STIVER [shrugging his shoulders].
It is the law; to murmur is in vain.
Moreover, at a moment such as this,
When salary revision is in train,
It is not well to advertise one's views
Of office time's true function and right use.
That's why I beg you to be silent; look,
A word may forfeit my—
FALK.
Portfolio?
STIVER.
Officially it's called a transcript book;
A protocol's the clasp upon the veil of snow
That shrouds the modest breast of the Bureau.
What lies beneath you must not seek to know.
FALK.
And yet I only spoke at your desire;
You hinted at your literary crop.
STIVER.
How should I guess he'd grovel in the mire
So deep, this parson perch'd on fortune's top,
A man with snug appointments, children, wife,
And money to defy the ills of life?
If such a man prove such a Philistine,
What shall of us poor copyists be said?
Of me, who drive the quill and rule the line,
A man engaged and shortly to be wed,
With family in prospect—and so forth?
[More vehemently.
O, if I only had a well-lined berth,
I'd bind the armour'd helmet on my head,
And cry defiance to united earth!
And were I only unengaged like you,
Trust me, I'd break a road athwart the snow
Of prose, and carry the Ideal through!
FALK.
To work then, man!
STIVER.
How?
FALK.
You may still do so!
Let the world's prudish owl unheeded flutter by;
Freedom converts the grub into a butterfly!
STIVER.
You mean, to break the engagement—?
FALK.
That's my mind;—
The fruit is gone, why keep the empty rind?