Love's Comedy Part 14

In that I am not wanting, nor are you.

A fiery spirit pulses in your veins, For thoughts that master, you have works 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 blus.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sing current in that babel mart Of poetry and b.u.t.ter, 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 s.h.i.+eld--

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 Volsungs as they fought and fell, With all their faded aeons, seemed to rise In never-ending line before my eyes.

In you I saw a Svanhild, like the old,(3) But fas.h.i.+oned 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 G.o.d'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!"

[Seizing her hand.

But if you are to die, live first! Come forth With me into the glory of G.o.d'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 pa.s.s 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 G.o.d 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!