SVANHILD
(løfter hovedet efter en kort taushed, ser fast på ham og nærmer sig).
Nu vil jeg sige Dem et alvorsord
til tak for frelsens hånd, De vilde rakt mig.
De brugte før et billed, som har vakt mig
til klar forstand på Deres „flugt fra jord“.
De ligned Dem med falken, der må stævne
mod vinden, dersom den skal højden nå;
jeg var det vift, der bar Dem mod det blå, –
foruden mig var magtløs Deres evne. –
Hvor jammerligt! Hvor småt i et og alt, –
ja latterligt, som selv tilslut De aned!
I frugtbar jordbund lignelsen dog faldt;
thi for mit syn en anden frem den maned,
der ej, som Deres, hinker lam og halt.
Jeg så Dem, ej som falken, men som dragen,
som digterdrage, dannet af papir,
hvis eget jeg en biting er og blir,
mens sejlgarnssnoren udgør hovedsagen.
Den brede brystning var som skreven fuld
af fremtidsveksler på poetisk guld;
hver vinge var en bundt af epigrammer,
som slår i vejr og vind, men ingen rammer;
den lange hale var et tidens digt,
der skulde synes slægtens fejl at pidske,
men som kun drev det til så småt at hviske
om et og andet, der har brudt sin pligt.
Slig lå De magtesløs for mig og bad:
„Å, sæt mig op i vester eller øster!
Å, lad tilvejrs mig gå med mine kvad,
selv om det koster skænd af mor og søster!“
SVANHILD
[lifting her head after a brief silence, looking at him and drawing near.]
Now I will recompense your kind intent
To save me, with an earnest admonition.
That falcon-image gave me sudden vision
What your “emancipation” really meant.
You said you were the falcon, that must fight
Athwart the wind if it would reach the sky,
I was the breeze you must be breasted by,
Else vain were all your faculty of flight;
How pitifully mean! How paltry! Nay
How ludicrous, as you yourself divined!
That seed, however, fell not by the way,
But bred another fancy in my mind
Of a far more illuminating kind.
You, as I saw it, were no falcon, but
A tuneful dragon, out of paper cut,
Whose Ego holds a secondary station,
Dependent on the string for animation;
Its breast was scrawled with promises to pay
In cash poetic,--at some future day;
The wings were stiff with barbs and shafts of wit
That wildly beat the air, but never hit;
The tail was a satiric rod in pickle
To castigate the town’s infirmities,
But all it compass’d was to lightly tickle
The casual doer of some small amiss.
So you lay helpless at my feet imploring:
"O raise me, how and where is all the same!
Give me the power of singing and of soaring,
No matter at what cost of bitter blame!"
