Love’s Comedy E-Book

Henrik Ibsen

• Herausgeber: E-BOOKARAMA
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Henrik Ibsen is the great Norwegian playwright known of course for "A Doll’s House", "Hedda Gabler", "Ghosts" and "The Master Builder". 
"Love’s Comedy", bittersweet comedy written in 1862,  is one of his earliest plays, released before "Brand and Peer Gynt".
"Love’s Comedy" is considered Ibsen's first assured masterpiece, written in verse and in language loaded with vivid imagery and passion.

Two students, Falk and Lind, are staying at the country house of Mrs. Halm, romancing her two daughters Anna and Svanhild. Lind has ambitions to be a missionary, Falk a great poet. Falk criticises bourgeois society in his verse and insists that we live in the passionate moment. Lind's proposal of marriage to Anna is accepted, but Svanhild rejects the chance to become Falk's muse, as poetry is merely writing, and he can do that on his own and without really risking himself for his beliefs.

Leseprobe

Henrik Ibsen

Love’s Comedy

Table of contents

LOVE´S COMEDY

Persons of the Comedy

ACT FIRST

ACT SECOND

ACT THIRD

LOVE´S COMEDY

Henrik Ibsen

Persons of the Comedy

MRS. HALM, widow of a government official.

SVANHILD AND ANNA, her daughters.

FALK, a young author, and LIND, a divinity student, her boarders.

GULDSTAD, a wholesale merchant.

STIVER, a law-clerk.

MISS JAY, his fiancee.

STRAWMAN, a country clergyman.

MRS. STRAWMAN, his wife.

STUDENTS, GUESTS, MARRIED AND PLIGHTED PAIRS.

THE STRAWMANS’ EIGHT LITTLE GIRLS.

FOUR AUNTS, A PORTER, DOMESTIC SERVANTS.

Scene — Mrs. Halm’s Villa on the Drammensvejen at Christiania.

ACT FIRST

The SCENE represents a pretty garden irregularly but tastefully laid out; in the background are seen the fjord and the islands. To the left is the house, with a verandah and an open dormer window above; to the right in the foreground an open summer-house with a table and benches. The landscape lies in bright afternoon sunshine. It is early summer; the fruit-trees are in flower.

When the Curtain rises, MRS. HALM, ANNA, and MISS JAY are sitting on the verandah, the first two engaged in embroidery, the last with a book. In the summer-house are seen FALK, LIND, GULDSTAD, and STIVER: a punch-bowl and glasses are on the table. SVANHILD sits alone in the background by the water.

Falk[rises, lifts his glass, and sings].

Sun-glad day in garden shady

Was but made for thy delight:

What though promises of May-day

Be annulled by Autumn’s blight?

Apple-blossom white and splendid

Drapes thee in its glowing tent —

Let it, then, when day is ended,

Strew the closes storm-besprent.

Chorus Of Gentlemen.

Let it, then, when day is ended, etc.

Falk.

Wherefore seek the harvest’s guerdon

While the tree is yet in bloom?

Wherefore drudge beneath the burden

Of an unaccomplished doom?

Wherefore let the scarecrow clatter

Day and night upon the tree?

Brothers mine, the sparrows’ chatter

Has a cheerier melody.

Chorus.

Brothers mine, the sparrow’s chatter, etc.

Falk.

Happy songster! Wherefore scare him

From our blossom-laden bower?

Rather for his music spare him

All our future, flower by flower;

Trust me, ’twill be cheaply buying

Present song with future fruit;

List the proverb, “Time is flying; —”

Soon our garden music’s mute.

Chorus.

List the proverb, etc.

Falk.

I will live in song and gladness —

Then, when every bloom is shed,

Sweep together, scarce in sadness,

All that glory, wan and dead:

Fling the gates wide! Bruise and batter,

Tear and trample, hoof and tusk;

I have plucked the flower, what matter

Who devours the withered husk!

Chorus.

I have plucked the flower, etc.

[They clink and empty their glasses.

Falk[to the ladies].

There — that’s the song you asked me for; but pray Be lenient to it — I can’t think today.

Guldstad.

Oh, never mind the sense — the sound’s the thing.

Miss Jay[looking round].

But Svanhild, who was eagerest to hear —? When Falk began, she suddenly took wing And vanished —

Anna[pointing towards the back].

No, for there she sits — I see her.

Mrs Halm[sighing].

That child! Heaven knows, she’s past my comprehending!

Miss Jay.

But, Mr. Falk, I thought the lyric’s ending Was not so rich in-well, in poetry, As others of the stanzas seemed to be.

Stiver.

Why yes, and I am sure it could not tax Your powers to get a little more inserted —

Falk[clinking glasses with him].

You cram it in, like putty into cracks, Till lean is into streaky fat converted.

Stiver[unruffled].

Yes, nothing easier — I, too, in my day Could do the trick.

Guldstad.

Dear me! Were you a poet?

Miss Jay.

My Stiver! Yes!

Stiver.

Oh, in a humble way.

Miss Jay[to the ladies].

His nature is romantic.

Mrs Halm.

Yes, we know it.

Stiver.

Not now; it’s ages since I turned a rhyme.

Falk.

Yes varnish and romance go off with time. But in the old days —?

Stiver.

Well, you see, ’twas when I was in love.

Falk.

Is that time over, then? Have you slept off the sweet intoxication?

Stiver.

I’m now engaged — I hold official station — That’s better than in love, I apprehend!

Falk.

Quite so! You’re in the right my good old friend. The worst is past — vous voila bien avance — Promoted from mere lover to fiance.

Stiver[with a smile of complacent recollection].

It’s strange to think of it — upon my word, I half suspect my memory of lying — [Turns to FALK. But seven years ago — it sounds absurd! — I wasted office hours in versifying.

Falk.

What! Office hours —!

Stiver.

Yes, such were my transgressions.

Guldstad[ringing on his glass].

Silence for our solicitor’s confessions!

Stiver.

But chiefly after five, when I was free, I’d rattle off whole reams of poetry — Ten — fifteen folios ere I went to bed —

Falk.

I see — you gave your Pegasus his head, And off he tore —

Stiver.

On stamped or unstamped paper — ’Twas all the same to him — he’d prance and caper —

Falk.

The spring of poetry flowed no less flush? But how, pray, did you teach it first to gush?

Stiver.

By aid of love’s divining-rod, my friend! Miss Jay it was that taught me where to bore, My fiancee — she became so in the end — For then she was —

Falk.

Your love and nothing more.

Stiver[continuing].

’Twas a strange time; I could not read a bit; I tuned my pen instead of pointing it; And when along the foolscap sheet it raced, It twangled music to the words I traced; — At last by letter I declared my flame To her — to her —

Falk.

Whose fiancee you became.

Stiver.

In course of post her answer came to hand — The motion granted — judgment in my favour!

Falk.

And you felt bigger, as you wrote, and braver, To find you’d brought your venture safe to land!

Stiver.

Of course.

Falk.

And you bade the Muse farewell?

Stiver.

I’ve felt no lyric impulse, truth to tell, From that day forth. My vein appeared to peter Entirely out; and now, if I essay To turn a verse or two for New Year’s Day, I make the veriest hash of rhyme and metre, And — I’ve no notion what the cause can be — It turns to law and not to poetry.

Guldstad[clinks glasses with him].

And trust me, you’re no whit the worse for that! [To Falk. You think the stream of life is flowing solely To bear you to the goal you’re aiming at — But here I lodge a protest energetic, Say what you will, against its wretched moral. A masterly economy and new To let the birds play havoc at their pleasure Among your fruit-trees, fruitless now for you, And suffer flocks and herds to trample through Your garden, and lay waste its springtide treasure! A pretty prospect, truly, for next year!

Falk.

Oh, next, next, next! The thought I loathe and fear That these four letters timidly express — It beggars millionaires in happiness! If I could be the autocrat of speech But for one hour, that hateful word I’d banish; I’d send it packing out of mortal reach, As B and G from Knudsen’s Grammar vanish.

Stiver.

Why should the word of hope enrage you thus?

Falk.

Because it darkens God’s fair earth for us. “Next year,” “next love,” “next life,”— my soul is vext To see this world in thraldom to “the next.” ’Tis this dull forethought, bent on future prizes, That millionaires in gladness pauperises. Far as the eye can reach, it blurs the age; All rapture of the moment it destroys; No one dares taste in peace life’s simplest joys Until he’s struggled on another stage — And there arriving, can he there repose? No — to a new “next” off he flies again; On, on, unresting to the grave he goes; And God knows if there’s any resting then.

Miss Jay.

Fie, Mr. Falk, such sentiments are shocking.

Anna[pensively].

Oh, I can understand the feeling quite; I am sure at bottom Mr. Falk is right.

Miss Jay[perturbed].

My Stiver mustn’t listen to his mocking. He’s rather too eccentric even now. — My dear, I want you.

Stiver[occupied in cleaning his pipe].

Presently, my dear.

Guldstad[to Falk].

One thing at least to me is very clear; — And this is that you cannot but allow Some forethought indispensable. For see, Suppose that you today should write a sonnet, And, scorning forethought, you should lavish on it Your last reserve, your all, of poetry, So that, tomorrow, when you set about Your next song, you should find yourself cleaned out, Heavens! how your friends the critics then would crow!

Falk.

D’you think they’d notice I was bankrupt? No! Once beggared of ideas, I and they Would saunter arm in arm the selfsame way — [Breaking off. But Lind! why, what’s the matter with you, pray? You sit there dumb and dreaming — I suspect you’re Deep in the mysteries of architecture.

Lind[collecting himself].

I? What should make you think so?

Falk.

I observe. Your eyes are glued to the verandah yonder — You’re studying, mayhap, its arches’ curve, Or can it be its pillars’ strength you ponder, The door perhaps, with hammered iron hinges? From something there your glances never wander.

Lind.

No, you are wrong — I’m just absorbed in being — Drunk with the hour — naught craving, naught foreseeing. I feel as though I stood, my life complete, With all earth’s riches scattered at my feet. Thanks for your song of happiness and spring — From out my inmost heart it seemed to spring.

[Lifts his glass and exchanges a glance, unobserved, with ANNA.

Here’s to the blossom in its fragrant pride! What reck we of the fruit of autumn-tide? [Empties his glass.

Falk[looks at him with surprise and emotion, but assumes a light tone].

Behold, fair ladies! though you scorn me quite, Here I have made an easy proselyte. His hymn-book yesterday was all he cared for — To-day e’en dithyrambics he’s prepared for! We poets must be born, cries every judge; But prose-folks, now and then, like Strasburg geese, Gorge themselves so inhumanly obese On rhyming balderdash and rhythmic fudge, That, when cleaned out, their very souls are thick With lyric lard and greasy rhetoric.

[To LIND.

Your praise, however, I shall not forget; We’ll sweep the lyre henceforward in duet.

Miss Jay.

You, Mr. Falk, are hard at work, no doubt, Here in these rural solitudes delightful, Where at your own sweet will you roam about —

Mrs Halm[smiling].

Oh, no, his laziness is something frightful.

Miss Jay.

What! here at Mrs. Halm’s! that’s most surprising — Surely it’s just the place for poetising — [Pointing to the right. That summer-house, for instance, in the wood Sequestered, name me any place that could Be more conducive to poetic mood —

Falk.

Let blindness veil the sunlight from mine eyes, I’ll chant the splendour of the sunlit skies! Just for a season let me beg or borrow A great, a crushing, a stupendous sorrow, And soon you’ll hear my hymns of gladness rise! But best, Miss Jay, to nerve my wings for flight, Find me a maid to be my life, my light — For that incitement long to heaven I’ve pleaded; But hitherto, worse luck, it hasn’t heeded.

Miss Jay.

What levity!

Mrs Halm.

Yes, most irreverent!

Falk.

Pray don’t imagine it was my intent To live with her on bread and cheese and kisses. No! just upon the threshold of our blisses, Kind Heaven must snatch away the gift it lent. I need a little spiritual gymnastic; The dose in that form surely would be drastic.

Svanhild. [Has during the talk approached; she stands close to the table, and says in a determined but whimsical tone:

I’ll pray that such may be your destiny. But, when it finds you — bear it like a man.

Falk[turning round in surprise].

Miss Svanhild! — well, I’ll do the best I can. But think you I may trust implicitly To finding your petitions efficacious? Heaven as you know, to faith alone is gracious — And though you’ve doubtless will enough for two To make me bid my peace of mind adieu, Have you the faith to carry matters through? That is the question.

Svanhild[half in jest].

Wait till sorrow comes, And all your being’s springtide chills and numbs, Wait till it gnaws and rends you, soon and late, Then tell me if my faith is adequate.