Loves Comedy | Page 8

feet.
SVANHILD. But now such acts are clearly obsolete. No, no, I'll mount
his saddle! There's my place! How often have I dreamt, in pensive ease,
He bore me, buoyant, through the world apace, His mane a flag of
freedom in the breeze!
FALK. Yes, the old tale. In "pensive ease" no mortal Is stopped by
thwarting bar or cullis'd portal; Fearless we cleave the ether without
bound; In practice, tho', we shrewdly hug the ground; For all love life
and, having choice, will choose it; And no man dares to leap where he
may lose it.
SVANHILD. Yes! show me but the end, I'll spurn the shore; But let the
end be worth the leaping for! A Ballarat beyond the desert sands-- Else
each will stay exactly where he stands.
FALK [sarcastically]. I grasp the case;--the due conditions fail.
SVANHILD [eagerly]. Exactly: what's the use of spreading sail When
there is not a breath of wind astir?
FALK [ironically]. Yes, what's the use of plying whip and spur When

there is not a penny of reward For him who tears him from the festal
board, And mounts, and dashes headlong to perdition? Such doing for
the deed's sake asks a knight, And knighthood's now an idle
superstition. That was your meaning, possibly?
SVANHILD. Quite right. Look at that fruit tree in the orchard close,--
No blossom on its barren branches blows. You should have seen last
year with what brave airs It staggered underneath its world of pears.
FALK [uncertain]. No doubt, but what's the moral you impute?
SVANHILD [with finesse]. O, among other things, the bold unreason
Of modern Zacharies who seek for fruit. If the tree blossom'd to excess
last season, You must not crave the blossoms back in this.
FALK. I knew you'd find your footing in the ways Of old romance.
SVANHILD. Yes, modern virtue is Of quite another stamp. Who now
arrays Himself to battle for the truth? Who'll stake His life and person
fearless for truth's sake? Where is the hero?
FALK [looking keenly at her]. Where is the Valkyria?
SVANHILD [shaking her head]. Valkyrias find no market in this land!
When the faith lately was assailed in Syria, Did you go out with the
crusader-band? No, but on paper you were warm and willing,-- And
sent the "Clerical Gazette" a shilling.
[Pause. FALK is about to retort, but checks himself, and goes into the
garden.
SVANHILD [after watching him a moment, approaches him and asks
gently: Falk, are you angry?
FALK. No, I only brood,--
SVANHILD [with thoughtful sympathy]. You seem to be two natures,
still at feud,-- Unreconciled--

FALK. I know it well.
SVANHILD [impetuously]. But why?
FALK [losing self-control]. Why, why? Because I hate to go about
With soul bared boldly to the vulgar eye, As Jock and Jennie hang their
passions out; To wear my glowing heart upon my sleeve, Like women
in low dresses. You, alone, Svanhild, you only,--you, I did believe,--
Well, it is past, that dream, for ever flown.--
[She goes to the summer-house and looks out; he follows.
You listen--?
SVANHILD. To another voice, that sings. Hark! every evening when
the sun's at rest, A little bird floats hither on beating wings,-- See
there--it darted from its leafy nest-- And, do you know, it is my faith, as
oft As God makes any songless soul, He sends A little bird to be her
friend of friends, And sing for ever in her garden-croft.
FALK [picking up a stone]. Then must the owner and the bird be near,
Or its song's squandered on a stranger's ear.
SVANHILD. Yes, that is true; but I've discovered mine. Of speech and
song I am denied the power, But when it warbles in its leafy bower,
Poems flow in upon my brain like wine-- Ah, yes,--they fleet--they are
not to be won--
[FALK throws the stone. SVANHILD screams.
O God, you've hit it! Ah, what have you done!
[She hurries out to the the right and then quickly returns.
O pity! pity!
FALK [in passionate agitation]. No,--but eye for eye, Svanhild, and
tooth for tooth. Now you'll attend No further greetings from your
garden-friend, No guerdon from the land of melody. That is my

vengeance: as you slew I slay.
SVANHILD. I slew?
FALK. You slew. Until this very day, A clear-voiced song-bird
warbled in my soul; See,--now one passing bell for both may toll--
You've killed it!
SVANHILD. Have I?
FALK. Yes, for you have slain My young, high-hearted, joyous
exultation-- [Contemptuously. By your betrothal!
SVANHILD. How! But pray explain--!
FALK. O, it's in full accord with expectation; He gets his licence,
enters orders, speeds to A post,--as missionary in the West--
SVANHILD [in the same tone]. A pretty penny, also, he succeeds to;--
For it is Lind you speak of--?
FALK.