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Love's
Comedy Introduction
to Love's Comedy
ACT ONEThe set represents an attractive garden, irregularly but tastefully arranged; in the background can be seen the fjord and distant islands. To the left of the viewer is the main building with a veranda and an open window above it.; to the right, in the foreground, an open summer house with a table and benches. The landscape is bathed in bright afternoon sunshine. It is early summer; the fruit trees are in blossom. When the curtain rises, MRS. HALM , ANNA and MISS SKJAERE are on the veranda, the first two with embroidery to work on, the latter with a book. In the summer house one sees FALK, LIND, GULDSTAD and STYVER. On the table stands a punchbowl and glasses. SVANHILD sits alone in the background, by the water.)
FALK: (Gets up, raising his glass and singing) Sunlight glints through garden fences Beckoning to dance and play; Joys that now enchant our senses Autumn soon will take away. Apple blossoms for an hour Spread a canopy of white; But to earth will fall each flower, Broken, lifeless, the next night. MEN'S CHORUS: But to earth will fall each flower, etc.
FALK: Never calculate the harvest While the blossom's on the bough. Present joys are for the wisest. Take what's offered here and now. Listen to the birds' clear chorus Day and night all summer long. Let their melodies restore us. Yield to the sweet power of song. CHORUS: Let their melodies restore us...etc.
FALK: Let the singer raid the treasures Where they waste, a barren hoard. Carefree songs will give you pleasures Prudence never can reward. Summer wisdom lies in buying Fresh songs, not uncertain fruit. Call to mind that time is flying; That the fairest groves fall mute. CHORUS: Call to mind that time is flying...etc.
FALK: I'll live my life in joy and singing. When my last day shall arrive, Face the dust heap, on it flinging All the residue of life - Fences may fall and cattle wander Trampling, careless as they go. I feed on flowers. Let others squander The dull dregs I leave below. CHORUS: I feed on flowers....
(They clink and empty their glasses)
FALK: (To the ladies) There's the song you all were clamoring for Make the best of it - There won't be any more.
GULDSTAD: So long as it's a good one, that's all right..
MISS SKJAERE: (Looking around) But Svanhild - she seemed so thrilled - ! Then, when Falk started singing, she suddenly took flight - Who knows where she went.
ANNA: (Pointing to the background) See, she's over there still!
MRS. HALM: (Sighing) That child! God knows, I daren't let her out of sight.
MISS SKJAERE: I must say, Mr. Falk, the end of your song - poetically - Wasn't so - that is - as fine as in the earlier part.
STYVER: Yes, and really it ought to have been quite easy To apply more poetry at the end, with a little art.
FALK (Clinking glasses with him) : A bit of daubing or caulking in each crevice Until it can pass for genuine marble.
STYVER (Unfazed) : Yes, that's the way. It's how I did it myself once.
GULDSTAD: What? You also have done the Muse some service?
MISS SKJAERE: My own dearest? Oh Lord, yes - I should say!
STYVER: “A small thing, but mine own”.
MISS SKJAERE: (To the ladies) He's so terribly romantic - my own dear one!
MRS. HALM: Yes, that we know well.
STYVER: No longer. Those days are long past.
FALK: Right! Like all varnish, romance won't last. But in those days, then - ?
STYVER: Ah yes, those days, Oh, I was greatly in love.
FALK: And now it's a phase That's past? I'd no idea it's something you got over.
STYVER: I'm engaged officially now – that's more than just ‘lover'. More than just ‘being in love', don't you see?
FALK: You're right, my old friend, I entirely agree! You're making progress, you've survived the worst test: Evolution from lover to ‘sweetheart' and ‘dearest'.
STYVER: (With a smile, recollecting) Yes, it's odd, now that I reminisce On my antics at that time. (Turning to FALK) Yes, even, Believe it or not, secretly writing verse for seven Whole years in my spare time at the office.
FALK: You wrote verse - at your desk?
STYVER: Well, at the table actually.
GULSTAD: (Tapping his glass). A moment's silence for Mr. Styver, if we may!
STYVER: Particularly in the evening when we had free time. I'd get down to composing reams of meter and rhyme. As much as two or three pages at a go.
FALK: You kick-started your Muse – your poetic flow - And that got her going?
STYVER: On official and unofficial stationery. Whatever - the Muse really didn't seem to mind
FALK: And so the poetry just poured out, of every kind! But how did you break into the Muse's sanctuary?
STYVER: In love you become a burglar, as you know, my friend. And it was my love for Miss Skjaere that spurred me on - My sweetheart, as she would become in the end - For at that time she was -
FALK: Just your adored one.
STYVER: (Continuing) I was crazy in those days! I lost all sense of order. I'd tuned my pen into the little love-god's recorder; My very scratch pad would emit love's moans. At last, one unforgettable day, I set my brains To a missive, to be mailed to -
FALK: To the Muse of these runes- ?
STYVER: And imagine, she answered at once, unalarmed: “Application accepted - hereby confirmed!”
FALK: Then you sat at your desk, I suppose, feeling quite grand Having successfully angled your catch to dry land?
STYVER: Naturally.
FALK: But it ended all versifying?
STYVER: Yes, that's what it did - there's no denying The source dried up once and for all. And now, if I ever set about trying My hand at a stanza for a New Year's ball, The meter and the rhyme go hopelessly wrong It sounds legalese - not a bit like song.
GULDSTAD: (Clinking glasses with him) And that, I must say, is just as it should be. (To FALK) You think Fortune's a travel agency Obliged to arrange your cruise through the world; ` But before embarking, you'd better think hard. As to your versifying, I‘ve no idea How it currently rates with the cognoscenti; But the moral they send is abundantly clear, And just about the worst it could possibly be. Let's hear it again - this quaint notion of economy! To let all manner of birds just strip blossoms away, Before there's time for the fruit on the tree? And furthermore, to let cattle and sheep stray Around here all summer long. What complete folly! Wouldn't that be nice to see next Spring Mrs. Halm?
FALK : Ah yes, next, next, next! What a quantity of harm Hides in that feeble word, that ‘next'! It translates The rich man's plenty to a desert waste. If I were made Sultan over our language, Just for an hour, say, I'd take the silken cord, And strangle each practitioner of its usage, Wiping from earth all trace of the word.
GULSTAD: Why assassinate a word many of us find so hopeful?
FALK: For turning Creation's Light to something hateful And dim. We say, “our next love” “our next wife” “Our next mealtime” - even “our next life”. All this concern about the state of the future Can convert a prodigal son into a beggar. Wherever you look, it's corrupting our age: It's fatal to the pleasure of each lived moment. You can't relax, feel happy and content: You have to steer your pleasure-boat's voyage Instead towards some distant ‘next' shore. You'll rest content now,not keeping your eyes on The next? Don't imagine it! You're soon hankering for Another new prospect. Some ‘next' horizon. So we frantically proceed, let our lives slip away, Lord knows if we get to rest on the Last Day.
MRS. HALM: Really Mr. Falk, how can you talk that way!
ANNA: (Pensively) Yet what he said made good sense to me. There some ground of truth there, I have to allow.
MISS SKJAERE: (Anxiously) My own sweetheart really shouldn't pay Heed to such talk (he's eccentric enough now). Coo-ee, love, come over here!
STYVER: I'm coming, my dear!
GULDSTAD: (To FALK) At least you've made one thing crystal clear. But you really should have more respect For foresight. Imagine! Today you sit down to bare Your whole heart in verse; you labor to collect Your thoughts, then in one great burst of poetry, Scatter it all. Next morning you'd soon see You've nothing left when it came to writing the ‘next'. Just a virgin page, all innocent of text! How the critics then would crucify your Muse!
FALK: Those bankrupt word-merchants! Well they couldn't refuse To link arms with me in that case, for I and they Would be equally barren in wit the same way. (Pausing and changing the subject) But tell me Lind, how are things with you? You sat so patiently throughout my long lecture. You're considering taking up architecture?
LIND: (Getting a grip on himself) I? What on earth makes you think so?
FALK: Just the way You keep eyeing that particular balcony. Is it the style of that broad-arched veranda Over there, you find such need to ponder? Maybe it's the elegant hinges on the doors Or else the fine window latches are the cause? Something in that line's given you pause.
LIND: (Beaming) No, you're quite wrong. I'm just drinking it all In. Imbibing this moment! I've no need to call For anything more in life. I feel I stand With the world's wealth here, within reach of my hand. Thanks for your song praising the pleasures of Spring; They're my innermost thoughts you were describing. (He raises his glass and glances a moment at ANNA, unseen by the others) Skol! to the generous blossom's perfume Out-braving the fruit it's doomed to become. (Drains his glass)
FALK: (Regarding him, startled and moved, which he conceals under a flippant tone) Something new's come to light! Ladies, listen to me! I've just gained an ardent devotee. Yesterday, he was all grim piety and scripture; Now he's beating the poetic drum in rapture! It's common wisdom a poet‘s born, not made; But now it seems the most prosaic soul can hide A bellyful of poetic stuffing like a Strasbourg goose: Rhymed stanzaic rantings, meandering and loose Meters; the entrails, soul, liver, guts, grease, Drawn out bit by bit, all seen to be coated With thick-larded lyrics, bombastic and bloated. (To LIND) But thank you, all the same, for following my lead. Now let's join forces; forge ahead at full speed!
MISS SKJAERE: Well, Mr. Falk, seeing that you're so busy You must love this country tranquility of ours: Not much to do but wander among flowers.
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