Ibsen, Henrik, 1828-1906 / 2008-11-30 00:00:00
SVANHILD.
And do you think pain has not often pressed
Tears from my eyes, and quiet from my breast?
I longed to shape my way to my own bent--
FALK.
"In pensive ease?"
SVANHILD.
O, no, 'twas sternly meant.
But then the aunts came in with well-intended
Advice, the matter must be sifted, weighed--
[Coming nearer.
"In pensive ease," you say; oh no, I made
A bold experiment--in art.
FALK.
Which ended--?
SVANHILD.
In failure. I lacked talent for the brush.
The thirst for freedom, tho', I could not crush;
Checked at the easel, it essayed the stage--
FALK.
That plan was shattered also, I engage?
SVANHILD.
Upon the eldest aunt's suggestion, yes;
She much preferred a place as governess--
FALK.
But of all this I never heard a word!
SVANHILD [smiling].
No wonder; they took care that none was heard.
They trembled at the risk "my future" ran
If this were whispered to unmarried Man.
FALK [after gazing a moment at her in meditative sympathy].
That such must be your lot I long had guessed.
When first I met you, I can well recall,
You seemed to me quite other than the rest,
Beyond the comprehension of them all.
They sat at table,--fragrant tea a-brewing,
And small-talk humming with the tea in tune,
The young girls blushing and the young men cooing,
Like pigeons on a sultry afternoon.
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