SVANHILD [shaking her head].
Then were the cause for which we made alliance
Ruined, as sure as this is earth we tread.
FALK.
No, triumph waits upon two souls in unity.
To Custom's parish-church no more we'll wend,
Seatholders in the Philistine community.
See, Personality's one aim and end
Is to be independent, free and true.
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!