Loves Comedy | Page 4

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 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 this 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? 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,