The Collected Works of Henrik Ibsen, Volume 2

CONTENTS

— THE VIKINGS AT HELGELAND. — THE PRETENDERS.

Ibsen himself has told us, in his preface to the second edition of The Feast at Solhoug, how the reading of the Icelandic family-sagas suggested to him, in germ, the theme of The Vikings at Helgeland. What he first saw, he says, was the contrasted figures of the two women who ultimately became Hiördis and Dagny, together with a great banquet-scene at which an interchange of taunts and gibes should lead to tragic consequences. So far as one can gather from this statement, the particular theme which he ultimately borrowed from the Volsung-Saga had not yet entered his mind. On the other hand, the conception of the two women’s characters was certainly not new to him, seeing that a similar contrast presents itself in his very earliest work, Catilina, between the aptly-named Furia and the gentle Aurelia; while even in Lady Inger of Ostråt it reappears, somewhat disguised, in the contrast between Inger Gyldenlöve and her daughter Eline. While the scheme of The Vikings was still entirely vague, however, fresh influences, both of a personal and of a literary nature, intervened, and, transposing the theme from the purely dramatic viiiinto the lyrical key, he produced The Feast at Solhoug. The foster-sisters, Hiördis and Dagny became the sisters Margit and Signe, and the banquet, instead of being the culminating-point of the dramatic action, became its mere background.

The fact probably is that in 1855 the poet found himself still unripe for the intense effort of dramatic concentration involved in such a work as The Vikings. Probably, too, he knew that neither his actors nor his public at the Bergen Theatre were prepared to go back to the primitive austerity of the heroic age, as it was beginning to body itself forth in his mind. The good Bergensers were accustomed either to French intrigue (such as he had given them in Lady Inger), or to Danish lyrical romanticism; and he perhaps foresaw that the ruling taste of Bergen would be as hard to contend against as, in the sequel, the ruling taste of Copenhagen actually proved to be. At all events, from whatever mingling of motives, he put the heroic theme aside for two years, while he kept to the key of lyrical romanticism not only in the Feast at Solhoug, written in the summer of 1855, but also in the very feeble Olaf Liliekrans, conceived much earlier, but written in 1856. Not until he had left Bergen behind him and returned to Christiania in the summer of 1857, did the poet take up again, and rapidly work out, the theme of The Vikings. It is almost inconceivable that only a year should have intervened between it and Olaf Liliekrans.

Paul Botten-Hansen, perhaps Ibsen’s closest friend of those days, has stated that The Vikings was begun in verse. If so, the metre chosen was probably the twelve-syllable measure of Oehlenschläger’s Balder’s Death, supposed to represent the iambic trimeter of the Greek dramatists. In an essay On the Heroic ixBallad, written in Bergen in the early months of 1857, Ibsen had condemned, as a medium for the treatment of Scandinavian themes, the iambic deca-syllable (our blank verse) in which Oehlenschläger had written most of his plays, and which Ibsen himself had adopted in his early imitation of Oehlenschläger, The Hero’s Grave. Blank verse Ibsen regarded as “entirely foreign” to Norwegian-Danish prosody, and, moreover, a product of Christian influences; whereas pagan antiquity, if treated in verse at all, ought to be treated in the pagan measure of the Greeks. At the same time we find him expressing a doubt whether Oehlenschläger’s Hakon Jarl might not have been just as poetic in prose as in verse—a doubt which clearly shows in what direction his thoughts were turning. It must be regarded as a great mercy that he abandoned the iambic trimeter, which, in Oehlenschläger’s hands, was nothing but an unrhymed Alexandrine with the cæsura displaced.

This same essay On the Heroic Ballad throws a curious light on the difficulties which occasioned the long delay between the conception and the execution of The Vikings. He lays it down that “the heroic ballad is much better fitted than the saga for dramatic treatment. The saga is a great, cold, rounded and self-contained epos, essentially objective, and exclusive of all lyricism.... If, now, the poet is to extract a dramatic work from this epic material, he must necessarily bring into it a foreign, a lyrical, element; for the drama is well known to be a higher blending of the lyric and the epos.” This “well-known” dogma he probably accepted from the German æstheticians with whom, about this time, he seems to have busied himself. A little further on, he adds that the accommodating prosody of the ballads gives room for x“many freedoms which are of great importance to dramatic dialogue,” and consequently prophesies a great future for the drama drawn from this source. It was a luckless prophecy. He himself, though apparently he little guessed it, had done his last work in lyrical romance; and though it has survived, sporadically, in Danish and even in German literature, it can count but few masterpieces during the past half-century. Perhaps, however, Hauptmann’s Sunken Bell might be taken as justifying Ibsen’s forecast.^[1]

It must have been very soon after this essay was published (May 1857) that Ibsen discovered how to impose dramatic form upon the epic material of the sagas, without dragging in any foreign lyrical element. He suddenly saw his way, it would seem, to reproducing in dialogue the terse, unvarnished prose of the sagas themselves, eloquent in reticence rather than in rhetorical or lyrical abundance.

Had he, or had he not, in the meantime read Björnson’s one-act play, Between the Battles? It was not produced until October 27, 1857, by which time The Vikings must have been almost, if not quite, finished. But Ibsen may have seen it in manuscript several months earlier, and it may have put him on the track of the form in which to cast his saga-material. The style of The Vikings is incomparably firmer, purer, more homogeneous and clear-cut than that of Between the Battles; but Björnson’s mediæval comedietta (it is really little more) may quite well have given Ibsen a valuable impulse towards the adaptation of the saga-style to drama. The point, however, is of little moment. It is much more important to xinote that while Ibsen was writing The Vikings Björnson was writing his peasant-idyll Synnöve Solbakken; so that these two corner-stones of modern Norwegian literature were laid, to all intents and purposes, simultaneously.

In an autobiographic letter to Peter Hansen,^[2] written in 1870, Ibsen mentions this play very briefly: “The Vikings at Helgeland I wrote whilst I was engaged to be married. For Hiördis I had the same model as I took afterwards for Svanhild in Love’s Comedy.” More noteworthy is his preface to a German translation of the play, published in 1876. It runs as follows:

“In issuing a German translation of one of my earlier dramatic works, it may not be superfluous to remark that I have taken the material of this play, not from the Nibelungenlied, but in part—and in part only—from a kindred Scandinavian source, the Volsung-Saga. More essentially, however, my poem may be said to be founded upon the various Icelandic family-sagas, in which it often seems that the titanic conditions and occurrences of the Nibelungenlied and the Volsung-Saga have simply been reduced to human dimensions. Hence I think we may conclude that the situations and events depicted in these two documents were typically characteristic of our common Germanic life in the earliest historical times. If this view be justified, it disposes of the reproach that in the present drama our national mythic world is brought down to a lower plane than that to which it belongs. The idealised, and in some degree impersonal, myth-figures are exceedingly ill-adapted for representation on the stage of to-day; and, however this may be, it was not my aim to present our mythic world, but simply our life in primitive times.”

xiiThe reasoning of this passage does not seem very cogent; but it expresses clearly enough the design which the poet proposed to himself. Before discussing the merits of the play, however, I may as well complete the outline of its external history.

Part of that external history is written by Ibsen himself, in letters to the Christiania Press of the day. In the autumn of 1857, he presented the play to the Christiania Theatre, then occupied by a Danish company, under Danish management. After a long delay, he ascertained that it had been accepted and would be produced in March 1858. He then proposed to consult with the manager as to the casting of the piece, but found that that functionary had no clear conception of either the plot or the characters, and therefore left him a couple of months in which to study it. At the end of that time the poet again reminded the potentate of his existence, and learned that “since the economic status and prospects of the theatre did not permit of its paying fees for original works,” the proposed production could not take place. Ibsen hints that, had the choice been offered him, he would have consented to the performance of the piece without fee or reward. As the choice was not offered him, he regarded the whole episode as a move in the anti-national policy of the Danish management; and the controversy which arose out of the incident doubtless contributed to the nationalisation of the Christiania Theatre—the supersession of Danish by Norwegian managers, actors and authors—which took place during the succeeding decade.

In the meantime, almost simultaneously with the rejection of the play by the Christiania Theatre, it was rejected by the Royal Theatre in Copenhagen. The director, J. L. Heiberg, was then regarded as an xiiiautocrat in the æsthetic world; and his report on The Vikings is now a curiosity of literature. He declared that nothing was so “monotonous, tiresome and devoid of all poetry” as the Icelandic family-sagas; he could not endure their “wildness and rawness” on the stage; the saga style, as reproduced by Ibsen, seemed to him “mannered and affected”; and he concluded his judgment in these terms: “A Norwegian theatre will scarcely take its rise from such experiments, and the Danish theatre has fortunately no need for them.”

The play was published in April 1858 as a supplement to a Christiania illustrated paper, the author receiving an “honorarium” of something less than £7. On November 24, 1858, it was produced at the little “Norwegian Theatre” in Christiania, of which the poet was then director. At the Bergen Theatre it was produced in 1859, at the Christiania Theatre (by that time pretty well Norwegianised) in 1861. It did not make its way to Copenhagen and Stockholm until 1875. In 1876 it was acted at the Court Theatres of Munich and Dresden, and at the Vienna Burgtheater. Thenceforward it was pretty frequently seen on the German stage; but it does not seem to have reached Berlin (Deutsches Theater) until 1890. In 1892 it was produced in Moscow. The only production in the English language of which any account has reached me took place in 1903 at the Imperial Theatre, London, when Miss Ellen Terry appeared as Hiördis and Mr. Oscar Asche as Sigurd. The scenery and dresses were designed by Miss Terry’s son, Mr. Gordon Craig.

It would need not merely an essay, but a volume, to discuss the relation of The Vikings to its mythic material, and to other modern treatments of that material—Friedrich xivHebbel’s Die Nibelungen, Richard Wagner’s Ring der Nibelungen, &c. The poet’s actual indebtedness to the Volsung-Saga is well summarised by Henrik Jæger in his “Life of Ibsen”: “Like Sigurd Fafnir’s-bane,” he says, “Sigurd Viking has achieved the deed which Hiördis (Brynhild) demands of the man who shall wed her; and, again like his heroic namesake, he has renounced her in favour of his foster-brother, Gunnar, himself taking another to wife. This other woman reveals the secret in the course of an altercation with Hiördis (Brynhild), who, in consequence of this discovery, brings about Sigurd’s death and her own. The reader will observe that we must keep to very general terms if they are to fit both the saga and the drama. Are there any further coincidences? Yes, one. After Gudrun has betrayed the secret, there comes a scene in which she seeks to appease Brynhild, and begs her to think no more of it; then follows a scene in which Sigurd explains to Brynhild how it all happened; and finally a scene in which Brynhild goads Gunnar to kill Sigurd. All these scenes have their parallels in the third act of The Vikings; but their order is different, and none of their wording has been adopted.” From the family-sagas, again, not only the stature of the characters, so to speak, but several details of incident and dialogue are borrowed. The boasting-match at Gunnar’s feast, which, as we have seen, was one of the first elements of the story to present itself to Ibsen’s mind, has many analogies in Icelandic lore. Örnulf’s questions as to how Thorolf fell are borrowed from Egils Saga, and so is the idea of his “drapa,” or funeral chant over his dead sons. Sigurd and Hiördis are, perhaps, almost as closely related to Kiartan and Gudrun in the Laxdæla Saga as to Sigurd Fafnir’s bane xvand Brynhild. Indeed, Ibsen seems to have reckoned too confidently on the unfamiliarity of his public with the stores of material upon which he drew. Not, of course, that there could be any question of plagiarism. The sagas were as legitimately at Ibsen’s service as were Plutarch and Holinshed at Shakespeare’s. But having been himself, as he tells us, almost ignorant of the existence of these sagas until he came across N. M. Petersen’s translation of them he forgot that people who had long known and loved them might resent the removal of this trait and that from its original setting, and might hold it to be, in its new context, degraded and sentimentalised. “It may be,” writes H. H. Boyesen, in his generally depreciatory remarks on the play, “that my fondness for these sagas themselves prevents me from relishing the modification and remoulding to which Ibsen has subjected them.” Dr. Brandes, too, points to a particular instance in which the sense of degradation could not but be felt. The day-dream as to the hair-woven bowstring which Hiördis relates to Sigurd in the third act (p. 84) is in itself effective enough; but any one who knows the splendid passage in Nials Saga, on which it is founded, cannot but feel that the actual (or at any rate legendary) event is impoverished by being dragged in under the guise of a mere morbid fantasy.

On the whole, I think Ibsen can scarcely escape the charge of having sentimentalised the sagas in the same way, though not in the same degree, in which Tennyson has sentimentalised the Arthurian legends. Indeed, Sigurd the Strong is not without points of resemblance to the Blameless King of the Idylls. But, for my part, I cannot regard this as a very serious charge. The Vikings is the work of a man xvistill young (29), who had, moreover, developed very slowly. It is still steeped in romanticism, though not in the almost boyish lyricism of its predecessors. The poet is not yet intellectually mature—very far from it. But here, for the first time, we are unmistakably face to face with a great imagination and a specifically dramatic endowment of the first order. The germs of promise discernible in Lady Inger have ripened into rare technical mastery.

Ibsen was doubtless right in feeling that the superhuman figures of the mythical sagas were impossible on the non-musical stage, just as Wagner was right in feeling that the world of myth could be embodied only in an atmosphere of music. The reduction, then, of the Volsungs and Niblungs to the stature of the men of the family-sagas was not only judicious, but necessary. But was it judicious to go to the myth-sagas for the initial idea of a play which had to be developed in terms of the family-sagas? Scarcely, I think. The weak points in the structure of the story are precisely those at which the poet has had to replace supernatural by natural machinery. To slay a dragon and to break through a wall of fire, even with magical aid, are exploits which we can accept, on the mythic plane, as truly stupendous. But it is impossible to be really impressed by the slaying of Hiördis’s bear, or to share in the breathless admiration with which that achievement is always mentioned. If the bear is to be regarded as a fabulous monster, it might just as well be a dragon at once; if it is to be accepted as a real quadruped, the killing of it is no such mighty matter. We feel it, in fact, to be a mere substitute, a more or less ludicrous makeshift. And in the same way, Sigurd’s renunciation of Hiördis becomes very difficult to accept when all supernatural agency—magic potion, xviior other sleight of wizardry—is eliminated. We feel that he behaves like a nincompoop in despairing of winning her for himself, merely because she does not show an obviously “coming on” disposition, and like an immoral sentimentalist in handing her over to Gunnar. This, to be sure, is the poet’s own criticism of his action. It is the lie which Sigurd and Gunnar conspire to tell, or rather to enact, that lies at the root of the whole tragedy. We have here Ibsen’s first treatment of the theme with which he is afterwards so much concerned—the necessity of truth as the basis of every human relation. Gunnar’s acquiescence in Sigurd’s heroic mendacity is as clearly condemned and punished as, in Pillars of Society, Bernick’s acquiescence in Johan’s almost equally heroic self-sacrifice. Both plays convey a warning against excesses of altruism, and show that we have no right to offer sacrifices which the person benefiting by them has no right to accept. But to indicate a correct moral judgment of Sigurd’s action is not to make it psychologically plausible. We feel, I repeat, that the poet is trying in vain to rationalise a series of actions which are comprehensible only on the supernatural plane.

This unreality of plot involved a similar unreality, or at any rate extreme simplicity, of characterisation. All the personages are drawn in large, obvious traits, which never undergo the smallest modification. Sigurd is throughout the magnanimous hero, Dagny the submissive, amiable wife, Hiördis the valkyrie-virago, Gunnar the well-meaning weakling, not cowardly but inefficient. By far the most human and most individual figure is old Örnulf, in whom the spirit of the family-sagas is magnificently incarnated. We feel throughout the inexperience of the author, his incuriousness of half-tones in character, his tendency xviiito view human relations and problems in a purely sentimental light. To compare Hiördis with Hedda Gabler, Sigurd with Halvard Solness, is to realise what an immeasurable process of evolution the poet was destined to go through. Indeed, we as yet seem far enough off even from Duke Skule and Bishop Nicholas.

But the man of inventive imagination and the man of the theatre are already here in all their strength. Whatever motives and suggestions Ibsen found in the sagas, the construction of the play is all his own and is quite masterly. Exposition, development, the carrying on of the interest from act to act—all this is perfect in its kind. The play is “well-made” in the highest sense of the word. Already the poet shows himself consummate in his art of gradually lifting veil after veil from the past, and making each new discovery involve a more or less striking change in the relations of the persons on the stage. But it is not technically alone that the play is great. The whole second act is a superbly designed and modulated piece of drama; and, for pure nobility and pathos, the scene of Örnulf’s return—entirely of the poet’s own invention—is surely one of the greatest things in dramatic literature. It is marvellous that even æsthetic prejudice should have prevented a man like J. L. Heiberg from recognising that he was here in presence of a great poet. The interest of the third act is mainly psychological, and the psychology, as we have seen, is neither very profound nor very convincing. But the fourth act, again, rises to a great height of romantic impressiveness. Whatever hints may have come from the sagas, the picture of Örnulf’s effort of self-mastery is a very noble piece of work; and the plunge into supernaturalism at the close, in the child’s vision of Asgårdsreien, with his mother leading the rout, seems xixto me an entirely justified piece of imaginative daring. I cannot even agree with Dr. Brandes in condemning as “Geheimniskrämerei” Sigurd’s dying revelation of the fact that he is a Christian. It seems to me to harmonise entirely with the whole sentimental colouring of the play. The worst flaws I find in this act are the terrible asides placed in the mouths of Gunnar and Dagny after the discovery of Sigurd’s death.

The word Vikings in the title is a very free rendering of Hærmændene, which simply means “warriors.” As “warriors,” however, is a colourless word, and as Örnulf, Sigurd, and Gunnar all are, or have been, actually vikings, the substitution seemed justifiable. I would beg, however hopelessly, that “viking” should be pronounced so as to rhyme not with “liking” but with “seeking,” or at worst with “kicking.” Helgeland, it may be mentioned, is a province or district in the north of Norway.

Örnulf’s “drapa” and his snatches of verse are rhymed as well as alliterated in the original. I had the less hesitation in suppressing the rhyme, as it was actually foreign to the practice of the skalds.

Six years elapsed between the composition of The Vikings and that of The Pretenders.^[3] In the interval Ibsen wrote Love’s Comedy, and brought all the world of Norwegian philistinism, and (as we should now say) suburbanism, about his ears. Whereas hitherto his countrymen had ignored, they now execrated him. In his autobiographic letter of 1870, to Peter Hansen, he wrote: “The only person who at that time approved of the book was my wife.... My countrymen excommunicated me. All were against me. The fact that all were against me—that there was no longer any one outside my own family circle of whom I could say ‘He believes in me’—must, as you can easily see, have aroused a mood which found its outlet in The Pretenders.” It is to be noted that this was written during a period of estrangement from Björnson. I do not know what was Björnson’s attitude towards Love’s Comedy in particular; but there can be no doubt that, in general, he believed in and encouraged his brother xxipoet, and employed his own growing influence in efforts to his advantage. In representing himself as standing quite alone, Ibsen probably forgets, for the moment, his relation to his great contemporary.

Yet the relation to Björnson lay at the root of the character-contrast on which The Pretenders is founded. Ibsen always insisted that each of his plays gave poetic form to some motive gathered from his own experience or observation; and this is very clearly true of the present play. Ever since Synnöve Solbakken had appeared in 1857, Björnson, the expansive, eloquent, lyrical Björnson, had been the darling child of fortune. He had gone from success to success unwearied. He was recognised throughout Scandinavia (in Denmark no less than in Norway) as the leader of the rising generation in almost every branch of imaginative literature. He was full, not only of inspiration and energy, but of serene self-confidence. Meanwhile Ibsen, nearly five years older than he, had been pursuing his slow and painful course of development in comparative obscurity, in humiliating poverty, and amid almost complete lack of appreciation. “Mr. Ibsen is a great cipher” (or “nullity”) wrote a critic in 1858; another, in 1863, laid it down that “Ibsen has a certain technical and artistic talent, but nothing of what can be called ‘genius.’” The scoffs of the critics, however, were not the sorest trials that he had to bear. What was hardest to contend against was the doubt as to his own poetic calling and election that constantly beset him. This doubt could not but be generated by the very tardiness of his mental growth. We see him again and again (in the case of Olaf Liliekrans, of The Vikings, of Love’s Comedy, and of The Pretenders itself), conceiving a plan and then abandoning it for years—no doubt because he found himself, in one respect or xxiianother, unripe for its execution. Every such experience must have involved for him days and weeks of fruitless effort and discouragement. To these moods of scepticism as to his own powers he gave expression in a series of poems (for the most part sonnets) published in 1859 under the title of In the Picture Gallery. In it he represents the “black elf” of doubt, whispering to him: “Your soul is like the dry bed of a mountain stream, in which the singing waters of poetry have ceased to flow. If a faint sound comes rustling down the empty channel, do not imagine that it portends the return of the waters—it is only the dry leaves eddying before the autumn wind, and pattering among the barren stones.” In those years of struggle and stress, of depressing criticism, and enervating self-criticism, he must often have compared his own lot and his own character with Björnson’s, and perhaps, too, wondered whether there were no means by which he could appropriate to himself some of his younger and more facile brother-poet’s kingly self-confidence. For this relation between two talents he partly found and partly invented a historic parallel in the relation between two rival pretenders to the Norwegian throne, Håkon Håkonsson and Skule Bårdsson.

Dr. Brandes, who has admirably expounded the personal element in the genesis of this play, compares Håkon-Björnson and Skule-Ibsen with the Aladdin and Nureddin of Oehlenschläger’s beautiful dramatic poem. Aladdin is the born genius, serene, light-hearted, a trifle shallow, who grasps the magic lamp with an unswerving confidence in his right to it. (“It is that which the Romans called ingenium” says Bishop Nicholas, “truly I am not strong in Latin; but ’twas called ingenium.”) Nureddin, on the other hand, is the far profounder, more penetrating, but sceptical xxiiiand self-torturing spirit. When at last he seizes Aladdin’s lamp, as Skule annexes Håkon’s king’s thought, his knees tremble, and it drops from his grasp, just as the Genie is ready to obey him.

It is needless to cite the passages from the scenes between Skule and Bishop Nicholas in the second act, Skule and Håkon in the third, Skule and Jatgeir in the fourth, in which this element of personal symbolism is present. The reader will easily recognise them, while recognising at the same time that their dramatic appropriateness, their relevance to the historic situation as the poet viewed it, is never for a moment impaired. The underlying meaning is never allowed to distort or denaturalise the surface aspect of the picture.^[4] The play may be read, understood, and fully appreciated, by a person for whom this underlying meaning has no existence. One does not point it out as an essential element in the work of art, or even as adding to its merit, but simply as affording a particularly clear instance of Ibsen’s method of interweaving “Wahrheit” with “Dichtung.”

So early as 1858, soon after the completion of The Vikings, Ibsen had been struck by the dramatic material in Håkon Håkonsson’s Saga, as related by Snorri Sturlasson’s nephew, Sturla Thordsson, and had sketched a play on the subject. At that time, however, he put the draft aside. It was only as the years went on, as he found himself “excommunicated” after Love’s Comedy, and as the contrast between Björnson’s fortune and his became ever more marked, that the figures of Skule and Håkon took more and more hold upon his imagination. In June 1863, he xxivattended a “Festival of Song” at Bergen, and there met Björnson, who had been living abroad since 1860. Probably under the stimulus of this meeting he set to work upon The Pretenders immediately on his return to Christiania, and wrote it with almost incredible rapidity. The manuscript went to the printers in September; the book was published in October 1863 (though dated 1864), and the play was produced at the Christiania Theatre, under the author’s own supervision, on January 17, 1864. The production was notably successful; yet no one seems fully to have realised what it meant for Norwegian literature. Outside of Norway, at any rate, it awoke no echo. George Brandes declares that scarcely a score of copies of the play found their way to Denmark. Not until Ibsen had left Norway (April 1864) and had taken the Danish reading public by storm with Brand and Peer Gynt, did people go back upon The Pretenders and discover what an extraordinary achievement it was. In January 1871, it was produced at the Royal Theatre, Copenhagen, where Emil Poulsen found in Bishop Nicholas one of the great triumphs of his career. It was produced by the Meiningen Company and at the Munich Hoftheater in 1875, in Stockholm in 1879, at the Königliches Schauspielhaus, Berlin, and at the Vienna Burgtheater in 1891; and it has from time to time been acted at many other Scandinavian and German theatres. The character of Nicholas has fascinated many great actors: what a pity that it did not come in the way of Sir Henry Irving when he was at the height of his power! But of course no English actor-manager would dream of undertaking a character which dies in the middle of the third act.

Ibsen’s treatment of history in this play may be proposed as a model to other historic dramatists. xxvAlthough he has invented a great deal, his inventions supplement rather than contradict the records. Chronology, indeed, he treats with considerable freedom, and at the same time with ingenious vagueness. The general impression one receives in reading the play is that the action covers a space of four or five years; as a matter of fact it covers twenty-two years, between the folkmote in Bergen, 1218, and Skule’s death, 1240. All the leading characters are historical; and although much is read into them which history does not warrant, there is little that history absolutely forbids us to conceive. The general features of the struggle between the two factions—Håkon’s Birkebeiner, or Birchlegs, and Skule’s Vargbælgs—are correctly enough reproduced. In his treatment of this period, the Norwegian historian, J. E. Sars, writing thirteen years after the appearance of The Pretenders, uses terms which might almost have been suggested by Ibsen’s play. “On the one side,” he says, “we find strength and certainty, on the other lameness and lack of confidence. The old Birchlegs^[5] go to work openly and straightforwardly, like men who are immovably convinced of the justice of their cause, and unwaveringly assured of its ultimate victory. Skule’s adherents, on the other hand, are ever seeking by intrigues and chicanery to place stumbling-blocks in the way of their opponents’ enthusiasm.” Håkon represented Sverre’s ideal of a democratic kingship, independent of the oligarchy of bishops and barons. “He was,” says Sars, “reared in the firm conviction of his right to the Throne; he grew up among the veterans of his grandfather’s time, men imbued with Sverre’s principles, from whom he accepted them as a ready-made system, the realisation xxviof which could only be a question of time. He stood from the first in a clear and straightforward position to which his whole personality corresponded.... He owed his chief strength to the repose and equilibrium of mind which distinguished him, and had its root in his unwavering sense of having right and the people’s will upon his side.” His great “king’s-thought,” however, seems to be an invention of the poet’s. Skule, on the other hand, represented the old nobility in its struggle against the new monarchy. “He was the centre of a hierarchic aristocratic party; but after its repeated defeats this party must have been lacking alike in number and in confidence.... It was clear from the first that his attempt to reawaken the old wars of the succession in Norway was undertaken in the spirit of the desperate gambler, who does not count the chances, but throws at random, in the blind hope that luck may befriend him.... Skule’s enterprise had thus no support in opinion or in any prevailing interest, and one defeat was sufficient to crush him.”

In the character of Bishop Nicholas, too, Ibsen has widened and deepened his historical material rather than poetised with a free hand. “Bishop Nicholas,” says Sars, “represented rather the aristocracy ... than the cloth to which he belonged. He had begun his career as a worldly chieftain, and, as such, taken part in Magnus Erlingsson’s struggles with Sverre; and although he must have had some tincture of letters, since he could contrive to be elected a bishop ... there is no lack of indications that his spiritual lore was not of the deepest. During his long participation in the civil broils, both under Sverre and later, we see in him a man to whose character any sort of religious or ecclesiastical enthusiasm must have been xxviiforeign, his leading motives being personal ambition and vengefulness rather than any care for general interests—a cold and calculating nature, shrewd but petty and without any impetus, of whom Håkon Håkonsson, in delivering his funeral speech ... could find nothing better to say than that he had not his equal in worldly wisdom (veraldar vit).” I cannot find that the Bishop played any such prominent part in the struggle between the King and the Earl as Ibsen assigns to him, and the only foundation for the great death-bed scene seems to be the following passage from Håkon Håkonsson’s Saga, Cap. 138: “As Bishop Nicholas at that time lay very sick, he sent a messenger to the King praying him to come to him. The King had on this expedition seized certain letters, from which he gathered that the Bishop had not been true to him. With this he upbraided him, and the Bishop, confessing it, prayed the King to forgive him. The King replied that he did so willingly, for God’s sake; and as he could discern that the Bishop lay near to death, he abode with him until God called him from the world.”

In the introduction to The Vikings at Helgeland I have suggested that in that play Ibsen had reached imaginative and technical maturity, but was as yet intellectually immature. The six years that elapsed between The Vikings and The Pretenders placed him at the height of his intellectual power. We have only to compare Skule, Håkon, and Bishop Nicholas with Gunnar, Sigurd, and Örnulf to feel that we have passed from nobly-designed and more or less animated waxworks to complex and profoundly-studied human beings. There is no Hiördis in The Pretenders, and the female character-drawing is still controlled by xxviiipurely romantic ideals;^[6] but how exquisitely human is Margrete in comparison with the almost entirely conventional Dagny! The criticism of life, too, which in The Vikings is purely sentimental, here becomes intense and searching. The only point of superiority in The Vikings—if it be a point of superiority—is purely technical. The action of the earlier play is concentrated and rounded. It has all the “unity,” or “unities,” that a rational criticism can possibly demand. In a word, it is, in form as well as essence, an ideal tragedy. The Pretenders, on the other hand, is a chronicle-play, far more close-knit than Shakespeare’s or Schiller’s works in that kind, but, nevertheless, what Aristotle would call “episodic” in its construction. The weaving of the plot, however, is quite masterly, betokening an effort of invention and adjustment incomparably greater than that which went to the making of The Vikings. It was doubtless his training in the school of French intrigue that enabled Ibsen to depict with such astonishing vigour that master wire-puller, Bishop Nicholas. This form of technical dexterity he was afterwards to outgrow and bring into disrepute. But from The Vikings to Pillars of Society he practised, whenever he was writing primarily for the stage, the methods of the “well-made play”; and in everything but concentration, which xxixthe very nature of the subject excluded, The Pretenders is thoroughly “well-made.”

With this play, though the Scandinavian criticism of 1864 seems to have been far from suspecting the fact, Ibsen took his place among the great dramatists of the world. In wealth of characterisation, complexity and nobility of emotion, and depth of spiritual insight, it stands high among the masterpieces of romantic drama. It would be hard to name a more vigorous character-projection than that of Bishop Nicholas, or any one dramatic invention more superbly inspired than the old man’s death scene, with the triumphant completion of his perpetuum mobile. But even if the Bishop were entirely omitted, the play would not be Hamlet without the Prince of Denmark. The characters of Håkon and Skule, and the struggle between them, would still make one of the greatest historic dramas in literature.

It has not been generally noticed, I think, that Ibsen found in Björnson’s King Sverre, published in 1861, a study of Bishop Nicholas in his younger days. The play, as a whole, is a poor one, and does not appear in the collected edition of Björnson’s works; but there is distinct merit in the drawing of the Bishop’s character. Furthermore, it ought to be remembered that The Pretenders was not the first work, or even the first great work, of its class in Norwegian literature. In 1862, Björnson had published his splendid trilogy of Sigurd Slembe, which, though more fluid and uneven than The Pretenders, contains several passages of almost Shakespearean power. It was certainly greater than anything Ibsen had done up to that date. Ibsen reviewed it on its appearance, in terms of unmixed praise, yet, as one cannot but feel, rather over-cautiously.

xxxIf anything could excuse the coolness of Norwegian criticism towards The Pretenders, it was the great and flagrant artistic blemish of the Ghost Scene in the last act. This outburst of prophetico-topical satire is a sheer excrescence on the play, indefensible, but, at the same time, fortunately negligible. It is, however, of interest as a symptom of Ibsen’s mood in the last months before he left Norway, and also as one of the links in that chain which binds all his works together. Just as Skule’s attempt to plagiarise Håkon’s king’s-thought points backwards to Gunnar’s moral lapse in taking advantage of the fraud on Hiördis, so the ironic rhymes of the Bagler-Bishop’s ghost point forwards to the lyric indignation and irony of Brand and Peer Gynt.

THE VIKINGS AT HELGELAND — CHARACTERS. — ACT FIRST. — ACT SECOND. — ACT THIRD. — ACT FOURTH.

• Örnulf of the Fiords, an Icelandic Chieftain.
• Sigurd the Strong, a Sea-King.
• Gunnar Headman,^[7] a rich yeoman of Helgeland.
• Thorolf, Örnulf’s youngest son.
• Dagny, Örnulf’s daughter.
• Hiördis, his foster-daughter.
• Kåre the Peasant, a Helgeland-man.
• Egil, Gunnar’s son, four years old.
• Örnulf’s six older Sons.
• Örnulf’s and Sigurd’s Men.
• Guests, house-carls, serving-maids, outlaws, etc.

The action takes place in the time of Erik Blood-axe (about 933 A.D.) at, and in the neighbourhood of, Gunnar’s house, on the island of Helgeland, in the north of Norway.

Pronunciation of Names: Helgeland=Helgheland; Örnulf=Örnoolf; Sigurd=Sigoord; Gunnar=Goonnar; Thorolf=Toorolf; Hiördis=Yördeess; Kåre=Koarë; Egil=Ayghil. The letter “ö” as in German.

A rocky coast, running precipitously down to the sea at the back. To the left, a boat-house; to the right, rocks and pinewoods. The masts of two warships can be seen down in the cove. Far out to the right, the sea, dotted with reefs and skerries, on which the surf is running high; it is a stormy snow-grey winter-day.

Sigurd comes up from the ships; he is clad in a white tunic with a silver belt, a blue cloak, cross-gartered hose, untanned brogues, and a steel cap; at his side hangs a short sword. Örnulf comes in sight immediately afterwards, high up among the rocks, clad in a dark lamb-skin tunic with a breastplate and greaves, woollen stockings, and untanned brogues; over his shoulders he has a cloak of brown frieze, with the hood drawn over his steel cap, so that his face is partly hidden. He is very tall and massively built, with a long white beard, but is somewhat bowed by age; his weapons are a round shield, sword, and spear.

4Sigurd enters first, looks around, sees the boat-shed, goes quickly up to it, and tries to burst open the door.

[Appears among the rocks, starts on seeing Sigurd, seems to recognise him, descends and cries:] Give place, Viking!

[Turns, lays his hand on his sword, and answers:] ’Twere the first time if I did!

Thou shalt and must! I need the shelter for my stiff-frozen men.

And I for a weary woman!

My men are worth more than thy women!

Then must outlaws be highly prized in Helgeland!

[Raising his spear.] Thou shalt pay dear for that word!

[Drawing his sword.] Now will it go ill with thee, old man!

Dagny and some of Sigurd’s men come up from the strand; Örnulf’s six sons appear on the rocks to the right.

[Who is a little in front, clad in a red kirtle, blue cloak, and fur hood, calls down to the ships:] Up, all Sigurd’s men! My husband is fighting with a stranger!

Help! Help for our father! [They descend.

[To his men.] Hold! I can master him alone!

[To his sons.] Let me fight in peace! [Rushes in upon Sigurd.] I will see thy blood!

First see thine own!

[Smiling.] Then were his shame his glory!

[With a cry of wonder.] Sigurd himself! Sigurd the Strong!

But sharper was thy stroke that night thou didst bear away Dagny, my daughter.

Örnulf of the Fiords!

[Glad, yet uneasy.] My father and my brothers.

Stand thou behind me.

Nay, no need. [Approaching Sigurd.] I no sooner saw thee than I knew thee, and therefore I stirred the strife; I was fain to prove the fame that tells of thee as the stoutest man of his hands in Norway. Hereafter let peace be between us.

Best if so it could be.

Here is my hand. Thou art a warrior indeed; stouter strokes than these has old Örnulf never given or taken.

[Seizes his outstretched hand.] Let them be the last strokes given and taken between us two; and be thou thyself the judge in the matter between us. Art willing?

That am I, and straightway shall the quarrel be healed. [To the others.] Be the matter, then, known to all. Five winters ago came Sigurd and Gunnar Headman as vikings to Iceland; they lay in harbour close under my homestead. Then Gunnar, by force and craft, carried away my 7foster-daughter, Hiördis; but thou, Sigurd, didst take Dagny, my own child, and sailed with her over the sea. For that I now doom thee to pay three hundred pieces of silver, and thereby shall thy misdeed be atoned.

Fair is thy judgment, Örnulf; the three hundred pieces will I pay, and add thereto a silken cloak fringed with gold. ’Tis a gift from King Æthelstan of England, and better has no Icelander yet borne.

Well said, my brave husband; and my father, I thank thee. Now at last is my mind at ease.

Then thus stands the troth between us; and from this day shall Dagny be to the full as honourably regarded as though she had been lawfully betrothed to thee, with the good will of her kin.

And in me canst thou trust, as in one of thine own blood.

That I doubt not, and will forthwith prove thy friendship.

Ready shalt thou find me; say, what dost thou crave?

Thy help in rede and deed. I have sailed hither 8to Helgeland to seek out Gunnar Headman and call him to account for the carrying away of Hiördis.

[Surprised.] Gunnar!

[In the same tone.] And Hiördis—where are they?

In Gunnar’s homestead, I trow.

And it is——?

Not many bow-shots hence; did ye not know?

[With suppressed emotion.] No, truly I have had scant tidings of Gunnar since we sailed from Iceland together. While I have wandered far and wide and served many outland kings, Gunnar has stayed at home. We made the land here at daydawn, storm-driven. I knew, indeed, that Gunnar’s homestead lay here in the north, but——

[To Örnulf.] So that errand has brought thee hither?

That and no other. [To Sigurd.] Our meeting is the work of the Mighty Ones above; they willed it so. Had I wished to find thee, little knew I where to seek.

[Thoughtfully.] True, true!—But concerning Gunnar—tell me, Örnulf, art thou minded to go sharply to work, with all thy might, be it for good or ill?

That must I. Listen, Sigurd, for thus it stands: Last summer I rode to the Council where many honourable men were met. When the Council-days were over, I sat in the hall and drank with the men of my shire, and the talk fell upon the carrying-away of the women; scornful words they gave me, because for all these years I had let that wrong rest unavenged. Then, in my wrath, I swore to sail to Norway, seek out Gunnar, and crave reckoning or revenge, and never again to set foot in Iceland till my claim was made good.

Ay, ay, since so it stands, I see well that if need be the matter must be pressed home.

It must; but I shall not crave overmuch, and Gunnar has the fame of an honourable man. I am glad, too, that I set forth on this quest; the time lay heavy on me in Iceland; out upon the blue waters had I grown old and grey, and meseemed that I must fare forth once again before I——; well well—Bergthora, my good wife, was dead these many years; my elder sons sailed on viking-ventures summer by summer; and since Thorolf was growing up——

[Joyfully.] Thorolf is with thee? Where is he?

On board the ship. [Points towards the background, to the right.] Scarce shalt thou know the boy again, so stout and strong and fair has he grown. He will be a mighty warrior, Sigurd; one day he will equal thee.

[Smiling.] I see it is now as ever: Thorolf stands nearest thy heart.

He is the youngest, and like his mother; therefore it is.

But tell me—thy errand to Gunnar—thinkest thou to-day——?

Rather to-day than to-morrow. Fair amends will content me; should Gunnar say me nay, then must he abide what may follow.

Kåre the Peasant enters hastily from the right; he is clad in a grey frieze cloak and low-brimmed felt hat; he carries in his hand a broken fence-rail.

Well met, Vikings!

Vikings are seldom well met.

If ye be honourable men, ye will grant me refuge among you; Gunnar Headman’s house-carls are hunting me to slay me.

Gunnar’s?

Then hast thou done him some wrong!

I have done myself right. Our cattle grazed together upon an island, hard by the coast; Gunnar’s men carried off my best oxen, and one of them flouted me for a thrall. Then I raised my sword against him and slew him.

That was a lawful deed.

But this morning his men came in arms against me. By good hap I heard of their coming, and fled; but my foemen are on my tracks, and short shrift can I look for at their hands.

Ill can I believe thee, peasant! In bygone days I knew Gunnar as I know myself, and this I wot, that never did he wrong to a peaceful man.

Gunnar has no part in this wrong-doing; he is in the southland; nay, it is Hiördis his wife——

Hiördis!

[To himself.] Ay, ay, ’tis like her!

I offered Gunnar amends for the thrall, and he was willing; but then came Hiördis, and egged her husband on with many scornful words, and hindered the peace. Since then has Gunnar gone to the south, and to-day——

[Looking out to the left.] Here comes a band of wayfarers towards the north. Is it not——?

It is Gunnar himself!

Be of good heart; I trow I can make peace between you.

Gunnar Headman, with several men, enters from the left. He is in peaceful attire, wearing a brown tunic, cross-gartered hose, a blue mantle, and a broad hat; he has no weapon but a small axe.

[Stops in surprise and uncertainty on seeing the knot of men.] Örnulf of the Fiords! Yes, surely——!

Thou seest aright.

[Approaching.] Then peace and welcome to thee in my land, if thou come in peace.

If thy will be as mine, there shall be no strife between us.

[Standing forward.] Well met, Gunnar!

[Gladly.] Sigurd—foster-brother! [Shakes his hand.] Now truly, since thou art here, I know that Örnulf comes in peace. [To Örnulf.] Give me thy hand, greybeard! Thy errand here in the north is lightly guessed: it concerns Hiördis, thy foster-daughter.

As thou sayest; great wrong was done me when thou didst bear her away from Iceland without my will.

Thy claim is rightful; what the youth has marred, the man must mend. Long have I looked for thee, Örnulf, for this cause; and if amends content thee, we shall soon be at one.

So deem I too. Örnulf will not press thee over hard.

[Warmly.] Nay, Örnulf, didst thou crave her full worth, all my goods were not enough!

I shall go by law and usage, be sure of that. 14But now another matter. [Pointing to Kåre.] Seest thou yonder man?

Kåre! [To Örnulf.] Thou knowest, then, that there is a strife between us?

Thy men have stolen his cattle, and theft must be atoned.

Murder no less; he has slain my thrall.

Because he flouted me.

I have offered thee terms of peace.

But Hiördis had no mind to that, and this morning, whilst thou wert gone, she fell upon me and now hunts me to my death.

[Angrily.] Sayest thou true? Has she——?

True, every word.

Therefore the peasant besought me to stand by him, and that will I do.

[After a moment’s thought.] Thou hast dealt honourably with me, Örnulf; therefore it is fit that I should yield to thy will. Hear then, Kåre: I am willing to let the slaying of the thrall and the wrongs done toward thee quit each other.

[Gives Gunnar his hand.] It is a good offer; I am content.

And he shall have peace for thee and thine?

Peace shall he have, both at home and where soever he may go.

[Pointing to the right.] See yonder!

[Disturbed.] It is Hiördis!

With armed men!

She is seeking me!

Hiördis enters, with a troop of house-carls. She is clad in black, wearing a kirtle, cloak, and hood; the men are armed with swords and axes; she herself carries a light spear.

[Stops on entering.] We meet here in force, meseems.

[Rushes to meet her.] Peace and joy to thee, Hiördis!

[Coldly.] I thank thee.—’Twas told me thou wert not far off. [Comes forward, looking sharply at those assembled.] Gunnar, and—Kåre, my foeman—Örnulf and his sons, and——[As she catches sight of Sigurd, she starts almost imperceptibly, is silent a moment, but collects herself and says:] Many I see here who are known to me—but little I know who is best minded towards me.

We are all well-minded towards thee.

If so be, thou wilt not deny to give Kåre into my husband’s hands.

There is no need.

There is peace and friendship between us.

[With suppressed scorn.] Friendship? Well well, I know thou art a wise man, Gunnar! Kåre has found mighty friends, and doubtless thou deem’st it safest——

Thy taunts avail not! [With dignity.] Kåre is at peace for us!

[Restraining herself.] Well and good; if thou hast sworn him peace, the vow must be held.

[Forcibly, but without anger.] It must and it shall.

[To Hiördis.] Another pact had been well-nigh made ere thy coming.

[Sharply.] Between thee and Gunnar?

[Nods.] It had to do with thee.

Well can I guess what it had to do with; but this I tell thee, foster-father, never shall it be said that Gunnar let himself be cowed because thou camest in arms to the isle. Hadst thou come alone, a single wayfarer, to our hall, the quarrel had more easily been healed.

Örnulf and his sons come in peace.

Mayhap; but will it sound otherwise in the mouths of men; and thou thyself, Gunnar, didst show scant trust in the peace yesterday, in sending our son Egil to the southland so soon as it was told us that Örnulf’s warship lay in the fiord.

[To Gunnar.] Didst thou send thy son to the south?

Ay, that he might be in safety should Örnulf fall upon us.

Scoff not at that, Hiördis; what Gunnar has done may prove wise in the end, if so be thou hinder the pact.

Life must take its chance; come what will, I had liever die than save my life by a shameful pact.

Sigurd makes atonement, and will not be deemed the lesser man for that.

Sigurd best knows what his own honour can bear.

On that score shall I never need reminding.

Sigurd has done famous deeds, but bolder than all was Gunnar’s deed, when he slew the white bear that guarded my bower.

[With an embarrassed glance at Sigurd.] Nay, nay, no more of that!

In truth it was the boldest deed that e’er was seen in Iceland; and therefore——

The more easily can Gunnar yield, and ne’er be held faint-hearted.

If amends are to be made, amends shall be craved as well. Bethink thee, Gunnar, of thy vow!

That vow was ill bethought; wilt thou hold me to it?

That will I, if we two are to dwell under one roof after this day. Know then, Örnulf, that if atonement is to be made for the carrying away of thy foster-daughter, thou, too, must atone for the slaying of Jökul my father, and the seizing of all his goods and gear.

Jökul was slain in fair fight;^[8] thy kinsmen did me a worse wrong when they sent thee to Iceland and beguiled me into adopting^[9] thee, unwitting who thou wert.

Honour, and no wrong, was thy lot in fostering Jökul’s daughter.

Nought but strife hast thou brought me, that I know.

Sterner strife may be at hand, if——

I came not hither to bandy words with women!—Gunnar, hear my last word: art willing to make atonement?

[To Gunnar.] Think of thy vow!

[To Örnulf.] Thou hearest, I have sworn a vow, and that must I——

[Irritated.] Enough, enough! Never shall it be said that I made atonement for slaying in fair fight.

[Forcibly.] Then we defy thee and thine.

[In rising wrath.] And who has the right to crave atonement for Jökul? Where are his kinsmen? There is none alive! Where is his lawful avenger?

That is Gunnar, on my behalf.

Gunnar! Ay, hadst thou been betrothed to him with thy foster-father’s good-will, or had he made 21atonement for carrying thee away, then were he thy father’s lawful avenger; but——

[Apprehensive and imploring.] Father, father!

[Quickly.] Speak it not!

[Raising his voice.] Nay, loudly shall it be spoken! A woman wedded by force has no lawful husband!

[Vehemently.] Örnulf!

[In a wild outburst.] Flouted and shamed! [In a quivering voice.] This—this shalt thou come to rue!

[Continuing.] A woman wedded by force is in law no more than a leman! Wilt thou regain thine honour, then must thou——

[Controlling herself.] Nay, Örnulf, I know better what is fitting. If I am to be held as Gunnar’s leman—well and good, then must he win me honour by his deeds—by deeds so mighty that my shame shall be shame no more! And thou, Örnulf, beware! Here our ways part, and from this day shall I make war at all times upon thee and thine; thou shalt know no safety for life or limb, thou, nor any whom thou——[Looking fiercely at Kåre.] 22Kåre! Örnulf has stood thy friend, forsooth, and there is peace between us; but I counsel thee not to seek thy home yet awhile; the man thou slewest has many avengers, and it well might befall——See, I have shown thee the danger; thou must e’en take what follows. Come, Gunnar, we must gird ourselves for the fight. A famous deed didst thou do in Iceland, but greater deeds must be done here, if thou wouldst not have thy—thy leman shrink with shame from thee and from herself!

Curb thyself, Hiördis; it is unseemly to bear thee thus!

[Imploringly.] Stay, foster-sister—stay; I will appease my father.

[Without listening to her.] Homewards, homewards! Who could have foretold me that I should wear out my life as a worthless leman? But if I am to bear this life of shame, ay, even for one day more, then must my husband do such a deed—such a deed as shall make his name more famous than all other names of men.

[Softly.] Sigurd, promise me this, that we shall have speech together ere thou leave the land.

[Threateningly.] Thou shalt pay dear for this day’s work, foster-daughter!

Father, father! Surely thou wilt not harm her!

Let me be! Now, Sigurd, now can no amends avail between Gunnar and me.

What thinkest thou to do?

That I know not; but far and wide shall the tale be told how Örnulf of the Fiords came to Gunnar’s hall.

[With quiet determination.] Maybe; but this I tell thee, Örnulf, thou shalt never bear arms against him so long as I am alive.

So, so! And what if nought else be my will?

It shall not be—let thy will be never so strong.

[Angrily.] Go then; join thou with my foes; I dare outface the twain of you!

Hear me out, Örnulf; the day shall never dawn 24that shall see thee and me at strife. There is honourable peace between us, Dagny is dearer to me than weapons or gold, and never shall I forget that thou art her nearest kinsman.

There I know thee again, brave Sigurd!

But Gunnar is my foster-brother; we have sworn each other faith and friendship. Both in war and peace have we faced fortune together, and of all men he is dearest to me. Stout though he be, he loves not war;—but as for me, ye know, all of you, that I shrink not from strife; yet here I stand forth, Örnulf, and pray for peace on Gunnar’s behalf. Let me have my will!

I cannot; I should be a scoff to all brave men, were I to fare empty-handed back to Iceland.

Thou shalt not fare empty-handed. Here in the cove my two long-ships are lying, with all the wealth I have won in my viking-ventures. There are many costly gifts from outland kings, good weapons by the chestful, and other priceless chattels. Take thou one of the ships; choose which thou wilt, and it shall be thine with all it contains—be that the atonement for Hiördis, and let Gunnar be at peace.

Brave Sigurd, wilt thou do this for Gunnar?

For a faithful friend, no man can do too much.

Give half thy goods and gear!

[Urgently.] Take the whole, take both my ships, take all that is mine, and let me fare with thee to Iceland as the poorest man in thy train. What I give, I can win once more; but if thou and Gunnar come to strife, I shall never see a glad day again. Now, Örnulf, thy answer?

[Reflecting.] Two good long-ships, weapons, and other chattels—too much gear can no man have; but——[Vehemently.] No, no!—Hiördis has threatened me; I will not! I were dishonoured should I take thy goods!

Yet listen——

No, I say! I must fight for my own right, be my fortune what it may.

[Approaching.] Right friendly is Sigurd’s rede, but if thou wilt indeed fight thine own battle with all thy might, I can counsel thee better. Dream not of atonement so long as Hiördis has aught to say; but revenge can be thine if thou wilt hearken to me.

Revenge? What dost thou counsel?

Evil, I can well see!

[To Örnulf.] Oh, do not hear him!

Hiördis has declared me an outlaw; she will set snares for my life; do thou swear to see me scatheless, and this night will I burn Gunnar’s hall and all within it. Is that to thy mind?

Dastard!

[Quietly.] To my mind? Knowest thou, Kåre, what were more to my mind? [In a voice of thunder.] To hew off thy nose and ears, thou vile thrall. Little dost thou know old Örnulf if thou thinkest to have his help in such a deed of shame!

[Who has shrunk backwards.] If thou fall not upon Gunnar he will surely fall upon thee.

Have I not weapons, and strength to wield them?

[To Kåre.] And now away with thee! Thy presence is a shame to honourable men!

[Going off.] Well well, I must shift for myself as best I may. But this I tell you: if ye think to deal gently with Hiördis, ye will come to rue it. I know her—and I know where to strike her sorest!

He is hatching some revenge. Sigurd, it must be hindered!

[Angrily.] Nay, let him do as he will; she is worth no better!

That meanest thou not; bethink thee, she is thy foster-child.

Woe worth the day when I took her under my roof! Jökul’s words begin to come true.

Jökul’s?

Ay, her father’s. When I gave him his death-wound he fell back upon the sward, and fixed his eyes on me and sang:

When he had sung that, he was silent awhile, and laughed; and thereupon he died.

Why should’st thou heed his words?

Who knows? The story goes, and many believe it, that Jökul gave his children a wolf’s heart to eat, that they might be fierce and fell; and Hiördis has surely had her share, that one can well see. [Breaks off on looking out towards the right.] Gunnar!—Do we two meet again!

[Enters.] Ay, Örnulf, think of me what thou wilt, but I cannot part from thee as thy foe.

What is thy purpose?

To hold out the hand of peace to thee ere thou depart. Hear me all of you: go with me to my homestead, and be my guests as long as ye will. We lack not meat or drink or sleeping-room, and there shall be no talk of our quarrel either to-day or to-morrow.

But Hiördis——?

Yields to my will; she changed her thought on the homeward way, and deemed, as I did, that we would soon be at one if ye would but be our guests.

Yes, yes; let it be so.

[Doubtfully.] But I know not if——

Gunnar is thy foster-brother; little I know thee if thou say him nay.

[To Sigurd.] Thou hast been my friend where’er we fared; thou wilt not thwart me now!

And to depart from the land, leaving Hiördis with hate in her heart—no, no, that must we not!

I have done Örnulf a great wrong; until it is made good, I cannot be at peace with myself.

[Vehemently.] All else will I do for thee, Gunnar, but not stay here! [Mastering himself.] I am King Æthelstan’s sworn henchman, and I must be with him in England ere the winter is out.

But that thou canst be, none the less!

No man can know what lot awaits him; mayhap this is our last meeting, Sigurd, and thou wilt repent that thou didst not stand by me to the end.

And long will it be ere thou see me glad again, if thou set sail to-day.

[Determined.] Well, be it so! It shall be as ye will, although——But no more of that; here is my hand; I will stay to feast with thee and Hiördis.

[Shakes his hand.] I knew it, Sigurd, and I thank thee.—And thou, Örnulf, say’st thou likewise?

[Gruffly.] I shall think upon it. Bitterly has Hiördis galled me;—I will not answer to-day.

It is well, old warrior; Sigurd and Dagny will know how to smooth thy brow. Now must I prepare the feast; peace be with you the while, and well met in my hall. [Goes out by the right.

[To himself.] Hiördis has changed her thought, said he? Little he knows her; I rather deem that she is plotting——[Interrupting himself and turning to his men.] Come, follow me all to the ships; good gifts will I choose for Gunnar and his household.

Gifts of the best we have. And thou, father—thou shalt have no peace for me until thou yield thee.

Yield me? Ay, if there were no women-folk 31in Gunnar’s house, then——Oh, if I but knew where to strike her!—Thorolf, thou here!

[Who has entered hastily.] As thou seest. Is it true that thou hast met with Gunnar?

Yes.

And art at strife with him?

H’m—with Hiördis, at least.

Then be of good cheer; soon shalt thou be avenged!

Avenged? Who shall avenge me?

Listen: as I stood on board the ship, there came a man running, with a staff in his hand, and called to me: “If thou be of Örnulf’s shipfolk, then greet him from Kåre the Peasant, and say that now will I avenge the twain of us.” Thereupon he took a boat and rowed away, saying as he passed: “Twenty outlaws are at haven in the fiord; with them I fare southward, and ere eventide shall Hiördis be childless.”

He said that! Ha, now I understand; Gunnar has sent his son away; Kåre is at feud with him——

And now he is rowing southward to slay the boy!

[With sudden resolution.] Up, all! That booty will we fight for!

What wilt thou do?

Leave that to me; it shall be I, and not Kåre, that will take revenge!

I will go with thee!

Nay, do thou follow with Sigurd and thy sister to Gunnar’s hall.

Sigurd? Is he in the isle?

There may’st thou see his warships; we are at one—do thou go with him.

Among thy foes?

Go thou to the feast. Now shall Hiördis learn to know old Örnulf! But hark thee, Thorolf, to no one must thou speak of what I purpose; dost hear? to no one!

I promise.

[Takes his hand and looks at him affectionately.] Farewell then, my fair boy; bear thee in courtly wise at the feast-house, that I may have honour of thee. Beware of idle babbling; but what thou sayest, let it be keen as a sword. Be friendly to those that deal with thee in friendly wise; but if thou be taunted, hold not thy peace. Drink not more than thou canst bear; but put not the horn aside when it is offered thee in measure, lest thou be deemed womanish.

Nay, be at ease!

Then away to the feast at Gunnar’s hall. I too will come to the feast, and that in the guise they least think of. [Blithely to the rest.] Come, my wolf-cubs; be your fangs keen;—now shall ye have blood to drink.

Sigurd and Dagny come up from the ships, richly dressed for the banquet. They are followed by two men, carrying a chest, who lay it down and return as they came.

[Looking out after his father.] Now fare they all forth to fight, and I must stay behind; it is hard to be the youngest of the house.—Dagny! all hail and greetings to thee, sister mine!

Thorolf! All good powers!—thou art a man, grown!

That may I well be, forsooth, in five years——

Ay, true, true.

[Giving him his hand.] In thee will Örnulf find a stout carl, or I mistake me.

Would he but prove me——!

[Smiling.] He spares thee more than thou hast a mind to? Thou wast ever well-nigh too dear to him.

Whither has he gone?

Down to his ship;—go you on; he will follow.

I await my men; they are mooring my ships and bringing ashore wares.

There must I lend a hand!

[After a moment’s reflection.] Dagny, my wife, 35now that we are alone, I have that to tell thee which must no longer be hidden.

[Surprised.] What meanest thou?

There may be danger in this faring to Gunnar’s hall.

Danger? Thinkest thou that Gunnar——?

Nay, Gunnar is brave and true—yet better had it been that I had sailed from the isle without crossing his threshold.

Thou makest me fear! Sigurd, what is amiss?

First answer me this: the golden ring that I gave thee, where hast thou it?

[Showing it.] Here, on my arm; thou badest me wear it.

Cast it to the bottom of the sea, so deep that none may ever set eyes on it again; else may it be the bane of many men!

The ring!

[In a low voice.] That night when we bore away the twain of you—dost remember?

Do I remember!

It is of that I would speak.

[In suspense.] What is it? Say on!

Thou knowest there had been a feast; thou didst seek thy chamber betimes; but Hiördis still sat among the men in the feast-hall. The horn went busily round, and many a great vow was sworn. I swore to bear away a fair maid with me from Iceland; Gunnar swore the same as I, and passed the cup to Hiördis. She grasped it and stood up, and vowed this vow, that no warrior should have her to wife, save him who should go to her bower, slay the white bear that stood bound at the door, and carry her away in his arms.

Yes, yes; all this I know!

All men deemed that it might not be, for the bear was the fiercest of beasts; none but Hiördis might come near it, and it had the strength of twenty men.

But Gunnar slew it, and by that deed won fame throughout all lands.

[In a low voice.] He won the fame—but—I did the deed!

[With a cry.] Thou!

When the men left the feast-hall, Gunnar prayed me to come with him alone to our sleeping-place. Then said he: “Hiördis is dearer to me than all women; without her I cannot live.” I answered him: “Then go to her bower; thou knowest the vow she hath sworn.” But he said: “Life is dear to him that loves; if I should assail the bear, the end were doubtful, and I am loath to lose my life, for then should I lose Hiördis too.” Long did we talk, and the end was that Gunnar made ready his ship, while I drew my sword, took Gunnar’s harness upon me, and went to the bower.

[With pride and joy.] And thou—thou didst slay the bear!

I slew him. In the bower it was dark as under a raven’s wing; Hiördis deemed it was Gunnar that sat by her—she was heated with the mead—she drew a ring from her arm and gave it to me—it is that thou wearest now.

[Hesitating.] And thou wast alone that night with Hiördis in her bower?

My sword lay drawn between us. [A short pause.] Ere the dawn, I bore Hiördis to Gunnar’s ship; she dreamed not of our guile, and he sailed away with her. Then went I to thy 38sleeping-place and found thee there among thy women;—what followed, thou knowest; I sailed from Iceland with a fair maid, as I had sworn, and from that day hast thou stood faithfully at my side whithersoever I have wandered.

[Much moved.] My brave husband! And that great deed was thine!—Oh, I should have known it; it could have been none else! Hiördis, that proud and stately woman, couldst thou have won, yet didst choose me! Now wouldst thou be tenfold dearer to me, wert thou not already dearer than all the world.

Dagny, my sweet wife, now thou knowest all—that need be known. I could not but warn thee; for that ring—Hiördis must never see it! Wouldst thou do my will, then cast it from thee—into the depths of the sea.

Nay, Sigurd, it is too dear to me; is it not thy gift? But be at ease, I will hide it from every eye, and never shall I breathe a word of what thou hast told me.

All is ready for the feast.

Come then, Sigurd—my brave, my noble warrior!

Beware, Dagny—beware! With thee it rests now whether this meeting shall end in peace or in blood. [Cheerfully to the others.] Away then, to the feast in Gunnar’s hall!

The feast-room in Gunnar’s house. The entrance-door is in the back; smaller doors in the side-walls. In front, on the left, the greater high-seat; opposite it, on the right, the lesser. In the middle of the floor, a wood fire is burning on a built-up hearth. In the background, on both sides of the door, are daïses for the women of the household. From each of the high-seats, a long table, with benches, stretches backwards, parallel with the wall. It is dark outside; the fire lights the room.

Nay, Hiördis, it passes my wit to understand thee. Thou hast shown me all the house; I know not what thing thou lackest, and all thou hast is fair and goodly;—then why bemoan thy lot?

Cage an eagle and it will bite at the wires, be they of iron or of gold.

In one thing at least thou art richer than I; thou hast Egil, thy little son.

Better no child, than one born in shame.

In shame?

Dost thou forget thy father’s saying? Egil is the son of a leman; that was his word.

A word spoken in wrath—why wilt thou heed it?

Nay, nay, Örnulf was right; Egil is weak; one can see he is no freeborn child.

Hiördis, how canst thou——?

[Unheeding.] Doubt not that shame can be sucked into the blood, like the venom of a snake-bite. Of another mettle are the freeborn sons of mighty men. I have heard of a queen that took her son and sewed his kirtle fast to his flesh, yet he never blinked an eye. [With an evil look.] Dagny, that will I try with Egil!

[Horrified.] Hiördis, Hiördis!

[Laughing.] Ha-ha-ha! Dost thou think I meant my words? [Changing her tone.] But, believe me or not as thou wilt, there are times 42when such deeds seem to lure me. Doubtless it is in my blood—for I am of the race of the Jötuns,^[10] they say.—Come, sit thou here, Dagny. Far hast thou wandered in these five long years; tell me, thou hast ofttimes been a guest in the halls of kings?

Many a time—and chiefly with Æthelstan of England.

And everywhere thou hast been held in honour, and hast sat in the highest seats at the board?

Doubtless. As Sigurd’s wife——

Ay, ay—a famous man is Sigurd—though Gunnar stands above him.

Gunnar?

One deed did Gunnar do that Sigurd shrank from. But let that be! Tell me, when Sigurd went a-viking and thou with him, when thou didst hear the sword-blades sing in the fierce war-game, when the blood streamed red on the deck—came there not over thee an untameable longing to plunge into the strife? Didst thou not don harness and take up arms?

Never! How canst thou think it? I, a woman!

A woman, a woman,—who knows what a woman may do!—But one thing thou canst tell me, Dagny, for that thou surely knowest: when a man clasps to his breast the woman he loves—is it true that her blood burns, that her bosom throbs—that she swoons in a strange ecstasy?

[Blushing.] Hiördis, how canst thou——!

Come, tell me——!

Surely thou thyself hast known it.

Ay once, and only once; it was that night when Gunnar sat with me in my bower; he crushed me in his arms till my byrnie^[11] burst, and then, then——!

[Exclaiming.] What! Sigurd——!

Sigurd? What of Sigurd? I spoke of Gunnar—that night when he bore me away——

[Collecting herself.] Yes, yes, I remember.—I know well——

That was the only time; never, never again! I deemed I was bewitched; for that Gunnar could so clasp a woman——[Stops and looks at Dagny.] What ails thee? Methinks thou turnest pale and red!

Nay, nay!

[Without heeding her.] Aye, the merry viking-raid should have been my lot; it had been better for me, and—mayhap for all of us. That were life, full and rich life! Dost thou not wonder, Dagny, to find me here alive? Art not afraid to be alone with me in the hall, thus in the dark? Deem’st thou not that I must have died in all these years, and that it is my ghost that stands at thy side?

[Painfully ill at ease.] Come—let us go—to the others.

[Seizing her by the arm.] No, stay! Seems it not strange to thee, Dagny, that any woman can yet live who has spent here five such nights?

Five nights?

Here in the north each night is a whole winter long. [Quickly and with an altered expression.] Yet 45the place is fair enough, doubt it not! Thou shalt see sights here such as thou hast not seen in the halls of the English king. We shall be together as sisters whilst thou bidest with me; we shall go down to the sea when the storm blows up afresh; thou shalt see the billows racing to the land like wild, white-maned horses. And then the whales far out in the offing! They dash one against another like steel-clad warriors! Ha, what joy to be a witch-wife and ride on a whale’s back—to speed before the bark, and wake the storm, and lure men to the deeps with lovely songs of sorcery!

Fie, Hiördis, how canst thou speak such things!

Canst thou sing sorceries, Dagny?

[With horror.] I!

I trow thou canst; how else didst thou lure Sigurd to thee?

Thy speech is shameful; let me go!

[Holding her back.] Because I jest! Nay, hear me to the end! Think, Dagny, what it is to sit by the window in the eventide and hear the kelpie^[12] wailing in the boat-house; to sit waiting and listening for the dead men’s ride to Valhal; 46for their way lies past us here in the north. They are the brave men that fell in fight, the strong women that did not drag out their lives tamely, like thee and me; they sweep through the air in cloud-rack and storm, on their black horses, with jangling bells! [Embraces Dagny, and presses her wildly in her arms.] Ha, Dagny! think of riding the last ride on so rare a steed!

[Struggling to escape.] Hiördis, Hiördis! Let me go! I will not hear thee!

[Laughing.] Weak art thou of heart, and easily affrighted.

Now, truly, are all things to my very mind! I have found thee again, Sigurd, my brave brother, as kind and true as of old. I have Örnulf’s son under my roof, and the old man himself follows speedily after; is it not so?

So he promised.

Then all I lack is that Egil should be here.

’Tis plain thou lovest the boy, thou namest him so oft.

Truly I love him; he is my only child; and he is like to grow up fair and kindly.

But no warrior.

Nay—that thou must not say.

How couldst thou send him from thee——

Would that I had not! [In an undertone.] But thou knowest, Sigurd, he who loves overmuch, takes not always the manliest part. [Aloud.] I had few men in my house, and none could be sure of his life when it was known that Örnulf lay in the cove with a ship of war.

One thing I know that ought first to be made safe, life afterwards.

And that is——?

Honour and fame among men.

Hiördis!

It shall not be said of Gunnar that he has tainted his honour by doing this.

[Sternly.] No one shall make strife between me and Örnulf’s kinsfolk!

[Smiling.] Tell me, Sigurd—can thy ship sail with any wind?

Ay, when ’tis cunningly steered.

Good! I too will steer my ship cunningly, and make my way whither I will.

[Whispers, uneasily.] Sigurd, let us hence—this very night!

It is too late now; ’twas thou that——

Then I held Hiördis dear; but now——; I have heard her speak words I shudder to think of.

Sigurd’s men, with other guests, men and women, house-carls and handmaidens, enter from the back.

[After a short pause, in which greetings and the like are exchanged.] Now to the board! My chief guest, Örnulf of the Fiords, comes later; so Thorolf promises.

[To the house-folk.] Pass the ale and mead around, that hearts may wax merry and tongues may be loosed.

[After a pause in which they drink with each other and converse quietly across the tables.] It seldom chances that so many brave men are seated together, as I see to-night in our hall. It were fitting, then, that we should essay the old pastime: Let each man name the chief of his deeds, that all may judge which is the mightiest.

That is an ill custom at a drinking-feast; ’twill oft breed strife.

Little did I deem that Gunnar was afraid.

That no one deems; but it were long ere we came to an end, were we all to tell of our deeds, so many as we be. Do thou rather tell us, Gunnar, of thy journey to Biarmeland; ’tis no small exploit to fare so far to the north, and gladly would we hear of it.

The journey to Biarmeland is chapman’s work, and little worthy to be named among warriors. Nay, do thou begin, Sigurd, if thou wouldst not have me deem that thou canst ill endure to hear 50my husband’s praise! Say on; name that one of thy deeds which thou dost prize the highest.

Well, since thou wilt have it so, so must it be. Let it be told, then, that I lay a-viking among the Orkneys; there came foemen against us, but we swept them from their ships, and I fought alone against eight men.

Good was that deed; but wert thou fully armed?

Fully armed, with axe, spear, and sword.

Still the deed was good. Now must thou, my husband, name that which thou deemest the chief among thy exploits.

[Unwillingly.] I slew two berserkers who had seized a merchant-ship; and thereupon I sent the captive chapmen home, giving them their ship freely, without ransom. The King of England deemed well of that deed; he said that I had done honourably, and gave me thanks and good gifts.

Nay truly, Gunnar, a better deed than that couldst thou name.

[Vehemently.] I will take praise for no other 51deed! Since last I fared from Iceland I have lived at peace and traded in merchandise. No word more on this matter!

If thou thyself wilt hide thy renown, thy wife shall speak.

Peace, Hiördis—I command thee!

Sigurd fought with eight men, being fully armed; Gunnar came to my bower in the black night, slew the bear that had twenty men’s strength, and yet had but a short sword in his hand.

[Violently agitated.] Woman, not a word more!

[Softly.] Sigurd, wilt thou endure——?

[Likewise.] Be still!

[To the company.] And now, ye brave men—which is the mightier, Sigurd or Gunnar?

Silence!

[Loudly.] Speak out; I have the right to crave judgment.

[Among the guests.] If the truth be told, then is Gunnar’s deed greater than all other deeds of men; Gunnar is the mightiest warrior, and Sigurd is second to him.

[With a glance across the table.] Ah, Sigurd, Sigurd, didst thou but know——!

[Softly.] It is too much—friend though he be!

Peace, wife! [Aloud, to the others.] Ay truly, Gunnar is the most honourable of all men; so would I esteem him to my dying day, even had he never done that deed; for that I hold more lightly than ye.

There speaks thy envy, Sigurd Viking!

[Smiling.] Mightily dost thou mistake. [Kindly, to Gunnar, drinking to him across the table.] Hail, noble Gunnar; our friendship shall stand fast, whosoever may seek to break it.

No one, that I wot of, has such a thought.

Say not so; I could almost think thou hadst 53bidden us to the feast in the hope to stir up strife.

That is like thee, Sigurd; now art thou wroth that thou may’st not be held the mightiest man at the board.

I have ever esteemed Gunnar more highly than myself.

Well, well—second to Gunnar is still a good place, and——[with a side glance at Thorolf] had Örnulf been here, he could have had the third seat.

Then would Jökul, thy father, find a low place indeed; for he fell before Örnulf.

That shalt thou never say! Örnulf is a skald, and men whisper that he has praised himself for greater deeds than he has done.

Then woe to him who whispers so loudly that it comes to my ear!

[With a smile of provocation.] Wouldst thou avenge it?

Ay, so that my vengeance should be told of far and wide.

Then here I pledge a cup to this, that thou may’st first have a beard on thy chin.

Even a beardless lad is too good to wrangle with women.

But too weak to fight with men; therefore thy father let thee lie by the hearth at home in Iceland, whilst thy brothers went a-viking.

It had been well had he kept as good an eye on thee; for then hadst thou not left the land an unwedded woman.

Thorolf!

[Simultaneously.] Brother!

[Softly, and quivering with rage.] Ha! wait—wait!

[Gives Gunnar his hand.] Be not wroth, Gunnar;—evil words came to my tongue; but thy wife goaded me!

[Softly and imploringly.] Foster-sister, by any love thou hast ever borne me, stir not up strife!

[Laughing.] Jests must pass at the feast-board, if the merriment is to thrive.

[Who has been talking softly to Thorolf.] Thou art a brave lad! [Hands him a sword which hangs beside the high-seat.] Here, Thorolf, here is a good gift for thee. Wield it well, and let us be friends.

Beware how thou givest away thy weapons, Gunnar; men may say thou dost part with things thou canst not use!

[Who has meanwhile examined the sword.] Thanks for the gift, Gunnar; it shall never be drawn in an unworthy cause.

If thou wilt keep that promise, then do thou never lend the sword to thy brothers.

Hiördis!

[Continuing.] Neither let it hang on thy father’s wall; for there it would hang with base men’s weapons.

True enough, Hiördis—for there thy father’s axe and shield have hung this many a year.

[Mastering herself.] That Örnulf slew my 56father—that deed is ever on thy tongue; but if report speak true, ’twas scarce so honourable a deed as thou deemest.

Of what report dost thou speak?

[Smiling.] I dare not name it, for it would make thee wroth.

Then hold thy peace—I ask no better.

[Turns from her.

Nay, why should I not tell it? Is it true, Thorolf, that for three nights thy father sat in woman’s weed, doing sorceries with the witch of Smalserhorn, ere he dared face Jökul in fight?

Hiördis!

[Bitterly exasperated.] So base a lie has no man spoken of Örnulf of the Fiords! Thou thyself hast made it, for no one less venomous than thou could dream of such a thing. The blackest crime a man can do hast thou laid at my father’s door. [Throwing the sword away.] There, Gunnar, take thy gift again; I can take nought from that house wherein my father is reviled.

Thorolf, hear me——!

Let me go! But beware both thou and Hiördis; for my father has now in his power one whom ye hold dearest of all!

[Starting.] Thy father has——!

[With a cry.] What sayest thou?

[Vehemently.] Where is Örnulf?

[With mocking laughter.] Gone southward—with my brothers.

Southward!

[Shrieking.] Gunnar! Örnulf has slain Egil, our son.

Slain!—Egil slain! Then woe to Örnulf and all his race! Thorolf, speak out;—is this true?

Gunnar, Gunnar—hear me!

Speak out, if thou care for thy life!

Thou canst not fright me! Wait till my father 58comes, he shall plant a mark of shame over against Gunnar’s house! And meanwhile, Hiördis, do thou cheer thee with these words I heard to-day: “Ere eventide shall Gunnar and his wife be childless.”

[In agony.] Slain—slain! My little Egil slain.

[Wildly.] And thou—dost thou let him go? Let Egil, thy child, lie unavenged! Then wert thou the dastard of dastards——!

[As if beside himself.] A sword—an axe! ’Tis the last tidings he shall ever bring!

[Seizes an axe from one of the bystanders and rushes out.

[About to follow.] Gunnar, hold thy hand!

[Holding him back.] Stay, stay! The men will part them; I know Gunnar!

What is it?

Thorolf has fallen.

Thorolf! Ha, let me go!

My brother! Oh, my brother!

Now it is done. Egil is avenged!

Well for thee if thy hand has not been too hasty.

Mayhap, mayhap; but Egil, Egil, my fair boy!

Now must we arm us, and seek help among our friends; for Thorolf has many avengers.

[Gloomily.] He will be his own worst avenger; he will be with me night and day.

Thorolf got his reward. Kinsmen must suffer for kinsmen’s deeds.

True, true; but this I know, my mind was lighter ere this befell.

The first night^[13] is ever the worst;—when that is over, thou wilt heed it no more. Örnulf has 60sought his revenge by shameful guile; he would not come against us in open strife; he feigned to be peacefully minded; and then he falls upon our defenceless child! Ha, I saw more clearly than ye; well I deemed that Örnulf was evil-minded and false; good cause had I to egg thee on against him and all his faithless tribe.

[Fiercely.] That hadst thou! My vengeance is poor beside Örnulf’s crime. He has lost Thorolf, but he has six sons left—and I have none—none!

[Enters hastily from the back.] Örnulf of the Fiords is at hand!

Örnulf!

To arms! to arms!

[Simultaneously.] My father!

[As if seized by a foreboding.] Örnulf——! Ah, Gunnar, Gunnar!

[Draws his sword.] Up, all my men! Vengeance for Egil’s death!

[With a shriek.] Egil!

I bring you back little Egil.

[One to another.] Egil! Egil alive!

[Letting his sword fall.] Woe is me! what have I done?

Oh, Thorolf, my brother!

I knew it! I knew it!

[Setting Egil down.] There, Gunnar, hast thou thy pretty boy again.

Father! Old Örnulf would not do me ill, as thou saidst when I went away.

[To Hiördis.] Now have I atoned for thy father; now surely there may be peace between us.

[With repressed emotion.] Mayhap!

[As if waking up.] Is it a hideous dream that maddens me! Thou—thou bringest Egil home!

As thou seest; but in truth he has been near his death.

That I know.

And hast no more joy in his return?

Had he come sooner, I had been more glad. But tell me all that has befallen!

That is soon done. Kåre the Peasant was plotting evil against you; with other caitiffs he fared southward after Egil.

Kåre! [To himself.] Ha, now I understand Thorolf’s words!

His purpose came to my ears; I needs must thwart so black a deed. I would not give atonement for Jökul, and, had things so befallen, I had willingly slain thee, Gunnar, in single combat—yet I could not but save thy child. With my sons, I hasted after Kåre.

[Softly.] An accursed deed has here been done.

When I came up with him, Egil’s guards lay bound; thy son was already in thy foemen’s hands, and they would not long have spared him. Hot was the fight! Seldom have I given and taken keener strokes; Kåre and two men fled inland; the rest sleep safely, and will be hard to waken.

[In eager suspense.] But thou—thou, Örnulf——?

[Darkly.] Six sons followed me into the fight.

[Breathlessly.] But homewards——?

None.

[Appalled.] None! [Softly.] And Thorolf, Thorolf!

[After a short pause.] It is hard for a many-branching pine to be stripped in a single storm. But men die and men live;—hand me a horn; I will drink to my sons’ memory. [One of Sigurd’s men gives him a horn.] Hail to you where now ye ride, my bold sons! Close upon your heels shall the bronze-gates not clang, for ye come to the hall with a great following. [Drinks, and hands back the horn.] And now home to Iceland! Örnulf has fought his last fight; the old tree has but one green branch left, and it must be shielded warily. Where is Thorolf?

[To his father.] Ay, let me see Thorolf! Örnulf 64says he will carve me a ship with many, many warriors aboard.

I praise all good wights that Thorolf came not with us; for if he too—nay, strong though I be, that had been too heavy for me to bear. But why comes he not? He was ever the first to meet his father; for to both of us it seemed we could not live apart a single day.

Örnulf, Örnulf!

[With growing uneasiness.] Ye stand all silent, I mark it now. What ails you? Where is Thorolf?

Sigurd, Sigurd—this will be the sorest blow to him!

[Struggling with himself.] Old man!—No——and yet, it cannot be hid——

[Vehemently.] My son! Where is he?

Thorolf is slain!

Slain! Thorolf? Thorolf? Ha, thou liest!

I would give my warmest heart-blood to know him alive!

[To Örnulf.] Thorolf was himself to blame for what befell; with dark sayings he gave us to wit that thou hadst fallen upon Egil and slain him;—we had parted half in wrath, and thou hast ere now brought death among my kindred. And moreover—Thorolf bore himself at the feast like a wanton boy; he brooked not our jesting, and spoke many evil things. Not till then did Gunnar wax wroth; not till then did he raise his hand upon thy son; and well I wot that he had good and lawful ground for that deed.

[Calmly.] Well may we see that thou art a woman, for thou usest many words. To what end? If ThorolfThorolf is slain, then is his saga over.

If ThorolfThorolf is slain, I shall have no warriors.

Nay, Egil—we have lost our warriors now, both thou and I. [To Hiördis.] Thy father sang:

Well hast thou wrought that his words should come true. [Pauses a moment, then turns to one of the men.] Where got he his death-wound?

Right across his brow.

[Pleased.] Ha; that is an honourable wound; 66he did not turn his back. But fell he sideways, or in toward Gunnar’s feet?

Half sideways and half toward Gunnar.

That bodes but half vengeance; well well,—we shall see!

[Approaching.] Örnulf, I know well that all my goods were naught against thy loss; but crave of me what thou wilt——

[Sternly interrupting him.] Give me Thorolf’s body, and let me go! Where lies he?

[Takes a step or two, but turns and says in a voice of thunder to Sigurd, Dagny, and others who are making as though to follow him, sorrowing.] Stay! Think ye Örnulf will be followed by a train of mourners, like a whimpering woman? Stay, I say!—I can bear my Thorolf alone. [With calm strength.] Sonless I go; but none shall say that he saw me bowed.

[With forced laughter.] Ay, let him go as he will; we shall scarce need many men to face him should he come with strife again! Now, Dagny—I wot it is the last time thy father shall sail from Iceland on such a quest!

[Indignant.] Oh, shame!

[Likewise.] And thou canst mock him—mock him, after all that has befallen?

A deed once done, ’tis wise to praise it. This morning I swore hate and vengeance against Örnulf;—the slaying of Jökul I might have forgotten—all, save that he cast shame upon my lot. He called me a leman; if it be so, it shames me not; for Gunnar is mightier now than thy father; he is greater and more famous than Sigurd, thine own husband!

[In wild indignation.] There thou errest, Hiördis—and even now shall all men know that thou dwellest under a coward’s roof!

[Vehemently.] Dagny, beware!

A coward!

[With scornful laughter.] Thou pratest senselessly.

It shall no longer be hidden; I held my peace till thou didst mock at my father and my dead brothers; I held my peace while Örnulf was here, lest he should learn that Thorolf fell by a 68dastard’s hand. But now—praise Gunnar nevermore for that deed in Iceland; for Gunnar is a coward! The sword that lay drawn between thee and the bear-slayer hangs at my husband’s side—the ring thou didst take from thy arm thou gavest to Sigurd. [Takes it off and holds it aloft.] Behold it!

[Wildly.] Sigurd!

Sigurd! Sigurd did the deed!

[Quivering with agitation.] He! he!—Gunnar, is this true?

[With lofty calm.] It is all true, save only that I am a coward; no coward or dastard am I.

[Moved.] That art thou not, Gunnar! That hast thou never been! [To the rest.] Away, my men! Away from here!

[At the door, to Hiördis.] Who is now the mightiest man at the board—my husband, or thine?

[To herself.] Now have I but one thing left to do—but one deed to think upon: Sigurd or I must die!

The hall in Gunnar’s house. It is day.

Hiördis sits on the bench in front of the smaller high-seat, busy twisting a bow-string; on the table lie a bow and some arrows.

[Pulling at the bow-string.] It is tough and strong; [With a glance at the arrows] the shaft is both keen and well-weighted—[Lets her hands fall in her lap] but where is the hand that——! [Vehemently.] Flouted, flouted by him—by Sigurd! I must hate him more than others, that can I well mark; but many days shall not pass ere I have——[Meditating.] Ay, but the arm, the arm that shall do the deed——?

[After a short pause.] How goes it with thee, my husband?

Ill, Hiördis; I cannot away with that deed of yesterday; it lies heavy on my heart.

Do as I do; get thee some work to busy thee.

Doubtless I must.

What dost thou there?

[Without looking up.] I am twisting a bow-string; canst thou not see?

A bow-string—of thine own hair?

[Smiling.] Great deeds are born with every hour in these times; yesterday thou didst slay my foster-brother, and I have woven this since daybreak.

Hiördis, Hiördis!

[Looking up.] What is amiss?

Where wast thou last night?

Last night?

Thou wast not in the sleeping-room.

Know’st thou that?

I could not sleep; I tossed in restless dreams of that—that which befell Thorolf. I dreamt that he came——No matter; I wakened. Then methought there sounded a strange, fair song through all the house; I arose; I pushed the door ajar; here I saw thee sitting by the log-fire—it burned blue and red—fixing arrow-heads, and singing sorceries over them.

I did what was needful; for strong is the breast that must be pierced this day.

I understand thee well: thou wouldst have Sigurd slain.

Mayhap.

Thou shalt never have thy will. I will keep peace with Sigurd, howe’er thou goad me.

[Smiling.] Dost think so?

I know it!

[Hands him the bow-string.] Tell me, Gunnar—canst loose this knot?

[Tries it.] Nay, it is too cunningly and firmly woven.

[Rising.] The Norns^[14] weave yet more cunningly; their web is still harder to unravel.

Dark are the ways of the Mighty Ones;—what know we of them, thou or I?

Yet one thing I know surely: that to both of us must Sigurd’s life be baleful.

[A pause; Gunnar stands lost in thought.

[Who has been silently watching him.] Of what thinkest thou?

Of a dream I had of late. Methought I had done the deed thou cravest; Sigurd lay slain on the earth; thou didst stand beside him, and thy face was wondrous pale. Then said I: “Art thou glad, now that I have done thy will?” But thou didst laugh and answer: “Blither should I be didst thou, Gunnar, lie there in Sigurd’s stead.”

[With forced laughter.] Ill must thou know me if such a senseless dream can stay thy hand.

Tell me, Hiördis, what thinkest thou of this hall?

To speak truly, Gunnar, sometimes it seems to me too strait and narrow.

Ay, ay, so I have thought; we are one too many.

Two, mayhap.

[Who has not heard her last words.] But that shall be set right.

[Looks at him interrogatively.] Set right? Then thou art minded to——?

To fit out my warships and put to sea; I will win back the honour I have lost because thou wast dearer to me than all beside.

[Thoughtfully.] Thou wilt put to sea? Ay, so it may be best for us both.

Even from the day we sailed from Iceland, I saw that it would go ill with us. Thy soul is strong and proud; there are times when I well-nigh fear thee; yet, it is strange—chiefly for that do I hold thee so dear. Dread goes forth from thee like a spell; methinks thou couldst lure me to the blackest deeds, and all would seem good to me that thou didst crave. [Shaking his head reflectively.] Unfathomable is the Norn’s rede; Sigurd should have been thy husband.

[Vehemently.] Sigurd!

Yes, Sigurd. Vengeance and hatred blind thee, else wouldst thou prize him better. Had I been like Sigurd, I could have made life glad for thee.

[With strong but suppressed emotion.] That—that deemest thou Sigurd could have done?

He is strong of soul, and proud as thou to boot.

[Violently.] If that be so—[Collecting herself.] No matter, no matter! [With a wild outburst.] Gunnar, take Sigurd’s life!

Never!

By fraud and falsehood thou mad’st me thy wife—that shall be forgotten! Five joyless years have I spent in this house—all shall be forgotten from the day when Sigurd lives no more!

No harm shall e’er befall him from my hand. [Shrinks back involuntarily.] Hiördis, Hiördis, tempt me not!

Then must I find another avenger; not long shall Sigurd mock at me and thee! [Clenching her hands in convulsive rage.] With her—that simpleton—with her mayhap he is even now sitting alone, dallying, and making sport of us; 75speaking of the bitter wrong that was done me when in thy stead he bore me away; telling how he laughed over his guile as he stood in the mirk of my bower, and I knew him not!

Nay, nay, he does not so!

[Firmly.] Sigurd and Dagny must die! I cannot draw breath till they two are gone! [Comes close up to him, with sparkling eyes, and speaks passionately, but in a whisper.] Wouldst thou help me to that, Gunnar, then should I live in love with thee; then should I clasp thee in such warm and wild embraces as thou dream’st not of.

[Wavering.] Hiördis! Wouldst thou——?

Set thy hand to the work, Gunnar—and the heavy days shall be past. No longer will I quit the hall when thou comest, no longer speak harsh things and quench thy smile when thou art glad. I will clothe me in furs and costly silken robes. When thou goest to war, I will follow thee; when thou ridest forth in peace, I will ride by thy side. At the feast I will sit by thee and fill thy horn, and drink to thee and sing fair songs to make glad thy heart!

[Almost overcome.] Is it true? Thou wouldst——

More than that, trust me, ten times more! 76Give me but revenge! Revenge on Sigurd and Dagny, and I will——[Stops as she sees the door open.] Dagny—comest thou here!

[From the back.] Haste thee, Gunnar! Call thy men to arms!

To arms! Against whom?

Kåre the Peasant is coming, and many outlaws with him; he means thee no good; Sigurd has once barred his way; but who can tell——

[Moved.] Sigurd has done this for me!

Sigurd is ever thy faithful friend.

And we, Hiördis—we, who thought to——! It is as I say—there is witchcraft in all thy speech; no deed but seemeth fair to me, when thou dost name it.

[Astonished.] What meanest thou?

Nothing, nothing! I thank thee for thy tidings, Dagny; I go to gather my men together. [Turns towards the door, but stops and comes forward again.] Tell me—how goes it with Örnulf?

[Bowing her head.] Ask not of him. Yesterday he bore Thorolf’s body to the ships; now he is raising a grave-mound on the shore;—there shall his sons be laid.

[Gunnar goes out by the back in silence.

Until evening there is no danger. [Coming nearer.] Hiördis, I have another errand in thy house; it is to thee I come.

To me? After all that befell yesterday?

Even because of that. Hiördis, foster-sister, do not hate me; forget the words that sorrow and evil spirits placed in my mouth; forgive me all the wrong I did thee; for, trust me, I am now tenfold more hapless than thou!

Hapless—thou! Sigurd’s wife!

It was my doing, all that befell—the stirring up of strife, and Thorolf’s death, and all the scorn that fell upon Gunnar and thee. Mine is all the guilt! Woe upon me!—I have lived so happily; but after this day I shall never know joy again.

[As if seized by a sudden thought.] But before—in 78these five long years—all that time hast thou been happy?

Canst thou doubt it?

Yesterday I doubted it not; but——

What meanest thou?

Nay, ’tis nought; let us speak of other matters.

No truly. Hiördis, tell me——!

It will profit thee little; but since thou wilt have it so——[With a malignant expression.] Canst thou remember once, over in Iceland—we had followed with Örnulf thy father to the Council, and we sat with our playmates in the Council Hall, as is the manner of women. Then came two strangers into the hall.

Sigurd and Gunnar.

They greeted us in courtly fashion, and sat on the bench beside us; and there passed between us much merry talk. There were some who must needs know why these two vikings came thither, and if they were not minded to take them wives there in the island. Then said Sigurd: “Twill 79be hard for me to find the woman that shall be to my mind.” Örnulf laughed, and said there was no lack of high-born and well-dowered women in Iceland; but Sigurd answered: “The warrior needs a high-souled wife. She whom I choose must not rest content with a humble lot; no honour must seem too high for her to strive for; gladly must she follow me a-viking; war-weed must she wear; she must egg me on to strife, and never blink her eyes where sword-blades lighten; for if she be faint-hearted, scant honour will befall me.” Is it not true, so Sigurd spake?

[Hesitatingly.] True, he did—but——

Such was she to be, the woman who could make life fair to him; and then—[With a scornful smile] then he chose thee!

[Starting, as in pain.] Ha, thou wouldst say that——?

Doubtless thou hast proved thyself proud and high-souled; hast claimed honour of all, that Sigurd might be honoured in thee—is it not so?

Nay, Hiördis, but——

Thou hast egged him on to great deeds, followed him in war-weed, and joyed to be where the strife raged hottest—hast thou not?

[Deeply moved.] No, no!

Hast thou, then, been faint of heart, so that Sigurd has been put to shame?

[Overwhelmed.] Hiördis, Hiördis!

[Smiling scornfully.] Yet thy lot has been a happy one all these years! Think’st thou that Sigurd can say the same?

Enough, enough. Woe is me! thou hast made me see myself too clearly.

A jesting word, and straightway thou art in tears! Think no more of it. Look what I have done to-day. [Takes some arrows from the table.] Are they not keen and biting—feel! I know well how to sharpen arrows, do I not?

And to use them too; thou strikest surely, Hiördis! All this thou hast said to me—I had never thought of it before. [More vehemently.] But that Sigurd——! That for all these years I should have made his life heavy and unhonoured;—no, no, it cannot be true!

Nay now, comfort thee, Dagny; indeed it is not 81true. Were Sigurd of the same mind as in former days, it might be true enough; for then was his whole soul bent on being the foremost man in the land;—now he is content with a lowlier lot.

No, Hiördis; Sigurd is high-souled now as ever; I see it well, I am not the right mate for him. He has hidden it from me; but it shall be so no longer.

What wilt thou do?

I will no longer hang like a clog upon his feet; I will be a hindrance to him no longer.

Then thou wilt——?

Peace; some one comes!

Sigurd Viking is coming to the hall.

Sigurd! Then call Gunnar hither.

Gunnar has ridden forth to gather his neighbours together; for Kåre the Peasant would——

Good, good, I know it; go! [The Carl goes. To Dagny, who is also going.] Whither wilt thou?thou?

I will not meet Sigurd. Too well I feel that we must part; but to meet him now—no, no, I cannot!

[Looks after her in silence for a moment.] And it was she I would have——[Completes her thought by a glance at the bow-string]. That had been a poor revenge;—nay, I have cut deeper now! —Tis hard to die, but sometimes harder still to live!

Belike it is Gunnar thou seekest; be seated, he will be here even now.

Nay, stay; it is thee I seek, rather than him.

Me?

And ’tis well I find thee alone.

If thou comest to mock me, it would sure be no hindrance to thee though the hall were full of men and women.

Ay, ay, well I know what thoughts thou hast of me.

[Bitterly.] I do thee wrong mayhap! Nay, nay, 83Sigurd, thou hast been as a poison to all my days. Bethink thee who it was that wrought that shameful guile; who it was that sat by my side in the bower, feigning love, with the laugh of cunning in his heart; who it was that flung me forth to Gunnar, since for him I was good enough, forsooth—and then sailed away with the woman he held dear!

Man’s will can do this thing and that; but fate rules in the deeds that shape our lives—so has it gone with us twain.

True enough; evil Norns hold sway over the world; but their might is little if they find not helpers in our own heart. Happy is he who has strength to battle with the Norn—and it is that I have now in hand.

What mean’st thou?

I will venture a trial of strength against those—those who are over me. But let us talk no more of this; I have much to do to-day.

[After a short pause.] Thou makest good weapons for Gunnar.

[With a quiet smile.] Not for Gunnar, but against thee. 84Sigurd.

Most like it is the same thing.

Ay, most like it is; for if I be a match for the Norn, then sooner or later shalt thou and Gunnar——[Breaks off, leans backwards against the table, looks at him with a smile, and says with an altered ring in her voice:] Wouldst know the thought that sometimes comes to me? Oft have I made it my pastime to limn pleasant pictures in my mind; at such times I sit and close my eyes and think: Now comes Sigurd the Strong to the isle;—he will burn us in our house, me and my husband. All Gunnar’s men have fallen; only he and I are left; they set light to the roof from without:—“A bow-shot,” cries Gunnar, “one bow-shot may save us”;—then the bow-string breaks—“Hiördis, cut a tress of thy hair and make of it a bow-string—our life is at stake.” But then I laugh—“Let it burn, let it burn—to me, life is not worth a wisp of hair!”

There is a strange might in all thy speech.

[Looks coldly at him.] Wouldst sit beside me?

Thou deemest my heart is bitter toward thee. ’Tis the last time, Hiördis, that we shall have speech together; there is something that gnaws me like a sore sickness, and in this wise I cannot part from thee; thou must know me better.

What wouldst thou?

Tell thee a saga.

Is it sad?

Sad, as life itself.

[Bitterly.] What knowest thou of the sadness of life?

Judge when my saga is over.

Then tell it me; I will work the while.

Once upon a time there were two young vikings, who set forth from Norway to win wealth and honour; they had sworn each other friendship, and held truly together, how far soever they might fare.

And the two young vikings hight Sigurd and Gunnar?

Ay, we may call them so. At last they came to Iceland; and there dwelt an old chieftain, who had come forth from Norway in King Harald’s days. He had two fair women in his house; but one, his foster-daughter, was the noblest, for she 86was wise and strong of soul; and the vikings spoke of her between themselves, and never had they seen a fairer woman, so deemed they both.

[In suspense.] Both? Wilt thou mock me?

Gunnar thought of her night and day, and that did Sigurd no less; but both held their peace, and no man could say from her bearing whether Gunnar found favour in her eyes; but that Sigurd found none, that was easy to discern.

[Breathlessly.] Go on, go on——!

Yet ever the more must Sigurd dream of her; but of that wist no man. Now it befell one evening that there was a drinking-feast; and there did that proud woman vow that no man should possess her save he who wrought a mighty deed, which she named. Then high beat Sigurd’s heart for joy; for he felt within him the strength to do that deed. But Gunnar took him apart and told him of his love;—Sigurd said nought of his, but went to the——

[Vehemently.] Sigurd, Sigurd! [Controlling herself.] And this saga—is it true?

True it is. One of us had to yield; Gunnar was my friend; I could do nought else. So 87Gunnar had thee to wife, and I wedded another woman.

And didst come to love her!

I learned to prize her; but one woman only has Sigurd loved, and that is she who frowned upon him from the first day they met. [Rises.] Here ends my saga; and now let us part.—Farewell, Gunnar’s wife; never shall we meet again.

[Springing up.] Stay, stay! Woe to us both; Sigurd, what hast thou done?

[Starting.] I, done? What ails thee?

And all this dost thou tell me now! But no—it cannot be true!

These are my last words to thee, and every word is true. I would not thou shouldst think hardly of me, therefore I needs must speak.

[Involuntarily clasps her hands together, and gazes at him in voiceless astonishment.] Loved—loved me—thou! [Vehemently, coming close up to him.] I will not believe thee! [Looks hard at him, and bursts forth in wild grief.] Yes, it is true, and—hateful for us both!

[Appalled.] Hiördis!

[Softly, struggling with tears and laughter.] Nay, heed me not! I meant but this, that——[Lays her hand on his arm.] Sigurd, thou hast not told thy saga to the end; that proud woman thou didst tell of—she returned thy love!

[Starts backwards.] Thou?

[With composure.] Aye, Sigurd, I have loved thee, at last I understand it. Thou sayest I was ungentle and short of speech towards thee; what wouldst thou have a woman do? Could I offer thee my love? Then had I been little worthy of thee. I deemed thee ever the noblest man of men; and then to know thee another’s husband—’twas that caused me the bitter pain, that myself I could not understand!

[Much moved.] A baleful web has the Norn woven around us twain.

The blame is thine own; bravely and firmly it becomes a man to act. When I set that hard proof for him who should win me, my thought was all of thee;—yet couldst thou——!

I knew Gunnar’s soul-sickness; I alone could 89heal it;—was there aught for me to choose? And yet, had I known what I now know, I scarce dare answer for myself; for great is the might of love.

[With animation.] But now, Sigurd!—A baleful hap has held us apart all these years; now the knot is loosed; the days to come shall make good the past to us.

[Shaking his head.] It cannot be; thou knowest we must part again.

Nay, we must not. I love thee, that may I now say unashamed; for my love is no mere dalliance, like a weak woman’s; were I a man—by all the Mighty Ones, I could still love thee, even as now I do! Up then, Sigurd! Happiness is worth a daring deed; we are both free if we but will it, and then the game is won.

Free? What meanest thou?

What is Dagny to thee? What can she be to thee? No more than I count Gunnar in my secret heart. What matter though two worthless lives be wrecked?

Hiördis, Hiördis!

Let Gunnar stay where he is; let Dagny fare 90with her father to Iceland; I will follow thee in harness of steel, whithersoever thou wendest. [Sigurd makes a movement.] Not as thy wife will I follow thee; for I have belonged to another, and the woman lives that has lain by thy side. No, Sigurd, not as thy wife, but like those mighty women, like Hildë’s sisters,^[15] will I follow thee, and fire thee to strife and to manly deeds, so that thy name shall be heard over every land. In the sword-game will I stand by thy side; I will fare forth among thy warriors in the storm and on the viking-raid; and when thy death-song is sung, it shall tell of Sigurd and Hiördis in one!

Once was that my fairest dream; now, it is too late. Gunnar and Dagny stand between us, and that by right. I crushed my new-born love for Gunnar’s sake;—how great soever my suffering, I cannot undo my deed. And Dagny—full of faith and trust she left her home and kindred; never must she dream that I longed for Hiördis as often as she took me to her breast.

And for such a cause wilt thou lay a burden on all thy life! To what end hast thou strength and might, and therewith all noble gifts of the mind? And deemest thou it can now beseem me to dwell beneath Gunnar’s roof? Nay, Sigurd, trust me, there are many tasks awaiting such a man as thou. Erik is king in Norway—do thou rise against him! Many goodly warriors will join thee and swear thee fealty; with unconquerable 91might will we press onward, and fight and toil unresting, until thou art seated on the throne of Hårfager!

Hiördis, Hiördis, so have I dreamt in my wild youth; let it be forgotten—tempt me not!

[With dignity.] It is the Norn’s will that we two shall hold together; it cannot be altered. Plainly now I see my task in life: to make thee famous over all the world. Thou hast stood before me every day, ever hour of my life; I sought to tear thee out of my mind, but I lacked the might; now it is needless, now that I know thou lovest me.

[With forced coldness.] If that be so—then know—I have loved thee; it has passed now;—I have forgot those days.

Sigurd, in that thou liest! So much at least am I worth, that if thou hast loved me once, thou canst never forget it.

[Vehemently.] I must; and now I will.

So be it; but thou canst not. Thou wilt seek to hinder me, but in vain; ere evening falls, Gunnar and Dagny shall know all.

Ha, that wilt thou never do!

That will I do!

Then must I know thee ill; high-souled have I ever deemed thee.

Evil days breed evil thoughts; too great has been thy trust in me. I will, I must, go forth by thy side—forth to face life and strife; Gunnar’s roof-tree is too low for me.

[With emphasis.] But honour between man and man hast thou highly prized. There lack not grounds for strife between me and Gunnar; say, now, that he fell by my hand—wouldst thou still make all known and follow me?

[Starting.] Wherefore askest thou?

Answer me first: what wouldst thou do, were I to give thy husband his bane.

[Looks hard at him.] Then must I keep silence and never rest until I had seen thee dead.

[With a smile.] It is well, Hiördis—I knew it.

[Hastily.] But it can never come to pass!

It must come to pass; thou thyself hast cast the die even now for Gunnar’s life and mine.

[Gloomily, to Hiördis.] See now; the seed thou hast sown is sprouting!

[Approaching.] What is amiss with thee?

Sigurd, is it thou? What is amiss? Nought but what I might well have foreseen. As soon as Dagny, thy wife, had brought tidings of Kåre the Peasant, I took horse and rode to my neighbours to seek help against him.

[Eagerly.] Well?

I was answered awry where’er I came: my dealings with Kåre had been little to my honour, it was said;—aye, and other things were said to boot, that I will not utter—I am a dishonoured man; I am thought to have done a dastard deed; men hold it shame to make common cause with me.

It shall not long be held shame; ere evening comes, thou shalt have men enough to face Kåre.

Sigurd!

[In a low voice, triumphantly.] Ha, I knew it well!

[With forced resolution.] But thereafter is the peace between us at an end; for hearken to my words, Gunnar Headman—thou hast slain Thorolf, my wife’s kinsman, and therefore do I challenge thee to single combat^[16] to-morrow at break of day.

[In extreme astonishment.] To single combat——! Me!—Thou art jesting, Sigurd!

Thou art lawfully challenged to single combat; ’twill be a game for life or death; one of us must fall!

[Bitterly.] Ha, I understand it well. When I came, thou didst talk with Hiördis alone; she has goaded thee afresh!

Mayhap. [Half towards Hiördis.] A high-souled woman must ever guard her husband’s 95honour. [To the men in the background.] And do ye, house-carls, now go to Gunnar’s neighbours, and say to them that to-morrow he is to ply sword-strokes with me; none dare call that man a dastard who bears arms against Sigurd Viking!

[Goes quickly up to Sigurd and presses his hands, in strong emotion.] Sigurd, my brave brother, now I understand thee! Thou venturest thy life for my honour, as of old for my happiness!

Thank thy wife for that; she has the main part in what I do. To-morrow at break of day——

I will meet thee. [Tenderly.] Foster-brother, wilt thou have a good blade of me? ’Tis a gift of price.

I thank thee; but let it hang.—Who knows if next evening I may have any use for it.

[Shakes his hand.] Farewell, Sigurd!

Again farewell, and fortune befriend thee this night!

[After a pause, softly and thoughtfully.] To-morrow they fight! Which will fall? [After a moment’s silence, she bursts forth as if seized by a strong resolution.] Let fall who will—Sigurd and I shall still be together!

By the coast. It is evening; the moon breaks forth now and again, from among dark and ragged storm-clouds. At the back, a black grave-mound, newly heaped up.

Örnulf sits on a stone, in front on the right, his head bare, his elbows resting on his knees, and his face buried in his hands. His men are digging at the mound; some give light with pine-knot torches. After a short pause, Sigurd and Dagny enter from the boat-house, where a wood fire is burning.

[In a low voice.] There sits he still. [Holding Sigurd back.] Nay, speak not to him.

Thou say’st well; it is too soon; best leave him to himself.

[Goes over to the right, and gazes at her father in quiet sorrow.] So strong was he yesterday when he bore Thorolf’s body on his back; strong was he as he helped to heap the grave-mound; but when they were all laid to rest, and earth and stones piled over them—then the sorrow seized him; then seemed it of a sudden as though his fire were quenched. [Dries her tears.] Tell me, Sigurd, when thinkest thou to fare homeward to Iceland?

So soon as the storm abates, and my dealings with Gunnar are ended.

And then wilt thou buy land and build thee a homestead, and go a-viking no more?

Yes, yes,—that have I promised thee.

And I may believe without doubt that Hiördis spoke falsely when she said that I was unworthy to be thy wife?

Yes yes, Dagny, trust thou to my word.

Then am I glad again, and will try to forget all the evil that here has been wrought. In the long winter evenings we will talk together of Gunnar and Hiördis, and——

Nay, Dagny, wouldst thou have things go well with us, never do thou speak Hiördis’ name when once we are at home in Iceland.

[Mildly upbraiding him.] Unjust is thy hatred towards her. Sigurd, Sigurd, it is little like thee.

[Approaching.] There now, the mound is finished.

[As if awaking.] The mound? Is it—ay, ay——

Now speak to him, Dagny.

[Approaching.] Father, it is cold out here; the storm is rising with the night.

Nay, never heed it; the mound is close-heaped and crannyless; they lie warm in there.

Ay, but thou——

I? I am not cold.

Nought hast thou eaten to-day; wilt thou not go in? The supper-board stands ready.

Let the supper-board stand; I have no hunger.

But to sit here so still—trust me, thou wilt take hurt of it; thou art ever wont to be stirring.

May be so; there is somewhat that crushes my breast; I cannot draw breath.

To-morrow wilt thou make ready thy ship and set forth for Iceland?

[Without looking up.] What should I do there? Nay, I will to my sons.

[With pain.] Father!

[Raises his head.] Go in and let me sit here; when the storm has played with me for a night or two, the game will be over, I ween.

Thou canst not think to deal thus with thyself.

Dost marvel that I fain would rest? My day’s work is done; I have laid my sons in their grave-mound. [Vehemently.] Go from me!—Go, go!

[Softly, to Dagny, who rises.] Let him sit yet awhile.

Nay, I have one rede yet untried;—I know him. [To Örnulf.] Thy day’s work done, say’st thou? Nay, that it is not. Thou hast laid thy sons in the grave;—but art thou not a skald? It is meet that thou should’st sing their memory.

[Shaking his head.] Sing? Nay, nay; yesterday I could sing; I am too old to-day.

But needs must thou; honourable men were thy sons, one and all; a song must be made of them, and that can none of our kin but thou.

[Looks inquiringly at Sigurd.] To sing? What thinkest thou, Sigurd?

Meseems it is but meet; thou must e’en do as she says.

Thy neighbours in Iceland will deem it ill done when the grave-ale is drunk over Örnulf’s children, and there is no song to sing with it. Thou hast ever time enough to follow thy sons.

Well well, I will try it; and thou, Dagny, give heed, that afterwards thou mayst carve the song on staves.

So—so; now is Örnulf sound and strong again. 104[To the men.] Follow me to the supper-board, lads; heavy has been our day’s work!

Praised be the Mighty Ones on high that gave me so good a rede. [To Sigurd.] Wilt thou not go in?

Nay, I list not to. Tell me, are all things ready for to-morrow?

They are ready; a silk-sewn shroud lies on the bench; but I know full surely that thou wilt hold thee against Gunnar, so I have not wept over it.

Grant all good powers, that thou mayst never weep for my sake.

What art thou listening to?

Hear’st thou nought—yonder?

Ay, there goes a fearsome storm over the sea!

[Going up a little towards the background.] There will fall hard hailstones in that storm. [Shouts.] Who comes?

[Without on the left.] Folk thou wotst of, Sigurd Viking!

Whither would ye?

To Gunnar’s hall.

As foemen?

Ay, trust me for that! Thou didst hinder me before; but now I ween thou wilt scarce do the like.

Maybe not.

I have heard of thy challenge to Gunnar; but if things go to my mind, weak will be his weapons when the time comes for your meeting.

’Tis venturesome work thou goest about; take heed for thyself, Peasant!

[With defiant laughter.] Leave that to me; wouldst thou tackle thy ship to-night, we will see that thou hast light enow!—Come, all my men; here goes the way.

Sigurd, Sigurd, this misdeed must thou hinder.

[Goes quickly to the door of the hut, and calls in.] Up from the board, Örnulf; take vengeance on Kåre the Peasant.

[Comes out, with the rest.] Kåre the Peasant—where is he?

He is making for Gunnar’s hall to burn it over their heads.

Ha-ha—let him do as he will; so shall I be avenged on Gunnar and Hiördis, and afterwards I can deal with Kåre.

Nay, that rede avails not; wouldst thou strike at Kåre, thou must seek him out to-night; for when his misdeed is done, he will take to the mountains. I have challenged Gunnar to meet me, man to man; him thou hast safe enough, unless I myself—but no matter.—To-night he must be shielded from his foes; it would ill befit thee to let so vile a caitiff as Kåre rob thee of thy revenge.

Thou say’st truly. To-night will I shield the slayer of Thorolf; but to-morrow he must die.

He or I—doubt not of that!

Come then, to take vengeance for Örnulf’s sons.

Dagny, do thou follow them;—I must bide here; for the rumour of the combat is already abroad, and I may not meet Gunnar ere the time comes. But thou—do thou keep rein on thy father; he must go honourably to work; in Gunnar’s hall there are many women; no harm must befall Hiördis or the rest.

Yes, I will follow them. Thou takest thought even for Hiördis; I thank thee for it.

Go, go, Dagny!

I go; but be thou at ease as to Hiördis; she has gilded armour in her bower, and will know how to shield herself.

That deem I too; but go thou nevertheless; guide thy father’s course; watch over all—and over Gunnar’s wife!

Trust to me. Farewell, till we meet again!

’Tis the first time, foster-brother, that I stand 108weaponless whilst thou art in danger. [Listens.] I hear shouts and sword-strokes;—they are already at the hall. [Goes towards the right, but stops and recoils in astonishment.] Hiördis! Comes she hither!

Hiördis enters, clad in a short scarlet kirtle, with gilded armour: helmet, hauberk, arm-plates, and greaves. Her hair is flying loose; at her back hangs a quiver, and at her belt a small shield. She has in her hand the bow strung with her hair.

[Hastily looking behind her, as though in dread of something pursuing her, goes close up to Sigurd, seizes him by the arm, and whispers:] Sigurd, Sigurd, canst thou see it?

What? Where?

The wolf there—close behind me; it does not move; it glares at me with its two red eyes. It is my wraith,^[20] Sigurd! Three times has it appeared to me; that bodes that I shall surely die to-night!

Hiördis, Hiördis!

It has sunk into the earth! Aye, aye, now it has warned me.

Thou art sick; come, go in with me.

Nay, here will I bide; I have but little time left.

What has befallen thee?

What has befallen? That know I not; but ’twas true what thou said’st to-day, that Gunnar and Dagny stand between us; we must away from them and from life; then can we be together!

We? Ha, thou meanest——

[With dignity.] I have been homeless in this world from that day thou didst take another to wife. That was ill done of thee! All good gifts may a man give to his faithful friend—all, save the woman he loves; for if he do that, he rends the Norn’s secret web, and two lives are wrecked. An unerring voice within me tells me I came into the world that my strong soul might cheer and uphold thee through heavy days, and that thou wert born to the end I might find in one man all that seemed to me great and noble; for this I know Sigurd—had we two held together, then hadst thou become more famous than all others, and I happier.

It avails not now to mourn. Think’st thou ’tis a merry life that awaits me? To be by Dagny’s 110side day by day, and feign a love my heart shrinks from? Yet so it must be; it cannot be altered.

[In a growing frenzy.] It shall be altered! We must out of this life, both of us! Seest thou this bow-string? With it can I surely hit my mark; for I have crooned fair sorceries over it! [Places an arrow in the bow, which is strung.] Hark! hark! that rushing in the air? It is the dead men’s ride to Valhal: I have bewitched them hither;—we two will join them in their ride!

[Shrinking back.] Hiördis, Hiördis—I fear thee!

[Not heeding him.] Our fate no power can alter now! Oh, ’tis better so than if thou hadst wedded me here in this life—if I had sat in thy homestead weaving linen and wool for thee and bearing thee children—pah!

Hold, hold! Thy sorceries have been too strong for thee; they have made thee soul-sick, Hiördis! [Horror-struck.] Ha, see—see! Gunnar’s hall—it is burning!

Let it burn, let it burn! The cloud-hall up yonder is loftier than Gunnar’s rafter-roof!

But Egil, thy son—they are slaying him!

Let him die—my shame dies with him!

And Gunnar—they are taking thy husband’s life!

What care I! A better husband shall I follow home this night! Ay, Sigurd, so must it be; here on this earth grows no happiness for me. The White God is coming northward; him will I not meet; the old gods are strong no longer;—they sleep, they sit half shadow-like on high;—with them will we strive! Out of this life, Sigurd! I will enthrone thee king in heaven, and I myself will sit by thy side. [The storm bursts wildly.] Hark, hark, here comes our company! Canst see the black steeds galloping?—one is for me and one for thee. [Draws the arrow to her ear and shoots.] Away, then, on thy last ride home!

Well aimed, Hiördis! [He falls.

[Jubilant, rushes up to him.] Sigurd, my brother,—now art thou mine at last!

Now less than ever. Here our ways part; for I am a Christian man.

[Appalled.] Thou——! Ha, no, no!

The White God is mine; King Æthelstan taught me to know him; it is to him I go.

[In despair.] And I——! [Drops her bow.] Woe! woe!

Heavy has my life been from the hour I tore thee out of my own heart and gave thee to Gunnar. I thank thee, Hiördis;—now am I so light and free.

[Quietly.] Dead! Then truly have I brought my soul to wreck! [The storm increases; she breaks forth wildly.] They come! I have bewitched them hither! No, no! I will not go with you! I will not ride without Sigurd! It avails not—they see me; they laugh and beckon to me; they spur their horses! [Rushes out to the edge of the cliff at the back.] They are upon me;—and no shelter, no hiding-place! Ay, mayhap at the bottom of the sea!

[Örnulf, Dagny, Gunnar, with Egil, gradually followed by Sigurd’s and Örnulf’s men, enter from the right.

[Turning towards the grave-mound.] Now may ye sleep in peace; for ye lie not unavenged.

[Entering.] Father, father—I die of fear—all that blood and strife—and the storm;—hark, hark!

[Carrying Egil.] Peace, and shelter for my child.

Gunnar!

Ay, Örnulf, my homestead is burnt and my men are slain; I am in thy power; do with me what thou wilt!

That Sigurd must look to. But in, under roof! It is not safe out here.

Ay, ay, in! [Goes towards the boat-house, catches sight of Sigurd’s body, and shrieks.] Sigurd, my husband!—They have slain him!

[Rushes up.] Sigurd!

[Sets Egil down.] Sigurd dead!

[Looks despairingly at the men, who surround the body.] No, no, it is not so;—he must be alive! [Catches sight of the bow.] Ha, what is that?

Daughter, it is as first thou saidst—Sigurd is slain.

[As if seized by a sudden thought.] And Hiördis!—Has Hiördis been here?

[Softly and with self-control.] I know not; but this I know, that her bow has been here.

Ay, I thought no less!

Hush, hush! [To herself.] So bitterly did she hate him!

[Aside.] She has slain him—the night before the combat; then after all she loved me.

[In terror.] Father! See, see!

What is it?

Up there—all the black horses——!

It is the clouds that——

Nay, it is the dead men’s home-faring.

[With a shriek.] Mother is with them.

All good spirits!

Child, what say’st thou?

There—in front—on the black horse! Father, father!

[In quiet sorrow.] Now is Hiördis surely dead.

So it must be, Gunnar;—and my vengeance was rather against her than thee. Dear has this meeting been to both of us;—there is my hand; be there peace between us!

Thanks, Örnulf! And now aboard; I sail with thee to Iceland.

Ay, to Iceland! Long will it be ere our forthfaring is forgotten.

THE PRETENDERS (1863) — CHARACTERS. — ACT FIRST. — ACT SECOND. — ACT THIRD. — ACT FOURTH. — ACT FIFTH.

• Håkon Håkonsson, the King elected by the Birchlegs.
• Inga of Varteig, his mother.
• Earl Skule.
• Lady Ragnhild, his wife.
• Sigrid, his sister.
• Margrete, his daughter.
• Guthorm Ingesson.
• Sigurd Ribbung.
• Nicholas Arnesson, Bishop of Oslo.
• Dagfinn the Peasant, Håkon’sHåkon’s marshal.
• Ivar Bodde, his chaplain.
• Vegard Væradal, one of his guard.
• Gregorius Jonsson, a nobleman.
• Paul Flida, a nobleman.
• Ingeborg, Andres Skialdarband’s wife.
• Peter, her son, a young priest.
• Sira Viliam, Bishop Nicholas’s chaplain.
• Master Sigard of Brabant, a physician.
• Jatgeir Skald, an Icelander.
• Bård Bratte, a chieftain from the Trondhiem district.
• Populace and Citizens of Bergen, Oslo, and Nidaros.
• Priests, Monks, and Nuns.
• Guests, Guards, and Ladies.
• Men-at-Arms, etc. etc.

Pronunciation of Names: Håkon=Hoakoon (“oa” as in “board”); Skule=Skoolë; Margrete=Margraytë; Guthorm=Gootorm; Sigurd Ribbung=Sigoord Ribboong; Dagfinn (“a” as in “hard”); Ivar Bodde=Eevar Boddë; Vegard=Vaygard; Jonsson=Yoonson; Flida=Fleeda; Ingeborg=Ingheborg; Jatgeir=Yatgheir; Bård Bratte=Board Brattë. The name “Ingeborg” appears as “Ingebjörg” in Ibsen’s text. The form I have substituted is equally current in Norway, and less troublesome to pronounce.

The churchyard of Christ Church, Bergen. At the back rises the church, the main portal of which faces the spectators. In front, on the left, stands Håkon Håkonsson, with Dagfinn the Peasant, Vegard of Væradal, Ivar Bodde, and several other nobles and chieftains. Opposite to him stand Earl Skule, Gregorius Jonsson, Paul Flida, and others of the Earl’s men. Further back on the same side are seen Sigurd Ribbung and his followers, and a little way from him Guthorm Ingesson, with several chiefs. Men-at-arms line the approaches to the church; the common people fill the churchyard; many are perched in the trees and seated on the walls; all seem to await, in suspense, the occurrence of some event. All the church bells of the town are ringing far and near.

[Softly and impatiently, to Gregorius Jonsson.] Why tarry they so long in there?

Hush! The psalm is beginning.

[Steps forward to the doorway and proclaims with uplifted crozier.] Inga of Varteig is even now bearing the iron on behalf of Håkon the Pretender.

[In a low voice, to the Earl.] Call upon Holy King Olaf to protect the right.

[Hurriedly, with a deprecating gesture.] Not now. Best not remind him of me.

[Seizing Håkon by the arm.] Pray to the Lord thy God, Håkon Håkonsson.

No need; I am sure of him.

[To the Earl.] A solemn hour for you and for many!

[Looking anxiously towards the church.] A solemn hour for Norway.

[Near the Earl.] Now is the glowing iron in her hands.

[Beside Håkon.] They are coming down the nave.

Christ protect thy tender hands, Inga, mother of the King!

Surely all my life shall reward her for this hour.

[Who has been listening intently, breaks out suddenly.] Did she cry out? Has she let the iron fall?

[Goes up.] I know not what it was.

Hark to the women weeping in the outer hall!

[Breaks forth in jubilation.] Gloria in excelsis Deo!

[On the church steps.] God has given judgment! Behold these hands; with them I bore the iron!

They are tender and white as before!

Fairer still!

He is Håkon’s son! He is Sverre’s^[21] grandson!

[Embraces her.] Thanks to thee, thanks to thee, blessed among women!

[In passing, to the Earl.] ’Twas ill done to press for the ordeal.

Nay, my lord Bishop, needs must we pray for God’s voice in this matter.

[Deeply moved, holding Inga by the hand.] It is done, then, that which my every fibre cried out against—that which has made my heart shrivel and writhe within me——

[Turning towards the multitude.] Ay, look upon this woman and bethink you, all that are gathered here! Who ever doubted her word, until certain folk required that it should be doubted.

Doubt has whispered in every corner from the hour when Håkon the Pretender was borne, a little child, into King Inge’s^[22] hall.

And last winter it swelled to a roar, and sounded forth over the land, both north and south; I trow every man can bear witness to that.

I myself can best bear witness to it. Therefore have I yielded to the counsel of many faithful friends, and humbled myself as no other chosen king has done for many a day. I have proved my birth by the ordeal, proved my right, as the son of Håkon Sverresson, to succeed to the throne of Norway. I will not now question who fostered the doubt, and made it, as the Earl’s kinsman says, swell into a roar; but this I know, that I have suffered bitterly under it. I have been chosen king from boyhood, but little kingly honour has been shown me, even where it seemed I might look for it most securely. I will but remind you of last Palm Sunday in Nidaros,^[23] when I went up to the altar to make my offering, and the Archbishop turned away and made as though he saw me not, to escape greeting me as kings are wont to be greeted. Yet such slights I could easily have borne, had not open war been like to break loose in the land; that I must needs hinder.

It may be well for kings to hearken to counsels 124of prudence; but had my counsel been heard in this matter, it had not been with hot iron, but with cold steel that Håkon Håkonsson had called for judgment between himself and his foes.

Curb yourself, Dagfinn; think what beseems the man who is to be foremost in the State.

[With a slight smile.] ’Tis easy to call every one the King’s foe who chimes not with the King’s will. Methinks he is the King’s worst foe who would counsel him against making good his right to the kingship.

Who knows? Were my right alone in question, mayhap I had not paid so dear to prove it; but higher things are here at stake: my calling and my duty. Deep and warm is the faith within me—and I blush not to own it—that I alone am he who in these times can sway the land to its weal. Kingly birth begets kingly duty——

There are others here who bear themselves the like fair witness.

That do I, and with full as good ground. My grandfather was King Magnus Erlingsson——

Ay, if your father, Erling Steinvæg, was indeed King Magnus’s son; but most folk deny it, and in that matter none has yet faced the ordeal.

The Ribbungs chose me as king of their own free will, whereas ’twas by threats that Dagfinn the Peasant and other Birchlegs^[24] gained for you the name of King.

Ay, so ill had you dealt with Norway that the stock of Sverrë had to claim its right with threats.

I am of the stock of Sverrë as much as you——

But not in the true male line.

You come on the spindle side, Guthorm.

Yet this I know, that my father, Ingë Bårdsson, was lawfully chosen king of Norway.

Because none knew that Sverrë’s grandson was alive. From the day that became known, he held the kingdom in trust for me—not otherwise.

That cannot truly be said; Ingë was king all his days, with all lawful power and without reserve. ’Tis true enough that Guthorm has but little claim, for he was born out of wedlock; but I am King Ingë’s lawfully begotten brother, and the law is with me if I claim, and take, his full inheritance.

Ah, Sir Earl, of a truth you have taken full inheritance, not of your father’s wealth alone, but of all the goods Håkon Sverresson left behind him.

Not all, good Dagfinn. Respect the truth;—King Håkon has kept a brooch and the golden ring he wears on his arm.

Be that as it will; with God’s help I shall win myself wealth again. And now, ye barons and thanes, ye churchmen and chieftains and men-at-arms, now it is time we held the folkmote, as has been agreed. I have sat with bound hands until this day; methinks no man will blame me for longing to have them loosed.

There are others in like case, Håkon Håkonsson.

[His attention arrested.] What mean you, Sir Earl?

I mean that all we Pretenders have the same cause for longing. We have all alike been straitly bound, for none of us has known how far his right might reach.

The Church has been even as unstable as the kingdom; but now must we abide by the sainted King Olaf’s law.

[Half aloud.] Fresh subtleties!

[With forced calmness, advances a couple of paces towards the Earl.] I would fain think I have not rightly taken your meaning. The ordeal has made good my birthright to the kingdom, and therefore, as I deem, the folkmote has nought to do but to confirm my election, made at the Örething^[25] six years ago.

No, no! That we deny!

’Twas with no such thought that we agreed to hold the folkmote here. The ordeal has not given you the kingdom; it has but proved your title to come forward to-day, along with the other Pretenders here present, and contend for the right you hold to be yours——

[Constraining himself to be calm.] That means, in brief, that for six years I have unlawfully borne the name of King, and you, Sir Earl, have for six years unlawfully ruled the land as regent for me.

In no wise. When my brother died, ’twas needful that some one should bear the kingly title. The Birchlegs, and most of all Dagfinn the Peasant, were active in your cause, and hastened your election through before we others could set forth our claims.

[To Håkon.] The Earl would say that that election gave you but the use of the kingly power, not the right to it.

You have held all the marks of kingship; but Sigurd Ribbung and Guthorm Ingesson and I hold ourselves to the full as near inheritors as you; and now shall the law judge between us, and say whose shall be the inheritance for all time.

In truth, Earl Skule reads the case aright.

There has been talk more than once in these years of both ordeal and folkmote; but something has ever come between. And, Sir Håkon, if you deemed your right for ever fixed by the first election, how came you to accept the ordeal?

[Exasperated.] To your swords, King’s men, let them decide!

[Rushing forward.] Down with the King’s enemies!

[Calls to his men.] Slay none! Wound none! Only keep them off.

[Restraining his men.] Up with your blades, all who have drawn them!—Up with your blades, I say! [Calmly.] You make things tenfold worse for me by such doings.

Even so are men flying at each other’s throats all the country over. You see now, Håkon Håkonsson; does not this show clearly what you have to do, if you care aught for the country’s peace and the lives of men?

[After some reflection.] Yes—I see it. [Takes Inga by the hand and turns to one of those standing by him.] Torkell, you were a trusty man in my father’s guard; take this woman to your own abode and see you tend her well; she was very dear to Håkon Sverresson.—God bless you, my mother,—now I must gird me for the folkmote. [Inga presses his hand, and goes with Torkell. Håkon is silent awhile, then steps forward and says with emphasis:] The law shall decide, and it alone. Ye Birchlegs who, at the Örething, took me for 130your King, I free you from the oath ye sware to me. You, Dagfinn, are no longer my marshal; I will not appear with marshal or with guard,^[26] with vassals or with henchmen. I am a poor man; all my inheritance is a brooch and this gold ring;—these are scant goods wherewith to reward so many good men’s service. Now, ye other Pretenders, now we stand equal; I will have no advantage of you, save the right which I have from above—that I neither can nor will share with any one.—Let the assembly-call be sounded, and then let God and the Holy King Olaf’s law decide.

[To the Earl, as the crowd is departing.] Methought you seemed afraid during the ordeal, and now you look so glad and of good cheer.

[Well at ease.] Marked you that he had Sverre’s eyes as he spoke? Whether he or I be chosen king, the choice will be good.

[Uneasily.] But do not you give way. Think of all who stand or fall with your cause.

I stand now upon justice; I no longer fear to call upon Saint Olaf.

[Hastening after Dagfinn the Peasant.] All goes well, good Dagfinn, all goes well;—but keep the Earl far from the King when he is chosen;—see you keep them far apart!

A hall in the Palace. In front, on the left, is a low window; on the right, the entrance-door; at the back, a larger door which leads into the King’s Hall. By the window, a table; chairs and benches stand about.

In here?

Ay, here it is darkest.

[Goes to the window.] And here we can look down upon the mote-stead.

[Looks out cautiously.] Ay, there they are, all gathered behind the church. [Turns, in tears.] Yonder must now betide what will bring so much in its train.

Who will be master in this hall to-morrow?

Oh, hush! So heavy a day I had never thought to see.

It had to be; to rule in another’s name was no full work for him.

Ay, it had to be; he could never rest content with but the name of king.

Of whom speak you?

Of Håkon.

I spoke of the Earl.

There breathe not nobler men than they two.

See you Sigurd Ribbung? With what a look of evil cunning he sits there—like a wolf in chains.

Ay, see!—He folds his hands before him on his sword-hilt and rests his chin upon them.

He bites his beard and laughs——

’Tis an evil laugh.

He knows that none will further his cause;—’tis that which makes him wroth. Who is yonder thane that speaks now?

That is Gunnar Grionbak.

Is he for the Earl?

No, he is for the King——

[Looking at her.] For whom say you?

For Håkon Håkonsson.

[Looks out; after a short pause.] Where sits Guthorm Ingesson?—I see him not.

Behind his men, lowest of all there—in a long mantle.

Ay, there.

He looks as though he were ashamed——

That is for his mother’s sake.

So looked not Håkon.

Who speaks now?

[Looking out.] Tord Skolle, the thane of Ranafylke.

Is he for the Earl?

No—for Håkon.

How motionless the Earl sits listening!

Håkon seems thoughtful—but strong none the less. [With animation.] If there came a traveller from afar, he could pick out those two amongst all the thousand others.

See, Margrete! Dagfinn the Peasant drags forth a gilded chair for Håkon——

Paul Flida places one like it behind the Earl——

Håkon’s men seek to hinder it!

The Earl holds fast to the chair——!

Håkon speaks wrathfully to him. [Starts back, with a cry, from the window.] Lord Jesus! Saw you his eyes—and his smile——! No, that was not the Earl!

[Who has followed her in terror.] ’Twas not Håkon either! Neither one nor the other!

[At the window.] Oh pitiful! Oh pitiful!

Sigrid!

You here!

Goes the path so low that leads up to the throne!

Oh, pray with us, that all be guided for the best.

[White and horror-stricken, to Sigrid.] Saw you him——? Saw you my husband——? His eyes and his smile—I should not have known him!

Looked he like Sigurd Ribbung?

[Softly.] Ay, he looked like Sigurd Ribbung.

Laughed he like Sigurd?

Ay, ay!

Then must we all pray.

[With the force of despair.] The Earl must be chosen King! ’Twill work ruin in his soul if he be not the first man in the land!

[More loudly.] Then must we all pray!

Hist! What is that? [At the window.] What shouts! All the men have risen; all the banners and standards wave in the wind.

[Seizes her by the arm.] Pray, woman! Pray for your husband!

Ay, Holy King Olaf, give him all the power in this land!

[Wildly.] None—none! Else is he lost!

He must have the power. All the good in him will grow and blossom should he win it.—Look 137forth, Margrete! Listen! [Starts back a step.] All hands are lifted for an oath!

God and St. Olaf, to whom do they swear?

Pray!

[After a little while.] Speak!

God and St. Olaf! To whom have they sworn?

[Turns her head and says:] They have chosen Håkon Håkonsson king.

[In the doorway, turning to Ivar Bodde.] Bring 138me a pen and wax and silk—I have parchment here. [Advances exultantly to the table and spreads some rolls of parchment upon it.] Margrete, now am I King!

Hail to my lord and King!

I thank you. [Looks at her and takes her hand.] Forgive me; I forgot that it must wound you.

[Drawing her hand away.] It did not wound me;—of a surety you are born to be king.

[With animation.] Ay, must not all men own it, who remember how marvellously God and the saints have shielded me from all harm? I was but a year old when the Birchlegs bore me over the mountains, in frost and storm, and through the very midst of those who sought my life. At Nidaros I came scatheless from the Baglers^[27] when they burnt the town with so great a slaughter, while King Ingë himself barely saved his life by climbing on shipboard up the anchor-cable.

Your youth has been a hard one.

[Looking steadily at her.] Methinks you might have made it easier.

I?

You might have been so good a foster-sister to me, through all the years when we were growing up together.

But it fell out otherwise.

Ay, it fell out otherwise;—we looked at each other, I from my corner, you from yours, but we seldom spoke——[Impatiently.] What is keeping him? [Ivar Bodde comes with the writing materials.] Are you there? Give me the things!

[Looks up and lays down his pen.] Know you, Sir Earl, what I am writing here? [The Earl approaches.] This is to my mother; I thank her for all her love, and kiss her a thousand times—here in the letter you understand. She is to be sent eastward to Borgasyssel, there to live with all queenly honours.

You will not keep her in the palace?

She is too dear to me, Earl;—a king must have none about him whom he loves too well. A king must act with free hands; he must stand alone 140he must neither be led nor lured. There is so much to be mended in Norway.

[Softly to Bishop Nicholas.] ’Tis by my counsel he deals thus with Inga, his mother.

I knew your hand in it at once.

But now one good turn deserves another.

Wait. I will keep my promise.

[Gives the parchment to Ivar Bodde.] Fold it together and bear it to her yourself, with many loving greetings——

[Who has glanced at the parchment.] My lord—you write here—“to-day”——!

The wind is fair for a southward course.

[Slowly.] Bethink you, my lord King, that she has lain all night on the altar-steps in prayer and fasting.

And she may well be weary after the ordeal.

True, true;—my good, kind mother—— [Collects himself.] Well, if she be too weary, let her wait until to-morrow.

It shall be as you will. [Puts another parchment forward.] But this other, my lord.

That other?—Ivar Bodde, I cannot.

[Points to the letter for Inga.] Yet you could do that.

All things sinful must be put away.

[Who has drawn near in the meantime.] Bind the Earl’s hands, King Håkon.

[In a low voice.] Think you that is needful?

At no cheaper rate can you buy peace in the land.

Then I can do it! Give me the pen!

[To the Bishop, who crosses to the right.] You have the King’s ear, it would seem.

For your behoof.

Say you so?

Before nightfall you will thank me.

[Hands the Earl the parchment.] Read that, Earl Skule.

[Reads, looks in surprise at the King, and says in a low voice.] You break with Kanga the Young?

With Kanga whom I have loved more than all the world. From this day forth she must never more cross the King’s path.

This that you do is a great thing, Håkon. Mine own memory tells me what it must cost.

Whoever is too dear to the King must away.—Tie up the letter. [Gives it to Ivar Bodde.

[Bending over the chair.] You have made a great stride towards the Earl’s friendship, my lord King.

[Holds out his hand to him.] I thank you, Bishop 143Nicholas; you counselled me for the best. Ask a grace of me, and I will grant it.

Will you?

I promise it on my kingly faith.

Then make Vegard Væradal thane of Halogaland.

Vegard? He is well-nigh the trustiest friend I have; I am loath to send him so far from me.

The King’s friend must be royally rewarded. Bind the Earl’s hands as I have counselled you, and you will be secure for ever and a day.

[Takes a sheet of parchment.] Vegard shall bear rule in Halogaland. [Writing.] I hereby grant it under my royal hand. [The Bishop retires.

[Approaches the table.] What write you now?

[Hands him the sheet.] Read.

[Reads, and looks steadily at the King.] Vegard Væradal? In Halogaland?

The northern part stands vacant.

Bethink you that Andres Skialdarband^[28] has also a charge in the north. They two are bitter foes;—Andres Skialdarband is of my following——

[Smiling and rising.] And Vegard Væradal of mine. Therefore they must e’en make friends again, the sooner the better. Henceforth there must be no enmity between the King’s men and the Earl’s.

Ha!—this may go too far. [Approaches, uneasy.

Your thoughts are wise and deep, Håkon.

[Warmly.] Earl Skule, to-day have I taken the kingdom from you—let your daughter share it with me!

My daughter!

Oh, God!

Margrete, will you be my Queen?

[Margrete is silent.

[Takes her hand.] Answer me.

[Softly.] I will gladly be your wife.

[Pressing Håkon’s hand.] Peace and friendship from my heart!

I thank you.

[To Dagfinn.] Heaven be praised; here is the dawn.

I almost believe it. Never before have I liked the Earl so well.

[Behind him.] Ever on your guard, good Dagfinn—ever on your guard.

[To Vegard.] Now are you thane in Halogaland; here you have it under the King’s hand.

I will thank the King for his favour another time.

[Stops him.] Andres Skialdarband is an ugly neighbour; be not cowed by him.

No one has yet cowed Vegard Væradal. [Goes.

[Following.] Be as rock and flint to Andres 146Skialdarband,—and, while I think on’t, take my blessing with you.

[Who has been waiting behind the King with the parchments in his hand.] Here are the letters, my lord.

Good; give them to the Earl.

To the Earl? Will you not seal them?

The Earl is wont to do that;—he holds the seal.

[Softly.] Ay, hitherto—while he was regent—but now!

Now as before;—the Earl holds the seal.

[Moves away.

Give me the letters, Ivar Bodde.

[Muttering.] Håkon Håkonsson is King—and the Earl holds the royal seal;—I like that—I like that.

What says my lord Bishop?

I say that God and St. Olaf watch over their holy church. [Goes into the King’s Hall.

[Approaching Margrete.] A wise queen can do great things in the land: I chose you fearlessly, for I know you are wise.

Only that?

What mean you?

Nothing, my lord, nothing.

And you will bear me no grudge if for my sake you have had to forgo fair hopes?

I have forgone no fair hopes for your sake.

And you will stand ever near me, and give me good counsel?

I would fain stand near to you.

And give me good counsel. I thank you for that; a woman’s counsel profits every man, and henceforth I have none but you—my mother I had to send away——

Ay, she was too dear to you——

And I am King. Farewell then, Margrete! You are so young yet; but next summer shall our bridal be,—and from that hour I swear to keep you by my side in all seemly faith and honour.

[Smiles sadly.] Ay, ’twill be long, I know, ere you send me away.

[Brightly.] Send you away? That will I never do.

[With tears in her eyes.] No, that Håkon does only to those who are too dear to him.

[From the right.] The King and the Earl tarry here so long! My fears are killing me;—Margrete, what has the King said and done?

Oh, much, much! Last of all, he chose a thane and a Queen.

You, Margrete!

[Throws her arms round her mother’s neck.] Yes!

You are to be Queen!

Queen only;—but I think I am glad even of that.

[To Ivar Bodde.] Here are our letters; bear them to the King’s mother and to Kanga.

[In the doorway of the hall.] The Archbishop of Nidaros craves leave to offer King Håkon Håkonsson his homage.

[Draws a deep breath.] At last, then, I am King of Norway.

[Places the Great Seal in his girdle.] But I rule the realm.

Banquet Hall in the Palace at Bergen. A large bay-window in the middle of the back wall, along which there is a daïs with seats for the ladies. Against the left wall stands the throne, raised some steps above the floor; in the centre of the opposite wall is the great entrance door. Banners, standards, shields and weapons, with many-coloured draperies, hang from the wall-timbers and from the carven rafters. Around the hall stand drinking-tables, with flagons, horns, and beakers.

King Håkon sits upon the daïs, with Margrete, Sigrid, Lady Ragnhild, and many noble ladies. Ivar Bodde stands behind the King’s chair. Round the drinking-tables are seated the King’s and the Earl’s men, with guests. At the foremost table on the right sit, among others, Dagfinn The Peasant, Gregorius Jonsson, and Paul Flida. Earl Skule and Bishop Nicholas are playing chess at a table on the left. The Earl’s house-folk go to and fro, bearing cans of liquor. From an adjoining room, music is heard during the following scene.

The fifth day now wears on, yet the henchmen are none the less nimble at setting forth the brimming flagons.

It was never the Earl’s wont to stint his guests.

No, so it would seem. So royal a bridal-feast was never seen in Norway before.

Earl Skule has never before given a daughter in marriage.

True, true; the Earl is a mighty man.

He holds a third part of the kingdom. That is more than any earl has held heretofore.

But the King’s part is larger.

We talk not of that here; we are friends now, and fully at one. [Drinks to Paul.] So let King be King and Earl be Earl.

[Laughs.] ’Tis easy to hear that you are a King’s man.

That should the Earl’s men also be.

Never. We have sworn fealty to the Earl, not to the King.

That may yet have to be done.

[To the Earl, under cover of the game.] Hear you what Dagfinn the Peasant says?

[Without looking up.] I hear.

[Looking steadily at Dagfinn.] Has the King thoughts of that?

Nay, nay,—let be;—no wrangling to-day.

The King would force your men to swear him fealty, Earl.

[Louder.] Has the King thoughts of that, I ask?

I will not answer. Let us drink to peace and friendship between the King and the Earl. The ale is good.

It has had time enough to mellow.

Three times has the Earl prepared the bridal—three times the King promised to come—three times he came not.

Blame the Earl for that: he gave us plenty to do in Viken.

’Tis said Sigurd Ribbung gave you still more to do in Vermeland.

[Flaring up.] Ay, and who was it that let Sigurd Ribbung slip through their fingers?

Sigurd Ribbung fled from us at Nidaros, that all men know.

But no man knows that you did aught to hinder him.

[To the Earl, who is pondering on a move.] Hear you, Earl? It was you who let Sigurd Ribbung escape.

[Makes a move.] That is an old story.

Have you not heard, then, of the Icelander Andres Torsteinsson, Sigurd Ribbung’s friend——

Ay; when Sigurd had escaped, you hanged the Icelander—that I know.

[Makes a move and says laughingly to the Earl.] I take the pawn, Sir Earl.^[29]

[Aloud.] Take him; a pawn is of small account.

Ay; that the Icelander found to his cost, when Sigurd Ribbung escaped to Vermeland.

Then I move here, and you have lost.

So it would seem.

[Leaning back in his chair.] You did not guard the king well at the last.

[Strews the pieces topsy-turvy and rises.] I have long been weary of guarding kings.

[Approaches and says in a low tone.] Sir Earl, Jostein^[30] Tamb sends word that the ship now lies ready for sea.

[Softly.] Good. [Takes out a sealed parchment.] Here is the letter.

[Shaking his head.] Earl, Earl,—is this well bethought?

What?

It bears the King’s seal.

I am acting for the King’s good.

Then let the King himself reject the offer.

That he will not, if he has his own way. His whole heart is bent on cowing the Ribbungs, therefore he is fain to secure himself on other sides.

Your way may be wise,—but it is dangerous.

Leave that to me. Take the letter, and bid Jostein sail forthwith.

It shall be as you command.

[Goes out to the right, and presently comes in again.

[To the Earl.] You have much to see to, it would seem.

But small thanks for it.

The King has risen.

[To the Bishop.] We are rejoiced to see you bear up so bravely and well through all these days of merriment.

There comes a flicker now and again, my lord King; but ’twill scarce last long. I have lain sick all the winter through.

Ay, ay,—you have lived a strong life, rich in deeds of fame.

[Shakes his head.] Ah, ’tis little enough I have done, and I have much still left to do. If I but knew whether I should have time for it all!

The living must take up the tasks of those who go before, honoured lord; we all have the welfare of the land at heart. [Turns to the Earl.] I marvel much at one thing: that neither of our thanes from Halogaland has come to the bridal.

True; I doubted not that Andres Skialdarband would be here.

[Smiling.] And Vegard Væradal too.

Ay, Vegard too.

[In jest.] And I trust you would now have received my old friend better than you did seven years ago on Oslo wharf, when you stabbed him in the cheek so that the blade cut its way out.

[With a forced laugh.] Ay, the time that Gunnulf, your mother’s brother, cut off the right hand of Sira Eiliv, my best friend and counsellor.

[Merrily.] And when Dagfinn the Peasant and the men-at-arms set a strong night-watch on the King’s ship, saying that the King was unsafe in the Earl’s ward?

[Seriously.] Those days are old and forgotten.

[Approaching.] Now may we sound the call to the weapon-sports on the green, if so please you, my lord.

Good. To-day will we give up to nought but 158merriment; to-morrow we must turn our thoughts again to the Ribbungs and the Earl of Orkney.

Ay, he denies to pay tribute, is it not so?

Were I once well rid of the Ribbungs, I would myself fare westward.

[Håkon goes towards the daïs, gives his hand to Margrete, and leads her out to the right; the others gradually follow.

[To Ivar Bodde.] Who is the man called Jostein Tamb?

There is a trader from Orkney who bears that name.

From Orkney? So, so! And now he sails home again?

So I think.

[Softly.] With a precious freight, Ivar Bodde.

Corn and raiment, most like.

And a letter from Earl Skule.

[Starting.] To whom?

I know not; it bore the King’s seal——

[Seizes him by the arm.] Lord Bishop,—is it as you say?

Hush! Do not mix me up in the matter.

[Retires.

Then must I straightway——Dagfinn the Peasant! Dagfinn! Dagfinn——!

[In a tone of commiseration, to Gregorius Jonsson.] Never a day but one or another must suffer in goods or freedom.

Who is it now?

A poor trader,—Jostein Tamb methinks they called him.

Jostein——?

Dagfinn the Peasant would forbid him to set sail.

Dagfinn, would forbid him, say you?

He went even now.

Pardon, my lord; I must make speed——

Ay, do even so, my dear lord;—Dagfinn the Peasant is so hasty.

[Walks up and down in deep thought; he seems suddenly to awaken; looks round him, and says:] How still it has become here of a sudden!

The King has gone.

And every one has followed him.

All, save us.

It is a great thing to be King.

[Tentatively.] Are you fain to try it, Earl?

[With a serious smile.] I have tried it; every night that brings me sleep makes me King of Norway.

Dreams forbode.

Ay, and tempt.

Not you, surely. In bygone days, that I could understand—but now, when you hold a third part of the kingdom, rule as the first man in the land, and are the Queen’s father——

Now most of all—now most of all.

Hide nothing! Confess; for verily I can see a great pain is gnawing you.

Now most of all, I say. This is the great curse that lies upon my whole life: to stand so near to the highest,—with an abyss between. One leap, and on the other side are the kingship, and the purple robe, the throne, the might, and all! I have it daily before my eyes—but can never reach it.

True, Earl, true.

When they made Guthorm Sigurdsson king, I was in the full strength of my youth.youth. It was as though a voice cried aloud within me: Away with the child,—I am the man, the strong man!—But 162Guthorm was the king’s son; there yawned an abyss between me and the throne.

And you dared not venture——

Then Erling Steinvæg was chosen by the Slittungs. The voice cried within me again: Skule is a greater chieftain than Erling Steinvæg! But I must needs have broken with the Birchlegs,—that was the abyss that time.

And Erling became king of the Slittungs, and after of the Ribbungs, and still you waited!

I waited for Guthorm to die.

And Guthorm died, and Inge Bårdsson, your brother, became king.

Then I waited for my brother’s death. He was sickly from the first; every morning, when we met at holy mass, I would cast stolen glances to see whether his sickness increased. Every twitch of pain that crossed his face was as a puff of wind in my sails, and bore me nearer to the throne. Every sigh he breathed in his agony sounded to me like an echoing trumpet-blast, like a herald from afar, proclaiming that the throne should soon be mine. Thus I tore up by the roots every 163thought of brotherly kindness; and Inge died, and Håkon came—and the Birchlegs made him king.