Loves Comedy | Page 4

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 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 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