ALFHILD.
Tilende har jeg klaget, tilbunds har jeg grædt;
jeg må hvile, nu er jeg til døden træt!
(synker ned på en sten i forgrunden.)
Først vil jeg sige min fader farvel!
Så vandrer jeg ind på det øde fjeld!
Hernede ser jeg Olaf, hvorhelst jeg færdes;
jeg må op i højden, at mit sind kan hærdes!
jeg må døve og glemme den tunge lære,
må dysse i blund alle minder kære!
Ak, jeg som tænkte mig livet så rigt!
Intet er sandhed, alt er digt,
alt er kun tant og gøglende løgne;
intet kan gribes og fattes med hænder,
intet må skues med vågne øjne,
intet holder stand, når vi ret det kender!
(lurtoner høres fra skoven.)
Min moders arvesølv bringer jeg med;
det vil jeg grave i jorden ned!
Jeg vil grave det ned under birkens rod,
derude, hvor jeg fordum med Olaf stod!
(åbner bylten og fremtager en brudekrone og andre smykker.)
Denne sølverne krone har min moder båret;
også hende har da verden forlokket og dåret,
også hun har da troet på kærligheds magt.
Blev også hun så bitterlig vakt?
Var det kun spot, når min fader kvad
om elskovs lyst, som gør barmen glad?
Ak, da skulde han tiet dermed;
hans sange har røvet mig livsens fred,
hans sange bygged i min barm et hus
for verdens fryd, – nu ligger det i grus!
(luren høres atter.)
Sølvet er sig så ædelt malm,
det smuldres ikke som høstens halm;
lå det i jorden vel tusinde år,
det skinner endda, det aldrig forgår!
Livets lyst er som høstens halm,
sorgen er sølvet, det ædle malm!
(pakker smykkerne sammen i bylten.)
Min fader har nævnt mig en trolddomsskat,
deraf drypped ni blanke perler hver nat;
men hvormange perler den end monne føde,
lige stor og rig blev dog skatten hin røde!
Min sorg er for mig en trolddomsskat;
deraf skal dryppe ved dag og nat
ikke ni, – nej tusinde perler små,
og skatten vil dog aldrig forgå! –
Ja, verden har gjort mig så klog, så klog!
Fordum fulgte jeg skyernes tog,
fløj drømmende med på de vide baner
og kaldte dem himmelens svaner!
Fordum jeg tænkte, at træets grene
bredte sig ud for at skygge min vandring,
jeg tænkte mig liv i fjeldets stene.
Nu er mig voldt så tung en forandring.
Nu véd jeg det bedre; – kun menneskets bryst
kan våndes i smerte, kan vugges i lyst.
Der bor ingen ven mellem blomster og grene,
jeg må bære min sorg alene.
(rejser sig.)
Velan da! Op mellem is og sne, –
både her og hist er kun gravens læ!
(vil gå.)
ALFHILD.
I have wailed, I have wept, till my heart is sore;
I am weary and tired, I can weep no more!
[Sinks down on a stone in the foreground.]
ALFHILD.
First to my father farewell I shall say!
Then into the mountains I make my way!
Down here I see Olaf wherever I go;
I must up in the heights to steel my mind!
I must deaden my grief, forget what I know,
And leave all the memories dear behind!
ALFHILD.
The life in my dream had so rosy a hue!
’Tis nothing but fiction, nothing is true,--
’Tis nothing but nonsense and shifting lies;
Naught can be seized and held in the hand.
Naught must be looked at with open eyes,
Nothing stands proof when we understand!
[The sound of trumpets is heard from the wood.]
ALFHILD.
My mother’s heirlooms I take with me;
I shall bury them deep in the ground!
I shall bury them deep ’neath the tall birch tree,
Over yonder where Olaf I found!
[She opens her bundle and takes out a bridal crown and other ornaments.]
ALFHILD.
This crown did my mother once wear on her head;
She too by the world then was tricked and misled,
She too then in love and its power believed.
Was she too so rudely deceived?
Was it only in jest that my father did sing
The pleasures that gladden the human breast?
Ah, then he should never have said anything;
His songs have robbed me of earthly rest;
His songs built a home for the ecstasies
Of life in my heart,--now in ruin it lies!
[The trumpets are heard again.]
ALFHILD.
Silver indeed is a metal of worth,
’Twill never crumble like autumn hay.
Were it hid for a thousand years in the earth,
It would still glitter bright, it would never decay!
The pleasures of life are like autumn hay,
And sorrow like silver that glitters alway!
[Ties the ornaments together in the bundle.]
ALFHILD.
A magic treasure I often recall,
From which dropped nine glorious pearls every night;
But no matter how many the pearls it let fall,
The treasure remained just as big and as bright!
ALFHILD.
A treasure of magic, this sorrow of mine,
And from it shall drip by night and by day,
Not nine,--but ten thousand pearls that shine,--
Yet the treasure shall never decay!--
Yes, the world has made me so wise,--so wise!
Once I followed the clouds in their flight,
Flew dreaming with them on their path in the skies,
And called them the swans of the light!
I thought that the trees spread their branches so wide,
That I might walk in the shade;
I thought there was life in the mountain side.
A sorry mistake I have made.
Now I know better;--for man alone
Can revel in joy, can suffer despair.
In tree and in flower, friend there is none,--
My sorrow alone I must bear.
[She rises.]
ALFHILD.
Away then! Up midst the ice and the snow,--
The grave is the only shelter below!
[She starts to leave.]
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