continuously watching_ STRAWMAN _and his wife,
remains behind alone in the garden. It is now
dark; the house is lighted up._
FALK.
All is as if burnt out;—all desolate, dead—!
So thro’ the world they wander, two and two;
Charred wreckage, like the blackened stems that strew
The forest when the withering fire is fled.
Far as the eye can travel, all is drought,
And nowhere peeps one spray of verdure out!
[SVANHILD _comes out on to the verandah with a
flowering rose-tree which she sets down._
Yes one—yes one—!
SVANHILD.
Falk, in the dark?
FALK.
And fearless!
Darkness to me is fair, and light is cheerless
But are not _you_ afraid in yonder walls
Where the lamp’s light on sallow corpses falls—
SVANHILD.
Shame!
FALK [_looking after_ STRAWMAN _who appears at the window_].
He was once so brilliant and so strong;
Warred with the world to win his mistress; passed
For Custom’s doughtiest iconoclast;
And poured forth love in pæans of glad song—!
Look at him now! In solemn robes and wraps,
A two-legged drama on his own collapse!
And she, the limp-skirt slattern, with the shoes
Heel-trodden, that squeak and clatter in her traces,
This is the winged maid who was his Muse
And escort to the kingdom of the graces!
Of all that fire this puff of smoke’s the end!
_Sic transit gloria amoris_, friend.
SVANHILD.
Yes, it is wretched, wretched past compare.
I know of no one’s lot that I would share.
FALK [_eagerly_].
Then let us two rise up and bid defiance
To this same order Art, not Nature, bred!
SVANHILD [_shaking her head_].
Then were the cause for which we made alliance
Ruined, as sure as this is earth we tread.
FALK.
No, triumph waits upon two souls in unity.
To Custom’s parish-church no more we’ll wend,
Seatholders in the Philistine community.
See, Personality’s one aim and end
Is to be independent, free and true.
In that I am not wanting, nor are you.
A fiery spirit pulses in your veins,
For thoughts that master, you have words that burn;
The corslet of convention, that constrains
The beating hearts of other maids, you spurn.
The voice that you were born with will not chime to
The chorus Custom’s baton gives the time to.
SVANHILD.
And do you think pain has not often pressed
Tears from my eyes, and quiet from my breast?
I longed to shape my way to my own bent—
FALK.
“In pensive ease?”
SVANHILD.
O no, ’twas sternly meant.
But then the aunts came in with well-intended
Advice, the matter must be sifted, weighed—
[_Coming nearer._
“In pensive ease,” you say; oh no, I made
A bold experiment—in art.
FALK.
Which ended—?
SVANHILD.
In failure. I lacked talent for the brush.
The thirst for freedom, tho’, I could not crush;
Checked at the easel, it essayed the stage—
FALK.
That plan was shattered also, I engage?
SVANHILD.
Upon the eldest aunt’s suggestion, yes;
She much preferred a place as governess—
FALK.
But of all this I never heard a word!
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 [_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 [_gravely_].
Her knight behind her, like a champion bold,
His hat upon his elbow, like a shield—
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 Völsungs as they fought and fell,
With all their faded æons, seemed to rise
In never-ending line before my eyes.
In you I saw a Svanhild, like the old,
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 [_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 [_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!”
[_Passionately 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 [_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.
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.
Be free?
FALK.
Yes, free, for freedom’s all-in-all
Is absolutely to fulfil our Call.
And you by heaven were destined, I know well,
To be my bulwark against beauty’s spell.
I, like my falcon namesake, have to swing
Against the wind, if I would reach the sky!
You are the breeze I must be breasted by,
You, only you, put vigour in my wing:
Be mine, be mine, until the world shall take you,
When leaves are falling, then our paths shall part
Sing unto me the treasures of your heart,
And for each song another song I’ll make you;
So may you pass into the lamplit glow
Of age, as forests fade without a throe.
SVANHILD [_with suppressed bitterness_].
I cannot thank you, for your words betray
The meaning of your kind solicitude.
You eye me as a boy a sallow, good
To cut and play the flute on for a day.
FALK.
Yes, better than to linger in the swamp
Till autumn choke it with her grey mists damp!
[_Vehemently._
You must! you shall! To me you must present
What God to you so bountifully lent.
I speak in song what you in dreams have meant.
See yonder bird I innocently slew,
Her warbling was Song’s book of books for you.
O, yield your music as she yielded hers!
My life shall be that music set to verse!
SVANHILD.
And when you know me, when my songs are flown,
And my last requiem chanted from the bough,—
What then?
FALK [_observing her_].
What then? Ah well, remember now!
[_Pointing to the garden._
SVANHILD [_gently_].
Yes, I remember you can drive a stone.
FALK [_with a scornful laugh_].
This is your vaunted soul of freedom therefore!
All daring, if it had an end to dare for!
[_Vehemently._
I’ve shown you one; now, once for all, your yea
Or nay.
SVANHILD.
You know the answer I must make you:
I never can accept you in your way.
FALK [_coldly, breaking off_].
Then there’s an end of it; the world may take you!
[SVANHILD _has silently turned away. She supports
her hands upon the verandah railing, and rests
her head upon them._
FALK.
[_Walks several times up and down, takes a cigar,
stops near her and says, after a pause:_
You think the topic of my talk to-night
Extremely ludicrous, I should not wonder?
[_Pauses for an answer._ SVANHILD _is silent._
I’m very conscious that it was a blunder;
Sister’s and daughter’s love alone possess you;
Henceforth I’ll wear kid gloves when I address you,
Sure, so, of being understood aright.
[_Pauses, but as_ SVANHILD _remains motionless, he
turns and goes towards the right._
SVANHILD [_lifting her head after a brief silence, looking
at him and drawing nearer_].
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!”
FALK [_clenching his fists in inward agitation_].
Heaven be my witness—!
SVANHILD.
No, you must be told:—
For such a childish sport I am too old.
But you, whom Nature made for high endeavour,
Are you content the fields of air to tread
Hanging your poet’s life upon a thread
That at my pleasure I can slip and sever?
FALK [_hurriedly_].
What is the date to-day?
SVANHILD [_more gently_].
Why, now, that’s right!
Mind well this day, and heed it, and beware;
Trust to your own wings only for your flight,
Sure, if they do not break, that they will bear.
The paper poem for the desk is fit,
That which is lived alone has life in it;
_That_ only has the wings that scale the height;
Choose now between them, poet: be, or write!
[_Nearer to him._
Now I have done what you besought me; now
My requiem is chanted from the bough;
My only one; now all my songs are flown;
Now, if you will, I’m ready for the stone!
[_She goes into the house;_ FALK _remains
motionless, looking after her; far out on the
fjord is seen a boat, from which the following
chorus is faintly heard:_
CHORUS.
My wings I open, my sails spread wide,
And cleave like an eagle life’s glassy tide;
Gulls follow my furrow’s foaming;
Overboard with the ballast of care and cark;
And what if I shatter my roaming bark,
It is passing sweet to be roaming!
FALK [_starting from a reverie_].
What, music? Ah, it will be Lind’s quartette
Getting their jubilation up.—Well met!
[_To_ GULDSTAD, _who enters with an overcoat on his
arm_.
Ah, slipping off, sir?
GULDSTAD.
Yes, with your goodwill.
But let me first put on my overcoat.
We prose-folks are susceptible to chill;
The night wind takes us by the tuneless throat.
Good evening!
FALK.
Sir, a word ere you proceed!
Show me a task, a mighty one, you know—!
I’m going in for life—!
GULDSTAD [_with ironical emphasis_].
Well, in you go!
You’ll find that you are in for it, indeed.
FALK [_looking reflectively at him, says slowly_].
There is my program, furnished in a phrase.
[_In a lively outburst._
_Now_ I have wakened from my dreaming days,
I’ve cast the die of life’s supreme transaction,
I’ll show you—else the devil take me—
GULDSTAD.
Fie,
No cursing: curses never scared a fly.
FALK.
Words, words, no more, but action, only action!
I will reverse the plan of the Creation;—
Six days were lavish’d in that occupation;
My world’s still lying void and desolate,
Hurrah, to-morrow, Sunday—I’ll create!
GULDSTAD [_laughing_].
Yes, strip, and tackle it like a man, that’s right!
But first go in and sleep on it. Good-night!
[_Goes out to the left._ SVANHILD _appears in the
room over the verandah; she shuts the window and
draws down the blind._
FALK.
No, first I’ll act. I’ve slept too long and late.
[_Looks up at_ SVANHILD’S _window, and exclaims, as
if seized with a sudden resolution:_
Good-night! Good-night! Sweet dreams to-night be thine;
To-morrow, Svanhild, thou art plighted mine!
[_Goes out quickly to the right; from the water the_
CHORUS _is heard again._
CHORUS.
Maybe I shall shatter my roaming bark,
But it’s passing sweet to be roaming!
[_The boat slowly glides away as the curtain falls._
ACT SECOND.
_Sunday afternoon. Well-dressed ladies and gentlemen are
drinking coffee on the verandah. Several of the guests
appear through the open glass door in the garden-room;
the following song is heard from within._
CHORUS.
Welcome, welcome, new plighted pair
To the merry ranks of the plighted!
Now you may revel as free as air,
Caress without stint and kiss without care,—
No longer of footfall affrighted.
Now you are licensed, wherever you go,
To the rapture of cooing and billing;
Now you have leisure love’s seed to sow,
Water, and tend it, and make it grow;—
Let us see you’ve a talent for tilling!
MISS JAY [_within_].
Ah Lind, if I only had chanced to hear,
I would have teased you!
A LADY [_within_].
How vexatious though!
ANOTHER LADY [_in the doorway_].
Dear Anna, did he ask in writing?
AN AUNT.
No!
MISS JAY.
_Mine_ did.
A LADY [_on the verandah_].
How long has it been secret, dear?
[_Runs into the room._
MISS JAY.
To-morrow there will be the ring to choose.
LADIES [_eagerly_].
We’ll take his measure!
MISS JAY.
Nay; that _she_ must do.
MRS. STRAWMAN [_on the verandah, to a lady who is busy with
embroidery_].
What kind of knitting-needles do you use?
A SERVANT [_in the door with a coffee-pot_].
More coffee, madam?
A LADY.
Thanks, a drop or two.
MISS JAY [_to_ ANNA].
How fortunate you’ve got your new manteau
Next week to go your round of visits in!
AN ELDERLY LADY [_at the window_].
When shall we go and order the trousseau?
MRS. STRAWMAN.
How are they selling cotton-bombasine?
A GENTLEMAN [_to some ladies on the verandah_].
Just look at Lind and Anna; what’s his sport?
LADIES [_with shrill ecstasy_].
Gracious, he kissed her glove!
OTHERS [_similarly, springing up_].
No! Kiss’d it? Really?
LIND [_appears, red and embarrassed, in the doorway_].
O, stuff and nonsense!
[_Disappears._
MISS JAY.
Yes, I saw it clearly.
STIVER
[_in the door, with a coffee-cup in one hand and
a biscuit in the other_].
The witnesses must not mislead the court;
I here make affidavit, they’re in error.
MISS JAY [_within_].
Come forward, Anna; stand before this mirror!
SOME LADIES [_calling_].
You, too, Lind!
MISS JAY.
Back to back! A little nearer!
LADIES.
Come, let us see by how much she is short.
[_All run into the garden-room; laughter and shrill
talk are heard for a while from within_.
[FALK, _who during the preceding scene has been
walking about in the garden, advances into the
foreground, stops and looks in until the noise
has somewhat abated._
FALK.
There love’s romance is being done to death.—
The butcher once who boggled at the slaughter,
Prolonging needlessly the ox’s breath,—
He got his twenty days of bread and water;
But these—these butchers yonder—they go
free. [_Clenches his fist._
I could be tempted—; hold, words have no worth,
I’ve sworn it, action only from henceforth!
LIND [_coming hastily but cautiously out_].
Thank God, they’re talking fashions; now’s my chance
To slip away—
FALK.
Ha, Lind, _you’ve_ drawn the prize
Of luck,—-congratulations buzz and dance
All day about you, like a swarm of flies.
LIND.
They’re all at heart so kindly and so nice;
But rather fewer clients would suffice.
Their helping hands begin to gall and fret me;
I’ll get a moment’s respite, if they’ll let me.
[_Going out to the right._
FALK.
Whither away?
LIND.
Our den;—it has a lock;
In case you find the oak is sported, knock.
FALK.
But shall I not fetch Anna to you?
LIND.
No—
If she wants anything, she’ll let me know.
Last night we were discussing until late;
We’ve settled almost everything of weight;
Besides I think it scarcely goes with piety
To have too much of one’s beloved’s society.
FALK.
Yes, you are right; for daily food we need
A simple diet.
LIND.
Pray excuse me, friend.
I want a whiff of reason and the weed;
I haven’t smoked for three whole days on end.
My blood was pulsing in such agitation,
I trembled for rejection all the time—
FALK.
Yes, you may well desire recuperation—
LIND.
And won’t tobacco’s flavour be sublime!
[_Goes out to the right._ MISS JAY _and some other_
LADIES _come out of the garden-room._
MISS JAY [_to_ FALK].
That was _he_ surely?
FALK.
Yes, your hunted deer.
LADIES.
To run away from us!
OTHERS.
For shame! For shame!
FALK.
’Tis a bit shy at present, but, no fear,
A week of servitude will make him tame.
MISS JAY [_looking round_].
Where is he hid?
FALK.
His present hiding-place
Is in the garden loft, our common lair;
[_Blandly._
But let me beg you not to seek him there;
Give him a breathing time!
MISS JAY.
Well, good: the grace
Will not be long, tho’.
FALK.
Nay, be generous!
Ten minutes,—then begin the game again.
He has an English sermon on the brain.
MISS JAY.
An English—?
LADIES.
O you laugh! You’re fooling us!
FALK.
I’m in grim earnest. ’Tis his fixed intention
To take a charge among the emigrants,
And therefore—
MISS JAY [_with horror_].
Heavens, he had the face to mention
That mad idea?
[_To the ladies._
O quick—fetch all the aunts!
Anna, her mother, Mrs. Strawman too.
LADIES [_agitated_].
This must be stopped!
ALL.
We’ll make a great ado!
MISS JAY.
Thank God, they’re coming.
[_To_ ANNA, _who comes from the garden-room with_
STRAWMAN, _his wife and children_, STIVER,
GULDSTAD, MRS. HALM _and the other guests._
MISS JAY.
Do you know what Lind
Has secretly determined in his mind?
To go as missionary—
ANNA.
Yes, I know.
MRS. HALM.
And you’ve agreed—!
ANNA [_embarrassed_].
That I will also go.
MISS JAY [_indignant_].
He’s talked this stuff to you!
LADIES [_clasping their hands together_].
What tyranny!
FALK.
But think, his Call that would not be denied—!
MISS JAY.
Tut, that’s what people follow when they’re free:
A bridegroom follows nothing but his bride.—
No, my sweet Anna, ponder, I entreat:
You, reared in comfort from your earliest breath—?
FALK.
Yet, sure, to suffer for the faith is sweet!
MISS JAY.
Is one to suffer for one’s bridegroom’s faith?
That is a rather novel point of view.
[_To the ladies_.
Ladies, attend!
[_Takes_ ANNA’S _arm._
Now listen; then repeat
For his instruction what he has to do.
[_They go into the background and out to the right
in eager talk with several of the ladies; the
other guests disperse in groups about the
garden._ FALK _stops_ STRAWMAN, _whose wife and
children keep close to him._ GULDSTAD _goes to
and fro during the following conversation._
FALK.
Come, pastor, help young fervour in its fight,
Before they lure Miss Anna from her vows.
STRAWMAN [_in clerical cadence_].
The wife must be submissive to the spouse;—
[_Reflecting._
But if I apprehended him aright,
His Call’s a problematical affair,
The Offering altogether in the air—
FALK.
Pray do not judge so rashly. I can give
You absolute assurance, as I live,
His Call is definite and incontestable—
STRAWMAN [_seeing it in a new light_].
Ah—if there’s something fixed—investable—
_Per annum_—then I’ve nothing more to say.
FALK [_impatiently_].
You think the most of what I count the least;
I mean the _inspiration_,—not the _pay_!
STRAWMAN [with an unctuous smile].
Pay is the first condition of a priest
In Asia, Africa, America,
Or where you will. Ah yes, if he were free,
My dear young friend, I willingly agree,
The thing might pass; but, being pledged and bound,
He’ll scarcely find the venture very sound.
Reflect, he’s young and vigorous, sure to found
A little family in time; assume his will
To be the very best on earth—but still
The _means_, my friend—? ‘Build not upon the sand,’
Says Scripture. If, upon the other hand,
The Offering—
FALK.
That’s no trifle, I’m aware.
STRAWMAN.
Ah, come—that wholly alters the affair.
When men are zealous in their Offering,
And liberal—
FALK.
There he far surpasses most.
STRAWMAN.
“He” say you? How? In virtue of his post
The Offering is not what he has to _bring_
But what he has to _get_.
MRS. STRAWMAN [_looking towards the background_].
They’re sitting there.
FALK [_after staring a moment in amazement, suddenly
understands and bursts out laughing_].
Hurrah for Offerings—the ones that caper
And strut—on Holy-days—in bulging paper!
STRAWMAN.
All the year round the curb and bit we bear,
But Whitsuntide and Christmas make things square.
FALK [_gaily_].
Why then, provided only there’s enough of it,
Even family-founders will obey their Calls.
STRAWMAN.
Of course; a man assured the _quantum suff_ of it
Will preach the Gospel to the cannibals.
[_Sotto voce._
Now I must see if she cannot be led,
[_To one of the little girls._
My little Mattie, fetch me out my head—
My pipe-head I should say, my little dear—
[_Feels in his coat-tail pocket._
Nay, wait a moment tho’: I have it here.
[_Goes across and fills his pipe, followed by his
wife and children._
GULDSTAD [_approaching_].
You seem to play the part of serpent in
This paradise of lovers.
FALK.
O, the pips
Upon the tree of knowledge are too green
To be a lure for anybody’s lips.
[_To_ LIND, _who comes in from the right._
Ha, Lind!
LIND.
In heaven’s name, who’s been ravaging
Our sanctum? There the lamp lies dashed
To pieces, curtain dragged to floor, pen smashed,
And on the mantelpiece the ink pot splashed—
FALK [_clapping him on the shoulder_].
This wreck’s the first announcement of my spring;
No more behind drawn curtains I will sit,
Making pen poetry with lamp alit;
My dull domestic poetising’s done,
I’ll walk by day, and glory in the sun:
My spring is come, my soul has broken free,
Action henceforth shall be my poetry.
LIND.
Make poetry of what you please for me;
But how if Mrs. Halm should take amiss
Your breaking of her furniture to pieces?
FALK.
What!—she, who lays her daughters and her nieces
Upon the altar of her boarders’ bliss,—
She frown at such a bagatelle as this?
LIND [_angrily_].
It’s utterly outrageous and unfair,
And compromises me as well as you!
But that’s her business, settle it with her.
The lamp was mine, tho’, shade and burner too—
FALK.
Tut, on that head, I’ve no account to render;
You have God’s summer sunshine in its splendour,—
What would you with the lamp?
LIND.
You are grotesque;
You utterly forget that summer passes;
If I’m to make a figure in my classes
At Christmas I must buckle to my desk.
FALK [_staring at him_].
What, you look _forward_?
LIND.
To be sure I do,
The examination’s amply worth it too.
FALK.
Ah but—you ‘only sit and live’—remember!
Drunk with the moment, you demand no more—
Not even a modest third-class next December.
You’ve caught the bird of Fortune fair and fleet,
You feel as if the world with all its store
Were scattered in profusion at your feet.
LIND.
Those were my words; they must be understood,
Of course, _cum grano salis_—
FALK.
Very good!
LIND.
In the _forenoons_ I will enjoy my bliss;
That I am quite resolved on—
FALK.
Daring man!
LIND.
I have my round of visits to the clan;
Time will run anyhow to waste in this;
But any further dislocation of
My study-plan I strongly disapprove.
FALK.
A week ago, however, you were bent
On going out into God’s world with song.
LIND.
Yes, but I thought the tour a little long;
The fourteen days might well be better spent.
FALK.
Nay, but you had another argument
For staying; how the lovely dale for you
Was mountain air and winged warble too.
LIND.