Complete Works of Henrik Ibsen (29 page)

BENGT.

Well, believe it or not as you list, but it seems to me that Margit was merrier of heart in the days of her poverty, than since she became the lady of Solhoug.

GUDMUND.

[To himself.] I knew it; so it must be.

BENGT.

What say you, kinsman?

GUDMUND.

I say that I wonder greatly at what you tell me of your wife.

BENGT.

Aye, you may be sure I wonder at it too. On the faith and troth of an honest gentleman, ‘tis beyond me to guess what more she can desire. I am about her all day long; and no one can say of me that I rule her harshly. All the cares of household and husbandry I have taken on myself; yet notwithstanding — Well, well, you were ever a merry heart; I doubt not you will bring sunshine with you. Hush! here comes Dame Margit! Let her not see that I —

[MARGIT enters from the left, richly dressed.

GUDMUND.

[Going to meet her.] Margit — my dear Margit!

MARGIT.

[Stops, and looks at him without recognition.] Your pardon, Sir Knight; but — ? [As though she only now recognized him.] Surely, if I mistake not, ‘tis Gudmund Alfson.

[Holding out her hand to him.

GUDMUND.

[Without taking it.] And you did not at once know me again?

BENGT.

[Laughing.] Why, Margit, of what are you thinking? I told you but a moment agone that your kinsman —

MARGIT.

[Crossing to the table on the right.] Twelve years is a long time, Gudmund. The freshest plant may wither ten times over in that space.

GUDMUND.

‘Tis seven years since last we met.

MARGIT.

Surely it must be more than that.

GUDMUND.

[Looking at her.] I could almost think so. But ‘tis as I say.

MARGIT.

How strange! I must have been but a child then; and it seems to me a whole eternity since I was a child. [Throws herself down on a chair.] Well, sit you down, my kinsman! Rest you, for to-night you shall dance, and rejoice us with your singing. [With a forced smile.] Doubtless you know we are merry here to-day — we are holding a feast.

GUDMUND.

‘Twas told me as I entered your homestead.

BENGT.

Aye, ‘tis three years to-day since I became —

MARGIT.

[Interrupting.] My kinsman has already heard it. [To GUDMUND.]
Will you not lay aside your cloak?

GUDMUND.

I thank you, Dame Margit; but it seems to me cold here — colder than I had foreseen.

BENGT.

For my part, I am warm enough; but then I have a hundred things to do and to take order for. [To MARGIT.] Let not the time seem long to our guest while I am absent. You can talk together of the old days.

[Going.

MARGIT.

[Hesitating.] Are you going? Will you not rather — ?

BENGT.

[Laughing, to GUDMUND, as he comes forward again.] See you well — Sir Bengt of Solhoug is the man to make the women fain of him. How short so e’er the space, my wife cannot abide to be without me. [To MARGIT, caressing her.] Content you; I shall soon be with you again.

[He goes out to the back.

MARGIT.

[To herself.] Oh, torture, to have to endure it all.

[A short silence.

GUDMUND.

How goes it, I pray, with your sister dear?

MARGIT.

Right well, I thank you.

GUDMUND.

                       They said she was here
With you.

MARGIT.

       She has been here ever since we —
     [Breaks off.

She came, now three years since, to Solhoug with me.
     [After a pause.

Ere long she’ll be here, her friend to greet.

GUDMUND.

Well I mind me of Signe’s nature sweet.
No guile she dreamed of, no evil knew.
When I call to remembrance her eyes so blue
I must think of the angels in heaven.
But of years there have passed no fewer than seven;
In that time much may have altered. Oh, say
If she, too, has changed so while I’ve been away?

MARGIT.

She too? Is it, pray, in the halls of kings
That you learn such courtly ways, Sir Knight?
To remind me thus of the change time brings —

GUDMUND.

Nay, Margit, my meaning you read aright!
You were kind to me, both, in those far-away years —
Your eyes, when we parted were wet with tears.
We swore like brother and sister still
To hold together in good hap or ill.
‘Mid the other maids like a sun you shone,
Far, far and wide was your beauty known.
You are no less fair than you were, I wot;
But Solhoug’s mistress, I see, has forgot
The penniless kinsman. So hard is your mind
That ever of old was gentle and kind.

MARGIT. [Choking back her tears.]

Aye, of old — !

GUDMUND. [Looks compassionately at her, is silent for a little, then says in a subdued voice.

           Shall we do as your husband said?
Pass the time with talk of the dear old days?

MARGIT. [Vehemently.]

No, no, not of them!
                     Their memory’s dead.
My mind unwillingly backward strays.
Tell rather of what your life has been,
Of what in the wide world you’ve done and seen.
Adventures you’ve lacked not, well I ween —
In all the warmth and the space out yonder,
That heart and mind should be light, what wonder?

GUDMUND.

In the King’s high hall I found not the joy
That I knew by my own poor hearth as a boy.

MARGIT. [Without looking at him.]

While I, as at Solhoug each day flits past,
Thank Heaven that here has my lot been cast.

GUDMUND.

‘Tis well if for this you can thankful be —

MARGIT. [Vehemently.]

Why not? For am I not honoured and free?
Must not all folk here obey my hest?
Rule I not all things as seemeth me best?
Here I am first, with no second beside me;
And that, as you know, from of old satisfied me.
Did you think you would find me weary and sad?
Nay, my mind is at peace and my heart is glad.
You might, then, have spared your journey here
To Solhoug; ‘twill profit you little, I fear.

GUDMUND.

What, mean you, Dame Margit?

MARGIT. [Rising.]

       I understand all —
I know why you come to my lonely hall.

GUDMUND.

And you welcome me not, though you know why I came?
     [Bowing and about to go.

God’s peace and farewell, then, my noble dame!

MARGIT.

To have stayed in the royal hall, indeed,
Sir Knight, had better become your fame.

GUDMUND. [Stops.]

In the royal hall? Do you scoff at my need?

MARGIT.

Your need? You are ill to content, my friend;
Where, I would know, do you think to end?
You can dress you in velvet and cramoisie,
You stand by the throne, and have lands in fee —

GUDMUND.

Do you deem, then, that fortune is kind to me?
You said but now that full well you knew
What brought me to Solhoug —

MARGIT.

I told you true!

GUDMUND.

Then you know what of late has befallen me; —
You have heard the tale of my outlawry?

MARGIT. [Terror-struck.]

An outlaw! You, Gudmund!

GUDMUND.

       I am indeed.
But I swear, by the Holy Christ I swear,
Had I known the thoughts of your heart, I ne’er
Had bent me to Solhoug in my need.
I thought that you still were gentle-hearted,
As you ever were wont to be ere we parted:
But I truckle not to you; the wood is wide,
My hand and my bow shall fend for me there;
I will drink of the mountain brook, and hide
My head in the beast’s lair.

[On the point of going.

MARGIT. [Holding him back.]

Outlawed! Nay, stay! I swear to you
That naught of your outlawry I knew.

GUDMUND.

It is as I tell you. My life’s at stake;
And to live are all men fain.
Three nights like a dog ‘neath the sky I’ve lain,
My couch on the hillside forced to make,
With for pillow the boulder grey.
Though too proud to knock at the door of the stranger,
And pray him for aid in the hour of danger,
Yet strong was my hope as I held on my way:
I thought: When to Solhoug you come at last
Then all your pains will be done and past.
You have sure friends there, whatever betide. —
But hope like a wayside flower shrivels up;
Though your husband met me with flagon and cup,
And his doors flung open wide,
Within, your dwelling seems chill and bare;
Dark is the hall; my friends are not there.
‘Tis well; I will back to my hills from your halls.

MARGIT. [Beseechingly.]

Oh, hear me!

GUDMUND.

          My soul is not base as a thrall’s.
Now life to me seems a thing of nought;
Truly I hold it scarce worth a thought.
You have killed all that I hold most dear;
Of my fairest hopes I follow the bier.
Farewell, then, Dame Margit!

MARGIT.

       Nay, Gudmund, hear!
By all that is holy — !

GUDMUND.

       Live on as before
Live on in honour and joyance —
Never shall Gudmund darken your door,
Never shall cause you ‘noyance.

MARGIT.

Enough, enough. Your bitterness
You presently shall rue.
Had I known you outlawed, shelterless,
Hunted the country through —
Trust me, the day that brought you here
Would have seemed the fairest of many a year;
And a feast I had counted it indeed
When you turned to Solhoug for refuge in need.

GUDMUND.

What say you — ? How shall I read your mind?

MARGIT. [Holding out her hand to him.]

Read this: that at Solhoug dwell kinsfolk kind.

GUDMUND.

But you said of late — ?

MARGIT.

                    To that pay no heed,
Or hear me, and understand indeed.
For me is life but a long, black night,
Nor sun, nor star for me shines bright.
I have sold my youth and my liberty,
And none from my bargain can set me free.
My heart’s content I have bartered for gold,
With gilded chains I have fettered myself;
Trust me, it is but comfort cold
To the sorrowful soul, the pride of pelf.
How blithe was my childhood — how free from care!
Our house was lowly and scant our store;
But treasures of hope in my breast I bore.