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SCENE II
Hertha, Aslaug.
Hertha, we dance before the man tonight.,
Because I do not choose¹
To near,
Yes,
Never7 defeat!
The man we come to slay —
A mighty man!
¹Because I will not strike, ²Wound perhaps only and be stayed. ³ Will you/If we 4 Must 5mountain 6and poor? 7 Not again Page – 483
He has the face and figure of a god, —
His father was an earl of Odin's stock.
His fable since he rose! A pauper house
But from that to tower
Aslaug is against.
He is a mere usurper, is he not?
Left Olaf Thorleikson no heirs behind?
¹brief/swift ²the magnificent Page – 484 Was the throne empty?
Of Trondhjem, that's their cry. The inland¹ and the north were free to choose.
As rebels are.
There was a discord there.
The dagger shall o'erride.²
Still you come back to that. Yet think this out.³ Rather than by our blood to call4 for his Is not a gentle peace still possible ?5 Swegn might have6 Trondhjem, Eric all7 the north The suzerainty ? It is his. We fought for it.8 We have lost it.9 Think of this before we strike.
Better our barren empire of the snows!
¹centre ²The dagger overrides. ³ (i) Now think it out. (ii) But think a little. 4pay 5 Is not a composition possible? 6rule 7 in 8 (i) The suzerainty his: we fought for it. (ii) The suzerainty ? Is it not his? We fought, 9And lost it. 10Better Page – 485
Or else a free and miserable death
Better is a tried resolve.¹
I am fair.
It gives us the great chance.
Arrange it as you will. You have a swift
You will not shrink?
I am not of the earth,
¹It is good to be resolved. ² One strikes more (out) surely. ³ Suddenly you strike, I come in, widen the blow. 4 Shall not Swegn have the throne? Page – 486
Then it must be done.
Hertha, I will not know the plots you weave; But when I see your signal, I will strike. She goes out.
Pride violent! loftiness intolerable! The grandiose kingdom-breaking blow is hers, The baseness, the deception are for me. This, the assumption, the magnificence, Made Swegn her tool. To me, his lover, counsellor, Wife, worshipper, his ears were coldly deaf. But, lioness of Norway, thy loud bruit And leap gigantic are ensnared at last In my compelling toils. She must be trapped! She is the fuel for my husband's soul To burn itself on a disastrous pyre. Remove its cause, the flame will sink to rest;
Then we in Trondhjem shall live peacefully Then other men may feel the sun once more. Always she talks of Fate; does she not see This man was born beneath exultant stars, Had gods to rock his cradle ? He must possess His date, his strong resistless time, — then comes, —, All things too great end soon, — death, overthrow, And our late summer when cold spring is past. Page – 487 |