Early Plays by Henrik Ibsen (best novels in english txt) 📕

Alfhild again and ask forgiveness for the wrong I have done, and

then--

[He stops and looks out to the left.]

OLAF.  (Alfhild still sleeping.  Thorgjerd comes from

                behind the hut on the left.)

OLAF.  Well met, stranger!

THORGJERD.  Thanks, the same to you.  You are early about!

OLAF.  Or late; early in the morning, but late in the night.

THORGJERD.  You belong in the village below, I take it.

OLAF.  My family lives there.  And you?

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.  That I have noticed.

THORGJERD.  Then you have been here before?

OLAF.  I chased a hind this summer in here; but when I look

closely I see 'tis a royal child that has been bewitched.

THORGJERD.  [Looks at him sharply.]  That hunt is dangerous!

OLAF.  For the hunter?

[THORGJERD nods.]

OLAF.  I was sitting and thinking the same thing myself; it seems

to me that I was bewitched on that hunt.

THORGJERD.  Farewell and good luck to you!

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.

OLAF.  You speak wisely.

THORGJERD.  Yes, yes; there is many a thing to be learned in

here.

OLAF.  Too true!  I have learned here the best that I know.

THORGJERD.  Farewell!  I'll take greetings from you to your

kinsmen.

OLAF.  You mean to go down?

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.

THORGJERD.  I dare say I'll come in time even yet.

OLAF.  Perhaps!  But still you should have been there last night;

so bright and so warm a festive hall you never have seen before.

THORGJERD.  It was well for him who was within.

OLAF.  I know one who had to stand outside.

THORGJERD.  Yes, yes, outside,--that is the poor man's place.

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--

OLAF.  You are a minstrel?

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.

[He goes out to the right by the tarn.]

[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--

[Becomes aware of ALFHILD.]

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!

ALFHILD.  [Still half in dreams.]

It burns!  Oh, save him,--he is within!

He must not die!  Life anew he must win!

[She jumps up in fright; the music ceases.]

ALFHILD.  Where am I!  He stands here before me, it seems!

Olaf Liljekrans! save me from my dreams!

OLAF.  Alfhild! take heart, here you need fear no harm!

ALFHILD.  [Moves away, fearfully and apprehensively.]

You think with sweet words my soul to beguile?

In your heart there is evil, though with lips you may smile,

On me you shall nevermore practice your charm!

OLAF.  Alfhild! be calm, do not start;

'Tis Olaf I am, the friend of your heart!

Unkind I have been, I have treated you ill;

But deep in my heart I was faithful to you!

I was blind and deluded and weak of will,--

And thus I did wound you far more than I knew!

O, can you forgive me?  Alfhild, you must,--

I swear to you I shall be worthy your trust!

I shall bear you aloft and smooth your way,

And kiss from your cheek the tears of dole,

The grief in your heart I shall try to allay,

And heal the wound that burns in your soul!

ALFHILD.  I know you too well and your cunning disguise.

Since last I did see you I too have grown wise.

You would have me believe with your wily speech

It is you for whom I now suffer and languish.

You would have me believe it was you that did teach

Me to revel in joy and to writhe in anguish.

'Twill profit you little, I know you too well,

Whether early or late you come to my dell.

I know you too well; for deceit on your brow

I can read.  Not so was the other, I vow!

OLAF.  The other?  Whom mean you?

ALFHILD.  He that is dead!

'Tis therefore I suffer so bitter a dread.

You don't understand?  You must know there were two;

And that is why peace I shall nevermore find!

The one was all love, so good and so true,

The other was evil, faithless, unkind;

The one to me came on a late summer day,

When my heart burst in flower and bloom;

The other led me in the mountain astray,

Where all things are shrouded in gloom!

'Tis the evil one, you, that has come again;

The other who loved me, so good and so kind,

The one who will never be out of my mind,--

Ah, him have I slain!

[She sinks down on a stone near the house and busts into tears.]

OLAF.  Has he stolen your peace, has he robbed you of rest,

Then why let him longer dwell there in your breast!

ALFHILD.  Alas, were I laid in the grave far below,

With me, I am sure, my sorrow would go!

I knew it not then,--to you do I swear,

I thought it was little for him I did care;

Now I see I must die of a grief-broken heart,

Yet his image will never depart!

[A short pause.]

ALFHILD.  Have you chords in your bosom that you can command?

It seems so; your voice sounds so pleasant and sweet;

Pleasant--though blended it is with deceit.

Have you chords in your breast, then go round in the land

And sing of Alfhild a plaintive lay

To the village girls you meet on the way:

  Only yesterday I was so little a roe,

  I roamed in the green groves around;

  They came to the forest with arrow and bow,

  And chased me with falcon and hound!

  Only yesterday I was a bird so forlorn,

  I sat 'neath the linden alone;

  They drove me away from the place I was born,

  And threw at me stone after stone.

  Only yesterday I was an untamed dove,

  Which nowhere finds peace or rest;

  They came from below, they came from above,

  And pierced with an arrow my breast!

OLAF.  [Deeply moved.]

  Alas, that I lay in the grave below.

  Lulled in eternal rest!

  Your every word is a steel-made bow

  That strikes with an arrow my breast!

ALFHILD.  [Jumps up with childlike joy.]

Just so it shall be,--'tis rightfully so!

Yes, truly, indeed, have you chords in your breast!

So let it be sung; they easily show

That you are yourself by my sorrow oppressed.

They show that your own grief is just as strong

As the one that you voice in your plaintive song!

[She stops and looks sorrowfully at him.]

ALFHILD.  Yet no,--you shall not sing of Alfhild's lament;

What stranger is there whom my sorrow will move!

From whence I came, and whither I went

There is no one out there who shall question or prove!

Sing rather of Olaf Liljekrans,

Who wandered astray in the elf-maidens' dance!

Sing of Alfhild, the false and unkind,

Who drove his betrothed quite out of his mind;

And sing of all the sorrow and fear,

When dead Olaf Liljekrans lay on the bier.

Sing of all the weeping below,

When away they carried the three who had died!

The one was Olaf, the other his bride!

The third was his mother who perished of woe.

OLAF.  Yes, Olaf is dead; it is just as you say;

But I shall be now so faithful a friend;

Wherever you dwell, wherever you wend,

From your side I shall nevermore stray!

May I suffer in full for the sin I committed,--

Atonement to me shall be sweet.

'Twill comfort me much if I be permitted

To roam with you here in some far-off retreat!

From early dawn till the end of day,

Like a faithful hound I shall follow your lead!

I shall clothe my remorse in so plaintive a lay

Till finally you shall believe me indeed.

Each moment we spent here in ecstasy

I shall call up again to your memory!

Each flower that blooms shall speak it anew,

The cuckoo and swallow shall sing it to you!

The trees that grow here in the forest so green

Shall whisper thereof both soft and serene!

ALFHILD.  Enough!  You would only beguile me anew;

Far better were it for you now to depart!

So fair is the falsehood I see within you,

So faithless the thoughts that dwell in your heart!

What would you up here?  What is it you want?

You think that you know the place that you haunt?

So pleasant a spot was this valley of yore,

A curse lies upon it forevermore!

In the past, when lone in the forest I went,

The leaves on the trees had so fragrant a scent!

The flowers bloomed forth on my every side,

When you pressed me to you and called me your bride!

But now--the whole valley is burned in the night;

The trees are burned to the left and the right;

The straw and the leaves are withered away,

Each flower is turned to a dusty gray!--

ALFHILD.  Yes, clearly I see,--in a single night

Is the world become old!--When I wandered below

All alone, and sank down 'neath my shame and my woe,

Then faded the