Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 1).pdf/446



Behold these  children;—see,—this  little throng! Io triumphe may for them be sung! How was it possible—how practicable—; The words of truth are strong, inexorable;— He has no hearing whom they cannot move. See,—every one of them's a child of Love—! [Stops in confusion.

That is—you understand—I would have said—!

[fanning herself with her handkerchief].

This is a very mystical oration!

There you yourself provide the demonstration,— A good old Norse one, sound, true-born, home-*bred. You draw distinction between wedded pledges And those of Love: your Logic's without flaw. They are distinguished just as roast from raw, As hothouse bloom from wilding of the hedges! Love is with us a science and an art; It long since ceased to animate the heart. Love is with us a trade, a special line Of business, with its union, code and sign; It is a guild of married folks and plighted, Past-masters with apprentices united; For they cohere compact as jelly-fishes, A singing-club their single want and wish is—