GULDSTAD
(urokkelig).
For nogle timer siden
var det dog sandhed. Det var Deres ord,
da her de stod, som han i brabantstriden,
og sloges med det ganske thevandsbord.
Da lød benægtelsen fra alle kanter,
som nu fra Dem; nå ja, det fattes nemt;
vi finder alle jo, det klinger slemt
at høre døden nævne, når vi skranter.
Se presten, han, som komponerte, malte,
i frierdagene med ånd og smag; –
hvor kan De undres på, at manden dalte,
da han og hun kom under fælles tag?
Hun var jo skabt for ham til elskerinde, –
til viv for ham hun skabtes ingensinde.
Og så kopisten, som skrev gode vers?
Da fyren var i Herrens navn forlovet,
kom hele rimeriet straks påtvers,
og siden den tid har hans muse sovet
ved rokkeduren af en evig jus.
Der ser I – –
(betragter Svanhild.)
Fryser De?
GULDSTAD
[unmoved].
Some hours ago ’twas true
However. I have only quoted you;--
In these same words you challenged to the field
The “caucus” with love’s name upon your shield.
Then rang repudiation fast and thick
From all directions, as from you at present;
Incredible, I know; who finds it pleasant
To hear the name of death when he is sick?
Look at the priest! A painter and composer
Of taste and spirit when he wooed his bride;--
What wonder if the man became a proser
When she was snugly settled by his side?
To be his lady-love she was most fit;
To be his wife, tho’--not a bit of it.
And then the clerk, who once wrote clever numbers?
No sooner was the gallant plighted, fixed,
Than all his rhymes ran counter and got mixed;
And now his Muse continuously slumbers,
Lullabied by the law’s eternal hum.
Thus you see--
[Looks at SVANHILD.]
Are you cold?
