Bibliotheca Polyglotta

Kærlighedens komedie (Love’s Comedy)

Complete text

FALK.
Men dette her har ingen før mig sagt!

FALK.
But of all this I never heard a word!

SVANHILD.
Naturligvis; de tog sig vel iagt.
(med et smil.)
De frygted nok, „min fremtid“ skulde lide,
hvis unge herrer fik den sag at vide.

SVANHILD
[smiling].
No wonder; they took care that none was heard.
They trembled at the risk “my future” ran
If this were whispered to unmarried Man.

FALK
(ser en stund på hende med tankefuld deltagelse).
Jeg ante længst, at Deres lod blev slig. –
Jeg mindes grant, da førstegang jeg så Dem,
hvor lidt de tyktes mig de andre lig,
og hvor fast ingen evned at forstå Dem.
Om bordet sad det pyntelige lag,
hvor theen dufted, – passiaren surred,
mens frøkner rødmed og mens herrer kurred,
lig tamme duer på en lummer dag.
Religionens og moralens sag
blev talt af modne møer og matroner,
og husligheden prist af unge koner,
mens De stod ensom, lig en fugl på tag.
Og da så sladderen tilslut var steget
til thevandsbakkanal og prosasvir, –
da skinned De som sølvet, vægtigt præget,
imellem stemplet kobber og papir.
De var en mønt ifra et fremmed rige,
blev her beregnet efter anden kurs,
var neppe gangbar i en kvik diskurs
om vers og smør og kunst og mer deslige.
Da – just som frøken Skære havde ordet –

FALK
[after gazing a moment at her in meditative sympathy].
That such must be your lot I long had guessed.
When first I met you, I can well recall,
You seemed to me quite other than the rest,
Beyond the comprehension of them all.
They sat at table,--fragrant tea a-brewing,
And small-talk humming with the tea in tune,
The young girls blushing and the young men cooing,
Like pigeons on a sultry afternoon.
Old maids and matrons volubly averred
Morality and faith’s supreme felicity,
Young wives were loud in praise of domesticity,
While you stood lonely like a mateless bird.
And when at last the gabbling clamour rose
To a tea-orgy, a debauch of prose,
You seemed a piece of silver, newly minted,
Among foul notes and coppers dulled and dinted.
You were a coin imported, alien, strange,
Here valued at another rate of change,
Not passing current in that babel mart
Of poetry and butter, cheese and art.
Then--while Miss Jay in triumph took the field--

SVANHILD
(med et alvorligt anstrøg).
Mens kæresten stod bag, som ridder bold,
og bar sin hat på armen lig et skjold –

SVANHILD
[gravely].
Her knight behind her, like a champion bold,
His hat upon his elbow, like a shield--

FALK.
Da nikked Deres moder over bordet:
„Drik, Svanhild, førend theen bliver kold“.
Og De drak theen ud, den lunkne, vamle,
som den blev nydt af unge og af gamle.
Men navnet tog mig i det samme nu;
den vilde Vølsungsaga med sin gru,
med sine faldne ætters lange række,
mig tyktes ind i vor tid sig at strække;
jeg så i Dem en Svanhild nummer to,
i andre former, efter tiden lempet.
Bag reglens løgnflag er forlænge kæmpet,
nu fordrer fylkingen forlig og ro;
men hånes loven i en samtids brøde,
da må for slægtens synd en skyldfri bløde.

FALK.
Your mother nodded to your untouched cup:
“Drink, Svanhild dear, before your tea grows cold.”
And then you drank the vapid liquor up,
The mawkish brew beloved of young and old.
But that name gripped me with a sudden spell;
The grim old Volsungs as they fought and fell,
With all their faded aeons, seemed to rise
In never-ending line before my eyes.
In you I saw a Svanhild, like the old,¹
But fashioned to the modern age’s mould.
Sick of its hollow warfare is the world;
Its lying banner it would fain have furled;
But when the world does evil, its offence
Is blotted in the blood of innocence.

SVANHILD
(med let ironi).
Jeg tænkte mindst, at slige fantasier,
så blodige, fik liv i thevandsdunst;
men det er sagtens Deres mindste kunst
at høre ånders røst, hvor ånden tier.

SVANHILD
[with gentle irony].
I think, at any rate, the fumes of tea
Must answer for that direful fantasy;
But ’tis your least achievement, past dispute,
To hear the spirit speaking, when ’tis mute.

FALK
(bevæget).
Nej, le ej, Svanhild; bagved Deres spot
der glittrer tårer, – o, jeg ser det godt.
Og jeg ser mer; er De i støvet trådt,
og æltet til et ler, hvis form ej huskes,
da skal af hver en tusindkunstner fuskes
med modellerkniv plumpt og dumt og råt.
Vorherres gerning verden plagierer,
den skaber Dem påny – i eget billed;
den ændrer, lægger til, tar fra, formerer.
Og er De slig på postamentet stillet,
da jubler den: Se nu er hun normal!
Se hvilken plastisk ro; som marmor sval!
Bestrålt af lys fra lampen og fra kronen
hun passer dejligt til dekorationen!
(griber lidenskabelig hendes hånd.)
Men skal De åndigt dø, da lev forinden!
Vær min i Herrens vårlige natur;
De kommer tidsnok i det gyldne bur.
Der trives damen, men der sygner kvinden,
og ene hende elsker jeg i Dem.
Lad andre få Dem i det nye hjem;
men her, her sprang min første livsvår ud, –
her skød mit sangertræ de første skud;
her fik jeg vingers flugt; – hvis De ej svigter,
jeg véd det, Svanhild, – her, her blir jeg digter!

FALK
[with emotion].
Nay, Svanhild, do not jest: behind your scoff
Tears glitter,--O, I see them plain enough.
And I see more: when you to dust are fray’d,
And kneaded to a formless lump of clay,
Each bungling dilettante’s scalpel-blade
On you his dull devices shall display.
The world usurps the creature of God’s hand
And sets its image in the place of His,
Transforms, enlarges that part, lightens this;
And when upon the pedestal you stand
Complete, cries out in triumph: "Now she is
At last what woman ought to be: Behold,
How plastically calm, how marble-cold!
Bathed in the lamplight’s soft irradiation,
How well in keeping with the decoration!"
[Seizing her hand.]
But if you are to die, live first! Come forth
With me into the glory of God’s earth!
Soon, soon the gilded cage will claim its prize.
The Lady thrives there, but the Woman dies,
And I love nothing but the Woman in you.
There, if they will, let others woo and win you,
But here, my spring of life began to shoot,
Here my Song-tree put forth its firstling fruit;
Here I found wings and flight:--Svanhild, I know it,
Only be mine,--here I shall grow a poet!

SVANHILD
(blidt bebrejdende, idet hun trækker hånden til sig).
O, hvorfor siger De mig dette nu?
Det var så smukt, når vi i frihed mødtes.
De skulde tiet; skal da lykken støttes
af løftets ord, for ej at gå itu!
Nu har De talt, og nu er alt forbi.

SVANHILD
[in gentle reproof, withdrawing her hand].
O, why have you betrayed yourself? How sweet
It was when we as friends could freely meet!
You should have kept your counsel. Can we stake
Our bliss upon a word that we may break?
Now you have spoken, all is over.

FALK.
Nej, jeg har pegt på målet, sæt nu over,
min stolte Svanhild, – hvis De springet vover.
Vær kæk; vis, De har mod at være fri!

FALK.
No!
I’ve pointed to the goal,--now leap with me,
My high-souled Svanhild--if you dare, and show
That you have heart and courage to be free.

SVANHILD.
At være fri?

SVANHILD.
Be free?

1. A Svanhild like the old. In the tale of the Volsungs Svanhild was the daughter of Sigurd and Gudrun,--the Siegfried and Kriemhild of Nibelungenlied. The fierce King Jormunrek, hearing of her matchless beauty, sends his son Randwer to woo her in his name. Randwer is, however, induced to woo her in his own, and the girl approves. Jormunrek thereupon causes Randwer to be arrested and hanged, and meeting with Svanhild, as he and his men ride home from the hunt, tramples her to death under their horses’ hoofs. Gudrun incites her sons Sorli and Hamdir to avenge their sister: they boldly enter Jormunrek’s hall, and succeed in cutting off his hands and feet, but are themselves slain by his men. This last dramatic episode is told in the Eddic Hamthismol.

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