Olof. It"s so close!
Lars. Somewhat!
Olof. And no room overhead.
Lars. That"s why they find it so hard to keep their backs straight.
Olof. In ten minutes I have become so much of a courtier that I know how to be silent when an a.s.s is talking.
Lars. There is no harm in that.
Olof. What does the King think?
Lars. He doesn"t tell.
(A number of people have begun to gather in the hall.)
Olof. How does he look?
Lars. Like an interrogation point followed by several exclamation marks.
[Enter Bishop Brask. All give way before him. The Lord High Constable, who has returned in the meantime, goes to meet him and exchanges greetings with him. Olof salutes the Bishop, who looks surprised.]
Brask (to the Constable). Is this a place for the clerks?
Constable. It ought not to be, but our King is so very gracious.
Brask. Condescending, you mean?
Constable. Exactly.
Brask. The audience is well attended to-day.
Constable. Mostly formal calls occasioned by the happy return of His Highness.
Brask. It is a pleasure, my Lord Constable, to offer His Highness our sincere felicitations on the happy solution of this question.
Constable. It is indeed courteous in Your Grace to incur the trouble of such a long journey--especially at Your Grace"s advanced age.
Brask. Unfortunately, my health is not always to be depended upon.
Constable. Is Your Grace not enjoying good health? It is hard to feel one"s strength failing, particularly for one who occupies such an exalted and responsible position.
Brask. You look very well, my Lord Constable.
Constable. Yes, thank G.o.d! (Pause.)
Brask (seating himself). Don"t you think there is a draught here, my Lord?
Constable. It seems so. Perhaps we might order the doors to be closed?
Brask. No, thank you, that will not be necessary. (Pause.)
Constable. The King is long in coming.
Brask. Yes.
Constable. Perhaps you won"t find it worth your while to wait for him.
Brask. Perhaps not!
Constable. With your permission, I will send word to Your Grace"s servants.
Brask. As I have waited so long, I think I shall wait a little longer.
(Pause.)
Servant. His Highness!
[Enter Gustaf.]
Gustaf. I bid you welcome, gentlemen. (He takes a seat at a table.) If you will please step out into the antechamber, I will receive you one at a time. (All retire except Bishop Brask.) Our Lord Constable will stay.
Brask. Your Highness!
Gustaf (raising his voice). Sir Lars! (Brask goes out, the Constable remaining; pause.) Speak! What am I to do?
Constable. Your Highness, the State has lost its prop, and therefore it is toppling over; the State has an enemy that has grown too strong for it. Restore the prop, which is the n.o.bility, and crush the enemy, which is the Church!
Gustaf. I dare not!
Constable. You must, Your Highness!
Gustaf. What"s that?
Constable. First of all: Brask is in correspondence with the Pope to have the inquisition established here. Lubeck is insisting on her shameless demands and threatens war. The treasury is empty. There is rebellion in every nook and corner of the country--
Gustaf. That"s enough! But I have the people with me.
Constable. I beg your pardon--you have not. There are the Dalecarlians, for instance--a spoiled lot, always disputing with those of Lubeck about the honor of having bestowed a king on Sweden. They are ready to rebel on the slightest occasion, and they are coming forward with demands like these: "There shall be no outlandish customs used, with slittered and motley colored clothes, such as have of late been brought into the King"s court."
Gustaf. "Sdeath!
Constable. "Whosoever eats meat on Fridays or Sat.u.r.days shall be burned at the stake or otherwise made away with." And furthermore, "There shall be no new faith or Lutheran teachings foisted upon us." What a treacherous, impudent people!
Gustaf. And yet there was a time when they showed themselves to be men.
Constable. Well, what wonder if they carried water when their house was afire? How many times have they broken troth and faith? But they have so often heard themselves lauded that they have come to give the name of "old Swedish honesty" to their own brute arrogance.
Gustaf. You belong to the n.o.bility!