LOVE’S COMEDY
PLAY IN THREE ACTS
ACT FIRST
The Scene represents a pretty garden irregularly but tastefully laid out; in the background are seen the fjord and the islands. To the left is the house, with a verandah and an open dormer window above; to the right in the foreground an open summer-house with a table and benches. The landscape lies in bright afternoon sunshine. It is early summer; the fruit-trees are in flower.
When the Curtain rises, Mrs. Halm, Anna, and Miss Jay are sitting on the verandah, the first two engaged in embroidery, the last with a book. In the summer-house are seen Falk, Lind, Guldstad, and Stiver: a punch-bowl and glasses are on the table. Svanhild sits alone in the background by the water.
Falk [rises, lifts his glass, and sings].
Sun-glad day in garden shady
Was but made for thy delight:
What though promises of May-day
Be annulled by Autumn’s blight?
Apple-blossom white and splendid
Drapes thee in its glowing tent,—
Let it, then, when day is ended,
Strew the closes storm-besprent.
Chorus of Gentlemen.
Let it, then, when day is ended, etc.
Falk.
Wherefore seek the harvest’s guerdon
While the tree is yet in bloom?
Wherefore drudge beneath the burden
Of an unaccomplished doom?
Wherefore let the scarecrow clatter
Day and night upon the tree?
Brothers mine, the sparrows’ chatter
Has a cheerier melody.
Chorus.
Brothers mine, the sparrow’s chatter, etc.
Falk.
Happy songster! Wherefore scare him
From our blossom-laden bower?
Rather for his music spare him
All our future, flower by flower;
Trust me, ’twill be cheaply buying
Present song with future fruit;
List the proverb, “Time is flying;—”
Soon our garden music’s mute.
Chorus.
List the proverb, etc.
Falk.
I will live in song and gladness,—
Then, when every bloom is shed,
Sweep together, scarce in sadness,
All that glory, wan and dead:
Fling the gates wide! Bruise and batter,
Tear and trample, hoof and tusk;
I have plucked the flower, what matter
Who devours the withered husk!
Chorus.
I have plucked the flower, etc.
[They clink and empty their glasses.
Falk [to the ladies].
There—that’s the song you asked me for; but pray
Be lenient to it—I can’t think to-day.
Guldstad.
Oh, never mind the sense—the sound’s the thing.
Miss Jay [looking round].
But Svanhild, who was eagerest to hear—?
When Falk began, she suddenly took wing
And vanished—
Anna [pointing towards the back].
No, for there she sits—I see her.
Mrs. Halm [sighing].
That child! Heaven knows, she’s past my comprehending!
Miss Jay.
But, Mr. Falk, I thought the lyric’s ending
Was not so rich in—well, in poetry,
As others of the stanzas seemed to be.
Stiver.
Why yes, and I am sure it could not tax
Your powers to get a little more inserted—
Falk [clinking glasses with him].
You cram it in, like putty into cracks,
Till lean is into streaky fat converted.
Stiver [unruffled].
Yes, nothing easier—I, too, in my day
Could do the trick.
Guldstad.
Dear me! Were you a poet?
Miss Jay.
My Stiver! Yes!
Stiver.
Oh, in a humble way.
Miss Jay [to the ladies].
His nature is romantic.
Mrs. Halm.
Yes, we know it.
Stiver.
Not now; it’s ages since I turned a rhyme.
Falk.
Yes, varnish and romance go off with time.
But in the old days—?
Stiver.
Well, you see, ’twas when
I was in love.
Falk.
Is that time over, then?
Have you slept off the sweet intoxication?
Stiver.
I’m now engaged—I hold official station—
That’s better than in love, I apprehend!
Falk.
Quite so! You’re in the right, my good old friend.
The worst is past—vous voilà bien avancé—
Promoted from mere lover to fiancé.
Stiver [with a smile of complacent recollection].
It’s strange to think of it—upon my word,
I half suspect my memory of lying—
[Turns to Falk.
But seven years ago—it sounds absurd!—
I wasted office hours in versifying.
Falk.
What! Office hours—!
Stiver.
Yes, such were my transgressions.
Guldstad [ringing on his glass].
Silence for our solicitor’s confessions!
Stiver.
But chiefly after five, when I was free,
I’d rattle off whole reams of poetry—
Ten—fifteen folios ere I went to bed—
Falk.
I see—you gave your Pegasus his head,
And off he tore—
Stiver.
On stamped or unstamped paper—
’Twas all the same to him—he’d prance and caper—
Falk.
The spring of poetry flowed no less flush?
But how, pray, did you teach it first to gush?
Stiver.
By aid of love’s divining-rod, my friend!
Miss Jay it was that taught me where to bore,
My fiancée—she became so in the end—
For then she was—
Falk.
Your love and nothing more.
Stiver [continuing].
’Twas a strange time; I could not read a bit;
I tuned my pen instead of pointing it;
And when along the foolscap sheet it raced,
It twangled music to the words I traced;—
At last by letter I declared my flame
To her—to her—
Falk.
Whose fiancé you became.
Stiver.
In course of post her answer came to hand—
The motion granted—judgment in my favour!
Falk.
And you felt bigger, as you wrote, and braver,
To find you’d brought your venture safe to land!
Stiver.
Of course.
Falk.
And then you bade the Muse farewell?
Stiver.
I’ve felt no lyric impulse, truth to tell,
From that day forth. My vein appeared to peter
Entirely out; and now, if I essay
To turn a verse or two for New Year’s Day,
I make the veriest hash of rhyme and metre,
And—I’ve no notion what the cause can be—
It turns to law and not to poetry.
Guldstad [clinks glasses with him].
And, trust me, you’re no whit the worse for that!
[To Falk.
You think the stream of life is flowing solely
To bear you to the goal you’re aiming at—
But you may find yourself mistaken wholly.
As for your song, perhaps it’s most poetic,
Perhaps it’s not—on that point we won’t quarrel—
But here I lodge a protest energetic,
Say what you will, against its wretched moral.
A masterly economy and new
To let the birds play havoc at their pleasure
Among your fruit-trees, fruitless now for you,
And suffer flocks and herds to trample through
Your garden, and lay waste its springtide treasure!
A pretty prospect, truly, for next year!
Falk.
Oh, next, next, next! The thought I loathe and fear
That these four letters timidly express—
It beggars millionaires in happiness!
If I could be the autocrat of speech
But for one hour, that hateful word I’d banish;
I’d send it packing out of mortal reach,
As B and G from Knudsen’s Grammar vanish.
Stiver.
Why should the word of hope enrage you thus?
Falk.
Because it darkens God’s fair earth for us.
“Next year,” “next love,” “next life,”—my soul is vext
To see this world in thraldom to “the next.”
’Tis this dull forethought, bent on future prizes,
That millionaires in gladness pauperises.
Far as the eye can reach, it blurs the age;
All rapture of the moment it destroys;
No one dares taste in peace life’s simplest joys
Until he’s struggled on another stage—
And there arriving, can he there repose?
No—to a new “next” off he flies again;
On, on, unresting, to the grave he goes;
And God knows if there’s any resting then.
Miss Jay.
Fie, Mr. Falk, such sentiments are shocking.
Anna [pensively].
Oh, I can understand the feeling quite;
I am sure at bottom Mr. Falk is right.
Miss Jay [perturbed].
My Stiver mustn’t listen to his mocking.
He’s rather too eccentric even now.—
My dear, I want you.
Stiver [occupied in cleaning his pipe].
Presently, my dear.
Guldstad [to Falk].
One thing at least to me is very clear;—
And that is that you cannot but allow
Some forethought indispensable. For see,
Suppose that you to-day should write a sonnet,
And, scorning forethought, you should lavish on it
Your last reserve, your all, of poetry,
So that, to-morrow, when you set about
Your next song, you should find yourself cleaned out,
Heavens! how your friends the critics then would crow!
Falk.
D’you think they’d notice I was bankrupt? No!
Once beggared of ideas, I and they
Would saunter arm in arm the selfsame way— [Breaking off.
But Lind! why, what’s the matter with you, pray?
You sit there dumb and dreaming—I suspect you’re
Deep in the mysteries of architecture.
Lind [collecting himself].
I? What should make you think so?
Falk.
I observe.
Your eyes are glued to the verandah yonder—
You’re studying, mayhap, its arches’ curve,
Or can it be its pillars’ strength you ponder,
The door perhaps, with hammered iron hinges?
The window blinds, and their artistic fringes?
From something there your glances never wander.
Lind.
No, you are wrong—I’m just absorbed in being—
Drunk with the hour—naught craving, naught foreseeing.
I feel as though I stood, my life complete,
With all earth’s riches scattered at my feet.
Thanks for your song of happiness and spring—
From out my inmost heart it seemed to spring.
[Lifts his glass and exchanges a glance, unobserved, with Anna.
Here’s to the blossom in its fragrant pride!
What reck we of the fruit of autumn-tide?
[Empties his glass.
Falk [looks at him with surprise and emotion, but assumes a light tone].
Behold, fair ladies! though you scorn me quite,
Here I have made an easy proselyte.
His hymn-book yesterday was all he cared for—
To-day e’en dithyrambics he’s prepared for!
We poets must be born, cries every judge;
But prose-folks, now and then, like Strasburg geese,
Gorge themselves so inhumanly obese
On rhyming balderdash and rhythmic fudge,
That, when cleaned out, their very souls are thick
With lyric lard and greasy rhetoric.
[To Lind.
Your praise, however, I shall not forget;
We’ll sweep the lyre henceforward in duet.
Miss Jay.
You, Mr. Falk, are hard at work, no doubt,
Here in these rural solitudes delightful,
Where at your own sweet will you roam about—
Mrs. Halm [smiling].
Oh, no, his laziness is something frightful.
Miss Jay.
What! here at Mrs. Halm’s! that’s most surprising—
Surely it’s just the place for poetising—
[Pointing to the right.
That summer-house, for instance, in the wood
Sequestered, name me any place that could
Be more conducive to poetic mood—
Falk.
Let blindness veil the sunlight from mine eyes,
I’ll chant the splendour of the sunlit skies!
Just for a season let me beg or borrow
A great, a crushing, a stupendous sorrow,
And soon you’ll hear my hymns of gladness rise!
But best, Miss Jay, to nerve my wings for flight,
Find me a maid to be my life, my light—
For that incitement long to Heaven I’ve pleaded;
But hitherto, worse luck, it hasn’t heeded.
Miss Jay.
What levity!
Mrs. Halm.
Yes, most irreverent!
Falk.
Pray don’t imagine it was my intent
To live with her on bread and cheese and kisses.
No! just upon the threshold of our blisses,
Kind Heaven must snatch away the gift it lent.
I need a little spiritual gymnastic;
The dose in that form surely would be drastic.
Svanhild.
[Has during the talk approached; she stands close to the table, and says in a determined but whimsical tone:
I’ll pray that such may be your destiny.
But, when it finds you—bear it like a man.
Falk [turning round in surprise].
Miss Svanhild!—well, I’ll do the best I can.
But think you I may trust implicitly
To finding your petitions efficacious?
Heaven, as you know, to faith alone is gracious—
And though you’ve doubtless will enough for two
To make me bid my peace of mind adieu,
Have you the faith to carry matters through?
That is the question.
Svanhild [half in jest].
Wait till sorrow comes,
And all your being’s springtide chills and numbs,
Wait till it gnaws and rends you, soon and late,
Then tell me if my faith is adequate.
[She goes across to the ladies.
Mrs. Halm [aside to her].
Can you two never be at peace? you’ve made
Poor Mr. Falk quite angry, I’m afraid.
[Continues reprovingly in a low voice. Miss Jay joins in the conversation. Svanhild remains cold and silent.
Falk [after a pause of reflection goes over to the summer-house, then to himself].
With fullest confidence her glances lightened.
Shall I believe, as she does so securely,
That Heaven intends—
Guldstad.
No, hang it; don’t be frightened!
The powers above would be demented surely
To give effect to orders such as these.
No, my good sir—the cure for your disease
Is exercise for muscle, nerve, and sinew.
Don’t lie there wasting all the grit that’s in you
In idle dreams; cut wood, if that were all;
And then I’ll say the devil’s in’t indeed
If one brief fortnight does not find you freed
From all your whimsies high-fantastical.
Falk.
Fetter’d by choice, like Burnell’s ass, I ponder—
The flesh on this side, and the spirit yonder.
Which were it wiser I should go for first?
Guldstad [filling the glasses].
First have some punch—that quenches ire and thirst.
Mrs. Halm [looking at her watch].
Ha! Eight o’clock! my watch is either fast, or
It’s just the time we may expect the Pastor.
[Rises, and puts things in order on the verandah.
Falk.
What! have we parsons coming?
Miss Jay.
Don’t you know?
Mrs. Halm.
I told you, just a little while ago—
Anna.
No, mother—Mr. Falk had not yet come.
Mrs. Halm.
Why no, that’s true; but pray don’t look so glum.
Trust me, you’ll be enchanted with his visit.
Falk.
A clerical enchanter; pray who is it?
Mrs. Halm.
Why, Pastor Strawman, not unknown to fame.
Falk.
Indeed! Oh, yes, I think I’ve heard his name,
And read that in the legislative game
He comes to take a hand, with voice and vote.
Stiver.
He speaks superbly.
Guldstad.
When he’s cleared his throat.
Miss Jay.
He’s coming with his wife—
Mrs. Halm.
And all their blessings—
Falk.
To give them three or four days’ treat, poor dears—
Soon he’ll be buried over head and ears
In Swedish muddles and official messings—
I see!
Mrs. Halm [to Falk].
Now there’s a man for you, in truth!
Guldstad.
They say he was a rogue, though, in his youth.
Miss Jay [offended].
There, Mr. Guldstad, I must break a lance!
I’ve heard as long as I can recollect,
Most worthy people speak with great respect
Of Pastor Strawman and his life’s romance.
Guldstad [laughing].
Romance?
Miss Jay.
Romance! I call a match romantic
At which mere worldly wisdom looks askance.
Falk.
You make my curiosity gigantic.
Miss Jay [continuing].
But certain people always grow splenetic—
Why, goodness knows—at everything pathetic,
And scoff it down. We all know how, of late,
An unfledged, upstart undergraduate
Presumed, with brazen insolence, to declare
That “William Russell” was a poor affair!
Falk.
But what has this to do with Strawman, pray?
Is he a poem, or a Christian play?