Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 1).pdf/479



Falk, let us travel!

Travel? Whither, then? Is not the whole world everywhere the same? And does not Truth's own mirror in its frame Lie equally to all the sons of men? No, we will stay and watch the merry game, The conjurer's trick, the tragi-comedy Of liars that are dupes of their own lie; Stiver and Lind, the Parson and his dame, See them,—prize oxen harness'd to love's yoke, And yet at bottom very decent folk! Each wears for others and himself a mask, Yet one too innocent to take to task; Each one, a stranded sailor on a wreck, Counts himself happy as the gods in heaven; Each his own hand from Paradise has driven, Then, splash! into the sulphur to the neck! But none has any inkling where he lies, Each thinks himself a knight of Paradise, And each sits smiling between howl and howl; And if the Fiend come by with jeer and growl, With horns, and hoofs, and things yet more abhorred,— Then each man jogs the neighbour at his jowl: "Off with your hat, man! See, there goes the Lord!"

[after a brief thoughtful silence].

How marvellous a love my steps has led To this sweet trysting place! My life that sped