Early Plays, by Henrik Ibsen

This series of SCANDINAVIAN CLASSICS was published by the
American-Scandinavian Foundation in the belief that greater
familiarity with the chief literary monuments of the North will
help Americans to a better understanding of Scandinavians, and
thus serve to stimulate their sympathetic co-operation to good
ends.

INTRODUCTION

One of the most remarkable facts about Ibsen is the orderly development of his genius. He himself repeatedly maintained that his dramas were not mere isolated accidents. In the foreword to the readers in the popular edition of 1898 he urges the public to read his dramas in the same order in which he had written them, deplores the fact that his earlier works are less known and less understood than his later works, and insists that his writings taken as a whole constitute an organic unity. The three of his plays offered here for the first time in English translation will afford those not familiar with the original Norwegian some light on the early stages of his development.

Catiline, the earliest of Ibsen's plays, was written in 1849, while Ibsen was an apothecary's apprentice in Grimstad. It appeared in Christiania in the following spring under the pseudonym Brynjolf Bjarme. The revolutionary atmosphere of 1848-49, the reading of the story of Catiline in Sallust and Cicero in preparation for the university examinations, the hostility which existed between the apprentice and his immediate social environment, the fate which the play met at the hands of the theatrical management and the publishers, his own struggles at the time,—are all set forth clearly enough in the preface to the second edition. The play was written in the blank verse of Oehlenschlaeger's romantic dramas. Ibsen's portrayal of the Roman politician is not in accord with tradition; Catiline is not an out-and-out reprobate, but an unfortunate and highly sensitive individual in whom idealism and licentiousness struggle for mastery. Vasenius, in his study of the poet (Ibsens Dramatiska Diktning in dess Första Skede, Helsingfors, 1879), insists that Ibsen thus intuitively hit upon the real Catiline revealed by later nineteenth century research. The poet seems not to have heard of Duma's Catiline, which appeared about the same time, nor of earlier plays on the subject by Ben Jonson and others. The struggle in Ibsen's play is centered in the soul of Catiline; not once do his political opponents appear on the scene. Only one critic raised his voice in behalf of the play at the time of its appearance, and only a few copies of the original edition survive. Ibsen issued in 1875 a revised edition in celebration of his twenty-fifth anniversary as an author. Since then a third edition has been issued in 1891, and a fourth in 1913.

The Warrior's Barrow, Ibsen's second play, was finished in 1850 shortly after the publication of Catiline. Ibsen entered upon his literary career with a gusto he seems soon to have lost; he wrote to his friend Ole Schulerud in January, 1850, that he was working on a play about Olaf Trygvesson, an historical novel, and a longer poem. He had begun The Warrior's Barrow while he was still at Grimstad, but this early version, called The Normans, he revised on reaching Christiania. In style and manner and even in subject-matter the play echoes Oehlenschlaeger. Ibsen's vikings are, however, of a fiercer type than Oehlenschlaeger's, and this treatment of viking character was one of the things the critics, bred to Oehlenschlaeger's romantic conception of more civilized vikings, found fault with in Ibsen's play. The sketch fared better than Catiline: it was thrice presented on the stage in Christiania and was on the whole favorably reviewed. When Ibsen became associated with the Bergen theater he undertook another revision of the play, and in this version the play was presented on the stage in 1854 and 1856. The final version was published in the Bergenske Blad in 1854, but no copy of this issue has survived; the play remained inaccessible to the public until 1902, when it was included in a supplementary volume (Volume X) to Ibsen's collected works. The earlier version remained in manuscript form until it was printed in 1917 in Scandinavian Studies and Notes (Vol. IV, pp. 309-337).

Olaf Liljekrans, which was presented on the Bergen stage in 1857, marks the end of Ibsen's early romantic interest. The original idea for this play, which he had begun in 1850, he found in the folk-tale "The Grouse in Justedal," about a girl who alone had survived the Black Death in an isolated village. Ibsen had with many others become interested in popular folk-tales and ballads. It was from Faye's Norwegian Folk-Tales (1844) that he took the story of "The Grouse in Justedal." His interest was so great that he even turned collector. Twice during this period he petitioned for and received small university grants to enable him to travel and "collect songs and legends still current among the people." Of the seventy or eighty "hitherto unpublished legends" which he collected on the first of these trips only a few have ever appeared in print; the results of his second trip are unknown. Ibsen had great faith in the availability of this medieval material for dramatic purposes; he even wrote an essay, "The Heroic Ballad and Its Significance for Artistic Poetry," urging its superior claims in contrast to that of the saga material, to which he was himself shortly to turn. The original play based on "The Grouse in Justedal" was left unfinished. After the completion of Lady Inger of Östråt and The Feast at Solhoug he came back to it, and taking a suggestion from the ballad in Landstad's collection (1852-3) he recast the whole play, substituted the ballad meter for the iambic pentameters, and called the new version Olaf Liljekrans. Olaf Liljekrans indicates clearly a decline in Ibsen's interest in pure romance. It is much more satirical than The Feast at Solhoug, and marks a step in the direction of those superb masterpieces of satire and romance, Brand and Peer Gynt. The play was twice presented on the stage in Bergen with considerable success, but the critics treated it harshly.

The relationship of the revised versions to the original versions of Ibsen's early plays is interesting, and might, if satisfactorily elucidated, throw considerable light on the development of his genius. It is evident that he was in this early period experimenting in metrical forms. He employed blank verse in Catiline, in the original version of The Grouse in Justedal, and even as late as 1853 in the revision of The Warrior's Barrow. There can be no question but that he was here following the Ochlenschlaeger tradition. Unrhymed pentameter, however, did not seem to satisfy him. He could with difficulty keep from falling into rhyme in Catiline, and in the early version of The Warrior's Barrow he used rhymed pentameters. After the revision of this play he threw aside blank verse altogether. "Iambic pentameter," he says in the essay on the heroic ballad, "is by no means the most suitable form for the treatment of ancient Scandinavian material; this form of verse is altogether foreign to our national meters, and it is surely through a national form that the national material can find its fullest expression." The folk-tale and the ballad gave him the suggestion he needed. In The Feast at Solhoug and the final version of Olaf Liljekrans he employed the ballad meter, and this form became the basis for the verse in all his later metrical plays.

Six years intervened between The Grouse in Justedal and Olaf Liljekrans, and the revision in this case amounted almost to the writing of a new play. Fredrik Paasche in his study (Olaf Liljekrans, Christiania, 1909) discusses the relation of Olaf Liljekrans to the earlier form of the play. Three years intervened between the first and final versions of The Warrior's Barrow. Professor A. M. Sturtevant maintains (Journal of English and Germanic Philology, XII, 407 ff.) that although "the influence of Ochlenschlaeger upon both versions of The Warrior's Barrow is unmistakable," yet "the two versions differ so widely from each other ... that it may be assumed that ... Ibsen had begun to free himself from the thraldom of Ochlenschlaeger's romantic conception of the viking character." He points out the influence of Welhaven and Heiberg on the second version, elaborates upon the superior character-delineation, and shows in considerable detail the "inner necessity ... which brings about the change of heart in Gandalf and his warriors."

The revision of Catiline came twenty-five years after the original version, and consisted largely of linguistic changes. Ibsen seems never to have completely disowned this play; it has been included in all the complete editions, whereas The Warrior's Barrow and Olaf Liljekrans appear only in the first complete edition, and were even then relegated to a supplementary volume. In suggesting the revision of Catiline, Ibsen proposed "to make no change in the thought and ideas, but only in the language in which these are expressed; for the verses are, as Brandes has somewhere remarked, bad,—one reason being that the book was printed from my first rough uncorrected draft." He had at that time not developed his careful craftsmanship, and sought in the revision merely to put the drama into the form which he had originally had in mind, but which at that time he had been unable to achieve. The changes that were actually made are summarized by D. A. Seip (Ibsen, Samlede Digter Verker, 1918, VII, 114) who quotes Halvdan Koht and Julius Elias (Ibsen, Efterladte Skrifter, III): "The two editions 'agree in the sequence of tenses, with a few exceptions also in the sequence of speeches, and on the whole even in the sequence of lines. The changes involve principally the poetic expression itself; after the second act they become more and more extensive, and the last two acts have been augmented with 100 lines.' ... Not infrequently there appear words and expressions which are suggestive of Ibsen's later works."

These plays now appear for the first time in English translation. A. Johnstone published in Translations from the Norse, by a B. S. S. (Gloucester, about 1876), an English rendering of the first act of Catiline and a synopsis of the last two acts. William Archer explains at length his omission of Catiline from his edition of Ibsen. "A great part of the interest lies in the very crudities of its style, which it would be a thankless task to reproduce in translation. Moreover, the poet impaired even its biographical value by largely rewriting it before publication. He did not make it, or attempt to make it, a better play, but he in some measure corrected its juvenility of expression. Which version, then, should a translator choose? To go back to the original would seem a deliberate disregard of the poet's wishes; while, on the other hand, the retouched version is clearly of far inferior interest. It seems advisable, therefore, to leave the play alone, as far as this edition is concerned." Olaf Liljekrans and The Warrior's Barrow were acted in English in London in 1911 and 1912 respectively, but the English renderings used in these presentations have never appeared in print.

The text of Catiline in the present translation is that of the revised version as given in the edition of 1906-07; the text of the other two plays is that of the edition of 1898-1902. The meters of the original have been carefully reproduced. The great difficulty of rendering the ballad and lyrical meters of Ibsen into adequate English verse has made some stylistic changes necessary, such as the substitution of masculine for feminine rhymes, and the occasional alteration of the sense in slight measure.

I take this opportunity to acknowledge my gratitude to Professor O. W. Firkins, now of The Weekly Review, who suggested the translating of these plays and who offered from time to time invaluable criticisms; to Professor Howard M. Jones, of the University of Texas, Professor S. B. Hustvedt, of the University of Minnesota, and Professor W. W. Lawrence, of Columbia University, who read all or parts of these translations and made many helpful suggestions; and to Professor G. P. Krapp, of Columbia University, and my wife, who were of assistance in various ways.

ANDERS ORBECK.

CATILINE

A Drama in Three Acts

1850

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION

The drama Catiline, with which I entered upon my literary career, was written during the winter of 1848-49, that is in my twenty-first year.

I was at the time in Grimstad, under the necessity of earning with my hands the wherewithal of life and the means for instruction preparatory to my taking the entrance examinations to the university. The age was one of great stress. The February revolution, the uprisings in Hungary and elsewhere, the Slesvig war,—all this had a great effect upon and hastened my development, however immature it may have remained for some time after. I wrote ringing poems of encouragement to the Magyars, urging them for the sake of liberty and humanity to hold out in the righteous struggle against the "tyrants"; I wrote a long series of sonnets to King Oscar, containing particularly, as far as I can remember, an appeal to set aside all petty considerations and to march forthwith at the head of his army to the aid of our brothers on the outermost borders of Slesvig. Inasmuch as I now, in contrast to those times, doubt that my winged appeals would in any material degree have helped the cause of the Magyars or the Scandinavians, I consider it fortunate that they remained within the more private sphere of the manuscript. I could not, however, on more formal occasions keep from expressing myself in the impassioned spirit of my poetic effusions, which meanwhile brought me nothing—from friends or non-friends—but a questionable reward; the former greeted me as peculiarly fitted for the unintentionally droll, and the latter thought it in the highest degree strange that a young person in my subordinate position could undertake to inquire into affairs concerning which not even they themselves dared to entertain an opinion. I owe it to truth to add that my conduct at various times did not justify any great hope that society might count on an increase in me of civic virtue, inasmuch as I also, with epigrams and caricatures, fell out with many who had deserved better of me and whose friendship I in reality prized. Altogether,—while a great struggle raged on the outside, I found myself on a war-footing with the little society where I lived cramped by conditions and circumstances of life.

Such was the situation when amid the preparations for my examinations I read through Sallust's Catiline together with Cicero's Catilinarian orations. I swallowed these documents, and a few months later my drama was complete. As will be seen from my book, I did not share at that time the conception of the two ancient Roman writers respecting the character and conduct of Catiline, and I am even now prone to believe that there must after all have been something great and consequential in a man whom Cicero, the assiduous counsel of the majority, did not find it expedient to engage until affairs had taken such a turn that there was no longer any danger involved in the attack. It should also be remembered that there are few individuals in history whose renown has been more completely in the hands of enemies than that of Catiline.

My drama was written during the hours of the night. The leisure hours for my study I practically had to steal from my employer, a good and respectable man, occupied however heart and soul with his business, and from those stolen study hours I again stole moments for writing verse. There was consequently scarcely anything else to resort to but the night. I believe this is the unconscious reason that almost the entire action of the piece transpires at night.

Naturally a fact so incomprehensible to my associates as that I busied myself with the writing of plays had to be kept secret; but a twenty-year old poet can hardly continue thus without anybody being privy to it, and I confided therefore to two friends of my own age what I was secretly engaged upon.

The three of us pinned great expectations on Catiline when it had been completed. First and foremost it was now to be copied in order to be submitted under an assumed name to the theater in Christiania, and furthermore it was of course to be published. One of my faithful and trusting friends undertook to prepare a handsome and legible copy of my uncorrected draft, a task which he performed with such a degree of conscientiousness that he did not omit even a single one of the innumerable dashes which I in the heat of composition had liberally interspersed throughout wherever the exact phrase did not for the moment occur to me. The second of my friends, whose name I here mention since he is no longer among the living, Ole C. Schulerud, at that time a student, later a lawyer, went to Christiania with the transcript. I still remember one of his letters in which he informed me that Catiline had now been submitted to the theater; that it would soon be given a performance,—about that there could naturally be no doubt inasmuch as the management consisted of very discriminating men; and that there could be as little doubt that the booksellers of the town would one and all gladly pay a round fee for the first edition, the main point being, he thought, only to discover the one who would make the highest bid.

After a long and tense period of waiting there began to appear in the meantime a few difficulties. My friend had the piece returned from the management with a particularly polite but equally peremptory rejection. He now took the manuscript from bookseller to bookseller; but all to a man expressed themselves to the same effect as the theatrical management. The highest bidder demanded so and so much to publish the piece without any fee.

All this, however, was far from lessening my friend's belief in victory. He wrote to the contrary that it was best even so; I should come forward myself as the publisher of my drama; the necessary funds he would advance me; the profits we should divide in consideration of his undertaking the business end of the deal, except the proof-reading, which he regarded as superfluous in view of the handsome and legible manuscript the printers had to follow. In a later letter he declared that, considering these promising prospects for the future, he contemplated abandoning his studies in order to consecrate himself completely to the publishing of my works; two or three plays a year, he thought, I should with ease be able to write, and according to a calculation of probabilities he had made he had discovered that with our surplus we should at no distant time be able to undertake the journey so often agreed upon or discussed, through Europe and the Orient.

My journey was for the time being limited to Christiania. I arrived there in the beginning of the spring of 1850 and just previous to my arrival Catiline had appeared in the bookstalls. The drama created a stir and awakened considerable interest among the students, but the critics dwelt largely on the faulty verses and thought the book in other respects immature. A more appreciative judgment was uttered from but one single quarter, but this expression came from a man whose appreciation has always been dear to me and weighty and whom I herewith offer my renewed gratitude. Not very many copies of the limited edition were sold; my friend had a good share of them in his custody, and I remember that one evening when our domestic arrangements heaped up for us insurmountable difficulties, this pile of printed matter was fortunately disposed of as waste paper to a huckster. During the days immediately following we lacked none of the prime necessities of life.

During my sojourn at home last summer and particularly since my return here there loomed up before me more clearly and more sharply than ever before the kaleidoscopic scenes of my literary life. Among other things I also brought out Catiline. The contents of the book as regards details I had almost forgotten; but by reading it through anew I found that it nevertheless contained a great deal which I could still acknowledge, particularly if it be remembered that it is my first undertaking. Much, around which my later writings center, the contradiction between ability and desire, between will and possibility, the intermingled tragedy and comedy in humanity and in the individual,—appeared already here in vague foreshadowings, and I conceived therefore the plan of preparing a new edition, a kind of jubilee-edition,—a plan to which my publisher with his usual readiness gave his approval.

But it was naturally not enough simply to reprint without further ado the old original edition, for this is, as already pointed out, nothing but a copy of my imperfect and uncorrected concept or of the very first rough draft. In the rereading of it I remembered clearly what I originally had had in mind, and I saw moreover that the form practically nowhere gave a satisfactory rendering of what I had wished.

I determined therefore to revise this drama of my youth in a way in which I believe even at that time I should have been able to do it had the time been at my disposal and the circumstances more favorable for me. The ideas, the conceptions, and the development of the whole, I have not on the other hand altered. The book has remained the original; only now it appears in a complete form.

With this in mind I pray that my friends in Scandinavia and elsewhere will receive it; I pray that they will receive it as a greeting from me at the close of a period which to me has been full of changes and rich in contradictions. Much of what I twenty-five years ago dreamed has been realized, even though not in the manner nor as soon as I then hoped. Yet I believe now that it was best for me thus; I do not wish that any of that which lies between should have been untried, and if I look back upon what I have lived through I do so with thanks for everything and thanks to all.

HENRIK IBSEN.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

GABINIUS " " " "

STATILIUS " " " "

COEPARIUS " " " "

CETHEGUS " " " "

OLLOVICO " " " "

SETTING

FIRST ACT

[The Flaminian Way outside of Rome. Off the road a wooded hillside. In the background loom the walls and the heights of the city. It is evening.]

COEPARIUS. Yes, you are right; things go from bad to worse; And what the end will be I do not know.

CETHEGUS. Bah! I am not concerned about the end. The fleeting moment I enjoy; each cup Of pleasure as it comes I empty,—letting All else go on to ruin as it will.

LENTULUS. Happy is he who can. I am not blessed With your indifference, that can outface The day when nothing shall be left us more, Nothing with which to pay the final score.

STATILIUS. And not the faintest glimpse of better things! Yet it is true: a mode of life like ours—

CETHEGUS. Enough of sorrow and complaint! Come, friends! We'll drown them in a merry drinking bout!

LENTULUS. A moment, friends; I see old Manlius yonder,— Seeking us out, I think, as is his wont.

MANLIUS. [Enters impetuously.] Confound the shabby dogs, the paltry scoundrels! Justice and fairness they no longer know!

MANLIUS. Something quite different. As you all know, I served with honor among Sulla's troops; A bit of meadow land was my reward. And when the war was at an end, I lived Thereon; it furnished me my daily bread. Now is it taken from me! Laws decree— State property shall to the state revert For equal distribution. Theft, I say,— It is rank robbery and nothing else! Their greed is all they seek to satisfy.

COEPARIUS. Thus with our rights they sport to please themselves. The mighty always dare do what they will.

CETHEGUS. [Gaily.] Hard luck for Manlius! Yet, a worse mishap Has come to me, as I shall now relate. Listen,—you know my pretty mistress, Livia,— The little wretch has broken faith with me, Just now when I had squandered for her sake The slender wealth that still remained to me.

CETHEGUS. Well, as you please; but I will not forego My own desires; these, while the day is fair, To their full measure I will satisfy.

MANLIUS. And I who fought so bravely for the glory And might which now the vaunting tyrants boast! I shall—! If but the brave old band were here, My comrades of the battlefield! But no; The greater part of them, alas, is dead; The rest live scattering in many lands.—

MANLIUS. Oh, what are you, the younger blood, to them? You bend and cringe before authority; You dare not break the chains that bind you fast; You suffer patiently this life of bondage!

LENTULUS. By all the Gods,—although indeed he taunts us, Yet, Romans, is there truth in what he says.

CETHEGUS. Oh, well,—what of it? He is right, we grant, But where shall we begin? Ay, there's the rub.

LENTULUS. Yes, it is true. Too long have we endured This great oppression. Now—now is the time To break the bonds asunder that injustice And vain ambition have about us forged.

STATILIUS. Ah, Lentulus, I understand. Yet hold; For such a thing we need a mighty leader,— With pluck and vision. Where can he be found?

MANLIUS. I know him well. I was his father's friend; Many a battle side by side we fought. Often his young son went with him to war. Even his early years were wild and headstrong; Yet he gave open proof of rare endowments,— His mind was noble, dauntless was his courage.

LENTULUS. We'll find him, as I think, most prompt and willing. I met him late this evening much depressed; He meditates in secret some bold plan;— Some desperate scheme he long has had in mind.

LENTULUS. His efforts are in vain; his enemies Have madly raged against him in the senate;— He was himself among them; full of wrath He left the council—brooding on revenge.

LENTULUS. I hope so. Yet must we in secret weigh Our enterprise. The time is opportune.

[In the Temple of Vesta in Rome. On an altar in the background burns a lamp with the sacred fire.]

CURIUS. Ye gods,—what folly! On this very day Has Cicero denounced you in the council; And yet you dare—

CURIUS. You are in danger, and forget it thus— By rushing blindly into some new peril.

CATILINE. [Gaily.] Well, change is my delight. I never knew Ere now a vestal's love,—forbidden fruit;— Wherefore I came to try my fortune here.

CATILINE. A jest? Why, yes,—as all my loving is. And yet I was in earnest when I spoke. During the recent games I chanced to see The priestesses in long and pompous train. By accident I cast my roving eye On one of them,—and with a hasty glance She met my gaze. It pierced me to the soul. Ah, the expression in those midnight eyes I never saw before in any woman.

CATILINE. A way into the temple I have found, And more than once I've seen and spoken to her. Oh, what a difference between this woman And my Aurelia!

CATILINE. Yes, strange, indeed; I scarcely understand myself. And yet—I love them both, as you have said. But oh, how vastly different is this love! The one is kind: Aurelia often lulls With soothing words my soul to peace and rest;— But Furia—. Come, away; some one approaches.

FURIA. [Enters from the opposite side.] Oh, hated walls,—witnesses of my anguish. Home of the torment I must suffer still! My hopes and cherished aspirations languish Within my bosom,—now with feverish chill Pervaded, now with all the heat of passion, More hot and burning than yon vestal fire.

FURIA. Ah, what a fate! And what was my transgression That chained me to this temple-prison dire,— That robbed my life of every youthful pleasure,— In life's warm spring each innocent delight?

FURIA. Yet tears I shall not shed in undue measure; Hatred and vengeance shall my heart excite.

CATILINE. [Comes forward.] Not even for me, my Furia, do you cherish Another feeling,—one more mild than this?

FURIA. Ye gods! you, reckless man,—you here again? Do you not fear to come—?

FURIA. Oh, splendid! Such is also my delight;— This peaceful temple here I hate the more, Because I live in everlasting calm, And danger never lurks within its walls.

FURIA. Oh, this monotonous, inactive life, A life faint as the flicker of the lamp—! How cramped a field it is for all my sum Of fervid longings and far-reaching plans! Oh, to be crushed between these narrow walls;— Life here grows stagnant; every hope is quenched; The day creeps slowly on in drowsiness,— And not one single thought is turned to deeds.

CATILINE. O Furia, strange, in truth, is your complaint! It seems an echo out of my own soul,— As if with flaming script you sought to paint My every longing towards a worthy goal. Rancour and hate in my soul likewise flourish; My heart—as yours—hate tempers into steel; I too was robbed of hopes I used to nourish; An aim in life I now no longer feel.

CATILINE. In silence still I mask my grief, my want; And none can guess what smoulders in my breast. They scoff and sneer at me,—these paltry things; They can not grasp how high my bosom beats For right and freedom, all the noble thoughts That ever stirred within a Roman mind.

FURIA. I knew it! Ah, your soul, and yours alone, Is born for me,—thus clearly speaks a voice That never fails and never plays me false. Then come! Oh, come—and let us heed the call.

FURIA. Come,—let us leave this place, flee far away, And seek a new and better fatherland. Here is the spirit's lofty pride repressed; Here baseness smothers each auspicious spark Ere it can break into a burning flame. Come, let us fly;—lo, to the free-born mind The world's wide compass is a fatherland!

FURIA. Come, let us use the present moment then! High o'er the hills, beyond the sea's expanse,— Far, far from Rome we first will stay our journey. Thousands of friends will follow you outright; In foreign lands we shall a home design; There shall we rule; 'twill there be brought to light That no hearts ever beat as yours and mine.

CATILINE. Oh, wonderful!—But flee? Why must we flee? Here too our love for freedom can be nourished; Here also is a field for thought and action, As vast as any that your soul desires.

FURIA. Here, do you say? Here, in this paltry Rome, Where naught exists but thraldom and oppression? Ah, Lucius, are you likewise one of those Who can Rome's past recall without confession Of shame? Who ruled here then? Who rule to-day? Then an heroic race—and now a rabble, The slaves of other slaves—

CATILINE. Mock me you may;— Yet know,—to save Rome's freedom from this babble, To see yet once again her vanished splendor, Gladly I should, like Curtius, throw myself Into the abyss—

FURIA. I trust you, you alone; Your eyes glow bright; I know you speak the truth. Yet go; the priestesses will soon appear; Their wont it is to meet here at this hour.

CATILINE. I go; but only to return again. A magic power binds me to your side;— So proud a woman have I never seen.

FURIA. [With a wild smile.] Then pledge me this; and swear that you will keep Whatever you may promise. Will you, Lucius?

CATILINE. I will do aught my Furia may require; Command me,—tell me what am I to promise.

FURIA. Then listen. Though I dwell a captive here, I know there lives a man somewhere in Rome Whom I have sworn deep enmity to death— And hatred even beyond the gloomy grave.

FURIA. Then swear, my enemy shall be Your enemy till death. Will you, my Lucius?

CATILINE. I swear it here by all the mighty gods! I swear it by my father's honored name And by my mother's memory—! But, Furia,— What troubles you? Your eyes are wildly flaming,— And white as marble, deathlike, are your cheeks.

FURIA. I do not know myself. A fiery stream Flows through my veins. Swear to the end your oath!

CATILINE. Oh, mighty powers, pour out upon this head Your boundless fury, let your lightning wrath Annihilate me, if I break my oath; Aye, like a demon I shall follow him!

FURIA. Enough! I trust you. Ah, my heart is eased. In your hand now indeed rests my revenge.

CATILINE. It shall be carried out. But tell me this,— Who is your foe? And what was his transgression?

FURIA. Close by the Tiber, far from the city's tumult, My cradle stood; it was a quiet home! A sister much beloved lived with me there, A chosen vestal from her childhood days.— Then came a coward to our distant valley;— He saw the fair, young priestess of the future—

FURIA. I have never seen the man. When first I heard the tidings, all was past. His name is all I know.

FURIA. Calm yourself! What perturbs you? You grow pale. My Lucius,—is this man perhaps your friend?

CATILINE. My friend? Ah, Furia, no;—no longer now. For I have cursed,—and sworn eternal hate Against myself.

FURIA. My Sylvia you disgraced? Nemesis then indeed has heard my prayer;— Vengeance you have invoked on your own head! Woe on you, man of violence! Woe!

CATILINE. How blank The stare is in your eye. Like Sylvia's shade You seem to me in this dim candle light.

FURIA. [After a pause.] Yes, now I understand it. From my eyes The veil is fallen,—in the dark I see. Hatred it was that settled in my breast, When first I spied him in the market-place. A strange emotion; like a crimson flame! Ah, he shall know what such a hate as mine, Constantly brewing, never satisfied, Can fashion out in ruin and revenge!

A VESTAL. [Enters.] Go, Furia, go; your watch is at an end; Therefore I came—. Yet, sacred goddess, here— Woe unto you! The vestal fire is dead!

FURIA. [Bewildered.] Dead, did you say? So bright it never burned;— 'Twill never, never die!

FURIA. The fires of hate are not thus lightly quenched! Behold, love bursts forth of a sudden,—dies Within the hour; but hate—

CURIUS. [Comes forward.] To prison now they take her. Thence to death.— No, no, by all the gods, this shall not be! Must she, most glorious of womankind, Thus perish in disgrace, entombed alive?— Oh, never have I felt so strangely moved. Is this then love? Yes, love it is indeed.— Then shall I set her free!—But Catiline? With hate and vengeance will she follow him. Has he maligners not enough already? Dare I still others to their number add? He was to me as were an elder brother; And gratitude now bids me that I shield him.— But what of love? Ah, what does it command? And should he quake, the fearless Catiline, Before the intrigues of a woman? No;— Then to the rescue work this very hour! Wait, Furia;—I shall drag you from your grave To life again,—though at the risk of death!

CATILINE. [Enters impetuous and uneasy.] "Nemesis then indeed has heard my prayer, Vengeance you have invoked on your own head!" Such were the words from the enchantress' lips. Remarkable! Perchance it was a sign,— A warning of what time will bring to me.

CATILINE. Now therefore I have pledged myself on oath The blood avenger of my own misdeed. Ah, Furia,—still I seem to see your eye, Wildly aflame like that of death's own goddess! Your words still echo hollow in my ears;— The oath I shall remember all my life.

CATILINE. Yet, it is folly now to go on brooding Upon this nonsense; it is nothing else. Far better things there are to think upon; A greater work awaits my energies. The restless age is urgent with its plea; Toward this I must direct my thought in season; Of hope and doubt I am a stormy sea—

AURELIA. [Seizes his hand.] And may not your Aurelia know the reason? May she not know what moves within your breast, What stirs therein and rages with such madness? May she not cheer and soothe your soul to rest, And banish from your brow its cloud of sadness?

CATILINE. [Tenderly.] O, my Aurelia,—O, how kind and tender—. Yet why should I embitter all your life? Why should I share with you my many sorrows? For my sake you have borne enough of anguish. Henceforth upon my own head I shall bear What ill-designing fate allotted me,— The curse that lies in such a soul as mine, Full of great spiritual energies, Of fervent longings for a life of deeds, Yet dwarfed in all its work by sordid cares.— Must you, too, sharing in my wretched life, Bitter with blasted hopes, then with me perish?

AURELIA. To comfort is the role of every wife, Though dreams of greatness she may never cherish. When the man, struggling for his lofty dream, Reaps nothing but adversity and sorrow,— Her words to him then sweet and tender seem, And give him strength sufficient for the morrow; And then he sees that even the quiet life Has pleasures which the most tumultuous lacks.

CATILINE. Yes, you are right; I know it all too well. And yet I cannot tear myself away. A ceaseless yearning surges in my breast,— Which only life's great tumult now can quiet.

AURELIA. Though your Aurelia be not all to you,— Though she can never still your restless soul,— Your heart yet open to a gentle word, A word of comfort from your loving wife. Though she may never slake your fiery thirst, Nor follow in their flight your noble thoughts,— Know this, that she can share your every sorrow, Has strength and fortitude to ease your burden.

CATILINE. Then listen, dear Aurelia; you shall hear What has of late depressed so deep my spirits. You know, I long have sought the consulate— Without avail. You know the whole affair— How to increase the votes for my election, I have expended—

CATILINE. Do you too blame my course? What better means therefor had I to choose?— In vain I lavished all that I possessed; My one reward was mockery and shame. Now in the senate has my adversary, The crafty Cicero, trampled me to earth. His speech was a portrayal of my life, So glaring that I, even I, must gasp. In every look I read dismay and fear; With loathing people speak of Catiline; To races yet unborn my name will be A symbol of a low and dreadful union Of sensuality and wretchedness, Of scorn and ridicule for what is noble.— And there will be no deed to purge this name And crush to earth the lies that have been told! Each will believe whatever rumor tells—

AURELIA. But I, dear husband, trust no such reports. Let the whole world condemn you if it will; And let it heap disgrace upon your head;— I know you hide within your inmost soul A seed that still can blossom and bear fruit. Only it cannot burst forth here in Rome; Poisonous weeds would quickly prove the stronger. Let us forsake this degradation's home;— What binds you here? Why should we dwell here longer?

CATILINE. I should forsake the field,—and go away? I should my greatest dreams in life surrender? The drowning man still clutches firm and fast The broken spars—though hope is frail and slender; And should the wreck be swallowed in the deep, And the last hope of rescue fail forever,— Still clings he to the lone remaining spar, And sinks with it in one last vain endeavor.

AURELIA. But should a kindly seacoast smile on him, With groves all green along the rolling billows, Hope then awakens in his heart again,— He struggles inward, toward the silvery willows. There reigns a quiet peace; 'tis beautiful; There roll the waves, in silence, without number; His heated brow sweet evening breezes cool, As weary-limbed he rests himself in slumber; Each sorrow-laden cloud they drive away; A restful calm his weary mind assuages;— There he finds shelter and prolongs his stay And soon forgets the sorry by-gone ages. The distant echo of the world's unrest Alone can reach his dwelling unfrequented. It does not break the calm within his breast;— It makes his soul more happy and contented; It calls to mind the by-gone time of strife, Its shattered hopes and its unbridled pleasures; He finds twice beautiful this quiet life— And would not change it for the greatest treasures.

CATILINE. You speak the truth; and in this very hour From strife and tumult I could go with you. But can you name me some such quiet spot, Where we can live in shelter and in peace?

AURELIA. [Joyful.] You will go, Catiline? What happiness,— Oh, richer than my bosom can contain! Let it be so, then! Come! This very night We'll go away—

CATILINE. But whither shall we go? Name me the spot where I may dare to rest My head in homely peace!

AURELIA. How can you ask? Have you forgot our villa in the country, Wherein I passed my childhood days, where since, Enraptured during love's first happy dawn, We two spent many a blithesome summer day? Where was the grass indeed so green as there? Where else the groves so shady and sweet-smelling? The snow-white villa from its wooded lair Peeps forth and bids us there to make our dwelling. There let us flee and dedicate our life To rural duties and to sweet contentment;— You will find comfort in a loving wife, And through her kisses banish all resentment.

AURELIA. And when with all the flowers of the land You come to me, your sovereign, in my bowers, Then shall I crown you with the laurel band, And cry, All hail to you, my king of flowers!— But why do you grow pale? Wildly you press My hand,—and strangely now your eyes are glowing—

CATILINE. Aurelia, alas, past is your happiness;— There we can never, never think of going. There we can never go!

CATILINE. I jest! Would only that it were a jest! Each word you speak, like the avenging dart Of Nemesis, pierces my heavy heart, Which fate will never grant a moment's rest.

AURELIA. O Catiline, no more! Let us not think On this affair; sorrow is all it brings.

CATILINE. Your quiet-patience wounds me tenfold more Than would a cry of anguish from your lips!

THE SOLDIER. Forgive me, master, that thus unannounced I enter your abode at this late hour. Ah, be not wroth—

THE SOLDIER. My errand here is but a humble prayer, Which you will hear. I am a needy man, One who has sacrificed his strength for Rome. Now I am feeble, can no longer serve; Unused my weapons rust away at home. The hope of my old age was in a son, Who labored hard and was my one support. Alas,—in prison now he's held for debt. And not a ray of hope—. Oh, help me, master!

THE SOLDIER. If but a penny! I have gone on foot From house to house; each door is long since closed. I know not what to do—

CATILINE. The paltry knaves! A picture this is of the many's want. Thus they reward the old brave company. No longer gratitude is found in Rome! Time was I might have wished in righteous wrath To punish them with sword and crimson flames; But tender words have just been spoken here; My soul is moved; I do not wish to punish;— To ease misfortune likewise is a deed.— Take this, old warrior;—clear with this your debt.

CATILINE. A better use,—not so, Aurelia dear?— Than bribery and purchasing of votes? Noble it is to crush the tyrant's might; Yet quiet solace too has its reward.

AURELIA. [Throws herself in his arms.] Oh, rich and noble is your spirit still. Yes,—now I know my Catiline again.

[An underground tomb with a freshly walled-in passage high on the rear wall. A lamp burns faintly.]

FURIA. A hollow sound. 'Tis thunder rolls above. I hear its rumble even in the tomb. Yet is the tomb itself so still—so still! Am I forever damned to drowsy rest? Never again am I to wander forth By winding paths, as ever was my wish?

FURIA. [After a pause.] A strange, strange life it was;—as strange a fate. Meteor-like all came—and disappeared. He met me. A mysterious magic force, An inner harmony, together drew us. I was his Nemesis;—and he my victim;— Yet punishment soon followed the avenger.

FURIA. [Another pause.] Now daylight rules the earth.—Am I perchance To slip—unknowing—from the realm of light? 'Tis well, if so it be,—if this delay Within the tomb be nothing but a flight Upon the wings of lightning into Hades,— If I be nearing even now the Styx! There roll the leaden billows on the shore; There silently old Charon plies his boat. Soon am I there! Then shall I seat myself Beside the ferry,—question every spirit, Each fleeting shadow from the land of life, As light of foot he nears the river of death,— Shall ask each one in turn how Catiline Fares now among the mortals of the earth,— Shall ask each one how he has kept his oath. I shall illumine with blue sulphur light Each spectral countenance and hollow eye,— To ascertain if it be Catiline. And when he comes, then shall I follow him;— Together we shall make the journey hence, Together enter Pluto's silent hall. I too a shadow shall his shade pursue;— Where Catiline is, must Furia also be!

FURIA. [After a pause, more faintly.] The air is growing close and clammy here,— And every breath in turn more difficult.— Thus am I drawing near the gloomy swamps, Where creep the rivers of the underworld.

FURIA. [She listens; a dull noise is heard.] A muffled sound? 'Tis like the stroke of oars. It is the ferryman of shades who comes To take me hence. No, here—here will I wait!

[The stones in the freshly walled-in passage are broken asunder. CURIUS comes into view on the outside; he beckons to her.]

FURIA. Ah, greetings, Charon! Are you ready now To lead me hence, a guest among the spirits? Here will I wait!

SECOND ACT

[A room in CATILINE's house with a colonnade in the rear; a lamp lights up the room.]

CATILINE. No, no! I say, you do not understand Yourselves what you demand of me. Should I Turn traitor and incite a civil war,— Besmear my hand with Roman blood? No, no! I'll never do it! Let the entire state Condemn me if—

LENTULUS. Tell me,—have you nothing to avenge? No insult? No one here you fain would strike?

CATILINE. Let him who will avenge; I shall not stir. Yet silent scorn is likewise a revenge;— And that alone shall be enough.

CETHEGUS. Aha,— Our visit was, I see, inopportune. Yet doubtless will the morrow bring you back To other thoughts.

CETHEGUS. There are mysterious rumors in the air. A vestal recently was led to death—

LENTULUS. Such is the rumor; Of course,—to us, to all your good old friends, Such talk is trifling and of no account;— The world, however, judges more severely.

CETHEGUS. Undoubtedly she is. An hour's confinement in the convict tomb Is quite enough—

LENTULUS. That is not our affair. It was not therefore that we spoke of her. But hear me, Catiline! Bethink yourself. You sought the consulate; and all your welfare Hung on that single fragile thread of hope. Now is it sundered; everything is lost.

CATILINE. [Still deep in thought.] "Vengeance you have invoked on your own head!"

CETHEGUS. Shake off these useless thoughts; they profit naught; Act like a man; still can this fight be won; A bold resolve now—; you have friends enough; Speak but the word, and we shall follow you.— You are not tempted? Answer!

CATILINE. No, I say! And why are you so eager to conspire? Be honest! Are you driven by thirst for freedom? Is it in order to renew Rome's splendor That you would ruin all?

LENTULUS. Indeed, 'tis not; Yet surely is the hope of personal greatness Sufficient motive for our enterprise!

CETHEGUS. And means enough to taste the joys of life Are not, in truth, to be so lightly scorned. That is my motive;—I am not ambitious.

CATILINE. I knew it. Only mean and paltry motives, The hope of private vantage, urge you on. No, no, my friends; I aimed at nobler things! True, I have sought with bribes and promises To seize ere now the consulate, and yet My plan was greater and comprised much more Than means like these would point to. Civic freedom, The welfare of the state,—these were my aims. Men have misjudged, appearances belied me; My fate has willed it so. It must so be!

CETHEGUS. True; but the thought of all your many friends Whom you can save from ruin and disgrace—? You know, we shall ere long be driven to take The beggars' staff because of our wild living.

LENTULUS. What, Catiline,—now you intend to change Your mode of life? Ha, ha! you surely jest?

CETHEGUS. Then there is nothing we can do with him. Come, Lentulus, the others we'll inform What answer he has given. We shall find The merry company with Bibulus.

CATILINE. With Bibulus? How many a merry night We have caroused at Bibulus' table! Now is the tempest of my wild life ended; Ere dawns the day I shall have left the city.

CATILINE. This very night my wife and I together Shall bid farewell to Rome forevermore. In quiet Gaul we two shall found a home;— The land I cultivate shall nourish us.

CATILINE. I will; I must! Disgrace here weighs me down. Courage I have to bear my poverty, But in each Roman face to read disdain And frank contempt—! No, no; that is too much! In Gaul I'll live in quiet solitude; There shall I soon forget my former self, Dull all my longings for the greater things, And as the vaguest dream recall the past.

CETHEGUS. Remember us with kindness, Catiline, As we shall you remember! To our brothers We will relate this new and strange resolve.

[AURELIA has entered from the side, hut-stops frightened at the sight of those who are leaving; when they are gone she approaches CATILINE.]

AURELIA. [Gently reprimanding.] Again these stormy comrades in your house? O Catiline—!

CATILINE. This was their final visit. I bade them all farewell. Now every bond Forevermore is broken that bound me fast And fettered me to Rome.

AURELIA. I've gathered up Our bit of property. Not much perhaps;— Yet, Catiline, enough for our contentment.

CATILINE. Happy he who could forget,— Who could the memory tear from out his soul, The many hopes, the goal of all desires. Ah, time is needed ere I reach that state; But I shall struggle—

AURELIA. I shall help you strive; You shall be comforted for all your loss. Yet we must leave as soon as possible. Here life calls to you with a tempter's voice. Is it not so,—we go this very night?

AURELIA. The little money left I've gathered up; And for the journey it will be enough.

CATILINE. Good! I shall sell my sword and buy a spade. What value henceforth is a sword to me?

AURELIA. You clear the land, and I shall till the soil. Around our home will grow in floral splendor A hedge of roses, sweet forget-me-nots, The silent tokens of a chastened soul, When as some youthful comrade you can greet Each memory recurrent of the past.

CATILINE. That time, Aurelia? Ah, beloved, I fear— That hour lies in a distant future's keeping.

CATILINE. [In a milder tone.] But go, dear wife, and, while you may, repose. Soon after midnight we shall start our journey. The city then is lapped in deepest slumber, And none shall guess our hidden destination. The first glow in the morning sky shall find us Far—far away; there in the laurel grove We'll rest ourselves upon the velvet grass.

AURELIA. A new life opens up before us both— Richer in happiness than this that's ended. Now will I go. An hour's quiet rest Will give me strength—. Good-night, my Catiline!

CATILINE. [Gazes after her.] Now is she gone! And I—what a relief! Now can I cast away this wearisome Hypocrisy, this show of cheerfulness, Which least of all is found within my heart. She is my better spirit. She would grieve Were she to sense my doubt. I must dissemble. Yet shall I consecrate this silent hour To contemplation of my wasted life.— This lamp,—ah, it disturbs my very thoughts;— Dark it must be here,—dark as is my soul!

CATILINE. Too light,—yes, still too light! And yet, no matter;— The pallid moonlight here does well befit The twilight and the gloom that shroud my soul,— Have ever shrouded all my earthly ways.

CATILINE. Hm, Catiline, then is this day your last; Tomorrow morning you will be no longer The Catiline you hitherto have been. Distant in barren Gaul my life shall run Its course, unknown as is a forest stream.— Now am I wakened from those many visions Of power, of greatness, of a life of deeds;— They vanished like the dew; in my dark soul They struggled long and died,—unseen of men.

CATILINE. Ah, it is not this dull and drowsy life, Far from all mundane tumult, that affrights me. If only for a moment I could shine, And blaze in splendor like a shooting star,— If only by a glorious deed I could Immortalize the name of Catiline With everlasting glory and renown,— Then gladly should I, in the hour of triumph, Forsake all things,—flee to a foreign strand;— I'd plunge the dagger in my exiled heart, Die free and happy; for I should have lived!

CATILINE. But oh,—to die without first having lived. Can that be possible? Shall I so die?

CATILINE. A hint, oh angry powers,—that it is My fate to disappear from life forgotten, Without a trace!

CATILINE. [Taken aback.] Who speaks? What warning voice is this I hear? A spirit voice from out the underworld!

CATILINE. Speak! Have you risen from the grave With hatred and with vengeance to pursue me?

FURIA. Pursue you,—did you say? I am your shadow. I must be with you wheresoe'er you go.

CATILINE. She lives! O gods,—then it is she,—no other, No disembodied ghost.

FURIA. Hate ceases in the grave, As love and all the passions do that flourish Within an earthly soul. One thing alone In life and death remains unchangeable.

FURIA. Yet I know your fate. I am your shadow;—strange, mysterious ties Bind us together.

FURIA. No! Rose ever spirit from the dankest grave For hate and vengeance? Listen, Catiline! The rivers of the underworld have quenched Each earthly flame that raged within my breast. As you behold me here, I am no longer The stormy Furia,—wild and passionate,— Whom once you loved—

FURIA. Ah, now no more. When in the tomb I stood,— And faltered on the path that separates This life from death, at any moment ready To greet the underworld,—lo, seized me then An eerie shuddering; I know not what—; I felt in me a mystic transformation;— Away flowed hate, revenge, my very soul; Each memory vanished and each earthly longing;— Only the name of "Catiline" remains Written in fiery letters on my heart.

CATILINE. Ah, wonderful! No matter who you are,— A human form, a shadow from the dead,— There lies withal a dreadful fascination In your dark eyes, in every word you speak.

FURIA. Your mind is strong as mine; yet you give up, Disheartened and irresolute, each hope Of triumph and dominion. You forsake The battlefield, where all your inmost plans Could grow and blossom forth into achievement.

FURIA. Your fate? Why were you given a hero's strength,— If not to struggle with what you call fate?

CATILINE. Oh, I have fought enough! Was not my life A constant battle? What are my rewards? Disgrace and scorn—!

FURIA. Ah, you are fallen low! You struggle towards a high and daring goal, Are eager to attain it; yet you fear Each trifling hindrance.

CATILINE. Fear is not the reason. The goal I sought is unattainable;— The whole was but a fleeting dream of youth.

FURIA. Now you deceive yourself, my Catiline! You hover still about that single project;— Your soul is noble,—worthy of a ruler,— And you have friends—. Ah, wherefore hesitate?

FURIA. Are you a man,—yet lack a woman's courage? Have you forgot that nimble dame of Rome, Who sought the throne straight over a father's corpse? I feel myself a Tullia now; but you—? Scorn and despise yourself, O Catiline!

CATILINE. Must I despise myself because my soul No longer harbors selfish aspirations?

FURIA. You stand here at a cross-road in your life; Yonder a dull, inactive course awaits you,— A half-way something, neither sleep nor death;— Before you, on the other hand, you see A sovereign's throne. Then choose, my Catiline!

FURIA. Cast but the die,—and in your hand is placed Forevermore the welfare of proud Rome. Glory and might your silent fate conceals, And yet you falter,—dare not lift a hand! You journey yonder to the forests, where Each longing that you cherished will be quenched. Ah, tell me, Catiline, is there no trace Of thirst for glory left within your heart? And must this princely soul, for triumphs born, Vanish unknown in yonder nameless desert? Hence, then! But know that thus you lose forever What here you could by daring deeds attain.

FURIA. With trembling and with fear The future generations will recall Your fate. Your life was all a daring game;— Yet in the lustre of atonement it would shine, Known to all men, if with a mighty hand You fought your way straight through this surging throng,— If the dark night of thraldom through your rule Gave way before a new-born day of freedom,— If at some time you—

CATILINE. Hold! Ah, you have touched The string that quivers deepest in my soul. Your every word sounds like a ringing echo Of what my heart has whispered day and night.

CATILINE. I shall not go! You have recalled to life My youthful zeal, my manhood's full-grown longings. Yes, I shall be a light to fallen Rome,— Daze them with fear like some erratic star! You haughty wretches,—you shall soon discover You have not humbled me, though for a time I weakened in the heat of battle!

FURIA. Listen! Whatever be the will of fate,—whatever The mighty gods decree, we must obey. Just so! My hate is gone;—fate thus decreed, And so it had to be! Give me your hand In solemn compact!—Ah, you hesitate? You will not?

CATILINE. Will—? I gaze upon your eyes: They flash,—like lightning in the gloom of night. Now did you smile! Just so I've often pictured Nemesis—

FURIA. What? Herself you wish to see,— Then look within. Have you forgot your oath?

CATILINE. [Meditating.] What is all this you say? I sense but vaguely what I fail to grasp; I glimpse mysterious, strangely clouded visions,— But can not understand. I grope in darkness!

FURIA. It must be dark here. Darkness is our realm;— In darkness is our rule. Give me your hand In solemn pledge!

CATILINE. [Wildly.] O lovely Nemesis,— My shadow,—image of my very soul,— Here is my hand in everlasting compact.

CATILINE. Ah, like a stream Of fire your touch went coursing through my veins! 'Tis blood no more that flows, but fiery flames;— My breast now cabins and confines my heart; My sight grows dull. Soon shall a flaming sea Illumine with its light the Roman state!

CATILINE. My sword! My sword! Do you see how it flashes? Soon will it redden in their tepid blood!— What change is this in me? My brow burns hot; A multitude of visions flit before me.— Vengeance it is,—triumph for all those dreams Of greatness, regal power, and lasting fame. My watch-word shall be: livid flames and death! The capitol! Now first I am myself!

STATILIUS. Here, comrades, we can while away the night; Here we are safe; no one will overhear us.

GABINIUS. Ah, yes; now let us drink, carouse, enjoy! Who knows how long it will be granted us?

STATILIUS. No, let us first await whatever tidings Lentulus and Cethegus have for us.

GABINIUS. Bah, let them bring whatever news they will! Meanwhile the wine is here; come, let us taste. Quick, brothers, quick,—let's have a merry song!

LENTULUS. Well, all of our proposals he declined;— He would not even hearken to our counsels.

LENTULUS. In short, he will not. He forsakes his friends,— Abandons us,—and leaves the city.

CETHEGUS. 'Tis true;—he goes away This very night. Yet,—blamed he can not be; His ground was valid—

LENTULUS. Not yet, not yet, my friends! First you shall hear What I will say. Now what have we resolved? That we should win at last by force of arms What an unrighteous destiny denied. Tyrants oppress us;—yet we wish to rule. We suffer want;—yet wealth is our desire.

LENTULUS. Yes, yes; we chose a comrade as our chief, On whom there was no doubt we could rely. Our trust he fails and turns his back to danger. Ah, brothers,—be not daunted. He shall learn We can succeed without him. What we need Is some one man, fearless and resolute, To take the lead—

LENTULUS. And should I name him, and should he comeforth,— Will you then straightway choose him as your leader?

CETHEGUS. But can you? Such a task requires The strength and courage of a Catiline.

LENTULUS. I do not lack the courage, nor the strength. Each to his task! Or will you now turn back, Now when the moment seems most opportune? 'Tis now or never! All things prophesy Success for us—

GABINIUS. Well, now that Catiline Forsakes our cause, you are no doubt the man To lead us in our enterprise.

CATILINE. Speak out,—what do you ask of me? Yet stay; I know already what it is. I'll lead you on. Say—will you follow me?

COEPARIUS. They said you did intend to leave the city And wash your hands completely of our cause.

CATILINE. Yes, so I did. Yet now no more; henceforth Only for this great purpose do I live.

CATILINE. My purpose here is higher than you think— Perhaps than any thinks. Ah, hear me, friends! First will I win to us each citizen Who prizes liberty and values most The public honor and his country's weal. The spirit of ancient Rome is yet alive;— The last faint spark is not yet wholly dead. Now into brilliant flames it shall be fanned, More glorious than ever flames before! Alas, too long the stifling gloom of thraldom, Dark as the night, lay blanketed on Rome. Behold,—this realm—though proud and powerful It seems—totters upon the edge of doom. Therefore the stoutest hand must seize the helm. Rome must be cleansed,—cleansed to the very roots; The sluggish we must waken from their slumber,— And crush to earth the power of these wretches Who sow their poison in the mind and stifle The slightest promise of a better life. Look you,—'tis civic freedom I would further,— The civic spirit that in former times Was regnant here. Friends, I shall conjure back The golden age, when Romans gladly gave Their lives to guard the honor of the nation, And all their riches for the public weal!

GABINIUS. What will it profit us To conjure up again those ancient days With all their dull simplicity?

COEPARIUS. Is it for others' happiness and freedom We stake our lives upon a throw of dice?

CATILINE. Paltry race! Are you the offspring of those ancient fathers? To heap dishonor on your country's name,— In such a way you would preserve its lustre!

LENTULUS. And you dare taunt us,—you who long since were A terrifying token—

CATILINE. True, I was; I was a terror to the good; and yet, So paltry as you are was never I.

CATILINE. [Calmly.] So? You timid brood,— You dare to think of doing something,—you?

[They draw their daggers and rush in on him; CATILINE calmly removes the cloak from his breast and regards them with a cold, scornful smile; they lower their daggers.]

CATILINE. Thrust! Thrust! You dare not? Oh, my friends, my friends,— I should respect you, if you plunged your daggers In this uncovered bosom, as you threaten. Is there no spark of courage in your souls?

CATILINE. You have, indeed.—Yet, see,—the hour is come When you can wash away the blot of shame. All that is of the past we will forget;— A new existence is in store for us.

CATILINE. [With bitterness.] Fool that I am! To stake success on you! Burns any zeal within this craven mob?

CATILINE. [Carried away.] Time was my dreams were glorious; great visions Rushed through my mind or swept before my gaze. I dreamed that, winged like Icarus of old, I flew aloft beneath the vault of heaven; I dreamed the gods endued my hands with strength Of giants, offered me the lightning flash. And this hand seized the lightning in its flight And hurled it at the city far beneath. And when the crimson flames lapped all, and rose As Rome fell crumbling in a heap of ruins,— Then called I with a loud and mighty voice, And conjured Cato's comrades from the grave; Thousands of spirits heard my call and came,— Took life again—raised Rome from out her ashes.

CATILINE. These were but dreams! Gods do not conjure up The by-gone past into the light of day,— And parted spirits never leave the grave.

CATILINE. [Wildly.] Is now this hand unable to restore The ancient Rome, our Rome it shall destroy. Where marble colonnades now towering stand, Pillars of smoke through crackling flames shall whirl; Then shall the Capitol crumble from its heights, And palaces and temples sink to ruin!

CATILINE. Swear, comrades, that you dedicate your lives To this great purpose! I shall take the lead. Say,—will you follow me?

[Several seem to be in doubt, and speak in whispers to one another. CATILINE regards them with a scornful smile.]

LENTULUS. [In an undertone.] 'Tis best we follow him. In sunken ruins We're likeliest to realize our goal.

CATILINE. Swear to me by the gods of our great sires That you will heed my every nod!

THE WHOLE GROUP. [With uplifted hands.] Yes, yes; We swear in all things blindly to obey!

CATILINE. Then singly steal your way, by different paths, Into my house. Weapons you there will find. I shall come later; you shall then discover What plan of action I propose. Now go!

LENTULUS. [Detains CATILINE.] A word! Know you the Allobrogian tribes Have to the Senate sent ambassadors With grievances and charges?

LENTULUS. Good. What if we should attune them to our plans? With them all Gaul will rise up in revolt; And stir up strife against our enemies.

LENTULUS. But such a league is a necessity. With our own strength alone the fight is lost; Help from without—

CATILINE. [With a bitter smile.] Ah, Rome is fallen low! Her walls no longer harbor men with strength Enough to overthrow a tottering ruin!

[A garden to the rear of CATILINE's house, which is visible through the trees. To the left a side-building.]

[CURIUS, CETHEGUS, and OTHER CONSPIRATORS enter cautiously from the right in whispered conversation.]

CURIUS. An eerie night! How all my thoughts are tossed About in circles! Did I dream perchance? Ah, real or fancied,—now I am awake,— Whichever way I turn I see her form.

CATILINE. [Goes toward him.] You here, my Curius? I have missed you much.— My visit with the vestal took a turn Quite unexpected—

CATILINE. I shall no longer think of this affair. It was a visit fraught with fate for me.

CATILINE. [Meditating.] The furies, we are told, return at times From the dark underworld to follow us Through life forever.—Ah, if it were so!

CATILINE. She was here tonight.— Yet let this be forgotten. Curius, listen,— A weighty undertaking is on foot—

CATILINE. Who knows what issue for this work the gods Have set? Perchance it is my destiny To perish now, crushed by malignant forces,— And never reach my goal. Well, be it so! But you, dear Curius, you whom I have loved Since childhood,—you shall not be drawn within This fateful maelstrom. Promise me,—remain Within the city if I elsewhere choose To open my attack,—which is quite likely; Nor aid us till success has crowned our work.

CATILINE. You promise this? Then here we say farewell; Wait but a moment; I shall soon return.

CURIUS. [Paces about uneasy.] How shall I curb this longing in my soul? There is a restless turmoil in my blood. Ah, Furia,—what a strange, mysterious woman! Where are you? When shall I see your face again?

CURIUS. Where has she fled? Ah, shadow-like she slipped Away, when I had freed her from the grave. And those mysterious, prophetic words,— And more, her eyes, gleaming at once and dimmed—! What if it were but madness? Has the grave With all its terror darkened—?

FURIA. [Comes nearer.] Here dwells Catiline. Where he is,—there must Furia also be.

CURIUS. Oh, come with me, beloved. I shall lead You into safety. Think—if some one saw you!

FURIA. The dead need have no fear. Have you forgotten— You took my corpse and brought it from the grave?

CURIUS. Again those terrifying words! Oh, hear me;— Come to your senses,—come with me away!

FURIA. [Thrusts him wildly back.] You reckless fool,—do you not shrink with fear Before this child of death, but risen up A fleeting moment from the underworld?

CURIUS. Before you now I fear. And yet this fear, This strange, mysterious dread, is my delight.

FURIA. What would you me? In vain is all your pleading. I'm of the grave, and yonder is my home;— With dawn's approach I must again be speeding Back to the vale of shadows whence I come. You doubt me,—do not think that I have sat Among the pallid shades in Pluto's hall? I tell you, I was even now below,— Beyond the river and the gloomy marshes.

CURIUS. I shall gladly follow, Though you should lead me through the jaws of death!

FURIA. It cannot be! On earth we two must part;— Yonder the dead and living dare not meet.—

FURIA. Why do you rob me of my fleeting moments? I've but the hours of night in which to work; My task is of the night; I am its herald. But where is Catiline?

FURIA. Why rose I from the spirit underworld Tonight, if not because of Catiline?

CURIUS. Alas, this fury that has seized your soul—! Yet you are lovely even in your madness. Oh, Furia, think no more of Catiline! Come, flee with me! Command me,—I shall serve you!

CURIUS. A prostrate slave I here entreat of you One single look. Oh, hear me, Furia, hear me! I love but you! A sweet and lethal fire Consumes my soul, and you—ah, you alone— Can ease my suffering.—

FURIA. [Looks towards the house.] Yonder there's a light— And many men. What now is going on Within the house of Catiline?

CURIUS. [Jumps up.] Again This name! Around him hover all your thoughts. Oh, I could hate him—!

FURIA. Has he then resolved To launch at last the daring enterprise He long has cherished?

CURIUS. Ah, then you doubtless know, too, he himself Is foremost in this daring enterprise? Yet, I adjure you, beg you, think no more Of Catiline!

CURIUS. Ask me what you will; In everything I serve you and obey! I only beg,—forget this Catiline.

CURIUS. Murder and treachery At once! Remember, Furia, he is still My foster-father and—

FURIA. —My aim in life! Ah, timid fool,—so you dare speak of love,— Who lack the fortitude to strike him down That stands across your path? Away from me!

CURIUS. [Holding her back.] No;—do not leave me! I am in all things willing! A shudder chills me as I look on you; And yet I cannot break this net asunder Wherein you trapped my soul.

CURIUS. Why do you mock me with such questioning? If I am willing? Have I any will? Your gaze is like the serpent's when 'tis fixed With magic power upon the bird, that circles Wildly about in terror-stricken awe, Drawn ever nearer to the dreadful fangs.

FURIA. I shall forget that Catiline existed. Then will my task be ended. Ask no more!

FURIA. You hesitate? Is then your hope so faint that you forget What gifts a grateful woman can bestow, When first the time—?

CURIUS. By all the powers of night,— I'll not delay! He only stands between us. Then let him perish! Quenched is every spark Of feeling for him; every bond is sundered!— Who are you, lovely vision of the night? Near you I'm turned to marble, burned to ashes. My longing chills me,—terror fires the soul; My love is blended hate and sorcery. Who am I now? I know myself no more; One thing I know; I am not he I was, Ere you I saw. I'll plunge into the deep To follow you! Doomed—doomed is Catiline! I'll to the Capitol. This very night The senate is assembled. Then farewell! A written note betrays his enterprise.

FURIA. [To herself.] The heavens grow dark; soon will the lightning play. The end is fast approaching, Catiline;— With measured steps you journey to your grave!

[The Allobrogian ambassadors, AMBIORIX and OLLOVICO, come out of the house without noticing FURIA, who stands half concealed in the shade between the trees.]

AMBIORIX. So then it is decided! Venturesome It was to enter into such a compact.

OLLOVICO. True; Yet their refusal of each righteous claim Opens no other way to liberty. The prize of victory,—should our friends succeed,— Outweighs indeed the perils of the conflict That now awaits us.

OLLOVICO. Emancipation from the rule of Rome,— Freedom long lost is surely worth a struggle.

AMBIORIX. Now we must hasten homeward with all speed, Kindling through Gaul the flames of insurrection. It will be easy to persuade the tribes To 'rise up in revolt; they'll follow us And join the partisans of Catiline.

OLLOVICO. Yonder stands she, brother,— The pale and ill-foreboding shadow. See!

CATILINE. Ah, desperate hope—to think of crushing Rome With such a host of cowards and poltroons! What spurs them on? With frankness they confess— Their only motive is their want and greed. Is it then worth the trouble for such aims To shed men's blood? And what have I to win? What can I gain?

CATILINE. [Startled.] Who speaks! Who wakes the spirit of revenge From slumber? Came this voice then from the deep Within my soul? Revenge? Yes, that's the word,— My watch-word and my battle-cry. Revenge! Revenge for all the hopes and all the dreams Which ever a vindictive fate destroyed! Revenge for all my years of wasted life!

LENTULUS. Still rest the shades of darkness on the city. Now is it time to break away.

AURELIA. Speak, Catiline! These many men in arms—? And you as well—? Oh, you will go—

CATILINE. [Wildly.] Yes, by the spirits of night,— A merry journey! See—this flashing sword! It thirsts for blood! I go—to quench its thirst.

AURELIA. My hope,—my dream! Ah, blissful was my dream! Thus am I wakened from my dreaming—

CATILINE. Silence! Stay here,—or follow! But my heart is cold To tears and lamentations.—Friends, behold How bright the full moon in the west declines! When next that full moon in its orient shines, An avalanche of fire shall sweep the state And all its golden glory terminate. A thousand years from now, when it shall light Mere crumbling ruins in the desert night,— One pillar in the dust of yonder dome Shall tell the weary wanderer: Here stood Rome!

THIRD ACT

[CATILINE's camp in a wooded field in Etruria. To the right is seen CATILINE's tent and close by it an old oak tree. A camp fire is burning outside the tent; similar fires are to be seen among the trees in the background. It is night. At intervals the moon breaks through the clouds.]

[STATILIUS lies stretched out asleep by the camp fire. MANLIUS paces back and forth in front of the tent.]

MANLIUS. Such is the way of young and buoyant souls. They slumber on as peaceful and secure As though embosomed in their mothers' arms, Instead of in a forest wilderness. They rest as though they dream some merry game Were held in store for them when they awake, Instead of battle,—the last one, perchance, That will be theirs to fight.

STATILIUS. [Awakes and rises.] Still standing guard? You must be weary? I'll relieve you now.

MANLIUS. Go rest yourself instead. Youth needs his sleep; His untamed passions tax his native strength. 'Tis otherwise when once the hair turns gray, When in our veins the blood flows lazily, And age weighs heavily upon our shoulders.

STATILIUS. Yes, you are right. Thus I too shall in time, An old and hardened warrior—

STATILIUS. And pray, why not? Why all these apprehensions? Has some misfortune chanced?

STATILIUS. Well,— Grant that they are; together they may prove No little aid, and all the tribes of Gaul Will send us help—

MANLIUS. I know these people well From days gone by. However, let that pass. The day that dawns will doubtless bring to light What destinies the gods have set for us.

MANLIUS. But go the rounds, my friend, and ascertain If all the guards perform their proper tasks. For we must fend against a night attack; We know not where the enemy makes his stand.

MANLIUS. [Alone by the camp fire.] The clouds begin to gather thick and fast; It is a dark and storm-presaging night;— A misty fog hangs heavy on my breast, As though foreboding mishap to us all. Where is it now, that easy carefree spirit With which in former times I went to war? Ah, can it be the weight of years alone That now I feel? Strange—strange, indeed,—last night Even the young seemed sorely out of heart.

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!

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—

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.

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.

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.]

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.

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?

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. [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?

CATILINE. All things storm in upon me. Now Aurelia In gentle admonition speaks,—and now In me reëchoes 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!

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

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

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!

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

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.

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!

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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?

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

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—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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.

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—

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?

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. 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.

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

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

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

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

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—

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!

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.

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!

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.

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

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 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!

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—

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.

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

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?

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?

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?

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?

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.

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

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

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—

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!

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. 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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.]

RODERIK. [After a pause writing.] "Then, it is said, will Ragnarök 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!"—

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.

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

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.

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. 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.

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. 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!

SCENE II

[GANDALF and the VIKINGS enter from the right.]

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?

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.

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?

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

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

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

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

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!

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!

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!

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 Mjölnir 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.

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!

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!

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.

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

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

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

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. 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.

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.

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.

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,—

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!

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.

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

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

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—

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

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.

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. [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.

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—

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

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

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.

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

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.

SCENE IV

SCENE V

[BLANKA, GANDALF from the right.]

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.

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

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

SCENE VI

[The Preceding.]

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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!

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.

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!

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!

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.

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

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

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?

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—

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. 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 Mjölnir out of gear; Through you now Balder rules.—Farewell!

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.

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.

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.

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.]

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

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.]

[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.]

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

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.

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. [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.

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.

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. [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?

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. [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. [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?

SCENE III

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

SCENE IV

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.

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—

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. [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.

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

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.

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—

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

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.

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.

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—

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.

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—

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

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

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!

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.

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.

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

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?

LADY KIRSTEN. The lot I have suffered is worse than you think. You will pity me instead of growing angry when you have heard.—Since the sun rose this morning I have wandered up here to find him again.

LADY KIRSTEN. Yes, up here; I must tell you—you'll be frightened—but nevertheless,—Olaf is bewitched in the mountain!

LADY KIRSTEN. He is bewitched in the mountain! Nothing else can it be.—Three weeks ago, after the betrothal feast at Guldvik, he did not come home till far into the next day. Pale he was and moody and quiet as I had never seen him before. And thus the days went by; he spoke but little; he lay in his bed most of the time and turned his face to the wall; but when evening came on, it seemed a strange uneasiness seized him; he saddled his horse and rode away, far up the mountain side; but no one dared follow him, and no one knew where he went beyond that. Believe me, 'tis evil spirits that have charmed his mind; great is the power they wield in here; from the time the terrible plague overran the country it has never been quite safe in the mountain here; there is scarcely a day goes by but the chalet girls hear strange playing and music, although there is no living soul in the place whence it comes.

LADY KIRSTEN. Would to God it were not; but I can no longer doubt it. Three days is it now since he last was at home.

LADY KIRSTEN. Alas, no, it is not so easy. Up here a hunter yesterday saw him; but he was wild and shy as the deer; he had picked all sorts of flowers, and these he scattered before him wherever he went, and all the while he whispered strange words. As soon as I heard of this, I set out with my people, but we have found nothing.

ARNE. [As he spies THORGJERD, who rises from the river.] Here comes one will I ask.

THE GUESTS AND LADY KIRSTEN'S PEOPLE. [Whispering among themselves.] Thorgjerd the fiddler! The crazy Thorgjerd!

SCENE V

[The Preceding.]

[THORGJERD has in the meantime gone to the edge of the stage to the left; at ARNE's last words he turns about suddenly as if he had been addressed.]

ARNE. [To THORGJERD.] We seek Olaf Liljekrans. Have you met him about here today?

THORGJERD. They are all evil there! Olaf Liljekrans curses the little bird when it sings on his mother's roof.

THORGJERD. You ask about Olaf Liljekrans? Has he gone astray in here? You seek him and cannot find him?

THORGJERD. So much the better for him;—if it were a lie that I told, he will suffer no want.

THORGJERD. [Mischievously.] Elves and sprites hold sway here. Be you of good cheer! If you find him not he is at play with the elves; they are fond of all who love little birds, and Olaf, you said.... Go home,—go home again. Olaf is up in the mountain; he suffers no want.

THORGJERD. [Approaches again.] I go hence now to tune my harp; Olaf Liljekrans is up in the mountain,—there shall his wedding be held.—Mad Thorgjerd must also be there; he can make tables and benches dance, so stirring is the music he plays. But you, take you heed; go you home again; it is not safe for you here. Have you not heard the old saying:

THORGJERD. [Suddenly breaking out with wild joy.] But here there are wedding guests,—ah! Each lady has on her very best gown, each man his very best coat,—now I see. Olaf Liljekrans is likewise a groom in the village,—there also he has a betrothed! Well, you have heard of such things before! I know that at any rate once, —it is years ago—but well I remember....

THORGJERD. [Suddenly becomes quiet and says softly.] That song I shall never forget!—But go you home, night is coming on, and when the sun is down the forest belongs to the others. Farewell! I shall take greetings to Olaf where he sits—in the mountain!

SCENE VI

[The Preceding except THORGJERD.]

HEMMING. But it is nevertheless true,—the tale of the bride who disappeared on the eve of her wedding.

ARNE. Aye, that was many years ago; nowadays such things never happen. But we'll all help to find him.

INGEBORG. It was not sung at my cradle that I should run about in forest and field to find my bridegroom.

INGEBORG. If he is enthralled in the mountain, then let her take him who has done it; I don't propose to share my betrothed's heart and soul.

ARNE. [To the Guests.] Now quick, my good men! Spread out and search for him on every ridge and in every hillock! Away! Quite so! Tomorrow we drink to the wedding!

[The Guests and LADY KIRSTEN's People go out in different groups to the right and the left.]

ARNE. [Softly, to LADY KIRSTEN.] We must find him! It would cause me eternal shame if the wedding—

INGEBORG. [Softly, to HEMMING, who stands downcast.] Why do you not go with the rest? Better it were that you brought me again my betrothed than stand here thus and bless me for words I really don't mean.

SCENE VII

[INGEBORG. HEMMING.]

INGEBORG. [As she puts the other foot forward.] There,—buckle this one too! Well, why do you bow your head? Has something gone wrong?

HEMMING. Alas, Lady Ingeborg! Once you were so kind to me; but now since you have become a real grown-up lady—and especially, I imagine, since you gave your betrothal vow—

HEMMING. You had run after your spotted goat, and I followed you, as was always my custom,—yes, that was a long time ago, but I remember it as if it happened today; right down there lies the swamp, which—

INGEBORG. The bear, ha, ha, ha! We had to cross the swamp just where it was the wettest,—

[Stops suddenly and as she continues to look at him her face assumes an imperious and wounded expression.]

INGEBORG. What is it you stand here and say? Why don't you go? Is it fitting to speak thus to your master's daughter? Go, go; you were to find my betrothed!

HEMMING. Alas, I forgot your betrothed; I forgot that you are my master's daughter.

INGEBORG. If you find him, I promise you an embroidered jacket for Christmas,—so pleased shall I be.

HEMMING. I don't want any jacket; I serve you neither for gold nor silver, neither for keep nor for knightly dress. But now I am off; what lies in my power I shall do, if I know it pleases you.

INGEBORG. [Who has climbed up on a stone and is picking some blossoming cherry twigs.] Hemming! how rich is my betrothed?

HEMMING. [In the greatest joy.] Ingeborg! O, if what you say is true, I must tenfold bless my poverty.

INGEBORG. [Turns her head and speaks coldly.] I don't understand you; the song was only an ancient ballad.

[Comes down from the rock with the cherry twigs in her hand, and approaches him as she looks at him fixedly.]

HEMMING. [As though beside himself.] Ingeborg! Ingeborg! then nothing shall henceforth terrify me! Not that you have a betrothed, not that you are my master's daughter;—yea, as sure as I live, I shall steal you tonight!

INGEBORG. [Vehemently, as she constantly struggles to suppress a smile.] Help me, God! what is amiss with you? What is it you are thinking of? Will you steal your master's daughter? You must be sick or mad to conceive such a thing! Yet, it shall be forgotten—for this once. Go, now! and thank heaven you escape so lightly; for you have certainly earned a blow—

INGEBORG. [Raises the twigs, but lets them fall, and says in a changed tone.] —and my red golden ring—see there, take it!

[Throws him a ring, which she has removed from her arm, and rushes out quickly to the left.]

SCENE VIII

[HEMMING. Shortly afterwards OLAF Liljekrans from the, background. The moon rises.]

HEMMING. The golden ring unto me she has granted, Then still is she true, I am not deceived! 'Twas only in jest that she scolded and ranted As though she were bitterly grieved. All will I venture, no more will I dread!

HEMMING. [Despondent.] And yet, I am only a penniless swain, And early tomorrow is she to be wed!

HEMMING. [Quickly.] But into the forest the bridegroom is fled; O, if he should never come home again!

[OLAF comes slowly forward between the rocks in the background. He walks dreaming, his head uncovered, and his hands full of flowers which he tears to pieces and scatters on the way; his whole behavior during the following indicates an unsettled mind.]

OLAF. [Without noticing HEMMING.] If only I knew What she meant, could somehow the riddle unravel!

HEMMING. What is it that weighs On your mind, that you wander in here for three days?

HEMMING. And what is the game that here you do play,— Your cheek is white, and your forehead is gray!

OLAF. Be not so amazed that my cheek is white, Three nights have I fought so strange a fight; Be not so amazed that my forehead is gray, Three nights have I been in the elfen play.

OLAF. My mother's estate! Where stood it of late? 'Tis here, as it seems, that I have my home! The wood has become my ancestral hall, The river's roaring, the pine-trees' moan, Is sweeter to me than my mother's call.

OLAF. [With increasing rapture.] Aye, here it is quiet! Aye, here it is fair! Behold, my hall for the feast I prepare.

OLAF. [Continuing.] When the day has died, When slumber the birds, when fades the cloud, Then here will she come so young and so proud!

OLAF.

HEMMING. [Aside.] And the bride, of whom the minstrel sang,—she too had to follow—

OLAF.

OLAF. I took my betrothal ring, shot with it there Right over her head, far into the air; Now is she evermore bound!

HEMMING. [Aside.] His soul is enthralled, his mind is ill; All this Lady Kirsten shall know!

HEMMING.

SCENE IX

[OLAF LILJEKRANS enters again from the right.]

SCENE X

[OLAF LILJEKRANS. ALFHILD from the back of the stage. She is fantastically dressed and adorned with flowers and garlands of leaves; she looks about anxiously until she discovers OLAF and runs joyfully to meet him.]

ALFHILD. Olaf! my handsome knight! I grew tired of waiting; I had to come here to meet you!

ALFHILD. I have so often told you that I never went beyond this valley until you visited me. My father has said that evil powers hold sway out there; only here among the mountains could I fare safely and without harm! O, let whatever power will hold sway; you are here, and that is enough for me! Come, let me look into your eyes! Truly, I have you again!

OLAF. Have me! Alas, Alfhild! You artful, you beautiful woman, indeed you have me again! My soul you have charmed so deeply, so deeply. Lead me whither and as far as you will, into the mountain, under the hill, to the grassy meadow, where song and refrain echo sweetly in the evening, on the bottom of the river, down under the rapids, where there are harps for powerful plaintive lays; wherever your home is, there I am ready to wander!

ALFHILD. Why speak you thus? You must surely know better than what you are saying.—Spirits and elves hold sway in mountain and hillock, and on the bottom of the river lives the nixie,—so father has said. Think you that I am an elf or—

OLAF. You are the fairest in the world; be you what you please, so long as you are mine!

ALFHILD. Yes, you! When you rode on your lonely path, I should go out to meet you and give you the drink of forgetfulness from the golden horn. I should mix therein my magic and charm so that you would forget both heaven and earth, forget where you were born and reared, what name you answered to, and where your kinsmen fared,—one thing alone should you remember, one thing alone should fill your mind and soul.

OLAF. Forsooth, then are you the elfen maid! For from the first hour you have practiced your magic on me.

OLAF. Through the meadow I rode, below where the river runs,—it was night and the songs and the plaintive lays echoed strangely around me....

OLAF. Bewildered I grew and lost my path; I wandered far, far in among the mountains; I discovered the beautiful valley, where no foot has trod, where no eye has feasted ere mine....

OLAF. A heavy slumber fell upon me in there; the elf maidens played in the meantime, and they drew me into their play....

OLAF. But when I awoke, there was affliction in my soul; homeward I rode, but down there I could no more be content; it seemed as if I had left behind me the richest and best in life, as if a wonderful treasure were held in store for me, if only I sought and found it....

OLAF. You came to meet me, fair and glowing as in this hour; I seized your hand, I looked you in the eye—heaven and earth, the beauty of all creation, was in your eye!....

OLAF. I came there the next night, I embraced you, I pressed you to my bosom,—the glory of heaven was in your embrace....

OLAF. And I came the third night; I had to come; I kissed your red lips; my eyes burned their way into your soul.—More than the glory of creation was therein! I forgot more than God and home, more than heaven and earth. I forgot myself.

ALFHILD. If it be a drink of forgetfulness which you speak of, then have I also charmed myself with it. I have fared as the minstrel who learned the nixie's songs in order to charm his sweetheart;—he charmed and charmed so long that at length the magic wove itself round his own soul too, and he could never win himself free therefrom.

ALFHILD. High in the mountain there is a rocky ledge so steep that not even the eagle can fasten his claws thereon; there stands a lonely birch,—ill does it thrive, it is poor in leaves; but downward it bends its branches to the valley which lies far away; it is as though it longed for its sisters in the fresh and luxuriant grove, as though it yearned to be transplanted in the warm sunny life down below....

ALFHILD. Like the birch in the mountain was also my life; I longed to get away; I longed for you through the long, long years, even before I knew you existed. The valley became too cramped for me, but I did not know that beyond the mountains there was another valley like this one in here. The knights and the ladies that visited me every evening were not enough for me, and they told me nothing of the life beyond!

ALFHILD. No one like you! But every evening my father sang songs to me, and when the night came and my eyes were closed, they came to visit me, all those that live in my father's songs. Merry knights and beautiful ladies there were among them; they came with falcons on their hands, riding on stately steeds. They danced in the field, and laughter and merriment reechoed wherever they fared; the elves listened silently from behind each flower and the birds from the trees where they had fallen asleep. But with the coming of dawn they again disappeared; lonely I wandered; I decked myself with flowers and with green leaves, for I knew the next night they would come again. Alas, that life was after all not sufficient for me; a mighty longing rilled my bosom; it would never have been stilled if you had not come!

ALFHILD. But seldom he comes now; he has never been there since the night we first met.

ALFHILD. You have told me you rode late one summer night in the meadow where the river flows; there you heard strange songs which you only half understood, but which haunt and haunt you so that you will never forget them.

ALFHILD. You once heard my father's songs! It is on them that I have been nourished. In truth, neither have I fully understood them; they seemed to me to be the most precious treasure, to be life itself; now they mean little to me; they are to me but a token of all the glory that was to come. In all of them was there a handsome knight; I imagined him to be the best and most glorious thing in all the valleys, the best and most glorious as far as bird can fly, as far as clouds can sail. Olaf! it was you,—I know you again! Oh, you must tell me of your home, of the distant valley whence you come; life out there must be rich and glorious; there it must be that my birds all fly with the falling of the leaves; for when they again come to visit me, they have so much to tell that is strange, so many a marvel to sing about, that all the flowers begin to bud and to blossom, the trees to grow green, and the big and glorious sun to rise early and go tardily to rest, in order to listen to all the stories and songs. But little grasp I of all that they tell; you must interpret it for me, you must make everything clear that inwardly craves an answer.

OLAF. Little am I able to answer what you ask of my home. My home? If I have had a home other than this, then I remember but little about it. It is all to me like a misty dream which is forgotten in the hour we waken. Yet, come! far below us there lies a village; there it seems I remember I wandered before I saw you; there it seems to me that my kinsmen live. Do you hear how the river conjures and rushes; let us follow it; out on the ledge near the waterfall we can overlook the village where I—once had my home. Come, come!

ALFHILD. I am ready; I know it well enough; whether I wished to or not, I must follow you wherever you go.

SCENE XI

[LADY KIRSTEN and HEMMING enter from the left.]

HEMMING. Yes, but whom he had in mind I could not quite make out; for his speech was strangely incoherent. Ingeborg he did not mean,—that is certain.

LADY KIRSTEN. Say nothing, good Hemming! say nothing of what he just said! You did well to let me alone know he was here. You shall be richly rewarded for this, but first we must find him again—

HEMMING. [As he looks out to the right.] See,—see there, in the moonlight, on the hill near the river,—yes, surely I think—

LADY KIRSTEN. Call Lord Arne and our people! We will meet again here; I bring Olaf with me!

LADY KIRSTEN. Do as I say; but say nothing of what you have heard and seen. You can say that Olaf came up here to hunt deer and bear, and that he went astray in the mountain.

LADY KIRSTEN. Is it true, then? Have evil sprites gained control over him? Yes, so I can pretend to Arne of Guldvik, but little I believe it myself;—and yet it is said it happened often enough in the days gone by. But it is elfen maids no doubt of flesh and blood that—. There he goes down to the river,—I must hasten!

SCENE XII

[OLAF and ALFHILD come in from the right in the background. Later LADY KIRSTEN.]

ALFHILD.

OLAF.

LADY KIRSTEN. [Aside, as she enters from the rear of the stage unobserved by the others.] Ah, there! He speaks; could I understand—!

LADY KIRSTEN. [Aside during the chorus.] Heaven he praised then! Hemming has told—!

LADY KIRSTEN.

SCENE XIII

[The Preceding. ARNE, INGEBORG, HEMMING, WEDDING GUESTS, and LADY KIRSTEN from the left.]

LADY KIRSTEN. [Interrupting.] Of course not, Lord Arne! He went astray on the hunt and—

LADY KIRSTEN. Yet a stray one here and there! There is many a solitary family still dwells among the mountains since the time of the plague.

LADY KIRSTEN. [Softly and resolute.] You must! It will be your eternal shame if you—

LADY KIRSTEN. Faithfully has she nursed him; it is only fitting that she be rewarded.

HEMMING. [Softly and triumphant, as he brings forth the ring.] And I have Ingeborg's golden ring!

INGEBORG. [Takes the ring from him and says carelessly.] My ring! Aha,—so you have my ring, Hemming! Thanks, I shall now take care of it myself!

[HEMMING stands a moment dumfounded and then follows very slowly the rest, who all except ALFHILD go out to the left.]

SCENE XIV

ALFHILD.

THORGJERD.

ALFHILD.

THORGJERD.

ALFHILD.

[She rushes out to the left. THORGJERD gazes after her thoughtfully. The chorus dies away in the distance as the curtain falls.]

SECOND ACT

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

SCENE I

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

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

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

SCENE II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SCENE III

[OLAF alone.]

SCENE IV

[OLAF. ALFHILD from the church.]

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

SCENE V

[The Preceding. LADY KIRSTEN.]

OLAF. All I was able to say I have said. Now you tell her the rest, and then, mother, let me never, never see her again.

LADY KIRSTEN. [As if she suddenly has an idea.] But in case I—Ah, if that could succeed, then would he be cured,—that I can promise. But Alfhild—? Well, nevertheless, it must be attempted.

LADY KIRSTEN. [Approaches.] It seems to me that gloomy thoughts are weighing upon your mind.

LADY KIRSTEN. [Aside.] There is something she is meditating,—I see that clearly.

LADY KIRSTEN. [Aloud.] Well, so much the better for all of us. But tell me, when the wedding is over, what then will you do?

LADY KIRSTEN. [Aside.] There we have it; she thinks to hold him in her wiles even after he is wed. Well, we shall see about that.

LADY KIRSTEN. [Aloud.] Alfhild! I wish you every possible good, and if you dared rely on my—

LADY KIRSTEN. Well and good; then you will let me take upon myself your happiness. I shall take charge of you as best I know how, and if you but give me your word you shall this very night go to the church as a bride.

LADY KIRSTEN. [Aside.] Has Olaf—? Yes, forsooth, he has had the same idea that I had, to marry her off in order to be rid of her. Or perhaps in order to—well, no matter,—when she is finally married, when Olaf on his side is a married man, then—

LADY KIRSTEN. [Aloud.] Well and good, Alfhild! If Olaf has told you our intention for you, then it is not necessary for me to—But do you now hasten, go in there in the store house; there you will find my own wedding gown; that you shall wear!

LADY KIRSTEN. Do as I say. Go in there and dress yourself as splendidly as you please.

LADY KIRSTEN. Certainly! A bridal crown and silver rings and golden bracelet. You will find plenty of them in the coffers and chests.

SCENE VI

[LADY KIRSTEN alone.]

LADY KIRSTEN. The evil and cursed woman! Happy and gay she is though she knows that Olaf is to wed another. But that very fact will serve me well; it will go easier than I had thought. She looks as innocent as a child, and yet she can agree to take him as a husband whom I first pick out for her. And I who thought that she truly loved Olaf! If he is still ignorant of her real spirit, he shall soon learn. He shall know her to the core, he shall know how she has bewitched and lured him, and then, well, then she is no longer dangerous.

LADY KIRSTEN. [Smiling.] Well, well! Olaf thought of the same way of saving himself that I did; so good-natured I had never imagined him.—But where shall we find the man who is willing to—well, she is pretty, and I shall not mind a little silver and even a bit of land. Has Olaf already spoken to some one? That is hardly thinkable!—Well, then I shall see to that. I have servants enough on the estate and—

LADY KIRSTEN. Hemming! what if I should try him! But he saw them together in the mountain yesterday; he must surely know there is something between the two. But none the less—he is a humble serving-man, and poor besides, and weak of mind—we shall see, we shall see!

SCENE VII

[LADY KIRSTEN. HEMMING from the right.]

HEMMING. [To himself.] Nowhere is Ingeborg to be found; she will bring me to my grave,—that is certain. Yesterday she was gracious to me; she gave me her ring; but then she took it away from me again; and today she will not so much as look at me as I pass.

LADY KIRSTEN. [Aloud.] Ah, Hemming, is it you? You prefer to wander alone, I see; you keep yourself away from the servants and maids; when I see such things I realize very well that you do so not without reason.

LADY KIRSTEN. Yes, Hemming! there is something that you keep all to yourself as you go about; you are not very cheerful!

LADY KIRSTEN. [Smiling.] There is here today a young and beautiful girl whom you fancy very much.

LADY KIRSTEN. Come, Hemming, do not speak so; before me you need not feel ashamed. Yes, yes, I see clearly, I tell you.

LADY KIRSTEN. I have seen that the wedding is but little joy to you. The trip to the church you care little about, since you would yourself like to go as a groom, yet cannot see your way clear.

HEMMING. [In the greatest agitation.] Alas, Lady Kirsten! my noble, august lady! be not offended!

HEMMING. [Continuing.] I have struggled and fought against this unhappy love as long as I have been able, and I honestly believe she has done the same.

LADY KIRSTEN. [Aside.] Then they are already agreed; it was certainly a stroke of luck that I came upon Hemming; now I am not at all surprised that Alfhild was so willing to go to the altar.

LADY KIRSTEN. [Aloud.] Hemming! I am much indebted to you for finding my son again and for otherwise being of help to me; now I shall make requital,—I shall to the limit of my power stand by you in the matter we just spoke of.

HEMMING. [Overcome with joy.] You! You will! Lady Kirsten! Alas, great God and holy saints! I hardly dare believe it.

HEMMING. [Unsuspecting.] Yes, truly, it would be best for him too, for I know she cares little for him.

HEMMING. Have you! Well, you are so clever, Lady Kirsten! And I who thought that I was the only one who had noticed it.

LADY KIRSTEN. Your master? I shall know how to talk him into it,—that will not be so difficult.

LADY KIRSTEN. I shall remedy that all right, in case Lord Arne is not prepared to do so.

LADY KIRSTEN. Then hold yourself in readiness; the guests will assemble out here in a little while now, and do you be on hand.

HEMMING. [To himself.] No, this is to me like a strange illusive dream. Ingeborg and I,—we are to belong to each other! Ah, can it be true? So high I never dared let my thoughts ascend;—it seemed to me in the morning that I had been guilty of the greatest presumption if during the night I had dreamed about it.—Hm! I know very well of course that it is not for my sake that Lady Kirsten goes to all this trouble. She has something up her sleeve; she thinks it necessary to break the agreement with Lord Arne, and now that she has noticed that Ingeborg cares for me she will use that as an excuse. Well, I have so often given my master warning, but he will never believe me.

LADY KIRSTEN. [Comes forward.] Your master calls! Go now! After a while I shall speak to him; he will agree. Believe me, he shall follow his page to the church in the same hour that he leads his daughter thither.

LADY KIRSTEN. [To herself.] So young she is and yet so cunning; she has been coquetting with Hemming all the while she made my son believe that—Well and good, he shall soon learn to know her arts. But first I must see Lord Arne; he thinks highly of Hemming and would reluctantly part with him; it seemed too that Hemming feared that something like that might stand in the way; but they can easily remain as they are even if Hemming marries.—Hemming sees more clearly in the affair than I had expected. What will Olaf say, he asked; he has evidently noticed that my son still thinks of Alfhild. Well, let him; if he takes her he will say nothing, and when Alfhild is married,—I know Olaf; he has always wanted to stand in high honor among the men of the village, and for that reason he will certainly—yes, yes, it must, it shall succeed.

SCENE VIII

[HEMMING comes from the left with a bowl of ale hidden under his coat. ARNE follows him cautiously, looking about.]

ARNE. [Sits down on the bench to the left.] Hemming! it is well that the wedding is to be held tonight. Tomorrow I go home; yes, that I will. Not a day longer will I remain in Lady Kirsten's house.

ARNE. Is it not enough, do you think, that she and all her superior relatives look down on me; at supper they laughed and jested among themselves because I could not bring myself to eat of all those ungodly, outlandish dishes. And what was it that we got to drink? Sweet wine and cider that will stay in my stomach for eight days. No, the good old homebrewed ale for me.

ARNE. Of this I had sent the wretched woman three full barrels. And what has she done? Thrown it to her servants, and here I must steal myself a drink,—yes, Hemming! steal myself a drink of my own ale, that they may not revile me as a coarse peasant, who doesn't understand the more refined drinks.

ARNE. Ah—gave me warning! You are stupid, Hemming! You think I haven't noticed it myself; but wait, just wait!

ARNE. [Flaring up.] To place my good nourishing ale before the house servants, as though it were not worthy to be put on the table of a lord.—

ARNE. No, my old room at Guldvik for me;—when we sat there of an evening and played chess with the ale jug between us—

HEMMING. The while Mistress Ingeborg sat at the loom and embroidered roses and all sorts of flowers in the linen—

ARNE. And sang all the time so merrily that it seemed to me that I became young and active again. Yes, Hemming! when the wedding is over, we shall go back and live our old ways again.

HEMMING. But then there will be no one who works the loom and sings merry lays the while.

ARNE. No, that is true enough; Ingeborg will then be gone. It will be a little hard on me; she is wild and self-willed, but I shall miss her nevertheless,—miss her greatly.

ARNE. [Considers.] Now and then I suppose I could visit her here—But no, that I will not! Here they laugh at me, they whisper behind my back,—I see it well enough.

ARNE. [Hands him the bowl.] Come, drink, it will do you good. Changed; no, no, it shall never be changed! It was evil spirits who put into my head the idea of marrying into Lady Kirsten's family. But now it is done; the superior kinsmen will have to behave as they please, but my own relatives and friends shall not laugh at me,—if I have given my word, I shall keep it too.

ARNE. [Disheartened.] If I only knew that Olaf would be kind to her; I shall ask him to—.

ARNE. [Vehemently.] He shall be kind, else I shall come and beat him with my old fists.

HEMMING. Yes, it is well that you keep your eye on her, for Olaf cares little for her, I do believe.

HEMMING. Do you remember Alfhild, the poor girl, who yesterday followed us down from the mountain?

HEMMING. Olaf loves her! 'Tis many a time he visited her up there;—what Lady Kirsten has told you, you must never believe.

ARNE. And what you blab about I believe still less. You are provoked with Ingeborg because at times she makes fun of you, and therefore you begrudge her this attractive marriage; yes, yes, I know you too well.

ARNE. Make me believe that Olaf Liljekrans loves that beggar woman! A noble, high-born lord such as he! It is almost as if one were to say that Ingeborg, my daughter, had a fancy for you.

ARNE. No, I don't imagine! But the one is as unreasonable as the other. Come, drink! and don't talk any more such nonsense.

ARNE. [Rises.] There is Lady Kirsten with the guests. What's going to happen now?

HEMMING. They are all to assemble out here; they will then follow the bride and bridegroom to the banquet-table and thence to the church.

ARNE. Aye, what a cursed custom! To the church at night! Is then marriage a work of darkness?

SCENE IX

[The Preceding. LADY KIRSTEN, OLAF, INGEBORG, GUESTS, and SERVANTS and MAIDS enter gradually from the several sides.]

LADY KIRSTEN. [To herself.] I have not seen Olaf alone; but when I think it over, it is probably best that he know nothing about it until it is all over.

LADY KIRSTEN. [Softly, to HEMMING, who has been whispering with INGEBORG.] Well, Hemming! How do you think your master is disposed?

INGEBORG. [Softly, to HEMMING.] What do you mean? What blessed hope is it you are speaking of?

HEMMING. Alas, I hardly dare believe it myself; but Lady Kirsten means well by us. She will soon show you that—

LADY KIRSTEN. [Smiling.] It seems so. Only wait! This very evening you shall know for certain.

LADY KIRSTEN. I mean that she is a sly witch. All her fair words have been deceitful wiles.

LADY KIRSTEN. [Loudly and clearly.] Lord Arne of Guldvik! Now is the hour come at length which we have all, I imagine, been looking forward to.

LADY KIRSTEN. Soon will the church bestow its blessing on our children and unite them in a long and loving union.

LADY KIRSTEN. The terms we have already agreed upon. But I suggest that we here once again seal them with hand and word.

LADY KIRSTEN. That I well know, Lord Arne! but it will take but a moment. First of all, there shall be an end for all time to every quarrel and dispute between our families,—and as for the damages and injuries which our old disagreements have caused on either side, no one shall demand compensation for them; each must manage them as best he knows how. We promise that, do we not?

LADY KIRSTEN. Then we mention again, what we are already agreed upon, that the boundary line between Lord Arne's domains and mine shall be moved as far in upon his land as good and impartial men may judge to be fitting and just.

LADY KIRSTEN. Finally, Lord Arne shall give in the form of a dowry to his daughter as much silver, linen, and other furnishings as were named and agreed upon at the betrothal feast, all of which shall here be placed in my home from the day Mistress Ingeborg moves herein as my son's lawful wife, which is tonight. On that we are agreed?

LADY KIRSTEN. Then let the bride and bridegroom clasp hands and go to the banquet-table and thence to the church.

HEMMING. [Softly.] O, then it is all over for me; a fool I was to depend on her.

LADY KIRSTEN. But on this joyful day it is fitting that we make as many as possible happy. And therefore I have a request to make, Lord Arne!

LADY KIRSTEN. There is still a young couple who would like to go to the altar this evening; from what I hear, they are agreed between themselves. The bride I shall take care of, but the bridegroom you must assist; it is Hemming, your page, and Alfhild!

OLAF. Alfhild! You will marry her off to—No, no, it shall not be! Never, never!

ARNE. [To himself.] What's this! Yes, truly, then Hemming was right; there is something between Olaf and Alfhild.

ARNE. [Whispering.] Aye, Lady Kirsten! I see your scheme. Now I know why Olaf wandered three days in the mountain, and now you intend to make use of Hemming to be rid of her. Ha, ha!

LADY KIRSTEN. [With forced composure.] Lord Arne! how can you believe such a thing?

ARNE. [In a low tone.] O, I see clearly! Now I should think I had very good reason to break the agreement.

LADY KIRSTEN. [Softly and frightened.] Break the agreement! I beg of you! Will you put us all to shame?

HEMMING. [To INGEBORG, with whom he has in the meantime been whispering.] That is all there is to it, I swear. Lady Kirsten and I have not understood each other.

HEMMING. No, no! I dare not; she will then see that it was you I was thinking of.

INGEBORG. [Aloud.] Hemming shall not go to the altar with Alfhild;—he is too good to marry another man's darling!

INGEBORG. Yes, loudly I proclaim it: she is another man's darling. Let him gainsay it who dares.

LADY KIRSTEN. [Softly.] So that's the way it is! She then,—she it is who cares for Hemming!

LADY KIRSTEN. [Softly and clearly, to ARNE.] Do you now intend to break the agreement? You can now see for yourself from your daughter's conduct what reason I had to get Hemming married!

LADY KIRSTEN. You need not pretend! Ingeborg has a fancy for your house-carl; now I should think I had good reason to break our agreement.

LADY KIRSTEN. [To herself.] See, now have I won! I know Olaf; a woman so scorned will never tempt him!

SCENE X

[The Preceding. ALFHILD comes unnoticed out of the storehouse in glittering bridal dress with a crown on her head and her hair flowing.]

ARNE. [Aside.] This has been a cursed day for me! O, he is a cunning dog, this Hemming! He knew that Ingeborg had a fancy for him; it was therefore so galling to him that Olaf should have her.

LADY KIRSTEN. [Who has in the meantime regained her composure.] And now to the festive hall! Hemming we can think of later.—Olaf, take your bride by the hand!

ARNE. [Reluctantly, as he sees INGEBORG whisper to HEMMING.] Where is the bride? Come, come!

ALFHILD AND INGEBORG. [At the same time, as they each seize one of OLAF's hands.] Here I am!

LADY KIRSTEN. [Aloud, to ALFHILD.] You are mistaken! That is not your bridegroom!

LADY KIRSTEN. [In great agitation.] Olaf is not your bridegroom, I say! Tell her it yourself, my son!

[OLAF is silent. LADY KIRSTEN's Kinsmen look at each other embarrassed. ARNE's Relatives draw nearer, angry and threatening.]

LADY KIRSTEN. [With raised voice.] Olaf Liljekrans! Answer loudly and clearly! You owe it to yourself and to us.

OLAF. [In despair, struggling with himself.] Let it be as you wish then, mother! Yes, by all the saints! I shall answer. Alfhild! you are mistaken! I am not your bridegroom.

OLAF. [With rising irritation.] Alfhild! go hence! Go, go, far into the mountain again; 'twill be best for you. I was sick and bewildered in mind when I wandered up there! What I have told you I little remember! I do not know and I do not want to know! Do you hear,—I do not want to!—The golden crown you can keep! Keep all, both the silver and gold, that you there stand dressed in. More,—yea, tenfold more you shall have.—Well! why do you stare at me so?

[ALFHILD takes off the crown and the other adornments and places them at OLAF's feet as she continues uninterruptedly to stare at him.]

OLAF. Perhaps I pretended to you that you were to be my bride tonight, perhaps you believed me! Perhaps you thought that Olaf Liljekrans would marry a—a—what was it you called her?

OLAF. [Stamps with his foot.] Do not stare at me so, I say! I know you well enough; you have bewitched me. I forgot my family; I forgot my bride, my betrothed, she who stands there.

OLAF. [Seizes ALFHILD violently by the arm.] Look at her, Alfhild! Aha, it is she that I love!

OLAF. Rise, Alfhild! rise, I say! If you dare to grieve in this way, I shall kill you!—Why are you not happy? Be merry and wild as I am!—And the rest of you! Why do you stand so silently, looking at one another? Laugh,—laugh loudly, so that it may echo around!—Alfhild! Why don't you answer? Have I not told you enough! Aha! Then add, you others, a word to what I have said! Come, say something, you too; Lady Kirsten would like it! Laugh at her, mock her, trample her under your feet!

[ALFHILD sinks down to the ground in such a way that she rests prostrate against the stone bench at the left. A flash of lightning illuminates the scene and the thunder rolls; during the following to the close of the act the darkness and the storm increase.]

OLAF. See, see! That I like; now do the powers above join in! Right now will I ride to the church with my bride! Come, Mistress Ingeborg! But first will we drink,—yes, drink, drink! Bring here the beaker and horn,—not in there—! Light the candles in the church! Let the organ resound; prepare for a dance—not mournful psalms—fie, fie, no, a dance!

OLAF. Ah, it is rumored in heaven that Olaf Liljekrans is celebrating his wedding!

ARNE. [Gently threatening HEMMING in passing.] O, Hemming, Hemming! You are a sly dog!

[The GUESTS go quietly and gloomily out to the right; the SERVANTS to the left.]

INGEBORG. [Detains HEMMING.] Hemming! I will not go to church with Olaf Liljekrans!

INGEBORG. If it comes to that, I shall say no,—no before the very altar itself, in the presence of all!

INGEBORG. I will! Now I know for the first time how dear you are to me,—now when I stand in danger of losing you. Go,—do as I say, and let me know when it is time.

SCENE XI

ALFHILD. [Remains lying motionless for a long time with her face concealed in her hands. At length she half raises herself, looks about bewildered, rises, and speaks with quiet broken laughter.]

[It is now quite dark. The windows of the church are being lighted up. ALFHILD goes over to the house and listens while the following song is heard faintly within.]

CHORUS OF WEDDING GUESTS.

HEMMING. [Steals in from the left during the song.] The horse stands saddled and ready! Now a secret sign to Ingeborg and then away!

ALFHILD.

ALFHILD. [As if seized by an uneasy presentiment.] Whither do you go? Whither, whither? What is going to happen?

ALFHILD. O, tell me this! What is going to happen,—why all these preparations?

ALFHILD. [In feverish anxiety.] The wedding! O, no, no! Put it off, only till tomorrow! If the wedding is held, then is everything over with me, I well know!

THE SERVANT. Postpone it! No, Alfhild! 'Tis not, I'm afraid, the wish of bridegroom or bride!

ANOTHER. Think for a moment! Were you yourself but the bride, you surely would not want to wait.

THE FIRST SERVANT. Now we go down to the gate at the church to light the way with red bridal lights when the procession starts from the house.

THE SECOND SERVANT. Come along with us, Alfhild! You shall also have a torch to carry!

ALFHILD. [Takes one of the torches.] Yes, yes, I will! As the most humble in the row I shall stand down there, and then, when he sees me, when I ask of him, when I remind him of everything he has promised and sworn,—O, tell me, tell me, do you not think that he will be kind to me again? Do you think so? O, tell me you do! Say that you think so!

HEMMING. Aye, rest you assured; and in the banquet house I have barred every shutter and door with heavy iron rings; no one can get out!

[They rush out to the left.—ALFHILD continues to lie motionless for some time. Suddenly cries and commotion are hear in the bridal house; the flames break out through the roof.]

[The HOUSE SERVANTS rush in one by one without torches and stand as if turned to stone. OLAF comes into view up in the opening, which he seeks to widen with desperate efforts.]

OLAF.

[She rushes out at the back. The SERVANTS hasten to lend their help; a part of the roof falls in; OLAF is seen high amidst the flames as the curtain falls.]

THIRD ACT

[A sunny valley, rich in flowers, trees, and vegetation of all kinds, and surrounded by lofty snow-capped mountains. In the center of the background a quiet mountain tarn; on the left side a rocky cliff which drops straight down to the water. On the same side nearer the front of the stage a very old log hut, almost entirely hidden in the dense shrubbery. The glow of dawn shines over the mountains; in the valley itself the day is only half begun; during the following scene's the sun rises.]

SCENE I

[ALFHILD lies sleeping and half concealed among the bushes beside the hut; soft music indicates her shifting dreams. OLAF comes down the hillside to the right. Over his wedding clothes he wears a coarse cloak.]

OLAF. Here it was; I know the green there this side of the tarn. It was yonder beneath the linden tree that I dreamed my strange dream. On the slope of the mountain there I stood when Alfhild for the first time came to meet me; I placed my betrothal ring on the string of my bow and shot;—that shot has proved a magic shot; it struck the huntsman himself.

OLAF. It is strange that when I wander up here, far from the village below, it seems as if another atmosphere played around me, as if a more vigorous blood flowed in my veins, as if I had another mind, another soul.

OLAF. I shall,—I will find her again! Up here she must come; she has no home out there in the cold wide world. And I—am I not also a homeless fugitive? Did I not become a stranger in my mother's house, a stranger among my kinsmen, the very first hour I met her?

OLAF. My mother! Hm! It seems to me it would scarcely be well for me to allow her to manage my life; she insinuates thoughts into my heart which do not belong there. No, no, I will find Alfhild again and ask forgiveness for the wrong I have done, and then—

SCENE II

THORGJERD. Wherever the mind is at rest, there is one at home; that is why I like best to wander in here;—my neighbors shall not do me any injustice.

OLAF. I chased a hind this summer in here; but when I look closely I see 'tis a royal child that has been bewitched.

OLAF. I was sitting and thinking the same thing myself; it seems to me that I was bewitched on that hunt.

OLAF. Out upon you! If you wish a huntsman good luck he will never come within shot of the prey.

THORGJERD. If the shot should strike the hunter himself, the best luck that could happen to him would be to have no luck at all.

THORGJERD. Such was my purpose. These are merry days down there, I am told. A mighty knight is celebrating his wedding—

OLAF. Then you should have been there last night; now I fear the best part of the fun is past.

OLAF. Perhaps! But still you should have been there last night; so bright and so warm a festive hall you never have seen before.

OLAF. I know one who had to stand outside and who nevertheless was both worse off and better off than those within.

THORGJERD. I must go down,—I see that clearly; I shall play for the guests. Now I shall fetch my harp, and then—

THORGJERD. And not among the worst. Now shall I fetch my harp from where it lies hidden near the waterfall; those strings you should hear. With them I sat once on the edge of the bed and played the bride out of the festive hall over ridge and field.—Have you never heard little Ingrid's lay? He who could play the bride out of the bridegroom's arms can surely play his child home to her father again. Farewell! If you linger here we may meet again when I get down there.

SCENE III

[OLAF. ALFHILD.]

OLAF. Ah, if it were—for certain I cannot doubt it. Alfhild herself said that her father played such music that no one who heard it could ever forget. He mentioned Lady Ingrid who disappeared on the eve of her wedding many years ago,—there was a young minstrel named Thorgjerd who loved her, so went the story. Many a strange tale was afterwards current about him; at times he stood right in the midst of the village and played so beautifully that all who heard it had to weep; but no one knew where he made his home. Alfhild—yes, she is his child! Here she has grown up, here in this desolate valley, which no one has known of by name for many a year; and Ingrid, who disappeared—indeed, he said—

OLAF. Alfhild! There she is! In her wedding garments she has fled up here. Here then shall you awaken after the bridal night; so sorry a day to you was my day of honor. You wished to go out into life, you said; you wanted to learn to know all the love in the world. So sorry a journey you had, but I swear it shall all be well again. She moves; it is as if she were writhing in sorrow and anguish;—when you awaken, it shall be to joy and delight!

SCENE IV

INGEBORG. But mark you well that you are my servant, and nothing else,—until my father has given his consent.

INGEBORG. Never you mind,—we'll find some means or other.—But now we must think about choosing a cabin to live in.

HEMMING. There are plenty of them around here. Over the whole valley there are deserted huts; everything is just the same as it was when the last people died in the terrible plague many years ago.

INGEBORG. Here I like it very much! Over there, too, there is just such an old hut; the water is near by, and the forest must surely be alive with game. You can fish and hunt; aye, we shall live a wonderful life!

HEMMING. Yea, forsooth, a wonderful life! I shall fish and hunt the while you gather berries and keep the house in order.

HEMMING. But when I stop to think a bit;—I have neither bow nor fishing outfit.

INGEBORG. [Likewise with an expression of despondency.] And it occurs to me there are no servants here who can help me.

INGEBORG. No, thanks.—And all my good clothes—I didn't bring anything along except my bridal gown which I am wearing.

INGEBORG. True enough, Hemming! And for that reason you shall steal down to Guldvik some night and bring me clothes and other things as much as I have need of.

INGEBORG. No, you shall be careful and cautious,—that I warn you. But when finally the long winter comes? There are no people up here,—music and dancing we shall never have—Hemming! Shall we stay here or—

INGEBORG. Well, you see yourself they are all of them dead! Hemming! I think it best I go home to my father.

INGEBORG. Not at all! You shall perform some illustrious deed, and then will you be made a knight, and then will my father no longer be opposed to you.

INGEBORG. Well, we'll have plenty of time to think about that. Today and tomorrow we shall have to remain here, I suppose; so long will the guests sit in the festive house and celebrate,—if they look for us, it will probably be about in the village; up here we can be safe and—

INGEBORG. Do as I say! I shall go up on the hill the meanwhile and see if they are far away.

SCENE V

[OLAF comes from the forest to the left. Immediately afterwards INGEBORG from the right.]

OLAF. [Looks about and calls softly.] Alfhild! Alfhild! She is nowhere to be seen! Like a bird she disappeared from my view into the wood and I—

HEMMING. [Sticks his head out of the door and spies OLAF.] Lord Olaf! So! Now is it surely all up with me!

INGEBORG. [Aloud, as she draws nearer.] Olaf Liljekrans! Now you have me; but you will do ill if you try to compel me.

INGEBORG. That invention won't fool me; only a moment ago I saw the whole crowd—

INGEBORG. [Begins to grasp the connection.] Or—wait a moment—Ha, ha, ha! What an idea! Come, shall we two be honest with each other?

INGEBORG. Hush, we have only a moment or two! And you fled up here because you had but little desire to go to the altar with me?

INGEBORG. Yes, that I can easily think. Answer me now; we were to speak honestly.

INGEBORG. I, too! Aha,—'tis a jolly coincidence; I fled from you, and you from me! We both fled up here, and now just as our relatives are after us we meet again! Listen, Olaf Liljekrans! Say we promise not to betray one another!

INGEBORG. Farewell! If ever I come to have a wedding you shall be my bride's man.

OLAF. And if anything like that should happen to me, you will, I am sure, accommodate me in the same way.

SCENE VI

[LADY KIRSTEN, ARNE of Guldvik, WEDDING GUESTS, PEASANTS and SERVANTS from the right.]

LADY KIRSTEN. See, here will we begin the hunt. Our people must spread about and search all around the tarn;—she shall come forth and then—woe upon her! no mercy or pity is there in my soul.

LADY KIRSTEN. Hold judgment upon her—right on the spot where she is found! All the damage she has done on my dominions I have power and authority to punish in accordance with reason and justice.

ARNE. Yes, but what good is that? What is lost can not thereby be won back again.

LADY KIRSTEN. No, but I shall get revenge, and that is no little gain. Revenge,—revenge I must have, if I am to bear and live down my loss and all the shame she has brought upon me. The storm last night ruined the whole of my year's crop; not a single uninjured straw is left in my fields; and in here, where she herself has said she has her home, here everything thrives and blossoms more luxuriantly than I have ever seen! Is not that the operation of secret arts? Olaf she has snared so securely in her devilish net that he fled out of the village in the wildest storm to follow her. My house she burned clear to the ground; all the openings and doors she barred on the outside;—it was a miracle of God that the servants brought their timely help!

ARNE. Alas, alas; I am afraid if has cost two lives that I thought much of,—Ingeborg and my man Hemming!

LADY KIRSTEN. Come, come, Lord Arne! You must not completely despair of them yet. Ingeborg may have escaped after all; the rest of us came out of it untouched in spite of the cunning of the cursed witch;—Ingeborg has been bewildered with fright and has sought refuge somewhere.

ARNE. Yes, yes, that may be the case with Ingeborg; but Hemming is past all hope,—of that I am sure!

ARNE. O, he had become such a sly and contriving devil of late! He has let himself be shut in and burnt merely to get revenge over me; he knows I can't get along for a single day without him. O, I know him!

LADY KIRSTEN. Well, however it is, Alfhild we must capture; she shall be tried, condemned, and punished; I have misdeeds a plenty to charge her with.

ARNE. And I can mention a few in case it is necessary; she has stolen my dapple-gray horse from the stable; this morning it was gone with saddle and bridle.

LADY KIRSTEN. [Aside.] Ingeborg and Hemming gone, and his horse likewise; were I in his place I should know what to think.

LADY KIRSTEN. [Aloud.] Now let us divide and go about in small groups; he who first gets his eye on Alfhild shall blow the trumpet or horn; let the rest listen and follow the sound till we are assembled again.

ARNE. [Who alone has remained.] And I, who am not acquainted here,—how am I to find my way.

SCENE VII

SCENE VIII

[ALFHILD, LADY KIRSTEN, ARNE, WEDDING GUESTS, PEASANTS and SERVANTS from various sides. Later OLAF LILJEKRANS.]

LADY KIRSTEN. There she is! Stand still, Alfhild! Do not try to escape,—else we shall shoot you.

LADY KIRSTEN. Give it here! See, see! A crown of silver! Indeed, Alfhild! If you are your mother's only daughter I am very much afraid the bridal crown will nevermore be needed in her family.

LADY KIRSTEN. [To the Servants.] Bind her! She stands there and pretends to be sad; no one can know what she is scheming.

LADY KIRSTEN. [Aloud and with suppressed passion.] The court is ready. As you all know, I have a legal and prescriptive right to protect my dominions, to pass judgment in accordance with the law of the realm on every one who does me harm on my own lands. This is what you, Alfhild, have presumed to do, and it is therefore that you now stand here accused before your judge. Defend yourself if you can, but do not forget it is a matter of life and death.

LADY KIRSTEN. Excuse me, Lord Arne! I am within my rights here, and I intend to insist on them.

LADY KIRSTEN. Many and grievous are the charges that are directed against you. First and foremost I charge you here with having beguiled my son, Olaf Liljekrans, with your unholy arts, so that he turned heart and soul away from his betrothed to whom he was pledged,—so that he, sick in heart, never at any time found peace in his home, but came up here to this unknown valley where you have had your home. All this could not have happened in any ordinary way; you are therefore accused of witchcraft,—defend yourself if you can.

ALFHILD. I have little to say in answer to this. Witchcraft you call that strange power that drew Olaf up here. Perhaps you are right; but this witchcraft was not of evil;—every hour that Olaf has been here God must surely have witnessed! Each thought that I have had of Olaf the angels of God must have known! And they had no occasion to blush.

LADY KIRSTEN. Enough, enough! You would add blasphemy to your transgression! Woe upon you, Alfhild! Your every word only adds weight to the scales. Yet, that is your affair!

LADY KIRSTEN. I charge you next with having again, this very night, with the aid of these same secret powers, met Olaf up here, and furthermore that you keep him concealed in here!

ALFHILD. Yes, but however powerful you are, you will never be able to set him free. Perhaps it would be best for me if you were able; but neither you nor the whole wide world have the power to set him free!

LADY KIRSTEN. [In a violent outburst.] Now death will certainly be your punishment! Out with it,—where have you got him?

ALFHILD. [Presses her hands to her bosom.] In here—in my heart! If you can tear him out from it you can practice witchcraft better than I!

ARNE. [To the spectators.] Were Hemming alive he would have been able to get the truth out of her; he had become so crafty of late.

LADY KIRSTEN. Now the third charge against you: last night you set fire to my house and burned it clear to the ground. Perhaps human life has been lost,—that we not know as yet,—but whether or no, it will neither harm nor help your cause; for your intention to burn all of us is as clear as day. Do you deny my charge that you set fire to my home last night?

LADY KIRSTEN. [With bitter mockery.] You shall not be able to say that you acted over hastily. Good opportunity you had, so far as I can remember, to stop and consider; you stood outside there, no one came near you, no one prevented you from deliberating as calmly as you could. Nor shall you say that the merriment of the festive occasion went to your head, nor that the wine distracted you; for you were not on the inside at all; you stood on the outside, and it was cool enough there,—the biting wind should have made you sober.

ALFHILD. Yes, I destroyed your house last night; but you and Olaf and all the rest of you out there have done me a greater wrong. The world was to me a festive hall which belonged to the Great Father. The blue heaven was its roof, the stars were the lamps that shone from its ceiling. I wandered happy and rich in all this; but you, you threw a brand right in the midst of this golden splendor; now is everything withered and dead!

LADY KIRSTEN. Such talk will profit you little! Still once more I ask, where is Olaf Liljekrans, my son?

LADY KIRSTEN. Then you have also passed your own sentence, and I shall confirm it.

LADY KIRSTEN. You have, in accordance with the law of the land, incurred the penalty of death as guilty of witchcraft and arson. This sentence is herewith pronounced upon you, and forthwith right here on the spot it shall be executed.

ALFHILD. Do as you please; little shall I be of hindrance to you. When Olaf denied his love, then ceased my life,—I live no longer.

LADY KIRSTEN. [To ALFHILD.] As you stand there, I remember you again as you yesterday came forward with the golden crown and thought you were worthy to be Olaf Liljekrans' bride. Now we soon shall see how much you are worth; there are present here peasants and servants and many humble men;—perhaps your life can still be saved! Yes, Alfhild! You stare at me, but so it is; I will be merciful to you!

LADY KIRSTEN. (Turns to the rest.) You all know the old custom, that when a woman is sentenced to death for a capital offence, as she is, her life will be saved and she will be free if an irreproachable man comes forth and upholds her innocence and declares himself ready and willing to marry her. That custom you know?

ALFHILD. [Bursting into tears.] O, to be mocked,—mocked so terribly in my last hour!

LADY KIRSTEN. Well then, Alfhild! This custom you shall have the benefit of. If the most humble man in my company comes forth and declares himself willing to marry you, then are you free.

LADY KIRSTEN. Give her the silver crown; that shall go in the bargain; perhaps, Alfhild, you will then rise in value!

LADY KIRSTEN. Now for it; I am afraid your moments are numbered. Hear me well, you servants up there! Should no one answer my third call, then do you watch for a sign from me and cast her into the lake! Use now your arts, Alfhild! See if you can conjure yourself free from death.

LADY KIRSTEN. [With a loud voice.] For the last time! There stands the witch and incendiary! Who will save and marry her?

[She looks about. All are silent.—LADY KIRSTEN raises her hand quickly as a signal, the Servants seize ALFHILD; in the same moment OLAF rushes out on the ledge in full wedding garb.]

[He thrusts the SERVANTS aside and unbinds her. ALFHILD sinks with a cry on his bosom; he puts his left arm around her and raises his right arm threateningly in the air.]

LADY KIRSTEN. Olaf Liljekrans, my son! What have you done? Disgraced yourself for all time!

OLAF. No, I blot out the shame and disgrace which I brought on myself by my treatment of her! My sin I shall expiate and make myself happy the while!

OLAF. [Brings ALFHILD forward.] Yes, before all of you I solemnly proclaim this young woman my bride! She is innocent of all that has been charged against her; I only have transgressed.

ALFHILD. [Raises him.] Ah, Olaf! You have given me back all the glory of the world!

LADY KIRSTEN. You will marry her! Well and good; then am I no longer a mother to you!

OLAF. You will cause me great sorrow, although it is now long since that you were a real mother to me. You used me merely to build aloft your own pride, and I was weak and acquiesced. But now have I won power and will; now I stand firmly on my own feet and lay the foundation of my own happiness!

OLAF. Nothing will I now consider,—I know what I want. Now first I understand my strange dream. It was prophesied of me that I was to find the fairest of flowers,—that I was to tear it asunder and strew it to all the winds. O, thus it has happened! A woman's heart is the fairest flower in the world; all its rich and golden leaves I have torn asunder and scattered to the winds. But be of good cheer, my Alfhild! Many a seed has gone too, and sorrow has ripened it, and from it shall grow a rich life for us here in the valley; for here shall we live and be happy!

LADY KIRSTEN. [Aside.] Ingeborg is gone; this rich valley belongs to Alfhild,—no one else has a claim to it—

LADY KIRSTEN. [Aloud.] Well, Olaf! I shall not stand in the way of your happiness. If you think you will find it in this way, then—well, then you have my consent!

LADY KIRSTEN. Yes, yes! Perhaps I too was wrong,—let us not say any more of that!

ARNE. But I, then? And my daughter, whom Olaf had pledged—Yet, it is true, perhaps she is no longer alive!

OLAF. That I can not say; but I may say that we both in all friendliness have broken our pledge.

ARNE. Well, my daughter shall not be forced upon any one. Alfhild was fated to marry a knight; the same may happen to Ingeborg.

ARNE. [With dignity.] Noble lords and honorable men, hear me! It has come to my ear that many of you hold me to be little skilled in courtly manners and customs. I will show you now you are completely mistaken. In the old chronicles it is frequently told that when a noble king loses his daughter he promises her hand and half his kingdom to him who may find her; he who finds Ingeborg shall receive her hand in marriage and in addition half of all that I own and possess. Are you with me on that?

SCENE IX

[The Preceding. INGEBORG comes hurriedly out of the hut and pulls HEMMING behind her.]

INGEBORG. [Throws herself about his neck.] O father, father! It will not avail you; you have given your word!

ARNE. But that did not apply to him! Now I see it all right; he has taken you away himself.

ARNE. [Frightened.] Will you be silent with such words! Are you out of your head?

INGEBORG. [Softly.] Then say "yes" right here on the spot! Otherwise I shall proclaim to all people that it was I who—

SCENE X

[The Preceding. THORGJERD with a harp in his hand has during the foregoing mingled with the people.]

OLAF. Yes, yes, old man! There are people and merriment in here today, and hereafter it shall always be thus. It is your daughter's wedding we are celebrating; for love has she chosen her betrothed, of love have you sung for her,—you will not stand in our way!

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EARLY PLAYS — CATILINE, THE WARRIOR'S BARROW, OLAF LILJEKRANS ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works provided that:

• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”
• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.
• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.
• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Early Plays — Catiline, the Warrior's Barrow, Olaf Liljekrans

EARLY PLAYS

From "SCANDINAVIAN CLASSICS", VOLUME XVII.

CATILINE, THE WARRIOR'S BARROW, OLAF LILJEKRANS

By Henrik Ibsen

Translated From The Norwegian By Anders Orbeck, A. M. Assistant Professor of English in the University of Montana

To O. W. Firkins Teacher and Friend and Inspirer of these Translations.

INTRODUCTION

ANDERS ORBECK.

CATILINE

A Drama in Three Acts

1850

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION

HENRIK IBSEN.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

GABINIUS " " " "

STATILIUS " " " "

COEPARIUS " " " "

CETHEGUS " " " "

OLLOVICO " " " "

SETTING

FIRST ACT

SECOND ACT

THIRD ACT

THE WARRIOR'S BARROW

[Kaempehojen]

A Dramatic Poem in One Act

1854

SETTING

SCENE I

SCENE II

[GANDALF and the VIKINGS enter from the right.]

SCENE III

SCENE IV

SCENE V

[BLANKA, GANDALF from the right.]

SCENE VI

[The Preceding.]

OLAF LILJEKRANS

A Play in Three Acts

1857

FIRST ACT

SCENE I

SCENE II

SCENE III

SCENE IV

SCENE V

[The Preceding.]

SCENE VI

[The Preceding except THORGJERD.]

SCENE VII

[INGEBORG. HEMMING.]

SCENE VIII

OLAF.

OLAF.

OLAF.

HEMMING.

SCENE IX

[OLAF LILJEKRANS enters again from the right.]

SCENE X

SCENE XI

[LADY KIRSTEN and HEMMING enter from the left.]

SCENE XII

ALFHILD.

OLAF.

OLAF.

OLAF.

OLAF.

OLAF.

LADY KIRSTEN.

SCENE XIII

SCENE XIV

ALFHILD.

ALFHILD.

ALFHILD.

THORGJERD.

ALFHILD.

THORGJERD.

ALFHILD.

SECOND ACT

Translated From The Norwegian By Anders Orbeck, A. M.

Assistant Professor of English in the University of Montana

To

O. W. Firkins

Teacher and Friend
and Inspirer of
these Translations.