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Mr. Falk!
LIND.
Are you resolved to sow Dissension?
FALK [vehemently].
Yes, war, discord, turmoil, strife!
STIVER.
What you, a lay, profane outsider here!
FALK.
No matter, still the battle-flag I'll rear!
Yes, it is war I mean with nail and tooth Against the Lie with the tenacious root, The lie that you have fostered into fruit, For all its strutting in the guise of truth!
STIVER.
Against these groundless charges I protest, Reserving right of action--
MISS JAY.
Do be still!
FALK.
So then it is Love's ever-running rill That tells the widow what she once possess'd,-- Out of her language blotted "moan" and "sigh"!
So then it is Love's br.i.m.m.i.n.g tide that rolls Along the placid veins of wedded souls,-- That very Love that faced the iron sleet, Trampling inane Convention under feet, And scoffing at the impotent discreet!
So then it is Love's beauty-kindled flame That keeps the plighted from the taint of time Year after year! Ah yes, the very same That made our young bureaucrat blaze in rhyme!
So it is Love's young bliss that will not brave The voyage over vaulted Ocean's wave, But asks a sacrifice when, like the sun, Its face should fill with glory, making one!
Ah no, you vulgar prophets of the Lie, Give things the names we ought to know them by; Call widows' pa.s.sion--wanting what they miss, And wedlock's habit--call it what it is!
STRAWMAN.
Young man, this insolence has gone too far!
In every word there's scoffing and defiance.
[Goes close up to FALK.
Now I'll gird up my aged loins to war For hallowed custom against modern science!
FALK.
I go to battle as it were a feast!
STRAWMAN.
Good! For your bullets I will be a beacon:-- [Nearer.
A wedded pair is holy, like a priest--
STIVER [at FALK's other side].
And a betrothed--
FALK.
Half-holy, like the deacon.
STRAWMAN.
Behold these children;--see,--this little throng!
_Io triumphe_ may for them be sung!
How was it possible--how practicable--: The words of truth are strong, inexorable--; He has no hearing whom they cannot move.
See,--every one of them's a child of Love--!
[Stops in confusion.
That is--you understand--I would have said--!
MISS JAY [fanning herself with her handkerchief].
This is a very mystical oration!
FALK.
There you yourself provide the demonstration,-- A good old Norse one, sound, true-born, home-bred.
You draw distinction between wedded pledges And those of Love: your Logic's without flaw.
They are distinguished just as roast from raw, As hothouse bloom from wilding of the hedges!
Love is with us a science and an art; It long ago since ceased to animate the heart.
Love is with us a trade, a special line Of business, with its union, code and sign; It is a guild of married folks and plighted, Past-masters with apprentices united; For they cohere compact as jelly-fishes, A singing-club their single want and wish is--
GULDSTAD.
And a gazette!
FALK.
A good suggestion, yes!
We too must have our organ in the press, Like ladies, athletes, boys, and devotees.
Don't ask the price at present, if you please.
There I'll parade each amatory fetter That John and Thomas to our town unites, There publish every pink and perfumed letter That William to his tender Jane indites; There you shall read, among "Distressing Scenes"-- Instead of murders and burnt crinolines, The broken matches that the week's afforded; There under "goods for sale" you'll find what firms Will furnish cast-off rings on easy terms; There double, treble births will be recorded; No wedding, but our rallying rub-a-dub Shall drum to the performance all the club; No suit rejected, but we'll set it down, In letters large, with other news of weight Thus: "Amor-Moloch, we regret to state, Has claimed another victim in our town."
You'll see, we'll catch subscribers: once in sight Of the propitious season when they bite, By way of throwing them the bait they'll brook I'll stick a nice young man upon my hook.
Yes, you will see me battle for our cause, With tiger's, nay with editorial, claws Rending them--
GULDSTAD.
And the paper's name will be--?
FALK.
Amor's Norse Chronicle of Archery.
STIVER [going nearer].
You're not in earnest, you will never stake Your name and fame for such a fancy's sake!
FALK.
I'm in grim earnest. We are often told Men cannot live on love; I'll show that this Is an untenable hypothesis; For Love will prove to be a mine of gold: Particularly if Miss Jay, perhaps, Will Mr. Strawman's "Life's Romance" unfold, As appetising feuilleton, in sc.r.a.ps.
STRAWMAN [in terror].
Merciful heaven! My "life's romance!" What, what!
When was my life romantic, if you please?
MISS JAY.
I never said so.
STIVER.
Witness disagrees.
STRAWMAN.
That I have ever swerved a single jot From social prescript,--is a monstrous lie.
