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 ONE (Page V)

STRÅMAND:                                                               Thank you!

 

MRS STRÅMAND:   But you have visitors.

 

MRS. HALM.                                                 Don't let that trouble you.        

 

MRS. STRÅMAND: If we're any problem –

 

MRS. HALM:                                                Not at all.

              You've chosen an opportune time to call.

              My daughter Anna's to be married soon.

 

STRÅMAND (Unctuously taking   ANNA's hand) :

              I witness here that these now joined in love,

Not moth nor rust shall corrupt their holy union,

If guaranteed by grace secured above.

 

MRS. HALM:   But how delightful you could bring along

              Your little ones.

 

STRÅMAND:                  There's yet another four

              We were unable to bring with us.

 

MRS HALM:                                             Really?

 

STRÅMAND:    Three of them not yet old enough to care

              About the absence of their loving parents

              On Parliamentary business.

 

MISS SKJAERE: (To   MRS. HALM, making her farewells) :

                                                     It's time I went.

 

MRS. HALM:   Oh no!   Must you really go so early?

 

MIS SKJAERE:   I must get to town and relay the news.

              The Jensens, you know, always go late to bed;

              And I know how much the aunts will be made glad.

              Anna my dear, you must not be bashful – tomorrow's

              The day the greetings pour in, and all that follows.

 

MR.HALM:   Well then, bye, bye. (To the others)   But now what about

              Some tea.   Mrs Stråmand, if you'd be so good.

 

(MRS.HALM, STRÅMAND and his wife and children, together with

GULDSTAD, LIND   and   ANNA   go into the house.)

 

MISS SKJAERE (taking her fiancées arm) :   Let's be romantic.   Look, Styver, just see

              How Luna sits shimmering on her throne.

              But you're not even looking!

 

STYVER (Moodily) :                              I am.   But I need to be

              Thinking about an endorsement for that loan.

 

              (They go   out to the left.     FALK, who during the former exchange has been regarding     STRÅMAND and his wife, now is alone at the back of the garden.   It is now advanced into the evening and in the house lights are being lit.)

 

FALK:   All burnt out now…dead.   Inconsolably bitter.

              And so we go through life, pair after pair,

              To one heaped mass.   Like the charred litter,

              Left as dead ashes after a forest fire.

              Waste, only,   as far as sight can register.

              And there's no green force driving through our life.

 

              (SVANHILD enters onto the veranda with a blossoming rose-tree, which she sets

                    on the ledge of the fence.)

 

FALK:   And yet…and yet…?

 

SVANHILD:                         Falk!   In the dark, still standing here?

 

FALK:   And not afraid?     No, darkness brings relief.

              But what of you.   Are you not scared, immured

              Among the illuminated corpses there?

 

SVANHILD: Oh, come now..!

 

FALK (Regarding   STRÅMAND, who shows himself in the window.)

                                        There's one who earlier had known no fear;

              Who, for his lover once outfaced the world;

              Challenged the church's ordinances – all,

              So that his love rang out in heroic song –

              Look at him now, on whom church vestments hang,

              As costume for the comedy of his fall.

              And then that female in her shabby skirt,

              Her shoes ill-fitting, flapping at her heels –

              She's the winged Victory who, it once was thought,

              Would lead him upward to Elysian fields.

              Where's all that fire now; where, all its glories?

                The lesson, lady?   Sic transit gloria amoris,

 

SVAHILD: It's ghastly, ghastly, just to think about.

              I don't know any life I'd imitate.

 

FALK (Decisively)   Then let's declare a war against all laws

Not shaped by nature, only by mere convention.

 

SVANHILD (Shaking her head)   I'm afraid all that's already a lost cause.

              As certain as the earth we're standing on.  

 

FALK:   No, united we can march to victory.

              No more a part of that coarse congregation

              That's settled for a life of ignominy.

              From now each one of us must claim a station,

              In a life assigned to liberty and truth.  

              Not ever faltering on our upward path,

              The living spirit's throbbing through your veins,

              Urging the words that your strong soul ordains.

              You'll not endure custom's stiff rules to check

              The swiftly pulsing flow of your heart's blood;

              Nor will your voice chime with the common pack

              Of servile voices, hymning to the crowd.

 

SVAHILD:   And don't you think that often times the strain,

              Has dimmed my eyes and filled my heart with pain

              I've longed to live my life in my own way –

 

FALK:     In your unspoken thoughts, yes.

 

SVANHILD:                                              No, more actively.

              But then would come the inevitable aunts, to see

              How they should deal with matters practically –

              My unspoken thoughts, you say!   I was quite daring

              And went out on a limb – I tried to paint.

 

             

FALK: The result?

 

SVANHILD:        Failure, I had no talent for the calling.

              But the call of freedom still was far from faint.

              After painting failed it was the theater's turn.

 

FALK: And that project was similarly overthrown?

 

SVANHILD: Yes, the oldest of the aunts made quite a fuss,

Then secured me a place instead as a governess.

 

FALK:   No-one's ever told me of this before!

 

SVANHILD:   Naturally.   They were careful not to impair

              My ‘future' which could well be compromised

              If eligible young bachelors ever got wise.

 

FALK (Regarding her awhile with thoughtful concern)

              I've long suspected something of the sort.

              I remember when I first set eyes on you

              Among that crowd; something set you apart.  

              And none of them could really understand you.

              There was the table, the genteel gathering:

              The scent of tea, and conversation, wafted.

              While ladies blushed, the young men strutted, preening

              Like docile pigeons as the day's talk drifted:

              With much esteem for morality and religion,

              For young wives, old maids and even older matrons;

Domestic virtues earned high estimation.

              Like a bird perched on the roof you stood alone,

Until the chatter round the board subsided

Into a trivial tea-time bacchanal.  

You gleamed like silver, while the others faded

Into stamped copper, paper, the crassest metal.

You were the coinage of a rarer minting,

Depreciated by the currency

In our exchange, of daily chattering

On art and culture and confectionery.

Then, as Miss Skjaere got her story going -

 

SVANHILD (With   a solemn expression)

                    Her fiancé planted like a knight of old

              His hat upon his arm serving as shield -

 

FALK: Your mother nodded across the table, saying

              “Drink up, Svanhild, before your tea gets cold.”

              And dutifully you drank the tepid brew

              With young and old, as you're supposed to do.

              But I took in your name with all its aura

              Of Volsung saga steeped in ancient horror -

              Of fallen heroes linked in a long chain,

              Up to our time where they might live again.

              I saw a second Svanhild resurrected,

              Transformed, according to our modern manners,

              Where, despite the heroic icons on our banners,

              The authentic warrior spirit is rejected.

                But even in our time, guilt is expiated

              By innocent blood, when laws are violated.

 

SVANHILD (With some irony) :

              How odd to see such bloody fantasies

              Lurk in the depths of a mere pot of tea.

              The extent of all your art would seem to be

              To conjure spirits, where spirits lie in peace.

 

FALK (Stirred) : No use in laughing, Svanhild.   I can see

              Tears hidden deep behind your mockery.

              I see still more:   If you're trodden into clay,

              And made the stuff for undistinguished art,

              A thousand sculpting hacks will take their part,

              Modeling your life to mediocrity.  

              What God has shaped, the world will plagiarize,

              Rending your form into their golden image;

              Botching your beauty, raising to the skies

              The corrupted icon of this fallen age.

              Rejoicing, “See, how ‘normal' she can seem.

              How malleable the marble has become.

              In the right light, how tastefully she blends

              With the décor!”   And is this how it ends?

              (Impulsively taking her by the hand)

                    No!   If your soul must die, yet live till then!

              Join with me in the springtime of God's nature!

              Too soon your gilded cage will shut its door –      

Life as fine lady, death for the free woman -

              For her to whom alone I can give my love!

              The soul resigned to bondage - others can have!

              Here's where the sources of my life's spring burst;

              Here's where my tree of poetry blossomed first;

              Here I grew wings.   If you don't compromise,

              Then, Svanhild, I will gain the poet's prize.

 

SVANHILD (Slightly reproachful as she withdraws her hand).

              Why choose this time to say this to me here?

              It was better when we could meet unconstrained.

              You shouldn't have spoken. Must happiness be contained

              In lofty words for fear it might disappear?

              You had to speak and now it's flown away.

 

FALK:   No, I have shown the hazardous way of hope.

              Can you, proud Svanhild, summon the courage to leap

              Over the gulf?   The courage to be free.

 

SVANHILD:   To be free?

 

FALK:                              Yes, that is where freedom lies,

              Giving yourself entire to your destiny.

              And you are formed to help me realize

              Life free from the languor of comformity.   

              For, like the falcon after which I'm named,

              I must contest the wind and climb the heights;  

Riding your spirit's tempests in my flights;

To spread my wings, defiant and untamed.

Be mine, what the world claims can wait,

Until the Fall, when our paths separate.       

Let the treasures of your soul sing out in mine,

And you'll be given song for song in turn.

Then later suffer the withering in time;

Watch the leaves fall, and neither weep nor mourn.

 

SVANHILD (With concealed bitterness)

                    I can hardly thank you for your kind attention,

              The solicitude you consummately convey.

              As a child fashions a reed, so your intention

              Is to make me for your flute –just for a day.

 

FALK:   Would you rather stagnate in the marsh, withering

              As the poisonous gray mist is gatherimg?

              You must!   You shall!   It is your duty clearly    

              To give to me what God gave you so dearly;

My poetry will make your dreams live truly.

That bird, whose song I cruelly terminated

Brought joys you found too precious to be rated.

Don't fail me, Svanhild.   Sing to me in that way;

My life shall be the poem I'll repay.

 

SVANHILD: And then what?   When you've sat out my last song

              What's to become of me.

 

FALK:                                    You remember how it ends.

                              (Points to the garden)

 

SVANHILD: When you decide you don't need me along?  

                                          ( Softly)

              Ah yes, I remember that you can throw stones.

 

FALK (Laughing scornfully) :   You're a free spirit, or at least so you swore.

              Who'd dare to leap, if only there was a purpose.

                            (Vehemently)

              I've set you that goal, now it's for you to produce

              A convincing answer

 

SVANILD                              You have my answer.

              You've not laid out the path by which I'll reach you.

 

FALK: (Coldly, breaking off)

              So be it. Accept the task the world will teach you.

 

              (SVANHILD has silently turned from him.    She places her hands on the veranda's railings and leans her head on them).

 

FALK (Walking back and forth a few times, taking out a cigar, standing beside her and says, after a pause) :

              No doubt you think it a subject more for laughter –

              What I've been laying out to you this evening.

              (He waits expecting a reply, but   SVANHILD is silent)

              I've clearly blundered, as I'm now perceiving.

              Your feelings are those of a sister – or a daughter.

              I'll handle you with kid-gloves from now on.

              It's the best procedure to be acting on.

                           

(He waits, but   SVANHILD stands without moving, so he turns and goes across to the right)

 

SVANHILD (Raises her head after a short silence, looks steadily at him, and approaches)

              I'm going to speak to you quite seriously,

              In response to your kind offer to rescue me.

              You earlier used an image that alerted me

              To what your “flight to the skies” really would be.

              You likened yourself to a falcon who must strive

              Against the gale to gain the utmost height;

                I was that gale to guarantee your flight;

              Without my aid your project couldn't thrive.

              How truly pathetic!   How absolutely feeble!

              Yes, ludicrous, as you yourself conceded.

              And yet that simile fell on fertile soil,

              And grew into the image that I needed.

              Not like your lame one that can only hobble.

              What I saw was a kite -   not the falcon's wing -

              But a poetic kite constructed out of paper,

              Where I was a mere secondary matter.

              For the really important feature was the string.

              The main body, a manifesto made to hold

              Assurances of future poetic gold.

              The wings were fashioned out of epigrams,

              Flapping the air, inflicting no real harm.

              The tail would be a satire on the times,

              Designed to lash the age's trivial vices;

              Where a feeble whisper of reproach suffices

              To satirize only more venial crimes.

              This impotent device you offered, urging,

              “Impel me upward, east or west – or other,

              We and my verse, high in the heavens merging,

              Though you incur the wrath of sister, mother.”

 

FALK (Clenching his fists and greatly agitated)

              By God in heaven –

 

SVANHILD:                          No, Falk, let me finish.

              I've long grown out of games that are so childish:

              But you, who are destined for soul-stirring deeds,

              Content yourself with soaring on a breeze,

              Hanging your vision on a string of words,

              Which I can loosen when and where I please.

 

FALK (Briskly) :   What shall we write today?

 

SVANHILD (Gentler) :                             That's more the spirit!

              Let today mark when your new life begins.

              Let your flights now be due to your own merit,

Whether you rise or fall, or lose or win.

Battles on paper are only fit for schools,

            Their victories are written gray on gray;

The green of living deeds is life's true way.

But you must choose as your own spirit wills.

             (Approaches him)

Now I have given you what you asked me to.

This is my last song sung from the green bough.

The only song remaining.   Now, I'm through.

So, cast your stone, if that's what you want now!

 

(She goes into the house; FALK remains motionless, looking after her.   Far off on the fjord a boat appears from which one can hear, soft and distant, the following song).

                   

CHORUS:

My wings are outspread, my sails I now raise.

              Like an eagle I skim the sea's glassy face -

              The frantic gulls veering and turning.

              The ballast of caution I throw overboard

              And if I capsize, well here's my reward:

              In sailing, the joy is the journey.

 

FALK (Jolted out of his thoughts)

                    What?   Singing?   Ah, yes, that will be Lind's quartet.

              Rehearsing the celebration.   That must be it!

 

(To   GULDSTAD, who appears with a light coat over his arm)

 

                    Why, what's this, sir?    Are you now leaving us?

 

GULDSTAD: Yes, at least after I slip into my coat.

              We unpoetic types find it tedious,

              When the cold night's in combat with one's throat.

              Good night.

 

FALK:                  Not yet, - one thing I must request.

              Point out a goal for me, sufficiently vast -

              To fill my life

             

 

GULDSTAD. (With ironic emphasis)   Just living's the best tonic.

              You'll find that occupies life adequately.

 

FALK (Regards him thoughtfully and says, slowly)

              As advice I find that just a tad laconic!

                            (Exclaims excitedly)

                    But it's roused me from my torpor.   Now, you'll see -

              Or let the devil take me - I've made my throw

              With the damned dice life's given me –

 

GULSTAD:                                                          Why swear?

              A fly on the wall would blush if it could hear.

 

FALK:   You're right, words aren't enough.   Actions must follow.

              I will reverse the good Lord's working methods.

              Six days I've spent in lax prevarication;

              My whole world-project only thoughts, not deeds.

              Tomorrow, Sunday, I'll seriously start Creation!

 

GULDSTAD: (Laughing)    Let's see you set to work with all your might.

              But you're going to need some sleep first, so – good night!

              (He goes out left.     SVANHILD can be seen in the room above the

                    veranda.   She shuts the window and rolls down the blinds).

 

FALK:    No, now for action.   The war can not be waged

With words. (Looks up at   SVANHILD's window and exclaims, as if gripped by strong resolution)  

                Sleep well.   Sweet dreams lull you tonight;

              Tomorrow, Svanhild, we're to be engaged!

              (Quickly goes out to the right.   From the fjord we hear soon after)

 

CHORUS:

              And if I capsize, well here's my reward:

              In sailing, the joy is the journey.

 

(The boat glides slowly forwards while the curtain falls)

 

                   

               

                                                      END OF ACT ONE