Act One:
Page I – Page II – Page III – Page IV – Page V
Act Two:
Page I  –  Page II  –  Page III
Act Three:
Page I – Page II – Page III – Page IV

ACT THREE

 

( Evening with clear moonlight.   Colored lamps are burning on the trees.   In the background are tables laid with bottles of wine, glasses, cakes and so on.   All the windows in the house are lit up, and during the scene that follows, soft piano music issues from inside. SVANHILD stands by the veranda.   FALK enters from the right carrying some books and a portfolio under his arm.   A servant follows with a trunk and valise.)

 

FALK:   Is that the lot?

 

SERVANT:                  Just about, I reckon –

              There's still a small knapsack to bring on

              And your summer coat.

 

FALK:                                            Fine.   I'll carry those

              Over my shoulder.   Now, over here - come close;

              See my portfolio?

 

SERVANT:                         Locked, I can see.

 

FALK:    Yes, Sivert, locked.

 

SERVANT:                         Right.

 

FALK:                                             Now, listen to me:

              Burn it at once.

 

SERVANT:                      Burn it?

 

FALK:                                            To ashes, completely.

                                            (Smiling)

All my assets are payable in poetry.

Books, too.   You're very welcome to the lot.

 

SERVANT:   Ah, no, you're bidding me do what

              I can't.     When you're willing to give away

              Books, it means kissing your learning goodbye.

 

FALK:   I've already got from books all they are capable

              Of teaching, and more.

 

SERVANT:                                 More?   That's unbelievable!

 

FALK:      But quick now!     The porter's waiting outside.

                Go help him pack up the whole barrow load.

                  (The servant goes out to the left)

 

FALK:     (Approaching   SVANHILD who comes to meet him)

                There's still an hour left us, Svanhild, as we meet

                In the sight of God, beneath this night of stars.

                Look how they're piercing this green-leafed retreat,

                Like gleaming fruit. They're seed the world-tree bears.

              I've broken with convention's slavish bonds,

              And suffered the last time its lashes' wounds;

              I'll set out questing for the promised land.

              Like Jacob' tribe, bearing my staff in hand:

              While this faint-hearted generation, blind

              To new frontiers beyond the desert sands,

              In slavish labor builds a slavish thing:

              A monument for the mummy of a king.

              I'll pass through arid wastelands of today:

              My destination's where the waves divide,

              Where foes whose falsehoods menace on each side

              Are hurled to deep oblivion in the sea.

              (Short silence; he gazes at her and takes her hand)

                    You're silent, Svanhild!

 

SVANHILD:                                     Silent, yes and glad.

              Oh let me dream, in silence let me dream.

              You be my voice, for when I hear your   words,

              My thoughts break into song and burst like buds,

              Like water lilies opening on the stream.

 

FALK:   Let's hear it one more time, in truth's clear tone,

              That you incontrovertibly are mine.

              Say it now Svanhild, say it - !

 

SVANHILD (Throwing her arms around his neck) : Yours!   Once again!

 

FALK:   You songbird sent by God for me alone!

             

SVANHILD: Living in mother's house I found no home,

              So I retired to the solitude of my mind;

              What stirred the house to joy, I found unwelcome;

              I counted for little worth of any kind.

              Then you appeared;   for the first time I heard

              My own thoughts echoed in another's words.

You gathered up my scattered reveries,

Young, brave, combating our time's cowardice.

I half shrank back before your mind's keen glare,

Yet felt the strong attraction of its light;

As the sea is drawn towards the wooded shore,

Where rocks fling back the waves in constant fight.

Now I've seen to the bottom of your soul;

So now I'm yours to gather, free and whole.

You, love, are the bough bent over my heart's sea,

Giving its ebbs and flows their constancy.

 

FALK:   Now I give thanks to God he chose the way

              Of pain for my love's baptism.   I was

              Ignorant where my soul's true heaven lay,  

              Until I saw the jewel I might lose.

              Yes, praise to him, who stamped a seal of sorrows

              On my book of life, ennobling my love' course.

              We'll   seek our home through wilderness and forest,

              Together victorious over every contest.

              Two heroes mounted on our Pegasus.

 

SVANHILD: (Pointing to the house) :

              In there each room is filled with celebration;

              The lamps are being lit for the young pair.

              Speeches and songs resound for the occasion.

              An stranger looking on would think that there

              Rapture resides – with voices raised in cheer.

              Poor child of this world's pleasures, sister dear!

 

FALK:   You say poor child?

 

SVANHILD:                           For didn't she apportion

              Her soul's rich gifts to him and all her friends.

              Scattering her wealth into a hundred hands,

              That claim to owe her nothing in return.

              None of them offer what her spirit must crave.

None of them give her any cause to live.

  I think myself now ten times wealthier,

              Possessing the world's one and only treasure.

              My heart was empty when you came among us,

              Bringing your thousand songs.   You made me whole,            

              Like a breath of Spring you roused and led me, joyous,

              Through all the baffled pathways of my soul.

              I thank God, therefore, for that time of pain,

              Whose loneliness was a trial for your love.

                I lay there buried, not to live   again,

              Till summoned by you from death to light above.

 

FALK:   It's true.   We're the most friendless in the world,

              And yet the richest with the wealth we own.

              Others' rejoicings we observe, exiled,

Standing out here in the still night alone.

Leave them their lamplight, their triumphant singing,

Deluded dancers to each other clinging.

              Look upwards, Svanhild, up to the night sky

              Where a thousand lamps shine far more steadfastly.

 

SVANHILD:   Hear, my darling, how the cool evening breeze

              Rouses the linden's leaves to harmonies!

FALK: The vault of heaven is glittering on our loves.

SVANHILD: And for our love there's singing in the leaves.

 

FALK:    It's as if I've been God's long lost prodigal son,

              Betraying him for the world's delusive gain.

              He beckoned me home again with gentle hands;

              Now I've returned, he lights the lamp and tends

              Upon me, gently feasting his lost one;

He now bestows on me his noblest mission.

This moment sees my long betrayal end;

I'll be a sentry in the band of light;

Our lives will be a hymn in which we blend

Our voices for the victory of love's right.

 

SVANHILD: How easy a victory it is to win

              With one such man -

FALK:                                   -   and one such steadfast woman.

              For a pair like us, failure's impossible!

 

SVANHILD: We're ready, then, to face down loss and sorrow.

              (She shows FALK's ring on her finger).

              This moment I intend to tell them all

 

FALK (Quickly) :   Not now, Svanhild.   Best wait till tomorrow.

              Tonight we'll gather the roses of our joy -

              A blessing their banalities would destroy.

              (The door of the garden room opens) .

              Your mother's coming!   Quick now, go and hide!

              This night, no-one but I knows you're my bride!

 

(They go between the trees by the summer house.   MRS. HALM and   GULDSTAD appear on the veranda).

MRS. HALM   He's actually leaving!

 

GULDSTAD:                                         So it would seem.

 

STYVER (Entering) : He's leaving, Mrs. Halm!

 

MRS HALM:                                                           Good heavens,   I'm

              Aware of that!        

 

STYVER:                        A distressing situation!

              He'll keep his word; I know his disposition.

              We'll all be put into his scandal sheet.

              My dearest will come out in many editions,

              Between new births, annulments, love retractions.

              You know what I think?   If we can only meet

              His terms without embarrassment, he'll concede.

 

MRS. HALM: You think he's so inclined?

 

STYVER:                                                      I really do.

              There are indications, here and there a clue,

              He was intoxicated when he threw

              His challenge at us in the way he did.

              Yes, there is evidence, though not conclusive,

              Yet in this case seems to appear decisive.

              There's testimony   that after the tea session

              He set off to the house he shares with Lind

              Then promptly   acted as if out of his mind,

              Smashing the –

 

GULDSTAD: (Catching a glimpse of   FALK and   SVANHILD,   who are parting from each other.     FALK goes to the background,   SVANHILD remains standing by the summer house.)

                                    Wait,   I think on this occasion

              We're safe.   Mrs. Halm, Falk won't be leaving,

              Or, if he does, he does so as a friend.

 

STYVER:    You think so - ?

 

MRS. HALM:                        Why, what do you intend?

 

GULDSTAD:   Only those actions you'll soon be approving.

              I'll manage things to the benefit of all.

              Grant me a few words in private –

 

MRS. HALM:                                                 Very well.

 

              (They go out together into the garden; during what follows they are seen

                    now   and then in lively conversation.)

 

STYVER: (Going down the steps into the garden where he discovers   FALK who is staring across the water).

                    These poets are aggressive, dangerous men;

              We bureaucrats must learn to handle them.

              That's what I'll practice now –

                              (Sees the priest approaching from the garden).

                                                               Oh, well!   Hello!

 

STRÅMAND (On the veranda) :   He's actually leaving!

(Goes down to   STYVER.)                                   My good fellow

Would you mind going now inside the house

And hold my wife –

 

STYVER:                               You want me to hold your spouse!

 

STRÅMAND:   In conversation I mean.   We and the children are so

              Used to always being together, for    

              We never –   (As   MRS. STRÅMAND and the children are seen in the doorway)

                      But now they are at the door!

 

MRS. STRÅMAND: Are you there, Stråmand?

 

STRÅMAND (Quietly, to   STYVER):                  Find something to say

              To keep them amused – or contented, anyway.             

 

STYVER (Goes to the veranda) :

              Mrs. Stråmand,   have you read our department circular?

              It's style's a model of the vernacular.

              (Produces booklet from his pocket)

                    Let me quote some passages in extenso –

  (He politely leads them into the room..   FALK enters from the garden; he and

STRÅMAND meet; they look at one another for a moment)

 

STRÅMAND: Well?

 

FALK:                         Well?

 

STRÅMAND:                          Mr. Falk!

 

FALK:                                                     Mr. Stråmand!

 

STRÅMAND:                                                                 Now, sir

              Are you more reasonable than at our last encounter?

 

FALK:                                                                                        

              My course it set and at this time remains so.                         

 

STRÅMAND: Though you tread your neighbor's happiness underfoot?

 

FALK:   It's there I'll make the plant of truth take root.

                            (Smiling)

                    What's on your mind I think is my news service

              For lovers?

 

STRÅMAND:           Perhaps the whole thing was a joke?

 

FALK:      Rest easy!   I'll let that project go up in smoke;

                With actions, not with print , I'll break the ice.

 

STRÅMAND: Even if you spare me, there's one who'll work,

              To make sure I am not let off so lightly.

              He'll take advantage – Styver, the rhyming clerk -

              And it's your fault he's willing to act so vilely.

              You've raked up all those ancient indiscretions,

              And you can bet he'll make it his profession

              To use them if I dare so much as utter        

              A word against the wage claims they are after.

              Bureaucrats wield extraordinary power

              Over the media, as you are aware.

              With a mere pen-prick Styver can destroy me

              If details appear in one of the big gazettes

              That flail about with all their weaponry,

              Or trawl in the day's scandals in their nets.

              It's especially tricky the end of every quarter –

 

FALK Conceding) : If your saga's scandalous, surely you ought to –

 

STRÅMAND (Dispiritedly) : The newspapers have visious ways to slaughter

              A reputation on revenge's altar.

 

FALK (Jocularly) :   On retribution's, rather: a merited fate.

              For there stalks through our lives a Nemesis,

              Whose blow falls surely though it may fall late.

              And from this Fury there is no release.

              If somehow you've offended the Ideal

              Then springs the Press, that sleepless Guardian;

              And have no doubts about the effects you'll feel.

 

STRÅMAND: Good God, I've made no contract, no, not one

              With this Ideal you're currently describing.

              I'm a married man, the father of a family:

              Think how my twelve dependents cling to me.

              Then there's the daily duties of my calling:

              Where I've gathered into one capacious fold,

              My spiritual flock whom I securely hold,

              To care for, feed and fleece, lead them, assured

              Through fields I've threshed, and recently manured.

              I'm sought for in the sheepfold and the stable;

              I couldn't serve the Ideal if I were able!

 

FALK:    Return home, then, the sooner you go, the better.

              Creep under roof before the winter's onset.

              Young Norway's waking to a different mind-set,

              Where a thousand warrior's banners proudly flutter

              In the dawn breeze, through to a glorious sunset.

 

STRÅMAND:   And if I do go home again, young man

              With all my dear ones, every single one

              Who yesterday made up my little kingdom.

              Hasn't every belief today been overturned?

              I came here rich, but how will I return?

                         (As FALK is abut to speak)I

                    No, wait, and listen; there is more to come.  

                            (Draws nearer)

              There was a time when I was young like you,

              And no less brave and confident of my merit.

              I drudged for bread; past years gave way to new.

              That bondage toughens the hands, but breaks the spirit.

              Then I went north; my home hugged a cliff side,

              The radius of my world was no more wide

              Than my poor parish.   You know what makes a home?

 

FALK (Curtly) : I've never known one.

 

STRÅMAND:                                        That I can believe.

              A home is where five can find ample room,

              Though two alone might find it hard to live.

              A home is where your thoughts can find release,

              To play like children round their father's chair.

              Where no soul needs to languish when it speaks,

              Which hears a loved one's question like a prayer.

              A home is where your hair can turn to gray,

              With no-one telling you're getting old.

              Where shimmering memories linger far away,

              Like peaks behind the forests, blue and gold.

             

FALK (Forcing himself to be ironic) : You're eloquent!

 

STRÅMAND:                                                                   Another thing to laugh   at!

              The Lord created us so different;

              I am inept at those things you are good at.

              But I am rich where you are most deficient.

From clouds an object's seen to be a cheat,

Which on the highway seems a truth that's proven.

You seek the heights;   I'll keep to the street.

One bird's   shaped as an eagle –

 

FALK:                                                    - one a hen.

 

STRÅMAND: Well, laugh away.   But let's take it as given!

              So I'm a hen; but see! my paternal wing

              Shelters my hatchlings.   You meanwhile have – nothing!                   

              I have a hen's heart, too, which has the courage

              To strike out fiercely when it's young's in danger.

              I know you don't rate high my mental baggage;  

              Your adverse judgment may be even stronger.

              I set too high a store on worldly goods;

              Well, on that quarrel I won't waste my words.

(Grips   FALK by the arm, continuing quietly but with increasing emphasis)

              I'm greedy, dull, I know I don't think nimbly;

              My greed's for those entrusted me by God.

              My mind was stunted fighting poverty,

              And loneliness makes you into a dullard.

              The youthful vessel on which I set   sail,

              Capsized before those unrelenting seas;

              Another boat, driven by a gentler gale,

              Then bore me landward to a benefice.

              For every dream abandoned in the struggle

              For every harsh reversal in the tempest,

              The Lord achieved a wondrous miracle.

              And I gave praise to Him as I knew best.

              For them I labored, them I bore the burden,

              For them interpreted the Holy Writ.

              They were the roses, nurtured in my garden;

              Now they've been blighted by your poisoned wit.

              You've demonstrated, with aesthetic rigor,

              That all my joy was a fool's reverie,

                My solemn pose makes me a clownish figure

              So I implore,   restore my world to me.

              Give back, whole and unharmed, my former faith –

 

FALK:    Am I to underwrite your fond illusions - ?

 

STRÅMAND: You've lain a stone of doubt across my path,

              A heavy weight that only you can loosen.

              Remove this barrier raised between me and mine

              That you erected.   Free me from this yoke –

 

FALK:     For broken phantasms?   I have no lime

                Of lies enabling me do that work.

 

STRÅMAND: Yet I believe the faith that you have shattered

              With words, you can rebuild with new words spoken.

                Attempt to join again the links you've broken.

              Relent, proclaim the only truth that mattered.

              Prove it anew, so I can hear it told.

 

FALK (Proudly) : I cannot stamp brass counterfeit as gold.

 

STRÅMAND (Looking intently at him) :   Then keep in mind the warning lately given

              By someone who by zeal for truth is driven:

              “There stalks through all our lives a Nemesis

              And from this Fury there is no release.”     (He goes into the house).