FALK [whimsically].
Nay,
To retribution—well-earned punishment.
Thro' all our life there runs a Nemesis,
Which may delay, but never will relent,
And grants to none exception or release.
Who wrongs the Ideal? Straight there rushes in
The Press, its guardian with the Argus eye,
And the offender suffers for his sin.
STRAWMAN.
But in the name of heaven, what pledge have I
Given this "Ideal" that's ever on your tongue?
I'm married, have a family, twelve young
And helpless innocents to clothe and keep;
I have my daily calls on every side,
Churches remote and gleve and pasture wide,
Great herds of breeding cattle, ghostly sheep—
All to be watched and cared for, clipt and fed,
Grain to be winnowed, compost to be spread;—
Wanted all day in shippon and in stall,
What time have I to serve the "Ideal" withal?
FALK.
Then get you home with what dispatch you may,
Creep snugly in before the winter-cold;
Look, in young Norway dawns at last the day,
Thousand brave hearts are in its ranks enroll'd,
Its banners in the morning breezes play!
STRAWMAN.
And if, young man, I were to take my way
With bag and baggage home, with everything
That made me yesterday a little king,
Were mine the only volet face to-day?
Think you I carry back the wealth I brought?
[As FALK is about to answer.
Nay, listen let me first explain my thought
[Coming nearer.
Time was when I was young, like you, and played
Like you, the unconquerable Titan's part;
Year after year I toiled and moiled for bread,
Which hardens a man's hand, but not his heart.
For northern fells my lonely home surrounded,
And by my parish bounds my world was bounded.
My home—Ah, Falk, I wonder, do you know
What home is?
FALK [curtly].
I have never known.
STRAWMAN.
Just so.
That is a home, where five may dwell with ease,
Tho' two would be a crowd, if enemies.
That is a home, where all your thoughts play free
As boys and girls about their father's knee,
Where speech no sooner touches heart, than tongue
Darts back an answering harmony of song;
Where you may grow from flax-haired snowy-polled,
And not a soul take note that you grow old;
Where memories grow fairer as they fade,
Like far blue peaks beyond the forest glade.
FALK [with constrained sarcasm].
Come, you grow warm—
STRAWMAN.
Where you but jeered and flouted.
So utterly unlike God made us two!
I'm bare of that he lavished upon you.
But I have won the game where you were routed.
Seen from the clouds, full many a wayside grain
Of truth seems empty chaff and husks. You'd soar
To heaven, I scarcely reach the stable door,
One bird's an eagle born—
FALK.
And one a hen.
STRAWMAN.
Yes, laugh away, and say it be so, grant
I am a hen. There clusters to my cluck
A crowd of little chickens,—which you want!
And I've the hen's high spirit and her pluck,
And for my little ones forget myself.
You think me dull, I know it. Possibly
You pass a harsher judgment yet, decree
Me over covetous of worldly pelf.
Good, on that head we will not disagree.
[Seizes FALK's arm and continues in a low
tone but with gathering vehemence.
You're right, I'm dull and dense and grasping, yes;
But grasping for my God-given babes and wife,
And dense from struggling blindly for bare life,
And dull from sailing seas of loneliness.
Just when the pinnance of my youthful dream
Into the everlasting deep went down,
Another started from the ocean stream
Borne with a fair wind onward to life's crown.
For every dream that vanished in the wave,
For every buoyant plume that broke asunder,
God sent me in return a little wonder,
And gratefully I took the good He gave.
For them I strove, for them amassed, annexed,—
For them, for them, explained the Holy text;
On them you've poured the venom of your spite!
You've proved, with all the cunning of the schools,
My bliss was but the paradise of fools,
That all I took for earnest was a jest;—
Now I implore, give me my quiet breast
Again, the flawless peace of mind I had—