MANLIUS. [After a pause.] The gods shall know revenge was not the aim For which I joined and followed Catiline. My wrath flared up within me for a space When first I felt I had been wronged, insulted;— The old blood is not yet entirely cold; Now and again it courses warmly through my veins. But the humiliation is forgotten. I followed Catiline for his own sake; And I shall watch o'er him with zealous care. Here stands he all alone amidst these hosts Of paltry knaves and dissolute companions. They cannot comprehend him,—he in turn Is far too proud to wish to fathom them.

[He throws some branches on the fire and remains standing in silence. CATILINE comes out of the tent.]

CATILINE. [To himself.] Midnight approaches. Everything is hushed;— Only to my poor eyes sleep fails to come. Cold is the night wind; 'twill refresh my soul And give me strength anew—. I sorely need it!

[He becomes aware of MANLIUS.]

CATILINE. 'Tis you, old Manlius? And do you stand guard Alone on such a night?

MANLIUS. Oft have I stood Guard over you in childhood's early days. Say, do you not recall?

CATILINE. Those days are gone; With them, my peace; wherever now I go, I'm haunted by a multitude of visions. All things find shelter in my bosom, Manlius;— Save peace alone. That—that is far away.

MANLIUS. Cast off these gloomy thoughts and take your rest! Remember that the morrow may require Your utmost strength for our deliverance.

CATILINE. I cannot rest. If I but close my eyes One fleeting moment in forgetful slumber, I'm tossed about in strange, fantastic dreams. Here on my couch I lay now, half asleep, When these same visions reappeared again, More strange than ever,—more mysterious And puzzling—. Ah, if I could only know What this forebodes! But no—

MANLIUS. Confide your dream To me. Perhaps I can expound its meaning.

CATILINE. [After a pause.] If I slept or if I waked, scarcely can I say; Visions fast pursued each other in a mad array. Soon a deepening twilight settles over everything; And a night swoops down upon me on her wide-spread wing, Terrible and dark, unpierced, save by the lightning's flare; I am in a grave-like dungeon, filled with clammy air. Lofty is the ceiling and with thunderclouds o'ercast; Multitudes of shadow forms go racing wildly past, Whirl around in roaring eddies, as the ocean wave Draws the raging storm and breaks against a rocky cave. Yet amid this frenzied tumult children often come, Decked in flowers, singing of a half-forgotten home. Soon the darkness round them changes to a vivid glare,— Dimly in the center I descry a lonely pair; Ah, two women,—stern the one and gloomy as the night,— And the other gentle, like the evening in its flight. How familiar to my eyes the two lone figures seemed! With her smiling countenance the one upon me beamed; Like the zigzag lightning flashed the other's piercing eye; Terror seized my soul,—yet on I gazed in ecstasy. Proudly upright stands the one, the other leans in weariness On the solitary table, where they play a game of chess. Pawns they barter, or they move them now from place to place;— Then the game is lost and won,—she fades away in space,— She who radiantly smiled, ah, she who lost the game; Instantly the bands of children vanish whence they came. Tumult rises; darkness deepens; but from out the night Two eyes fix upon me, in a victor's gloating right; Then my brain reels; I see nothing but those baleful eyes. But what else I dreamed of in that frenzied slumber lies Far within me hidden, buried deep beyond recall. Could I but remember. Gone forever is it all.

MANLIUS. Remarkable, indeed, my Catiline, Is this your dream.

CATILINE. [Meditating.] If I could but remember— But no; my memory fails me—

MANLIUS. Brood no longer Upon these thoughts. For what are dreams, indeed, But pale chimeras only, darkling visions, On nothing founded, and by naught explained?

CATILINE. Yes, you are right; I will no longer brood;— Already I am calm. But go your way; You need some rest. The meanwhile I shall walk In privacy and meditate my plans.

[MANLIUS goes into the forest.]

CATILINE. [Paces for some time back and forth by the camp fire, which is about to go out; then he stops and speaks thoughtfully.] If I could only—. Ah, it is unmanly To brood and be distressed by thoughts like these. And yet,—here in the stillness of the night, This lonely solitude, again I see Rising before me life-like all I dreamed.

[A SHADOW, attired like an old warrior in armor and toga, stems to rise from the earth among the trees a short distance from him.]

CATILINE. [Recoils before THE SHADOW.] Great powers of heaven—!

THE SHADOW. Greetings, Catiline!

CATILINE. What will you have? Who are you, pallid shade?

THE SHADOW. One moment! It is here my right to question,— And you shall answer. Do you no longer know This voice from ages long since passed away?

CATILINE. Methinks I do; yet certain I am not—. But speak, whom seek you at this midnight hour?

THE SHADOW. 'Tis you I seek. Know that this hour alone Is granted me as respite here on earth.

CATILINE. By all the gods! Who are you? Speak!

THE SHADOW. Be calm! Hither I come to call you to account. Why do you envy me the peace of death? Why do you drive me from my earthy dwelling? Why do you mar my rest with memories, That I must seek you, whisper menaces, To guard the honor I so dearly bought?

CATILINE. Alas! this voice—! Somehow I seem to know—

THE SHADOW. What is there left of my imperial power? A shadow like myself; yes, scarcely that. Both sank into the grave—and came to naught. 'Twas dearly bought; dear, dear was it attained. For it I sacrificed all peace in life, And waived all claims to peace beyond the grave. And now you come and want to wrest from me With daring hands what little I have left. Are there not paths enough to noble deeds? Why must you choose the one that I have chosen? I gave up everything in life to power; My name—so dreamed I—should forever stand, Not beaming like a star with friendly lustre,— No, like a flash against the midnight sky! I did not covet fame, the goal of hundreds, For magnanimity and noble deeds; Nor admiration;—far too many share That fate already: so will many more Until the end of time. Of blood and horror I wished to build me my renown and fame. With silent dread, as on some meteor That now appears in mystery and is gone Again,—men should gaze back upon my life, And look askance on me, whom no one ever, Before or since then, dared to emulate. Yes, thus I dreamed and dreamed,—and was deceived. Why did I not surmise, when you stood near me, The secret thoughts then growing in your soul. Yet, Catiline, beware; know that I see Beyond the veil that hides from you the future. Written among the stars—I read your fate!

CATILINE. You read my fate? Expound it then to me!

THE SHADOW. No, first beyond death's gloomy gate Shall fade away the mists that hide The gruesome and the nobly great, Borne ever on by time and tide. This from thy book of fate alone A liberated soul may tell thee: Perish thou shalt by deed thine own, And yet a stranger's hand shall fell thee.

[THE SHADOW glides away as in a mist.]

CATILINE. [After a pause.] Ah, he has vanished. Was it but a dream? No, no; even here he stood; the moonbeams played Upon his sallow visage. Yes, I knew him! It was the man of blood, the old dictator, Who sallied from his grave to frighten me. He feared lest he should lose the victor's crown,— Not the reward of honor, but the terror Whereby his memory lives. Are bloodless shades Spurred onward also by the thought of glory?

[Paces to and fro uneasily.]

CATILINE. All things storm in upon me. Now Aurelia In gentle admonition speaks,—and now In me reechoes Furia's warning cry. Nay, more than that;—out of the grave appear The pallid shadows of a by-gone age. They threaten me. I should now stop and pause? I should turn back? No. I shall venture on Unfaltering;—the victory soon is mine!

[CURIUS comes through the forest in great agitation.]

CURIUS. O Catiline—!

CATILINE. [Surprised.] What, you,—you here, my friend!

CURIUS. I had to—

CATILINE. Wherefore staid you not in town?

CURIUS. Fear prompted me; I had to seek you here.

CATILINE. You rush for my sake blindly into danger. You thoughtless lad! Yet, come into my arms!

[Moves to embrace him.]

CURIUS. [Draws back.] No! Do not touch me! Do not even come near me!

CATILINE. What ails you, my dear Curius?

CURIUS. Up! Break camp! Flee, if you can, even this very hour! On every highway come the enemy troops; Your camp is being surrounded.

CATILINE. Calm yourself; You rave. Speak, has the journey shaken you—?

CURIUS. Oh no; but save yourself while there is time! You are betrayed—

[Prostrates himself before him.]

CATILINE. [Starts back.] Betrayed! What are you saying?

CURIUS. Betrayed by one in friendly guise!

CATILINE. You err; These stormy friends are loyal even as you.

CURIUS. Then woe to you for all their loyalty!

CATILINE. Compose yourself! It is your love for me, Your interest in my safety, that has wakened Imaginary dangers in your mind.

CURIUS. Oh, do you know these words do murder me? But flee! I do entreat you earnestly—

CATILINE. Be calm and speak your mind. Why should I flee? The enemy knows not where I make my stand.

CURIUS. Indeed he does,—he knows your every plan!

CATILINE. What, are you mad? He knows—? Impossible!

CURIUS. Oh, were it so! But use the hour remaining; Still you may save yourself perhaps in flight!

CATILINE. Betrayed? No,—ten times no; impossible!

CURIUS. [Seizes his dagger and holds it out to him.] Catiline, plunge this dagger in my bosom;— Straight through the heart! 'Twas I betrayed your plans!

CATILINE. You? What madness!

CURIUS. Yes, it was in madness! Ask not the reason; scarce I know myself; I say,—I have revealed your every counsel.

CATILINE. [In bitter grief.] Now have you killed my faith in sacred friendship!

CURIUS. Oh, send the dagger home, and torture me No longer with forbearance—!

CATILINE. [Kindly.] Live, my Curius! Arise! You erred;—but I forgive you all.

CURIUS. [Overcome.] O Catiline, my heart is crushed with grief—! But hasten; flee! There is no time to tarry. Soon will the Roman troops invade your camp; They're under way; on every side they come.

CATILINE. Our comrades in the city—?

CURIUS. They are captured;— Some were imprisoned, most of them were killed!

CATILINE. [To himself.] What fate—what fate!

CURIUS. [Again holds out the dagger to him.] Then plunge it in my heart!

CATILINE. [Looks at him calmly.] No, you were but a tool. You acted well—

CURIUS. Oh, let me die and expiate my sin!

CATILINE. I have forgiven you.

CATILINE. [As he goes.] But one thing now Is there to choose!

CURIUS. [Jumps up.] Yes, flight!

CATILINE. Heroic death!

[He goes away through the forest.]

CURIUS. 'Tis all in vain! Ruin awaits him here. This mildness is a tenfold punishment! I'll follow him; one thing I shall be granted:— To perish fighting by the hero's side!

[He rushes out. LENTULUS and TWO GLADIATORS come stealing among the trees.]

LENTULUS. [Softly.] Some one was speaking—

ONE OF THE GLADIATORS. Aye, but now all's quiet.

THE OTHER GLADIATOR. Perchance it was the sentinel relieved Of duty.

LENTULUS. That may be. This is the place; Here shall you wait. Are both your weapons sharp, Ground for their purpose?

THE FIRST GLADIATOR. Bright as is the lightning!

THE SECOND GLADIATOR. Mine, too, cuts well. In the last Roman games Two gladiators died beneath this sword.

LENTULUS. Then stand you ready in this thicket here. And when a man, whom I shall designate, Goes toward the tent, then shall you rush out quick And strike him from behind.

THE FIRST GLADIATOR. It shall be done!

[Both GLADIATORS conceal themselves; LENTULUS goes spying around.]

LENTULUS. [To himself.] It is a daring game I here attempt;— Yet must it be performed this very night, If done at all.—If Catiline should fall, No one can lead them on except myself; I'll purchase them with golden promises, And march without delay upon the city, Where still the senate, struck with panic fear, Neglects to arm itself against the danger.

[He goes in among the trees.]

THE FIRST GLADIATOR. [Softly to the other.] Who is this stranger we must fall upon?

THE SECOND GLADIATOR. What matters it to us who he may be? Lentulus pays our hire; the blame is his: He must himself defend the act we do.

LENTULUS. [Returns quickly.] Stand ready now; the man we wait is coming!

[LENTULUS and the GLADIATORS lie in wait among the bushes.]

[Soon after, CATILINE comes through the forest and goes toward the tent.]

LENTULUS. [Whispering.] Out! Fall upon him! Strike him from behind!

[All three rush on CATILINE.]

CATILINE. [Draws his sword and defends himself.] Ah, scoundrels,—do you dare to—?

LENTULUS. [To the GLADIATORS.] Cut him down!

CATILINE. [Recognizes him.] You, Lentulus, would murder Catiline?

THE FIRST GLADIATOR. [Terrified.] He it is!

THE SECOND GLADIATOR. [Draws back.] Catiline! I'll never use The sword on him. Come flee!

[Both GLADIATORS make their escape.]

LENTULUS. Then die by mine!

[They fight; CATILINE strikes the sword from the hand of Lentulus; the latter tries to escape, but CATILINE holds him fast.]

CATILINE. Murderer! Traitor!

LENTULUS. [Entreating.] Mercy, Catiline!

CATILINE. I spell your plans upon your countenance. You wished to murder me, and put yourself Into the chieftain's place. Was it not so?

LENTULUS. Yes, Catiline, it was even so!

CATILINE. [Looks at him with repressed scorn.] What then? If 'tis the power you want,—so let it be!

LENTULUS. Explain,—what do you mean?

CATILINE. I shall resign; And you may lead the army—

LENTULUS. [Surprised.] You resign?

CATILINE. I shall. But be prepared for all events; Know this—our undertaking is revealed: The senate is informed of every plan; Its troops hem us about—

LENTULUS. What do you say?

CATILINE. Now shall I call a council of our friends; Do you come too,—announce your leadership; I shall resign.

LENTULUS. [Detains him.] One moment, Catiline!

CATILINE. Your time is precious; ere the dawn of day You may expect an onslaught—

LENTULUS. [Anxiously.] Hear me, friend! Surely you jest? It is impossible—

CATILINE. Our project, I have told you, is betrayed. Show now your firmness and sagacity!

LENTULUS. Betrayed? Then woe to us!

CATILINE. [Smiles scornfully.] You paltry coward! You tremble now;—yet you would murder me; You think a man like you is called to rule?

LENTULUS. Forgive me, Catiline!

CATILINE. Make your escape By hurried flight, if still it can be done.

LENTULUS. Ah, you permit me then—?

CATILINE. And did you think It was my purpose to forsake this post In such an hour as this? You little know me.

LENTULUS. O, Catiline—!

CATILINE. [Coldly.] Waste not your moments here! Seek your own safety;—I know how to die.

[He turns away from him.]

LENTULUS. [To himself.] I thank you for these tidings, Catiline;— I shall make use of them to serve my end. 'Twill stand me in good stead now that I know This region well; I'll seek the hostile army And guide it hitherward by secret paths, To your destruction and to my salvation.— The serpent that you trample in the dust So arrogantly still retains its sting!

[He goes.]

CATILINE. [After a pause.] This is the trust I built my hopes upon! Thus one by one they leave me. Oh ye gods! Treason and cowardice alone stir up The sullen currents of their slavish souls. Oh, what a fool am I with all my hopes! I would destroy yon viper's nest, that Rome,— Which is long since a heap of sunken ruins.

[The sound of arms is heard approaching; he listens.]

CATILINE. They come, they come! Still are there valiant men Among them. Ah, the joyous clang of steel! The merry clash of shields against each other! Anew the fire kindles in my breast; The reckoning is near,—the mighty hour That settles every doubt. I hail the day!

[MANLIUS, STATILIUS, GABINIUS, and many OTHER CONSPIRATORS come through the forest.]

MANLIUS. Here, Catiline, come your friends and comrades true; In camp I spread the alarm, as you commanded—

CATILINE. And have you told them—?

MANLIUS. Yes,—they know our plight.

STATILIUS. We know it well, and we shall follow you With sword in hand to fight for life and death.

CATILINE. I thank you all, my comrades brave in arms! But do not think, my friends, that life or death Is ours to choose;—our only choice is this: Death in heroic battle with the foe, Or death by torture when like savage beasts We shall be hounded down relentlessly. Ah, which do you prefer? To risk in flight A wretched life prolonged in misery, Or like your proud and worthy sires of old To perish nobly on the battlefield?

GABINIUS. We choose to fight and die!

MANY VOICES. Lead us to death!

CATILINE. Then let us be off! Through death we shall achieve The glorious life of immortality. Our fall, our name, through distant generations Shall be proclaimed with lofty pride—

FURIA. [Calls out behind him among the trees.] —O terror!

SOME VOICES. Behold,—a woman—!

CATILINE. [Startled.] Furia! You—you here? What brought you here?

FURIA. Ah, I must lead you on To your great goal.

CATILINE. Where is my goal, then? Speak!

FURIA. Each mortal seeks his goal in his own way. And you seek yours through ever hopeless strife; The struggle yields defeat and certain death.

CATILINE. Yet also honor and immortal fame! Go, woman! Great and noble is this hour! My heart is closed against your raucous cries.

[AURELIA appears in the door of the tent.]

AURELIA. My Catiline—!

[She stops, terrified at the sight of the throng.]

CATILINE. [Painfully.] Aurelia,—oh, Aurelia!

AURELIA. What is the trouble? All this stir in camp— What is on foot here?

CATILINE. You I could forget! What will your fate be now—?

FURIA. [Whispers scornfully, unnoticed by AURELIA.] Ah, Catiline, Already wavering in your high resolve? Is this your death defiance?

CATILINE. [Flaring up.] No, by the gods!

AURELIA. [Comes nearer.] Oh, speak, beloved! Keep me in doubt no longer—

FURIA. [In an undertone behind him.] Flee with your wife—the while your comrades die!

MANLIUS. Tarry no longer; lead us out to battle—

CATILINE. Oh, what a choice! And yet,—here is no choice;— I must go on,—I dare not stop midway.

CATILINE. [Calls out.] Then follow me to battle on the plain!

AURELIA. [Throws herself in his arms.] Catiline,—do not leave me,—take me with you!

CATILINE. No, stay, Aurelia!

FURIA. [As before.] Take her, Catiline! Worthy your death will be, as was your life, When you are vanquished—in a woman's arms!

CATILINE. [Thrusts AURELIA aside.] Away, you who would rob me of my fame! Death shall o'ertake me in the midst of men. I have a life to atone, a name to clear—

FURIA. Just so; just so, my gallant Catiline!

CATILINE. All things I will uproot from out my soul That bind me to my life of empty dreams! All that is of the past shall henceforth be As if 'twere not—

AURELIA. Oh, cast me not away! By all the love I bear you, Catiline,— I beg you, I adjure,—let us not part!

CATILINE. My heart is dead, my sight is blind to love. From life's great mockery I turn my eyes; And gaze but on the dim, yet mighty star Of fame that is to be!

AURELIA. O gods of mercy!

[She leans faint against the tree outside the tent.]

CATILINE. [To the Warriors.] And now away!

MANLIUS. The din of arms I hear!

SEVERAL VOICES. They come, they come.

CATILINE. Good! We will heed their warning. Long was our night of shame; our dawn is near—. To battle in the crimson sky of morning! By Roman sword, with Roman fortitude, The last of Romans perish in their blood!

[They rush out through the forest; a great alarm, rent with battle-cries, is heard from within the camp.]

FURIA. He is gone forever. My great task in life is done. Cold and rigid we shall find him in the morning sun.

AURELIA. [Aside.] In his passion-glutted bosom then should love no longer dwell? Was it nothing but a dream? His angry words I heard full well.

FURIA. Hark, the weapons clash; already at the brink of death he stands; Soon a noiseless shadow he will hasten toward the spirit lands.

AURELIA. [Startled.] Who are you, prophetic voice, that yonder comes to me, Like the night-owl's cry of warning from some far-off tree! Are you from the clammy underworld of spirits come Hence to lead my Catiline into your gloomy home?

FURIA. Home is ay the journey's goal, and all his wanderings lay Through the reeking swamps of life—

AURELIA. But only for a day. Free and noble was his heart, his spirit strong and true, Till around it serpent-like a poisoned seedling grew.

FURIA. So the plane-tree, too, keeps fresh and green its leafy dress, Till its trunk is smothered in a clinging vine's caress.

AURELIA. Now did you betray your source. For time and time again Echoed from the lips of Catiline this one refrain. You the serpent are, who poisoned all my joy in life, Steeled his heart against my kindness through your deadly strife. From those waking night-dreams well I know your infamy, Like a threat I see you stand between my love and me. With my husband at my side I cherished in my breast Longings for a tranquil life, a home of peace and rest. Ah, a garden-bed I planted in his weary heart; As its fairest ornament our love I hedged apart. Flower and all have you uprooted with malignant hand; In the dust it lies where thriving it did lately stand.

FURIA. Foolish weakling; you would guide the steps of Catiline? Do you not perceive his heart was never wholly thine? Think you that in such a soil your flower can survive? In the sunny springtime only violets can thrive, While the henbane grows in strength beneath a clouded grey; And his soul was long ago a clouded autumn day. All is lost to you. Soon dies the spark within his breast; As a victim of revenge he shall go to his rest.

AURELIA. [With increasing vehemence.] Thus he shall not perish; no, by all the gods of day! To his weary heart my tears will somehow force a way. If I find him pale and gory on the battlefield, I shall throw my arms about him and his bosom shield, Breathe upon his speechless lips the love within my soul, Ease the pain within him and his suffering mind console. Herald of revenge, your victim from you I shall wrest, Bind him to the land of sunshine, to a home of rest; If his eyes be dimmed already, stilled his beating heart, Linked together arm in arm we shall this life depart. Grant me, gods of mercy, in return for what I gave, By the side of him I love, the stillness of the grave.

[She goes.]

FURIA. [Gazes after her.] Seek him, deluded soul;—I have no fear; I hold the victory safe within my hands.

FURIA. The roar of battle grows; its rumble blends With death-cries and the crash of broken shields. Is he perchance now dying? Still alive? Oh, blessed is this hour! The sinking moon Secludes herself in massive thunderclouds. One moment more it will be night anew Ere comes the day;—and with the coming day All will be over. In the dark he dies, As in the dark he lived. O blessed hour!

[She listens.]

FURIA. Now sweeps the wind by, like an autumn gust, And lapses slowly in the far-off distance. The ponderous armies slowly sweep the plain. Like angry ocean billows on they roll, Unyielding, trampling down the fallen dead. Out yonder I hear whines and moans and sighs,— The final lullaby,—wherewith they lull Themselves to rest and all their pallid brothers. Now speaks the night-owl forth to welcome them Into the kingdom of the gloomy shadows.

FURIA. [After a pause.] How still it is. Now is he mine at last,— Aye, mine alone, and mine forevermore. Now we can journey toward the river Lethe— And far beyond where never dawns the day. Yet first I'll seek his bleeding body yonder, And freely glut my eyes upon those features, Hated and yet so fair, ere they be marred By rising sunshine and by watchful vultures.

[She starts to go, but is suddenly startled at something.]

FURIA. What is that gliding o'er the meadow yonder? Is it the misty vapors of the moor That form a picture in the morning chill? Now it draws near.—The shade of Catiline! His spectre—! I can see his misty eye, His broken shield, his sword bereft of blade. Ah, he is surely dead; one thing alone,— Remarkable,—his wound I do not see.

[CATILINE comes through the forest, pale and weary, with drooping head and troubled countenance.]

CATILINE. [To himself.] "Perish thou shalt by deed thine own, And yet a stranger's hand shall fell thee." Such was his prophecy. Now am I fallen— Though struck by no one. Who will solve the riddle?

FURIA. I greet you after battle, Catiline!

CATILINE. Ah, who are you?

FURIA. I am a shadow's shadow.

CATILINE. You, Furia,—you it is! You welcome me?

FURIA. Welcome at last into our common home! Now we can go—two shades—to Charon's bark. Yet first—accept the wreath of victory.

[She picks some flowers, which she weaves into a wreath during the following.]

CATILINE. What make you there?

FURIA. Your brow I shall adorn. But wherefore come you hither all alone? A chieftain's ghost ten thousand dead should follow. Then where are all your comrades, Catiline?

CATILINE. They slumber, Furia!

FURIA. Ah, they slumber still?

CATILINE. They slumber still,—and they will slumber long. They slumber all. Steal softly through the forest, Peer out across the plain,—disturb them not! There will you find them in extended ranks. They fell asleep lulled by the clang of steel; They fell asleep,—and wakened not, as I did, When in the distant hills the echoes died. A shadow now you called me. True, I am A shadow of myself. But do not think Their slumber yonder is so undisturbed And void of dreams. Oh, do not think so!

FURIA. Speak! What may your comrades dream?

CATILINE. Ah, you shall hear.— I led the battle with despairing heart, And sought my death beneath the play of swords. To right and left I saw my comrades fall; Statilius first,—then one by one the rest; My Curius fell trying to shield my breast; All perished there beneath Rome's flaming sword,— The sword that me alone passed by untouched. Yes, Catiline was spared by the sword of Rome. Half-stunned I stood there with my broken shield, Aware of nothing as the waves of battle Swept o'er me. I recovered first my senses When all grew still again, and I looked up And saw the struggle seething—far behind me! How long I stood there? Only this I know,— I stood alone among my fallen comrades. But there was life within those misty eyes; The corners of their mouths betrayed a smile; And they addressed their smile and gaze to me, Who stood alone erect among the dead,— Who had for ages fought for them and Rome,— Who stood there lonely and disgraced, untouched By Roman sword. Then perished Catiline.

FURIA. False have you read your fallen comrades' dreams; False have you judged the reason of your fall. Their smiles and glances were but invitations To sleep with them—

CATILINE. Yes, if I only could!

FURIA. Have courage,—spectre of a former hero; Your hour of rest is near. Come, bend your head;— I shall adorn you with the victor's crown.

[She offers the wreath to him.]

CATILINE. Bah,—what is that? A poppy-wreath—!

FURIA. [With wild glee.] Well, yes; Are not such poppies pretty? They will glow Around your forehead like a fringe of blood.

CATILINE. No, cast the wreath away! I hate this crimson.

FURIA. [Laughs aloud.] Ah, you prefer the pale and feeble shades? Good! I shall bring the garland of green rushes That Sylvia carried in her dripping locks, The day she came afloat upon the Tiber?

CATILINE. Alas, what visions—!

FURIA. Shall I bring you rather The thorny brambles from the market-place, With crimson-spots, the stain of civic blood, That flowed at your behest, my Catiline?

CATILINE. Enough!

FURIA. Or would you like a crown of leaves From the old winter oak near mother's home, That withered when a young dishonored woman With piercing cries distraught leaped in the river?

CATILINE. Pour out at once your measures of revenge Upon my head—

FURIA. I am your very eye,— Your very memory, your very doom.

CATILINE. But wherefore now?

FURIA. His goal at length attained, The traveller spent looks back from whence he came.

CATILINE. Have I then reached my goal? Is this the goal? I am no longer living,—nor yet buried. Where lies the goal?

FURIA. In sight,—if you but will.

CATILINE. A will I have no longer; my will perished When all the things I willed once, came to naught.

CATILINE. [Waves his arms.] Away,—away from me, ye sallow shades! What claim you here of me, ye men and women? I cannot give you—! Oh, this multitude—!

FURIA. To earth your spirit still is closely bound! These thousand-threaded nets asunder tear! Come, let me press this wreath upon your locks,— 'Tis gifted with a strong and soothing virtue; It kills the memory, lulls the soul to rest!

CATILINE. [Huskily.] It kills the memory? Dare I trust your word? Then press your poison-wreath upon my forehead.

FURIA. [Puts the wreath on his head.] Now it is yours! Thus decked you shall appear Before the prince of darkness, Catiline!

CATILINE. Away! away! I yearn to go below;— I long to pass into the spirit lands. Let us together go! What holds me here? What stays my steps? Behind me here I feel Upon the morning sky a misty star;— It holds me in the land of living men; It draws me as the moon attracts the sea.

FURIA. Away! Away!

CATILINE. It beckons and it twinkles. I cannot follow you until this light Is quenched entirely, or by clouds obscured,— I see it clearly now; 'tis not a star; It is a human heart, throbbing and warm; It binds me here; it fascinates and draws me As draws the evening star the eye of children.

FURIA. Then stop this beating heart!

CATILINE. What do you mean?

FURIA. The dagger in your belt—. A single thrust,— The star will vanish and the heart will die That stand between us like an enemy.

CATILINE. Ah, I should—? Sharp and shining is the dagger—

CATILINE. [With a cry.] Aurelia! O Aurelia, where—where are you? Were you but here—! No, no,—I will not see you! And yet methinks all would be well again, And peace would come, if I could lay my head Upon your bosom and repent—repent!

FURIA. And what would you repent?

CATILINE. Oh, everything! That I have been, that I have ever lived.

FURIA. 'Tis now too late—too late! Whence now you stand No path leads back again.—Go try it, fool! Now am I going home. Place you your head Upon her breast and see if there you find The blessed peace your weary soul desires.

FURIA. [With increasing wildness.] Soon will the thousand dead rise up again; Dishonored women will their numbers join; And all,—aye, they will all demand of you The life, the blood, the honor you destroyed. In terror you will flee into the night,— Will roam about the earth on every strand, Like old Actean, hounded by his dogs,— A shadow hounded by a thousand shades!

CATILINE. I see it, Furia. Here I have no peace. I am an exile in the world of light! I'll go with you into the spirit realms;— The bond that binds me I will tear asunder.

FURIA. Why grope you with the dagger?

CATILINE. She shall die.

[The lightning strikes and the thunder rolls.]

FURIA. The mighty powers rejoice at your resolve!— See, Catiline,—see, yonder comes your wife.

[AURELIA comes through the forest in an anxious search.]

AURELIA. Where shall I find him? Where—where can he be! I've searched in vain among the dead—

[Discovers him.]

AURELIA. Great heavens,— My Catiline!

[She rushes toward him.]

CATILINE. [Bewildered.] Speak not that name again!

AURELIA. You are alive?

[Is about to throw herself in his arms.]

CATILINE. [Thrusting her aside.] Away! I'm not alive.

AURELIA. Oh, hear me, dearest—!

CATILINE. No, I will not hear! I hate you. I see through your cunning wiles. You wish to chain me to a living death. Cease staring at me! Ah, your eyes torment me,— They pierce like daggers through my very soul! Ah, yes, the dagger! Die! Come, close your eyes—

[He draws the dagger and seizes her by the hand.]

AURELIA. Keep guard, oh gracious gods, o'er him and me!

CATILINE. Quick, close your eyes; close them, I say;—in them I see the starlight and the morning sky—. Now shall I quench the heavenly star of dawn!

[The thunder rolls again.]

CATILINE. Your heart; your blood! Now speak the gods of life Their last farewell to you and Catiline!

[He lifts the dagger toward her bosom; she escapes into the tent; he pursues her.]

FURIA. [Listens.] She stretches out her hand imploringly. She pleads with him for life. He hears her not. He strikes her down! She reels in her own blood!

[CATILINE comes slowly out of the tent with the dagger in his hand.]

CATILINE. Now am I free. Soon I shall cease to be. Now sinks my soul in vague oblivion. My eyes are growing dim, my hearing faint, As if through rushing waters. Ah, do you know What I have slain with this my little dagger? Not her alone,—but all the hearts on earth,— All living things, all things that grow and bloom;— The starlight have I dimmed, the crescent moon, The flaming sun. Ah, see,—it fails to rise; 'Twill never rise again; the sun is dead. Now is the whole wide realm of earth transformed Into a huge and clammy sepulchre, Its vault of leaden grey;—beneath this vault Stand you and I, bereft of light and darkness, Of death and life,—two restless exiled shadows.

FURIA. Now stand we, Catiline, before our goal!

CATILINE. No, one step more—before I reach my goal. Relieve me of my burden! Do you not see, I bend beneath the corpse of Catiline? A dagger through the corpse of Catiline!

[He shows her the dagger.]

CATILINE. Come, Furia, set me free! Come, take this dagger;— On it the star of morning I impaled;— Take it—and plunge it straightway through the corpse; Then it will loose its hold, and I am free.

FURIA. [Takes the dagger.] Your will be done, whom I have loved in hate! Shake off your dust and come with me to rest.

[She buries the dagger deep in his heart; he sinks down at the foot of the tree.]

CATILINE. [After a moment comes to consciousness again, passes his hand across his forehead, and speaks faintly.] Now, mysterious voice, your prophecy I understand! I shall perish by my own, yet by a stranger's hand. Nemesis has wrought her end. Shroud me, gloom of night! Raise your billows, murky Styx, roll on in all your might! Ferry me across in safety; speed the vessel on Toward the silent prince's realm, the land of shadows wan. Two roads there are running yonder; I shall journey dumb Toward the left—

AURELIA. [From the tent, pale and faltering, her bosom bloody.] —no, toward the right! Oh, toward Elysium!

CATILINE. [Startled.] How this bright and lurid picture fills my soul with dread! She herself it is! Aurelia, speak,—are you not dead?

AURELIA. [Kneels before him.] No, I live that I may still your agonizing cry,— Live that I may lean my bosom on your breast and die.

CATILINE. Oh, you live!

AURELIA. I did but swoon; though my two eyes grew blurred, Dimly yet I followed you and heard your every word. And my love a spouse's strength again unto me gave;— Breast to breast, my Catiline, we go into the grave!

CATILINE. Oh, how gladly would I go! Yet all in vain you sigh. We must part. Revenge compels me with a hollow cry. You can hasten, free and blithesome, forth to peace and light; I must cross the river Lethe down into the night.

[The day dawns in the background.]

AURELIA. [Points toward the increasing light.] No, the terrors and the gloom of death love scatters far. See, the storm-clouds vanish; faintly gleams the morning star.

AURELIA. [With uplifted arms.] Light is victor! Grand and full of freshness dawns the day! Follow me, then! Death already speeds me on his way.

[She sinks down over him.]

CATILINE. [Presses her to himself and speaks with his last strength.] Oh, how sweet! Now I remember my forgotten dream, How the darkness was dispersed before a radiant beam, How the song of children ushered in the new-born day. Ah, my eye grows dim, my strength is fading fast away; But my mind is clearer now than ever it has been: All the wanderings of my life loom plainly up within. Yes, my life a tempest was beneath the lightning blaze; But my death is like the morning's rosy-tinted haze.

[Bends over her.]

CATILINE. You have driven the gloom away; peace dwells within my breast. I shall seek with you the dwelling place of light and rest!

CATILINE. [He tears the dagger quickly out of his breast and speaks with dying voice.] The gods of dawn are smiling in atonement from above; All the powers of darkness you have conquered with your love!

[During the last scene FURIA has withdrawn farther and farther into the background and disappears at last among the trees. CATILINE's head sinks down on AURELIA's breast; they die.]

* * * * *

THE WARRIOR'S BARROW

[Kaempehojen]

A Dramatic Poem in One Act

1854

* * * * *

DRAMATIS PERSONA

RODERIK An old recluse.

BLANKA His foster-daughter.

GANDALF A sea-king from Norway.

ASGAUT An old viking.

HROLLOUG " " "

JOSTEJN " " "

Several VIKINGS

HEMMING A young scald in Gandalf's service.

* * * * *

SETTING

The action takes place on a small island off the coast of Sicily shortly before the introduction of Christianity into Norway.

An open place surrounded by trees near the shore. To the left in the background the ruins of an old temple. In the center of the scene a huge barrow upon which is a monument decked with flower wreaths.

* * * * *



SCENE I

[At the right of the stage sits RODERIK writing. To the left BLANKA in a half reclining position.]

BLANKA. Lo! the sky in dying glory Surges like a sea ablaze,— It is all so still before me, Still as in a sylvan maze. Summer evening's mellow power Settles round us like a dove, Hovers like a swan above Ocean wave and forest flower. In the orange thicket slumber Gods and goddesses of yore, Stone reminders in great number Of a world that is no more. Virtue, valor, trust are gone, Rich in memory alone; Could there be a more complete Picture of the South effete?

[Rises.]

BLANKA. But my father has related Stories of a distant land, Of a life, fresh, unabated, Neither carved nor wrought by hand! Here the spirit has forever Vanished into stone and wave,— There it breathes as free as ever, Like a warrior strong and brave! When the evening's crystallizing Vapors settle on my breast, Lo! I see before me rising Norway's snow-illumined crest! Here is life decayed and dying, Sunk in torpor, still, forlorn,— There go avalanches flying, Life anew in death is born! If I had the white swan's coat—

RODERIK. [After a pause writing.] "Then, it is said, will Ragnarok have stilled The wilder powers, brought forth a chastened life; All-Father, Balder, and the gentle Freya Will rule again the race of man in peace!"—

[After having watched her for a moment.]

RODERIK. But, Blanka, now you dream away again; You stare through space completely lost in thought,— What is it that you seek?

BLANKA. [Draws near.] Forgive me, father! I merely followed for a space the swan, That sailed on snowy wings across the sea.

RODERIK. And if I had not stopped you in your flight, My young and pretty little swan! who knows How far you might have flown away from me,— Perchance to Thule?

BLANKA. And indeed why not? To Thule flies the swan in early spring, If only to return again each fall.

[Seats herself at his feet.]

BLANKA. Yet I—I am no swan,—no, call me rather A captured falcon, sitting tame and true, A golden ring about his foot.

RODERIK. Well,—and the ring?

BLANKA. The ring? That is my love for you, dear father! With that you have your youthful falcon bound, I cannot fly,—not even though I wished to.

[Rises.]

BLANKA. But when I see the swan sail o'er the wave, Light as a cloud before the summer wind, Then I remember all that you have told Of the heroic life in distant Thule; Then, as it seems, the bird is like a bark With dragon head and wings of burnished gold; I see the youthful hero in the prow, A copper helmet on his yellow locks, With eyes of blue, a manly, heaving breast, His sword held firmly in his mighty hand. I follow him upon his rapid course, And all my dreams run riot round his bark, And frolic sportively like merry dolphins In fancy's deep and cooling sea!

RODERIK. O you,— You are an ardent dreamer, my good child,— I almost fear your thoughts too often dwell Upon the people in the rugged North.

BLANKA. And, father, whose the fault, if it were so?

RODERIK. You mean that I—?

BLANKA. Yes, what else could I mean; You live yourself but in the memory Of early days among these mighty Norsemen; Do not deny that often as you speak Of warlike forays, combats, fights, Your cheek begins to flush, your eye to glow; It seems to me that you grow young again.

RODERIK. Yes, yes, but I have reason so to do; For I have lived among them in the North, And every bit that memory calls to mind Is like a page to me from my own saga. But you, however, fostered in the South, Who never saw the silver-tinted mountains, Who never heard the trumpet's echoing song,— Ah, how could you be moved by what I tell?

BLANKA. Oh, must a human being see and hear All things but with his outer senses then? Has not the inner soul, too, eye and ear, With which it can both see and hearken well? 'Tis true it is with eyes of flesh I see The richly glowing color of the rose; But with the spirit's eye I see within A lovely elf, a fairy butterfly, Who archly hides behind the crimson leaves, And singeth of a secret power from heaven That gave the flower brightness and perfume.

RODERIK. True, true, my child!

BLANKA. I almost do believe That just because I do not really see, The whole looms up more beautiful in thought; That, father, is the way with you at least! The ancient sagas and heroic lays,— These you remember, speak of with delight, And scratch in runic script upon your parchment; But if I ask about your youthful life In Norway's distant realm, your eyes grow dark, Your lips are silent, and it seems at times Your bosom houses gloomy memories.

RODERIK. [Rises.] Come, speak no more, good child, about the past. Who is there then whose youthful memories Are altogether free from self-reproach; You know, the Norsemen are a savage lot.

BLANKA. But are the warriors of the South less fierce? Have you forgot that night, now ten years past, The time the strangers landed on the coast, And plundered—?

RODERIK. [Visibly ill at ease.] Say no more now,—let us hence; The sundown soon will be upon us;—come!

BLANKA. [As they go.] Give me your hand!

[Stops.]

BLANKA. No, wait!

RODERIK. What is the matter?

BLANKA. I have today for the first time forgot—

RODERIK. And what have you forgot?

BLANKA. [Points to the barrow.] Behold the wreath!

RODERIK. It is—

BLANKA. The withered one of yesterday; I have forgot today to make the change; Yet, let me take you to the cabin first, Then shall I venture out in search of flowers; The violet never is so sweet and rare As when the dew has bathed its silver lining; The budding rose is never quite so fair As when 'tis plucked in child-like sleep reclining!

[They go out at the back to the right.]

* * * * *



SCENE II

[GANDALF and the VIKINGS enter from the right.]

ASGAUT. Now we shall soon be there.

GANDALF. Point out the place!

ASGAUT. No, wait till we have gone beyond the wood. There was still standing on the rocky cliff Against the sea a remnant of the wall,— I dare say it is standing there to-day.

JOSTEJN. But tell us, king, what can it profit us To tramp about here on the isle like fools?

HROLLOUG. Yes, tell us what shall—

GANDALF. You shall hold your tongues! And blindly follow where your king commands!

GANDALF. [To ASGAUT.] It seems to me, however, you cleaned house Too well when you were last here on the isle; You might have left a little, I should think, For me and my revenge!

HROLLOUG. You are the king, And loyalty we pledged you at the thing, But when we followed you upon the war path, It was to win our share of fame and glory.

JOSTEJN. And golden treasures, Hrolloug, golden treasures.

SEVERAL. That, Gandalf, is the law, and heed it well!

GANDALF. I know the law perhaps as well as you; But is there not since days of old a law And covenant with us that when a kinsman Falls slain before the enemy and his corpse Unburied lies a prey unto the raven, Blood vengeance must be had?

SOME. Yes, so it is!

GANDALF. Then stand you ready with your sword and shield,— You have a king to avenge and I a father!

[Commotion among the VIKINGS.]

JOSTEJN. A king?

HROLLOUG. A father?

GANDALF. Wait,—I shall relate How all this stands. You know, my father was A mighty viking. Twelve years gone it is Since he the last time sallied forth one spring With Asgaut there and all his old time warriors. Two years he roamed about from strand to strand, Visiting Bratland, Valland, even Blaaland; At length he went and harried Sicily, And there heard stories of a wealthy chief, Who lived upon this island in a castle With sturdy walls built on a rocky base, And in it there were costly treasures hid. At night he took his men and went ashore, And razed the castle walls with fire and sword. Himself went foremost like an angry bear, And in the fury of the fight saw not How all his warriors fell about him dead; And when the morning sun rose in the east, There lay the castle smouldering in ruin. Asgaut alone survived with one or two,— My father and the hundred others there Had ridden to Valhalla through the flames.

ASGAUT. I hoisted every sail upon the bark, And turned the prow straight homeward to the North; There sought I all in vain for Gandalf king; The youthful eagle, I was told, had flown Across the sea to Iceland or the Faroes. I hastened after him but found no trace,- Yet everywhere I went his name was known; For though his bark sped cloud-like in the storm, Yet flew his fame on even swifter wings. At last this spring I found him, as you know; It was in Italy; I told him then What things had happened, how his father died, And Gandalf swore by all Valhalla's gods Blood-vengeance he would take with fire and sword.

JOSTEJN. It is an ancient law and should be honored! But had I been in your place, Gandalf king, I should have lingered on in Italy,— For there was gold to win.

HROLLOUG. And honor too.

GANDALF. That is your loyalty to your dead king.

JOSTEJN. Come, come now; no offence; I merely meant The dead could wait perhaps.

ASGAUT. [With suppressed rage.] You paltry race!

JOSTEJN. But now that we are here—

HROLLOUG. Yes; let us raise Unto the king a worthy monument!

SOME. Yes, yes!

OTHERS. With bloodshed and with fire!

ASGAUT. Now that I like!

GANDALF. And now away to spy around the island; For even tonight blood-vengeance shall be mine; If not, I must myself fall.

ASGAUT. So he swore.

GANDALF. I swore it solemnly by all the gods! And once again I swear it—

HEMMING. [With a harp on his shoulder has during the preceding emerged from among the WARRIORS and cries out imploringly.] Swear not, Gandalf!

GANDALF. What troubles you?

HEMMING. Swear not here in this wood! Here in the South our gods can never hear; Out on your bark, up North among the hills, There they still hearken to you, but not here!

ASGAUT. Have you too breathed the poison of the South?

HEMMING. In Italy I heard the pious monks Tell lovely stories of the holy Christ, And what they told still lingers in my mind Through night and day and will no more be gone.

GANDALF. I had you brought with me because in youth You showed great promise of poetic gifts. You were to see my bold and warlike deeds, So that when I, King Gandalf, old and gray, Sat with my warriors round the oaken table, The king's young scald might while away Long winter evenings with heroic lays, And sing at last a saga of my deeds; The hero's fame voiced in the poet's song Outlives the monument upon his grave. But now, be off, and if you choose go cast Your harp aside and don the monkish cowl. Aha! King Gandalf has a mighty scald!

[The VIKINGS go into the forest to the left; HEMMING follows them.]

ASGAUT. It is a mouldy time we live in now; Our faith and customs from the olden days Are everywhere upon the downward path. Lucky it is that I am growing old; My eyes shall never see the North decay. But you, King Gandalf, you are young and strong; And wheresoe'er you roam in distant lands, Remember that it is a royal task To guard the people and defend the gods!

[He follows the rest.]

GANDALF. [After a pause.] Hm, he has no great confidence in me. 'Tis well he went! Whenever he is near, It is as if a burden weighed me down. The grim old viking with his rugged face,— He looks like Asathor, who with his belt Of strength and Mjolnir stood within the grove, Carved out in marble, near my father's home. My father's home! Who knows, alas! how things Around the ancient landmarks now may look!— Mountains and fields are doubtless still the same; The people—? Have they still the same old heart? No, there is fallen mildew o'er the age, And it is that which saps the Northern life And eats away like poison what is best. Well, I will homeward,—save what still is left To save before it falls to utter ruin.

GANDALF. [After a pause during which he looks around.] How lovely in these Southern groves it is; My pine groves can not boast such sweet perfume.

[He perceives the mound.]

GANDALF. What now? A warrior's grave? No doubt it hides A countryman from those more stirring days. A warrior's barrow in the South!—'Tis only just; It was the South gave us our mortal wound. How lovely it is here! It brings to mind One winter night when as a lad I sat Upon my father's knee before the hearth, The while he told me stories of the gods, Of Odin, Balder, and the mighty Thor; And when I mentioned Freya's grove to him, He pictured it exactly like this grove,— But when I asked him something more of Freya, What she herself was like, the old man laughed And answered as he placed me on my feet, "A woman will in due time tell you that!"

GANDALF. [Listening.] Hush! Footsteps in the forest! Quiet, Gandalf,- They bring the first fruits of your blood-revenge!

[He steps aside so that he is half concealed among the bushes to the right.]

* * * * *



SCENE III

[GANDALF. BLANKA with oak leaves in her hair and a basket of flowers enters from the left.]

BLANKA. [Seated at the left busily weaving a flower wreath.] Fountains may murmur in the sunny vales, Resplendent billows roll beneath the shore; Nor fountain's murmur, nor the billow's song Has half the magic of those flowers there, That stand in clusters round the barrow's edge And nod at one another lovingly; They draw me hither during night and day,— And it is here I long to come and dream. The wreath is done. The hero's monument, So hard and cold, shall under it be hid. Yes, it is beautiful!

[Pointing to the mound.]

BLANKA. A vanished life, Of giant strength, lies mouldering in the ground,— And the memorial which should speak to men,— A cold unyielding stone like yonder one! But then comes art, and with a friendly hand She gathers flowers from the breast of nature And hides the ugly, unresponsive stone With snow-white lilies, sweet forget-me-nots.

[She ascends the barrow, hangs the wreath over the monument, and speaks after a pause.]

BLANKA. Again my dreams go sailing to the North Like birds of passage o'er the ocean waves; I feel an urging where I long to go, And willingly I heed the secret power, Which has its royal seat within the soul. I stand in Norway, am a hero's bride, And from the mountain peak watch eagle-like. O'er shining waves the vessel heaves in sight.— Oh, like the gull fly to your fatherland! I am a Southern child, I cannot wait; I tear the oaken wreath out of my hair,— Take this, my hero! 'Tis the second message I greet you with,—my yearning was the first.

[She throws the wreath. GANDALF steps forth and seizes it.]

BLANKA. What's this? There stands a—

[She rubs her eyes and stares amazed at him.]

No, it is no dream. Who are you, stranger? What is it you seek Here on the shore?

GANDALF. Step first from off the mound,— Then we can talk at ease.

BLANKA. [Comes down.] Well, here I am!

BLANKA. [Aside as she looks him over.] The chain mail o'er his breast, the copper helmet,— Exactly as my father has related.

BLANKA. [Aloud.] Take off your helmet!

GANDALF. Why?

BLANKA. Well, take it off!

BLANKA. [Aside.] Two sparkling eyes, locks like a field of grain,— Exactly as I saw him in my dream.

GANDALF. Who are you, woman?

BLANKA. I? A poor, poor child!

GANDALF. Yet certainly the fairest on the isle.

BLANKA. The fairest? That indeed is possible, For here there's no one else.

GANDALF. What,—no one else?

BLANKA. Unless my father be,—but he is old And has a silver beard, as long as this; No, after all I think I win the prize.

GANDALF. You have a merry spirit.

BLANKA. Not always now!

GANDALF. But tell me, pray, how this is possible; You say you live alone here with your father, Yet I have heard men say most certainly The island here is thickly populated?

BLANKA. It was so once, three years ago or more; But,—well, it is a sad and mournful tale— Yet you shall hear it if you wish.

GANDALF. Yes, certainly!

BLANKA. You see, three years ago—

[Seats herself.]

BLANKA. Come, seat yourself!

GANDALF. [Steps back a pace.] No, sit you down, I'll stand.

BLANKA. Three years ago there came, God knows from whence, A warlike band of robbers to the isle; They plundered madly as they went about, And murdered everything they found alive. A few escaped as best they could by flight And sought protection in my father's castle, Which stood upon the cliff right near the sea.

GANDALF. Your father's, did you say?

BLANKA. My father's, yes.— It was a cloudy evening when they burst Upon the castle gate, tore through the wall, Rushed in the court, and murdered right and left. I fled into the darkness terrified, And sought a place of refuge in the forest. I saw our home go whirling up in flames, I heard the clang of shields, the cries of death.— Then everything grew still; for all were dead.— The savage band proceeded to the shore And sailed away.—I sat upon the cliff The morning after, near the smouldering ruins. I was the only one whom they had spared.

GANDALF. But you just told me that your father lives.

BLANKA. My foster-father; wait, and you shall hear! I sat upon the cliff oppressed and sad, And listened to the awful stillness round; There issued forth a faint and feeble cry, As from beneath the rocky cleft beneath my feet; I listened full of fear, then went below, And found a stranger, pale with loss of blood. I ventured nearer, frightened as I was, Bound up his wounds and tended him,—

GANDALF. And he?

BLANKA. Told me as he recovered from his wounds, That he had come aboard a merchantman, Had reached the island on the very day The castle was destroyed,—took refuge there And fought the robber band with all his might Until he fell, faint with the loss of blood, Into the rocky cleft wherein I found him. And ever since we two have lived together; He built for us a cabin in the wood, I grew to love him more than any one. But you must see him,—come!

GANDALF. No, wait,—not now! We meet in ample time, I have no doubt.

BLANKA. Well, all right, as you please; but rest assured He would be glad to greet you 'neath his roof; For you must know that hospitality Is found not only in the North.

GANDALF. The North? You know then—

BLANKA. Whence you come, you mean? Oh, yes! My father has so often told of you That I the moment that I saw you—

GANDALF. Yet you Were not afraid!

BLANKA. Afraid? And why afraid?

GANDALF. Has he not told you then,—of course if not—

BLANKA. Told me that you were fearless heroes? Yes! But pray, why should that frighten me? I know you seek your fame on distant shores, In manly combat with all doughty warriors; But I have neither sword nor coat of mail, Then why should I fear—

GANDALF. No, of course, of course! But still, those strangers who destroyed the castle?

BLANKA. And what of them?

GANDALF. Only,—has not your father Told you from whence they came?

BLANKA. Never! How could he! Strangers they were alike to him and us. But if you wish I'll ask him right away.

GANDALF. [Quickly.] No, let it be.

BLANKA. Ah, now I understand! You wish to know where you can seek them now, And take blood-vengeance, as you call it.

GANDALF. Ah, Blood-vengeance! Thanks! The word I had forgot; You bring me back—

BLANKA. But do you know, it is An ugly practice.

GANDALF. [Going toward the background.] Farewell!

BLANKA. O, you are going?

GANDALF. We meet in time.

[Stops.]

GANDALF. Tell me this one thing more: What warrior is it rests beneath the mound?

BLANKA. I do not know.

GANDALF. You do not know, and still You scatter flowers on the hero's grave.

BLANKA. My father led me here one morning early And pointed out to me the fresh-made mound, Which I had never seen upon the strand. He bade me say my morning prayers out here, And in my supplications to remember Those who had harried us with sword and fire.

GANDALF. And you?

BLANKA. Each morning from that day to this I sent a prayer to heaven for their salvation; And every evening flowers afresh I wove Into a garland for the grave.

GANDALF. Yes, strange! How can you pray thus for your enemy?

BLANKA. My faith commands me.

GANDALF. [Vehemently.] Such a faith is craven; It is the faith which saps the hero's strength; 'Twas therefore that the great, heroic life Died feebly in the South!

BLANKA. But now suppose My craven faith, as you see fit to call it, Could be transplanted to your virgin soil,— I know full well, there would spring forth a mass Of flowers so luxuriant as to hide The naked mountain.

GANDALF. Let the mountain stand In nakedness until the end of time!

BLANKA. O! Take me with you!

GANDALF. What do you mean? I sail for home—

BLANKA. Well, I shall sail with you; For I have often traveled in my dreams To far-off Norway, where you live mid snow And ice and sombre woods of towering pines. There should come mirth and laughter in the hall, If I could have my say, I promise you; For I am merry;—have you any scald?

GANDALF. I had one, but the sultry Southern air Has loosened all the strings upon his harp,— They sing no longer—

BLANKA. Good! Then shall I be Your scald.

GANDALF. And you?—You could go with us there, And leave your father and your home?

BLANKA. [Laughing.] Aha! You think I meant it seriously?

GANDALF. Was it Only a jest?

BLANKA. Alas! a foolish dream I often used to dream before we met,— Which often I no doubt shall dream again, When you—

[Suddenly breaking off.]

BLANKA. You stare so fixedly.

GANDALF. Do I?

BLANKA. Why, yes! What are you thinking of?

GANDALF. I? Nothing!

BLANKA. Nothing?

GANDALF. That is, I scarcely know myself; And yet I do—and you shall hear it now: I thought of you and how you would transplant Your flowers in the North, when suddenly My own faith came as if by chance to mind. One word therein I never understood Before; now have you taught me what it means.

BLANKA. And that is what?

GANDALF. Valfader, it is said, Receives but half the warriors slain in battle; The other half to Freya goes by right. That I could never fully comprehend; But—now I understand,—I am myself A fallen warrior, and to Freya goes The better part of me.

BLANKA. [Amazed.] What does this mean?

GANDALF. Well, in a word, then know—

BLANKA. [Quickly.] No, say it not! I dare not tarry longer here to-night,— My father waits, and I must go; farewell!

GANDALF. O, you are going?

BLANKA. [Takes the wreath of oak leaves which he has let fall and throws it around his helmet.] You can keep it now. Lo, what I hitherto bestowed on you In dreams, I grant you now awake.

GANDALF. Farewell!

[He goes quickly out to the right.]

* * * * *



SCENE IV

BLANKA. [Alone.] He is gone! Ah, perfect stillness Rules upon the barren strand. Perfect stillness, grave-like stillness Rules my heart with heavy hand. Came he then to vanish only Through the mist, a ray of light? Soon he flies, a sea-gull lonely, Far away into the night! What is left me of this lover? But a flower in the dark: In my loneliness to hover Like a petrel round his bark!

[The war trumpet of the Vikings is heard from the left.]

BLANKA. Ah! What was that! A trumpet from the wood!

* * * * *



SCENE V

[BLANKA, GANDALF from the right.]

GANDALF. [Aside.] It is too late!

BLANKA. O, there he is again! What do you want?

GANDALF. Quick,—quick, away from here!

BLANKA. What do you mean?

GANDALF. Away! There's danger here!

BLANKA. What danger?

GANDALF. Death!

BLANKA. I do not understand you.

GANDALF. I thought to hide it from you,—hence I went To call my people to the ship again And sail away; you never should have known,— The trumpet warns me that it is too late,— That they are coming.

BLANKA. Who are coming?

GANDALF. Then know,— The strangers who once harried on the isle Were vikings like myself.

BLANKA. From Norway?

GANDALF. Yes. My father, who was chief among them, fell,— Hence must he be avenged.

BLANKA. Avenged?

GANDALF. Such is The custom.

BLANKA. Ah, I see now!

GANDALF. Here they come! Stand close behind me!

BLANKA. Man of blood,—away!

* * * * *



SCENE VI

[The Preceding.]

[ASGAUT, HEMMING and the VIKINGS, who lead RODERIK between them.]

ASGAUT. [To GANDALF.] A meagre find, yet something, to be sure.

BLANKA. My father!

[She throws herself in his arms.]

RODERIK. Blanka! O, my child!

JOSTEJN. A woman! He will have company.

ASGAUT. Yes, straight to Hell!

BLANKA. O father, wherefore have you never told me—

RODERIK. Hush! Hush! my child!

[Points to GANDALF.]

RODERIK. Is this your chieftain?

ASGAUT. Yes.

ASGAUT. [To GANDALF.] This man can tell you how your father died; For he was in the thick of it, he says, The only one to get away alive.

GANDALF. Hush! I will nothing hear.

ASGAUT. Good; let us then Begin the task.

BLANKA. O God! what will they do?

GANDALF. [In an undertone.] I cannot, Asgaut!

ASGAUT. [Likewise.] Is our king afraid? Has woman's flattering tongue beguiled his mind?

GANDALF. No matter,—I have said—

ASGAUT. Bethink yourself,— Your standing with your warriors is at stake. Your word you pledged Valhalla's mighty gods, And if you fail a dastard you'll be judged. Do not forget our faith is insecure— And wavering; one blow can strike its root, And if the blow comes from the king above, It will have had a mortal wound.

GANDALF. Ah me! That was a most unhappy oath I swore.

ASGAUT. [To the VIKINGS.] Now ready, warriors!

BLANKA. Will you murder him, An old, defenseless man?

ASGAUT. Down with them both!

BLANKA. O God!

HROLLOUG. The woman is too fair! Let her Return with us.

JOSTEJN. [Laughing.] Yes, as a warrior maid.

GANDALF. Stand back!

RODERIK. O spare,—O spare at least my child! The slayer of your chieftain I will bring you, If you will only spare her!

GANDALF. [Quickly.] Bring him here, And she is free. What say you?

THE VIKINGS. She is free!

BLANKA. [To RODERIK.] You promise that?

ASGAUT. Then fetch him!

RODERIK. Here he stands!

SOME. Ha, that old man!

GANDALF. O woe!

BLANKA. No, no, you shall not—

RODERIK. Struck by this hand the viking found his death, Now rests he peacefully in yonder mound!

GANDALF. My father's barrow!

RODERIK. He was strong and brave; Wherefore I laid him here in viking style.

GANDALF. Since he is buried, then,—

ASGAUT. Though he be buried, The fallen king cries for revenge,—strike, strike!

BLANKA. He is deceiving you!

BLANKA. [To GANDALF.] Do you not see It is alone his daughter he would save? Yet, how should your kind understand a soul That sacrifices all—

GANDALF. I do not understand? You do not think I can?

GANDALF. [To the VIKINGS.] He shall not die!

ASGAUT. How so?

BLANKA. O father! He is good like you.

ASGAUT. You mean to break your oath?

GANDALF. No, I shall keep it!

JOSTEJN. Then what have you in mind?

HROLLOUG. Explain!

GANDALF. I swore To take revenge or else to die myself. Well, he is free,—I to Valhalla go.

BLANKA. [To RODERIK.] What does he mean?

ASGAUT. Your honor you would save?—

GANDALF. Go,—hold a ship in readiness for me, With hoisted sail, the pyre light in the prow; In ancient fashion I shall go aboard! Behold, the evening breeze blows from the strand,— On crimson wings I sail into Valhalla!

[JOSTEJN goes out to the right.]

ASGAUT. Ah, 'tis the woman who has cast her spell on you!

BLANKA. No, you must live!

GANDALF. I live? No, to the gods I must be true, I cannot break with them.

BLANKA. Your oath is bloody, Balder hates it.

GANDALF. Yes, But Balder lives no longer with us now!

BLANKA. For you he lives; your soul is gentleness.

GANDALF. Yes, to my ruin! It became my task As king to keep intact our great ideal,— But I lack strength enough! Come, Asgaut, you Shall take the kingly sceptre from my hand; You are a warrior of the truest steel; On me the Southern plague has been at work. But if I cannot for my people live, I now can die for them.

ASGAUT. Well said, King Gandalf!

BLANKA. Then need no more be said! Die like a hero, Faithful and true unto the very end! But now that we must part forever,—know, That when you die yourself to keep your oath You are then likewise marking me for death!

GANDALF. What! You for death?

BLANKA. My life was like a flower, Transplanted in an unfamiliar soil, Which therefore slumbered in its prison folds: Then came a sunbeam from the distant home,— O, that was you, my Gandalf! Opened then The flower its calyx. In another hour, Alas! the sunbeam paled,—the flower died!

GANDALF. O, have I understood you right? You could? Then is my promise thrice unfortunate!

BLANKA. But we shall meet again!

GANDALF. O, nevermore! You go to heaven and the holy Christ, I to Valhalla; silent I shall take My place among the rest,—but near the door; Valhalla's merriment is not for me.

JOSTEJN. [Returns with a banner in his hand.] See, now the bark is ready, as you bade.

ASGAUT. O, what a glorious end! Many a man Will envy you, indeed.

GANDALF. [To BLANKA.] Farewell!

BLANKA. Farewell! Farewell for life and for eternity!

RODERIK. [Struggling with himself.] Wait! Wait!

[Prostrates himself before BLANKA.]

RODERIK. Mercy, I cry! Forgive, forgive me!

BLANKA. O God!

GANDALF. What means he?

RODERIK. All will I confess: My whole life here with you has been deceit!

BLANKA. Ah, terror has unhinged his mind!

RODERIK. No, no!

RODERIK. [To GANDALF, after he has risen.] You are released forever from your vow; Your father's shadow needs no blood revenge!

GANDALF. Ah, then explain!

BLANKA. Oh, speak!

RODERIK. Here stands King Rorek!

SOME. The fallen king?

BLANKA. O heavens!

GANDALF. [In doubt.] You,—my father?

RODERIK. See, Asgaut! Do you still recall the scratch You gave me on our earliest viking trip, The time we fought about the booty?

[He uncovers his arm and shows it to ASGAUT.]

ASGAUT. Yes, By Thor, it is King Rorek!

GANDALF. [Throws himself in his arms.] Father! Father! A second time now have you given me life. My humble thanks!

RODERIK. [Downcast; to BLANKA.] And you now—what will you Grant the old robber?

BLANKA. Love as hitherto! I am your daughter! Has not three years' care Wiped off each spot of blood upon your shield?

ASGAUT. Yet now explain,—how comes it that you live!

GANDALF. She saved his life.

RODERIK. Yes, like a friendly elf She healed my wounds and cared for me, And all the while she told me of the faith These quiet people in the South believe, Until my rugged heart itself was moved. And day by day I kept the truth from her; I did not dare to tell her—

GANDALF. But the mound there?

RODERIK. I laid therein my armor and my sword, It seemed to me the grim old savage viking Was buried then and there. Each day my child Sent up a prayer for him beside the mound.

ASGAUT. Farewell!

GANDALF. Where do you go?

ASGAUT. Northward again! I now see clearly that my time is past— So likewise is the viking life. I go To Iceland; there the plague has not yet come.

ASGAUT. [To BLANKA.] You, woman, take my place beside the king! For Thor is gone—and Mjolnir out of gear; Through you now Balder rules.—Farewell!

[He goes.]

GANDALF. Yes, Balder ruleth now, through you, my Blanka! I see the meaning of my viking life! 'Twas not alone desire for fame and wealth That drove me hence from my forefathers' home; No, that which called me was a secret longing, A quiet yearning after Balder. See, Now is the longing stilled, now go we home; There will I live in peace among my people.

GANDALF. [To the VIKINGS.] And will you follow?

ALL. We will follow you!

GANDALF. And you, my Blanka?

BLANKA. I? I too am born A Northern child; for on your mountain sides The choicest flowers of my heart took root. To you it was I journeyed in my dreams, From you it was that I received my love.

RODERIK. And now away!

GANDALF. But you?

BLANKA. He comes with us!

RODERIK. I shall remain.

[He points to the mound.]

RODERIK. My barrow waits for me.

BLANKA. And should I leave you here alone?

HEMMING. No, no! Be not afraid! For I shall close his eyes And sing to him a saga from the mound; My last song it will be.

HEMMING. [Moved as he seizes GANDALF's hand.] Farewell, my king! Now have you found a better scald than I.

RODERIK. [With firmness.] It must be so, my Gandalf; you are king, And you have sacred duties to discharge.

[He puts their hands together.]

RODERIK. You are the children of the coming dawn,— Go yonder where the royal throne awaits you; I am the last one of the by-gone age, My throne—it is the barrow—grant me that!

[GANDALF and BLANKA throw themselves silently into his arms. RODERIK ascends the burial mound.—HEMMING with his harp seats himself at his feet.]

GANDALF. [With resolution.] And now to Norway!

HROLLOUG. Home!

ALL. To Norway! Home!

BLANKA. [Fired as she seizes the banner from JOSTEJN's hand.] Yes, now away! Our course shall northward run O'er ocean billow on through storm and sun. Soon fades the daylight o'er the glacier's peak, Soon is the viking life a memory bleak! Already sits the hero on his mound; The time is past when he could sail around With sword and battle cry from strand to strand. Thor's hammer will no longer rule the land, The North will be itself a giant grave. But bear in mind the pledge All-Fader gave: When moss and flowers shall the barrow hide, To Idavold the hero's ghost shall ride,— Then Norway too shall from the grave be brought To chastened deeds within the realm of thought!

* * * * *

OLAF LILJEKRANS

A Play in Three Acts

1857

* * * * *

DRAMATIS PERSONA

LADY KIRSTEN LILJEKRANS.

OLAF LILJEKRANS Her son.

ARNE OF GULDVIK.

INGEBORG His daughter.

HEMMING His page.

THORGJERD An old fiddler.

ALFHILD.

Wedding GUESTS.

RELATIVES of Arne of Guldvik.

MAIDS and SERVANTS of Lady Kirsten.

* * * * *

SETTING

The action takes place in the middle ages, in a mountain, district.

* * * * *



FIRST ACT

[A thickly wooded hillside which leads up to higher mountain regions; in a deep ravine a swift river runs from the background out to the right; over the river lie some old logs and other remnants of a dilapidated bridge. Huge rocks lie scattered in the foreground; far away can be seen the summits of snow-capped mountain peaks. Evening twilight rests over the landscape; later on the moon appears.]



SCENE I

[THORGJERD stands on a rocky projection near the river and listens to the various choruses which are heard off the stage.]

CHORUS OF LADY KIRSTEN'S RETINUE. [Deep in the wood to the right.] With ringing of bells we hurry along, We wander in field and in dell; O Christian, come, give heed to our song, Awake from your magic spell.

RELATIVES OF ARNE OF GULDVIK. [Far away to the right.] Now hasten we all To the wedding hall; The foal runneth light and gay! The hoofs resound On the grassy ground As the merry swains gallop away!

LADY KIRSTEN'S RETINUE. [A little nearer than before.] We conjure you forth from mountain and hill, From the places which hold you bound. Awake to our call, come, free your will From elves that hover around!

[THORGJERD disappears in the ravine where the river runs; after a rapid interplay the choruses are heard much nearer.]

ARNE'S RELATIVES. Our way we shorten with jest and with song, And all of the bridal night.

LADY KIRSTEN'S RETINUE. With tears we wander the whole day long, We search to the left and the right.

ARNE'S RELATIVES. [In close proximity, yet still outside the scene.] To wedding and banquet, to song and dance, Both servants and hand-maidens throng.

LADY KIRSTEN'S RETINUE. [Nearer than before.] Olaf Liljekrans! Olaf Liljekrans! Why sleep you so deep and so long?

* * * * *



SCENE II

[ARNE of Guldvik appears with his relatives, men and women, minstrels, etc., in the background to the right on the other side of the river; they are all in festive attire. Shortly afterwards HEMMING from the same side.]

ONE OF THE RETINUE. See, here goes the way.

ANOTHER. No, here!

A THIRD. Not at all, it must be here.

ARNE OF GULDVIK. Well, well, are we now astray again!

ARNE OF GULDVIK. [Calls.] Hemming! Where is Hemming?

HEMMING. [Enters.] Here!

ARNE. Have I not told you to keep yourself close so as to be of some service to me?

HEMMING. It was Mistress Ingeborg—she wanted,—and so—

ARNE. [Annoyed.] Mistress Ingeborg! Mistress Ingeborg! Are you Mistress Ingeborg's maid? You are my page; it is me you shall serve. Do you not get your keep and wage therefor? Come, tell us where the way goes,—we are stuck.

HEMMING. [Uncertain.] The way? Well now, I am little acquainted up here, but—

ARNE. I might have known it,—that is always the service you give me! Well, we shall have to spend the night in the wilderness, as sure as I am Arne of Guldvik.

HEMMING. [Who has in the meantime spied the remnants of the bridge.] Aha, no need of that; here we can get across.

ARNE. Why didn't you tell us so in the first place?

[All cross the river and come forward on the stage.]

ARNE. [Looks about.] Yes, now I have my bearings again. The river there is the boundary between Lady Kirsten's dominions and mine.

ARNE. [Points to the left.] Down there lies her estate; in another hour or two we can sit cozily in the bridal house, but then we must hurry along.

ARNE. [Calls.] Ingeborg!—Hemming! Now where's Ingeborg?

HEMMING. In the rear, up on the hillside.

HEMMING. [Points to the right.] She is playing with her bridesmaids; they gather green twigs from the cherry trees and run about with joy and laughter.

ARNE. [Bitterly but in subdued voice.] Hemming! this wedding makes me sick; there are so many vexations about it.

ARNE. [Gazes out to the right.] There they run,—just look at them! It was she who hit upon the idea of going over the mountain instead of following the highway; we should reach our goal the sooner, she thought;—and yet notwithstanding—hm! I could go mad over it; tomorrow is she to go to the altar. Are these the decorous customs she ought to observe! What will Lady Kirsten say when she finds my daughter so ill disciplined?

ARNE. [As HEMMING starts to speak.] Yes, for that she is; she is ill disciplined, I say.

HEMMING. Master! You should never have married your daughter into Lady Kirsten's family; Lady Kirsten and her kinsmen are high-born people—

ARNE. You art stupid, Hemming! High-born, high-born! Much good that will do,—it neither feeds nor enriches a man. If Lady Kirsten is high-born, then I am rich; I have gold in my chests and silver in my coffers.

HEMMING. Yes, but your neighbors make merry over the agreement you have concluded with her.

ARNE. Ah, let them, let them; it is all because they wish me ill.

HEMMING. They say that you have surrendered your legal right in order to have Ingeborg married to Olaf Liljekrans; I shouldn't mention it, I suppose,—but a lampoon about you is going the rounds, master!

ARNE. You lie in your throat; there is no one dares make a lampoon about Arne of Guldvik. I have power; I can oust him from house and home whenever I please. Lampoon! And what do you know about lampoons!—If they have composed any songs, it is to the honor of the bride and her father!

ARNE. [Flaring up.] But it is a wretched bit of verse nevertheless, really a wretched bit of verse, I tell you. It is no man skilled in the art of poetry who has put it together, and if I once get hold of him, then—

HEMMING. Aha, master! then you know it too? Is there some one who has dared sing it to you?

ARNE. Sing, sing! Now don't stand there and delay me with your twaddle.

ARNE. [To the others.] Away, my kinsmen; little must we delay if we are to reach the bridal house before midnight. You should have heard what Hemming is telling. He says there is a rumor around that Lady Kirsten has baked and brewed for five whole days in honor of our coming. Is it not so, Hemming?

HEMMING. Aye, master!

ARNE. He says she owns not the beaker of silver so costly but she places it on the table shining and polished; so splendid a feast she has not prepared since the king came to visit her blessed lord twenty years ago. Is it not true, Hemming?

HEMMING. Aye, master!

HEMMING. [Whispering.] But, master, it is ill-thought to say such things; Lady Kirsten is proud of her birth; she thinks this marriage is somewhat of an honor to you; little you know how she intends to show herself to her guests.

ARNE. [Softly.] Ah, what nonsense!

ARNE. [To the others.] He says Lady Kirsten gives herself no rest; both day and night she is busy in pantry and cellar. Is it not—?

ARNE. [Startled as he looks out to the right.] Hemming! what is that? See here, who is that coming?

HEMMING. [With a cry.] Lady Kirsten Liljekrans!

ALL. [Astonished.] Lady Kirsten!

* * * * *



SCENE III

[The Preceding. LADY KIRSTEN comes with her HOUSE CARLS from the left.]

LADY KIRSTEN. [To her followers, without noticing the others.] Now just a little farther and I am sure we shall find him.

LADY KIRSTEN. [Taken aback, aside.] Arne of Guldvik! Heaven help me!

ARNE. [As he goes to meet her.] The peace of God, Lady Kirsten Liljekrans!

LADY KIRSTEN. [Composes herself and gives him her hand.] The peace of God to you!

LADY KIRSTEN. [Aside.] Does he then know nothing?

ARNE. [Contentedly.] And well met at the boundary! Indeed, this pleases me; yet almost too great is the honor you show me.

LADY KIRSTEN. What mean you?

ARNE. I mean too great is the honor you show me, when you travel miles over fields and wildernesses in order to bid me welcome on your land.

LADY KIRSTEN. Ah, Lord Arne—

LADY KIRSTEN. [Aside.] He knows nothing as yet!

ARNE. And that on a day like this, when you have enough things to attend to; 'tis at your house we celebrate the wedding of our children, since my estate lies too far from the church, and yet you come here to meet me with all your servants.

LADY KIRSTEN. [Embarrassed.] I beg you, say no more about that.

ARNE. Aye, I will speak of it loudly; the village people have said that you pride yourself on your noble birth, that you look down upon me and mine, and that you entered into the agreement only in order to put an end to the long-standing disputes which grew troublesome now that you have become a widow and begin to grow old; and if that had not been the case, you would never—

LADY KIRSTEN. How can you listen to what evil tongues invent? No more will we think of our differences which have lasted since the days of your ancestors. I think our families have suffered enough these years, yours as well as mine. Look around you, Lord Arne! Is not the hillside here like the wildest of upland pastures? And yet in our fathers' days it was a region much frequented and rich. A bridge there was across the river, and a highway from Guldvik to my father's house. But with fire and sword they sallied forth from both sides; they laid everything waste that they came upon, for it seemed to them that they were too near neighbors. Now all sorts of weeds grow in the highway, the bridge is broken, and it is only the bear and the wolf that make their homes here.

ARNE. Yes, they ran the road around the mountain below; it is a good deal longer and they could thus better keep an eye on one another; but there is little need of that now,—which is well and good for both of us.

LADY KIRSTEN. To be sure, to be sure! But Ingeborg, the bride, where is she? I do not see her, and the bridesmaids likewise are lacking; surely she is not—

ARNE. She follows in the rear; she must shortly be here. But—listen, Lady Kirsten! One thing I will tell you, as well first as last, although, I should think, you know it. Ingeborg has at times whims and moods,—I swear to you she has them, however well disciplined she may be.

LADY KIRSTEN. [Expectant.] Well, what then?

LADY KIRSTEN. [Aside.] Is she too—

ARNE. Such things you must tame; I, as her father, will never succeed, but you will no doubt find ways and means.

LADY KIRSTEN. Aye, rest you assured.

LADY KIRSTEN. [Aside.] And Olaf, who is nowhere to be seen!

HEMMING. [Who has looked out to the right.] There comes Mistress Ingeborg.

HEMMING. [Aside.] How fair she is advancing foremost in the group!

LADY KIRSTEN. [Slowly to her servants.] You will keep silent about your errand up here.

A SERVANT. You may be sure of that.

HEMMING. [Aside, sighing, as he continues to look out to the right.] Ah, happy is Olaf, who will have her!

* * * * *



SCENE IV

[The Preceding. INGEBORG and the Bridesmaids come over the bridge.]

INGEBORG. [Still in the background.] Why do you run away from me? What good will that do? There can be no wedding anyway before I come.

INGEBORG. [Notices LADY KIRSTEN and her retinue.] Lady Kirsten! you here? Well, I am glad of that.

[Casually to the retinue.]

[To LADY KIRSTEN as she looks about.]

LADY KIRSTEN. Olaf!

LADY KIRSTEN. [Aside.] Woe is me! now it will out.

ARNE. Yes, Olaf, indeed! Ha, ha, ha! I must have been blind; 'tis well the bride sees better than I; for I have not noticed that the bridegroom is lacking; but now I understand very well how it comes that we meet here,—it is he who is causing—

LADY KIRSTEN. He—you mean—you know, that—

ARNE. I mean it has grown tedious for him down there in the festive hall. Aye, aye, I remember now my own wedding day; at that time I also was young. He has had a great desire to meet the bride, and accordingly he prevailed upon you to go with him.

LADY KIRSTEN. He greatly desired, to be sure, to meet the bride, but—

INGEBORG. But what?

LADY KIRSTEN. Olaf is not here with us.

HEMMING. [Approaches.] Not with you!

ARNE. And why not?

INGEBORG. Speak, I beg you!

LADY KIRSTEN. [Embarrassed and jestingly.] Truly, it appears the bride also is anxious! Come along, come along with me down to the bridal hall; there, I imagine he will be found.

HEMMING. [Whispering to ARNE.] Master! remember I gave you warning.

ARNE. [Suspiciously to LADY KIRSTEN.] First answer me; then shall we follow.

LADY KIRSTEN. Well then,—he is ridden out to the hunt.

LADY KIRSTEN. [As she is about to go.] Come, 'tis fast growing dark.

INGEBORG. To the hunt?

LADY KIRSTEN. Aye! Does that surprise you? You know the song of course: "The knight likes to ride in the forest around, To test his horse and his hound!"

INGEBORG. Does he think so little of his young bride that he uses the wedding days to go hunting wild animals?

LADY KIRSTEN. Now you are jesting. Come along, come along!

ARNE. [Who has in the meantime kept his eye on LADY KIRSTEN and her retinue.] No, wait, Lady Kirsten! I hardly dare measure myself in wisdom with you, but one thing clearly I see, and that is that you are concealing your real errand up here.

LADY KIRSTEN. [Confused.] I? How can you think that?

ARNE. From one thing and another I can see you are concealing something. You are strangely downcast, and yet you pretend to be playful in spirit; but it won't do—

LADY KIRSTEN. 'Tis nothing new for you to think ill of me and mine.

ARNE. Perhaps; but never did I do so without just cause.

ARNE. [Bursting out.] As sure as I live, there is something you are hiding from me.

LADY KIRSTEN. [Aside.] What will be the end of this?

ARNE. I let myself be fooled by you, but now I see clearly enough. You said you came to greet me at the boundary. How did you know we took the way over the mountain? It was Ingeborg who suggested this way just as we left Guldvik, and no one could have informed you about it.

ARNE. [When LADY KIRSTEN does not answer.] You are silent, as I might have known.

HEMMING. [In an undertone.] You see, master! Will you now believe what I said?

ARNE. [Likewise.] Hush!

LADY KIRSTEN. [Who has in the meantime composed herself.] Well and good, Lord Arne! I will be honest with you; let chance take care of the rest.

ARNE. Then tell us—

INGEBORG. What mean you?

LADY KIRSTEN. The agreement between us is sealed with word and with hand,—many honorable men whom I see here can bear witness to that: Olaf, my son, was to wed your daughter; tomorrow at my house the wedding was to be held—

ARNE. [Impatiently.] Yes, yes!

LADY KIRSTEN. Dishonor to him who breaks his word, but—

ARNE AND THE GUESTS.. What then! Speak out!

LADY KIRSTEN. There can be no wedding tomorrow as we had agreed.

ARNE. No wedding?

LADY KIRSTEN. It must be postponed.

HEMMING. Ah, shame and disgrace!

INGEBORG. No wedding!

ARNE. Cursed be you that you play me false!

THE GUESTS. [Threatening, as several of them draw their knives and rush in on Lady Kirsten's people.] Revenge! Revenge on the house of Liljekrans!

LADY KIRSTEN'S MEN. [Raise their axes and prepare to defend themselves.] Strike too! Down with the men of Guldvik!

LADY KIRSTEN. [Throws herself between the contending parties.] Stop, stop; I pray you, stop! Lord Arne! hear me to the end ere you judge my conduct.

ARNE. [Who has tried to quiet his kinsmen, approaches LADY KIRSTEN and speaks in a low tone as he tries to overcome his inner agitation, which is nevertheless apparent.] Forgive me, Lady Kirsten! I was too quick in my wrath. Had I stopped to think I might surely have known the whole was a jest on your part; I beg you, do not contradict me, it must be so! No wedding tomorrow,—how could such a thing happen! If it is ale and mead you lack, or if you need silver or embroidered linens, then come you to me.

LADY KIRSTEN. It is no poor man's house that your daughter is marrying into, Lord Arne! Do you but come to the wedding with all your kinsmen and friends, aye, come with three times as many if you wish,—in my home you shall find plenty of room and banquet fare, as much as you may desire. Think not for a moment that such an inglorious reason could stand in my way.

ARNE. You have changed your mind, perchance?

LADY KIRSTEN. Nor that either! If I have given my word, then am I likewise ready to keep it, today just as well as tomorrow; for such was ever the custom and rule in my family. But in this instance it is not in my power; one there is lacking—

INGEBORG. One! Whom? Surely I should think that when the bride is ready,—

LADY KIRSTEN. For a wedding two people are needed, the groom as well as the bride—

ARNE AND THE GUESTS. Olaf!

INGEBORG. My betrothed!

LADY KIRSTEN. Yes, he, my son—this night he is fled from his home and his bride.

GUESTS. Fled!

ARNE. Fled! He!

LADY KIRSTEN. As I hope for the grace of heaven, I have no hand therein.

ARNE. [With suppressed exasperation.] And the wedding was to be tomorrow! My daughter has put on her golden attire; invitations I have sent around in the district; my kinsmen and friends come from far away to attend the festive day.

ARNE. [Flaring up.] Ah, take you good care, if Arne of Guldvik is held up to scorn before his neighbors; it shall profit you little,—that I solemnly swear!

LADY KIRSTEN. You reason unjustly, if you think—

ARNE. 'Tis not, Lady Kirsten, for you to say so! We two have an old account to settle; it is not the first time that you set your cunning traps for me and mine. The race of Guldvik has long had to suffer, when you and your kinsmen plotted deception and guile. Power we had,—we had wealth and property too; but you were too crafty for us. You knew how to lure us with wily words and ready speech,—those are wares I am little able to reckon as I should.

LADY KIRSTEN. Lord Arne! Hear me, I pray!

ARNE. [Continuing.] Now I see clearly that I have behaved like the man who built his house on the ice-floe: a thaw came on and down he went to the bottom. But you shall have little joy of this. I shall hold you to account, Lady Kirsten! You must answer for your son; you it was who made love for him, and your affair it will be to keep the word you have given me! A fool I was, aye, tenfold a fool, that I put my faith in your glib tongue. Those who wished me well gave me warning; my enemies made me an object of scorn; but little heed gave I to either. I put on my gala attire; kinsmen and friends I gathered together; with song and laughter we set out for the festive hall, and then,—the bridegroom has fled.

INGEBORG. Never will I marry one who holds me so lightly.

ARNE. Be still!

HEMMING. [Softly to ARNE.] Mistress Ingeborg is right; best it is you break the agreement.

ARNE. Be still, I say!

LADY KIRSTEN. [To ARNE.] You may well be rilled with wrath and resentment; but if you think I meant to deceive you, you do me the greatest injustice. You think we are playing a game of deception with you. But tell me,—what would tempt me and my son to such a thing? Does he not love Ingeborg? Where could he choose him a better bride? Is she not fair and lithe? Is her father not rich and mighty? Is not her family mentioned with honor as far as it is known?