FALK [taken aback].
We three?
GULDSTAD.
Yes,—all disguises flung apart.
FALK [suppressing a smile].
O, at your service.
GULDSTAD.
Very good, then hear.
We've been acquainted now for half a year;
We've wrangled—
FALK.
Yes.
GULDSTAD.
We've been in constant feud;
We've changed hard blows enough. You fought—alone—
For a sublime ideal; I as one
Among the money-grubbing multitude.
And yet it seemed as if a chord united
Us two, as if a thousand thoughts that lay
Deep in my own youth's memory benighted
Had started at your bidding into day.
Yes, I amaze you. But this hair grey-sprinkled
Once fluttered brown in spring-time, and this brow,
Which daily occupation moistens now
With sweat of labour, was not always wrinkled.
Enough; I am a man of business, hence—
FALK [with gentle sarcasm].
You are the type of practical good sense.
GULDSTAD.
And you are hope's own singer young and fain.
[Stepping between them.
Just therefore, Falk and Svanhild, I am here.
Now let us talk, then; for the hour is near
Which brings good hap or sorrow in its train.
FALK [in suspense].
Speak, then!
GULDSTAD [smiling].
My ground is, as I said last night,
A kind of poetry—