deep, deep in the heart love is rooted for aye—
So be it; and since so it is, I need no longer
hold aught concealed from you. Ah—
[She stops suddenly, as she sees Knut and
Gudmund approaching.
[In a tone of satisfaction.] Ha, this is as I
would have it, Gudmund. Here is my hand!
[To herself.] What is this?
[To Knut.] And here is mine!
[They shake hands.
But now we must each of us name who it
is—
Good. Here at Solhoug, among so many fair
women, I have found her whom—
I too. And I will bear her home this very
night, if it be needful.
[Who has approached unobserved.] All
saints in heaven!
[Nods to Knut.] The same is my intent!
[Who has also been listening.] Gudmund!
