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Peer Gynt
– a dramatic poem
by Henrik Ibsen
Retold by Ian Harkness (Act One, Scenes One and Two).
Act One, Scene Three, is translated by John Northam. The rest of the remaining acts are translated by the Archers.
The play is illustrated by Mikhail Khristoljobov, Edvard Munch and Arthur Rackham.
Eos Publishers 2022
Contents
The artist Mikhail Khristoljubov 8
Mikhail describes his own situation 9
Mikhail Khristolyubov, Vasiljevich, born 9 September 1959 9
Link to Northam’s translation 11
Northam, John. Peer Gynt – A Dramatic Poem 11
Brief and cursory analysis of the translations 12
Peter Watts discusses the problems of translating “Peer Gynt” 14
What is a good translation? 15
An audio version of the play in English 16
Brief critical evaluation of the play 18
Some of my brief observations 20
Erotic elements in Peer Gynt 23
Folk culture, Peer Gynt and ‘the Fool’ 23
‘Politically correct’ Henrik? 23
Erotic elements in Peer Gynt 24
Fornicating with trolls with three heads – comical elements 26
Peer Gynt composed by Edvard Grieg 27
Norwegian text of the play 316
Rough English translation of “Gudbrand Glesne” 319
Introduction
Translator’s note:
I have translated the First Act and first two scenes. I have also translated the first two acts twenty years or more ago (around 2000). Unfortunately, in this digital age electronic files are often lost for various reasons. At that time, I used to visit the Centre for Ibsen Studies, which was located in the central-west part of Oslo. I remember at the time that I had the feeling of being a ‘lone researcher’. The facilities were excellent, and the study rooms ample, with few other researchers, and librarians to help you. However, I remember it wasn’t so simple, as I discovered at least 16 translations of Ibsen’s Peer Gynt into English! I had the mad idea that I would cross-check all the translations for every single line in the dramatic poem! I’m including a lot of exclamation points here as a kind of ironic comment on Ibsen’s play! I haven’t counted the number of exclamation points in Act 1, Scene 1, but it is surely 100 or more! Obviously, Henrik Ibsen never watched a Seinfeld episode, as he died some 70 years or more before the TV sitcom was aired. However, had he seen the episode “The Exclamation Point” (1993)[1], he had perhaps been a little more thrifty with his exclamation points! The whole point of an exclamation point is to make a contrast – thus, if every other line has an exclamation point, then the effect is lost! This is perhaps one of the basic principles of rhetoric technique!
But to return to the translation process, I am perhaps fortunate that I’m a born naïve optimist. So, one day I thought – let’s translate Ibsen! This was not part of any college project, just something done under my own initiative with no particular goal in mind. Of course, this is more or less unheard of in the modern world – doing something with no profit-motive in mind. But, back to the point – I soon discovered that Peer Gynt was much more complex than at first sight. I had not initially noticed that the play was not a regular ‘play’ as such, but a play written as a poem.
I won’t go into all the details of why it is difficult to translate a ‘poem’ from Norwegian into English. Iambic meters are common throughout English poetry: “When a line of verse is composed of two-syllable units that flow from unaccented beat to an accented beat, the rhythmic pattern is said to be an iambic meter.”[2] Peer Gynt uses a variety of metres in its rhymed verse, some of which are little used in English poetry. Without going into an analysis of the metre in Peer Gynt, it goes without saying that the metre and rhythm differs from English poetry, just as the metre and rhythm of the English language differs from that of the Norwegian language, or any other language for that matter.
Translation ‘problems’
I remember that I gave up on the idea of ‘rhyming’ the translation, but decided to try and resemble the metre of the original. As mentioned, my original translation is ‘lost’ – or rather I found the first few pages on my computer up to the point:
ÅSE
O, din slagsbror! Du vil lægge
mig i graven med din færd! (Act one, scene one, line 234).
As mentioned, the rest of the translation (of the first two acts) is lost, so I have decided to at least ‘re-translate’ the rest of Act One, Scene One beyond line 234, as well as Act One, Scene Two. Originally, I attempted to replicate Ibsen’s metre (up to line 234); however, for the rest of Act One, Scenes One and Two, beyond line 234 in Scene One, I have only focused on ‘content’, and not on rhyme and metre. For the rest of the play beyond Act One, Scenes One and Two, I have used the translations of John Northam, and Charles and William Archer.
My aim is not so much to ‘showcase’ my own translation, but to give me the opportunity to post online the excellent drawings of the gifted Baltic artist Mikhail Khristoljubov who has provided illustrations for Act One. To complement his drawings, and also to illustrate the play beyond Act One, I have included drawings by Edvard Munch and Arthur Rackham.
The artist Mikhail Khristoljubov
I met Mikhail while living in the west of Norway around the turn of the century, when I was working as a professor at Sogn and Fjordane University College. He was living a meagre existence on a universal basic income in a refugee camp in the region. He spent most of the day weaving magic with just scraps of paper, pencils, and cheap ball-point pens. I only regret that we lost contact, and I wasn’t able to see more of his magnificent creations. Nevertheless, he has illustrated two of my books (three including “Peer Gynt”). These are posted online (see footnote).[3] I can’t remember exactly how I met him, but he was fluent in Russian, so it seems likely that we met through some kind of contact between him and my ex-wife Natasha, who is Russian. In fact, my poor ex-wife helped me on this project by being our interpreter, as he spoke little English. All the illustrations to the various books were orchestrated by me in detail (which she had to explain to him, and supply written instructions in Russian; I also provided ‘guide’ drawings that I had found in various books and on the Internet).
In other words, Mikhail was existing on the basic universal income doled out by the Norwegian government. The Norwegian government didn’t want to offer a too large an income, so as not to attract too many refugees (‘foreigners’) to the country. I should perhaps thank the Norwegian government, because the minimum ‘universal basic income’ meant that refugees were often looking to supplement this income. Of course, if I were to hire second-rate Norwegian artists at five times the cost this would be unsustainable! I can’t remember the exact fees I paid Mikhail, but it wasn’t a large amount. I might have a bad conscience if I was exploiting third-world labour – but my conscience is clear as my projects were non-profit making – unlike profit-seeking American companies that have exploited cheap Asian labour over the last 40 years. In fact, the so-called ‘liberal-democratic’ company Apple have, in 2022, managed to create a ‘capitalist-heaven’ of forced labour, that is, workers are locked-in factories in China.[4] This seems to resemble the Nazis use of forced labour in VW factories during World War II.[5] The recent example we have of this exploitation of labour is the billionaire Elon Musk – who up until recently was the richest man in the world. He has recently acquired Twitter and quickly decided to make himself richer by sacking a large part of the workforce.[6]
Mikhail describes his own situation
I had asked Natasha to ask Mikhail how he had ended up in Norway as a refugee. He provided the following account, which Natasha translated into English:
Mikhail Khristolyubov, Vasiljevich, born on 9 September 1959
At an early age, he lost his parents, and was raised in children’s homes. He has many gifts and talents, such as artist, designer, inventor, musician, poet, writer and critic. He studied at the Latvian Art Academy. From a young age, he was critical of the Communist regime, and thus came under the surveillance of the KGB. He was a strong critic of the Communist order during Gorbachov’s rule. This resulted in him becoming a target of persecution. The government at the time made several attempts at reprisal. Consequently, he fled to Finland, where he lived illegally. At the moment (in 2003), he is living in Norway as a refugee.
Instructions for Mikhail
I had instructed Mikhail to make drawings to illustrate my translation of Ibsen’s play. Unfortunately, the practical demands of everyday life interrupted this project – so, we never got past Act One. However, artists always have their ‘unfinished works’, so I will use this opportunity (in 2022) to ‘complete’ this unfinished project by posting it online.
Entrepreneurial ‘heroes’
The inventor, author, artist, and so on are the central heroes in the capitalist world of the last 300 years. Of course, anybody with an iota of intelligence realises this is just silly. The capitalist ideology is heavily dependent on the idea of the creative individual. However, we can’t really enter into a lengthy discussion here, but even a simpleton is able to understand that ‘inventions’ are not the work of one man. Karl Benz may have ‘invented’ the internal combustion engine and the modern motorcar in 1885/1886. But, this is of course absurd! Steam-driven vehicles were invented some 200 years before![7] The ‘wheel’ was utilized some thousands of years before![8] In other words, Benz was developing ideas, and not a creator of a totally unique product. But as mentioned, the ideology of capitalism is heavily dependent on the idea of the ‘creative inventor’ / ‘author’ / ‘artist’ / ‘entrepreneur’, and so on; that is, the ‘individual’; this is bound up with democratic rights as opposed to the oppressive regimes of aristocratic hierarchies. In other words, James Watt did not ‘invent’ the steam engine, but he made various incremental improvements on earlier steam engines, such as Newcomen’s steam engine.[9] This long interlude is an attempt to explain that cultural products are often collaborative projects, and an attempt to explain why I’m ‘appropriating’ the translations of others. As mentioned above, I originally based my translation on 16 translations, and of course my own interpretation. At the moment, I have found some translations of Ibsen’s play in my archive:
Translators of “Peer Gynt”
- Archer, William and Charles. Heinemann. 1923. (This seems to be the ‘definitive’ translation – at least historically).
- Ibsen, Henrik, Peer Gynt. 1985. Translation by Farquharson Sharp, R. (first published 1921, and 1936). Harrap, London. (this publication is perhaps ‘dated’, but presents great illustrations by Arthur Rackham).
- McGuinness, Frank. 1990. (a ‘modern’ translation).
- Northam, John.
I found the following translation by Northam online, written in a more modern language, and also rhymed. Thus, I sometimes also refer to Northam’s translation, but also refer to the translations by Farquharson Sharp and the Archers.
- Peter Watts: 1966. His translation includes an introduction.
Link to Northam’s translation
Northam, John. Peer Gynt – A Dramatic Poem[10]
I will include Northam’s translation of Act One, Scenes 2 and 3. For Act Two, Scenes 1-5, I will use Farquharson Sharp’s translation, which I have found online.[11] Many of the translations are unreliable, and leave things out, such as Farquharson Sharp. For Act 2, Scene 2 onwards, I will use Archers’ translation which I have also found online.[12] Hopefully, Archer will be more reliable than the other translators mentioned here. Of course, I could have included other translations, but as mentioned, my main aim is not to focus on Ibsen’s play, or the translations, but to showcase Mikhail Khristoljubov’s illustrations. Moreover, these ‘old’ translations are free, and sometimes ‘old is best’ – after all, they have translated Ibsen in the same era that Ibsen wrote the play, more or less; so apart from the fact that some of the archaic language may be inaccessible to the modern reader, they nevertheless seem more authentic. In this context, one can think of modern English translations of ‘old’ texts such as Shakespeare’s plays and the Bible. Such modern translations can often seem prosaic. Some of the ‘power’ of these ‘ancient’ texts is their opaqueness; that is, the old forms of language seem to imply a deeper meaning. This idea is exploited by religious diviners around the world. Clothing an idea in archaic language seems to give the idea more credence. Moreover, this principle is exploited by religious rulers to entrench their power, and justify the execution of opponents.[13]
Brief and cursory analysis of the translations
A quick evaluation of the above translations suggests that the ‘oldest is best’, at least concerning the five translations mentioned here; but as also mentioned, there are many other translations. But my plan is not to translate all of Peer Gynt or evaluate the ‘16’ translations, but to post what I have translated (Act One, Scenes One and Two), and the illustrations by the artist Mikhail Khristoljubov. In other words, this is an ‘unfinished project’; nevertheless, this does not mean that I can’t post/publish what I have done so far. But to return to the evaluation of the translations. The Archers’ translation seems to be superior to Farquharson Sharp’s. To be blunt, the modern translation by Frank McGuinness seems quite poor. Northam’s translation is undoubtedly a brave attempt, as he tries to imitate the rhymes of Ibsen’s dramatic poem. However, this is where we have the idea ‘lost in translation’. Northam’s striving for rhyme sometimes ignores the content of the original. Although rhyme and metre are important, surely content is more important? It is here the Archers’ seem to be more skilled. The ‘mill-house roof’ episode is obviously comical. But some of the translators miss this point. For example:
ANDRE KÆRRING
ÅSE! Se, – så høyt på strå?
ÅSE
Dette her vil lidt forslå;-
snart Gud bedre mig, jeg himler!
FØRSTE KÆRRING
Signe rejsen!
This extract from Project Runeberg (http://runeberg.org/peergynt/) seems to be written in the original, but I’m not certain. Whatever, the ‘meaning’ is not at first apparent. But there is an obvious play on words. For example, the pun on the word ‘himler’, meaning to ‘give up’, and look up towards heaven in desperation. In other words, there is a comical element intended by the author, which not all the translators manage to capture. Whereas, the Archers capture this comical moment:
SECOND WOMAN. “ÅSE! well, you are exalted!
ÅSE. This won’t be the end of it;
Soon, God help me, I’ll be heaven high.
FIRST WOMAN. Bless your passing!
This humoristic point is more or less lost in McGuinness’, Farquharson’s and Northam’s translations.
Peter Watts also translated “Peer Gynt”. I have to admit on re-reading my initial translation I have cast aside the idea of metre and mainly focused on writing a text that ‘makes sense’. In this process, I have heavily borrowed on Watts’ translation for Act One, Scenes One and Two.
On a cursory analysis of Watt’s translation, his seems to be far superior – to the others – at least in terms of modern understandability. He also manages to catch the humour of the episode with ÅSE on the millhouse roof:
SECOND WOMAN: Åse” You’ve gone up in life!
ÅSE: What good’s that to me? God help me.
I shall soon go up to heaven!
FIRST WOMAN: Pleasant journey!
Problems of translation
As mentioned above, there are translation problems, especially when trying to translate rhymed verse. Peter Watts discusses this in detail, so I will include his discussion of such problems which he discusses at the end of the introduction in his translation of “Peer Gynt”.
Peter Watts discusses the problems of translating “Peer Gynt”[14]
Unfortunately, it is almost inevitable that a translation must fall short of the original, and with a poem that the diminution is particularly glaring. Peer Gynt in its original Norwegian is in rhymed verse. It is gay, galloping verse, with rhymes that are often double or triple, and as ingenious and outrageous as any that Robert Browning or W. S. Gilbert ever devised. The lines are mostly in couplets but sometimes in quatrains. The metre is based on four stresses to a line, but with a varying number of syllables to the foot; iambuses, trochees, spondees, dactyls, and anapaests come tumbling over each other to give the poem a splendid vitality.
When Archer wanted to put the play into English, Ibsen wrote that he would rather have it left untranslated than rendered into prose. Certainly to rob the work of its varied metres would be to take most of the fun out of it on the other hand, it would be possible to combine Ibsen’s complicated and witty rhyming with an even moderately accurate translation. I have therefore followed Archer in using unrhymed verse, keeping to Ibsen’s four-stressed line, that I have not always slavishly followed his exact scansion at the expense of the meaning in English. Indeed to compensate for the loss of Ibsen’s adventurous rhymes (and remembering A.E. Housman’s dictum that in English while ‘blank verse can be written in lines of ten or six syllables, a series of octo-syllables ceases to be verse if they’re not rhymed’). I have deliberately tended to vary the metre a little more than Ibsen does, in case the lines should settle down into monotony I have been especially free with Ibsen’s metre when he writes in quatrains of alternate lines of eight and seven syllables – a form that in English is hard to bear without rhyme.
The translation
As mentioned, I translated the initial pages paying attention to metre. But beyond the point where ÅSE says, “Oh, you brawler! You’ll send me to my grave with your ways!” (line 234); as mentioned, I have more or less ignored rhyme and metre, and focused mainly on content.
What is a good translation?
When I studied translation at Oslo University under Professor Chaffey at the end of the twentieth century, one of the syllabus books was Peter Newmark’s excellent, A Textbook of Translation (1988). Newmark asks the question: “What is a good translation?” He lists possible alternatives; one of these is that “a translation should be faithful to the original”. Of course, this seems a reasonable principle, especially in the world of official interpretation. However, there are many types of translation. This is the key here. What is the purpose of the translation? Obviously, if you are translating a tourist brochure, then you can have a fairly ‘free’ translation which is not necessarily faithful to the original. Another alternative was, “Should a translation improve on the original?” Of course, all these questions are dependent on the requirements of the clients. If the client is a poor writer in his/her own language, and often makes grammatical, content and logical errors, then the translation should improve on the original; that is, if the client does not object. When I do a translation, I often collaborate with two or three other professionals. So, it goes without saying that a translation can be better than the original. In fact, it is often not so much a translation, but rather a rewriting.
But to return to the point of translating Ibsen. First of all, I do not have a ‘client’, as this is something I am doing on the basis of my own interests. The other aspect here is ‘respect for the original’. Thus, the eleventh commandment states that canonical writers such as Shakespeare and Ibsen should never be critically evaluated as they are ‘untouchable Gods’ within their sphere. Of course, this is just silly. The point I’m trying to make here is that translators (in the case of canonical writers) often have too much respect for the original text. To cut to the chase – my main aim is not so much to remain ‘faithful’ to Ibsen, but to write a text that makes sense to the general modern reader.
Intertexts
The Norwegian-Scot Grieg[15] wrote the music to the Norwegian-Scot[16] Ibsen’s magnificent play.[17] See the ‘Prelude’ below for a description of the music “Peer Gynt”, as well as an MP3 recording of the music.
An audio version of the play in English
For an audio version of the play in English see the following link:
https://librivox.org/peer-gynt-by-henrik-ibsen/
Aim of translation
As mentioned, the aim of my translation of Acts One, Scenes One and Two, and the inclusion here of the translation of the rest of the play by John Northam and the Archers, is to provide a vehicle for the showcasing of the illustrations to the play by the artist Mikhail Khristoljubov. In this context, I will also include illustrations by other artists, such as Edward Munch and Arthur Rackham (publication permission pending).
Illustrations
I imagined it would be a fairly simple thing to reproduce Ibsen’s play “Peer Gynt” in English with illustrations by Mikhail Khristoljubov, and a few illustrations by Edvard Munch, and Arthur Rackham, and post them online. Wrong again! Searching the internet soon made it evident there were hundreds of illustrations of the play; moreover, Munch seems to have been greatly inspired by the play and produced countless drawings, and paintings such as “Ashes” which seem to be only indirectly related to the play. As mentioned, my original intention was to post the drawings on internet of Mikhail Khristoljubov in order to ‘finalise’ the unfinished project we started on around the turn of the millennium. My plan was to do this in one or two days, or at the most one week. But I see now that this could carry on for a long time, so I will have to be selective in using the drawings of Munch and others, and this will mainly be arbitrary due to my limited time-frame.
Brief critical evaluation of the play
I am not the one to critically evaluate this play, being ‘unqualified’ in many ways.
Nevertheless, I have spent so much time working with this play that it would be presumptuous of me not to say something! In fact, I will heavily borrow from other sources such as Wikipedia.
First of all, this is a complex text combining many ideas, styles, forms and so on, without, it seems, having an overall ‘central message’. One might even go as far to say that it is some kind of ‘stream of consciousness’, where Ibsen plays around with many ideas – literary, dramatic, political, social, and so on. Of course, this presents another problem – how many people are familiar with the political and social issues of the period in which the play was written (1876)? And how many people are familiar with Norwegian dramatic and poetic conventions of the mid- nineteenth century? How many people are familiar with the Norwegian folklore of the nineteenth century? And so on, and so on.
Despite all these hindrances to understanding, the modern reader (in 2022) can still find elements that appeal. Of course, the poem was written in verse. It is often difficult or even impossible to translate poetry because poetry is so closely connected to the language in which it is written as well as the culture. Thus, non-Norwegian readers are hampered from achieving a full understanding of the play. But before we get carried away – Ibsen didn’t write in Norwegian, but in Danish.[18] If you buy a book by Ibsen today in a Norwegian bookshop, the language will undoubtedly have been violated in the name of ‘modernization’; of course, this is no more than a euphemism for ‘lack of respect’ for the language of the author, and an attempt to appropriate a Danish-Norwegian artefact so that it is solely a Norwegian artefact. In other words, this involves re-writing literary texts for nationalistic means. The point I’m trying to make here is that the present-day reader of Ibsen in Norway is also a ‘stranger’ to the language of Ibsen; one might go as far to say that a Dane can understand Ibsen better than a Norwegian.
From Wikipedia[19]
Peer Gynt chronicles the journey of its title character from the Norwegian mountains to the North African desert and back. According to Klaus Van Den Berg, “its origins are romantic, but the play also anticipates the fragmentations of emerging modernism” and the “cinematic script blends poetry with social satire and realistic scenes with surreal ones.” Peer Gynt has also been described as the story of a life based on procrastination and avoidance.
(…)
Ibsen wrote Peer Gynt in deliberate disregard of the limitations that the conventional stagecraft of the 19th century imposed on drama. Its forty scenes move uninhibitedly in time and space and between consciousness and the unconscious, blending folkloric fantasy and unsentimental realism.
Wikipedia continued:
Analysis
Klaus van den Berg argues that Peer Gynt … is a stylistic minefield: Its origins are romantic, but the play also anticipates the fragmentations of emerging Modernism. (…) The irony of isolated individuals in a mass society infuses Ibsen’s tale of two seemingly incompatible lovers – the deeply committed Solveig and the superficial Peer, who is more a surface for projections than a coherent character. The simplest conclusion one may draw from Peer Gynt, is expressed in the eloquent prose of the author: “If you lie; are you real?”
The literary critic Harold Bloom in his book The Western Canon has challenged the conventional reading of Peer Gynt, stating: Far more than Goethe’s Faust, Peer is the one nineteenth-century literary character who has the largeness of the grandest characters of Renaissance imaginings. Dickens, Tolstoy, Stendhal, Hugo, even Balzac have no single figure quite so exuberant, outrageous, vitalistic as Peer Gynt. He merely seems initially to be an unlikely candidate for such eminence: What is he, we say, except a kind of Norwegian roaring boy? – marvellously attractive to women, a kind of bogus poet, a narcissist, absurd self-idolator, a liar, seducer, bombastic self-deceiver. But this is paltry moralizing – all too much like the scholarly chorus that rants against Falstaff. True, Peer, unlike Falstaff, is not a great wit. But in the Yahwistic, biblical sense, Peer the scamp bears the blessing: More life.
(…)
The character Jon Gynt is considered to be based on Ibsen’s father Knud Ibsen, who was a rich merchant before he went bankrupt. Even the name of the Gynt family’s ancestor, the prosperous Rasmus Gynt, is borrowed from the Ibsen’s family’s earliest known ancestor. Thus, the character Peer Gynt could be interpreted as being an ironic representation of Henrik Ibsen himself. There are striking similarities to Ibsen’s own life; Ibsen himself spent 27 years living abroad and was never able to face his hometown again.
Some of my brief observations
Of course, as mentioned, I should be the last person in the world to evaluate Ibsen’s “Peer Gynt” as Norwegian literature is not my speciality. However, while translating and reading the play, I can’t help but refrain from having ideas about the play. For instance, on reading the beginning of Act II, it would be naïve to imagine that the character of Peer Gynt can be wholly equated with the character of the author. Nevertheless, one can’t ignore the fact that Peer Gynt’s thoughts are also the thoughts of the author, albeit indirectly. First of all, Act Two could never have been written by a woman. Why? Because the author adopts a ‘whore and Madonna perspective’. Thus, Peer willingly abuses (rapes) Ingrid, but once he has ‘had his way with her’, he does not desire her anymore. He only desires the ‘underage’ and ‘saintly’ Solveig. This idea has obsessed men for centuries it seems, and still obsesses them today; that is, the ‘whore and Madonna’ idea, and the idea that all women ‘wish to be raped’. In other words, is Ibsen promoting misogynism or satirising it? Satire is a dangerous tool, as it can often be interpreted literally, that is, as reinforcing prejudices. The example that springs to mind here is the satirist TV sitcom, “Fawlty Towers”.[20] Basil Fawlty is a racist and misogynist. He constantly abuses his Spanish (‘third world employee’) Manuel. It has been my experience that Norwegians (and most probably also British people, although of course not Spanish people) laugh at Manuel rather than Fawlty, and feel exonerated if they want to abuse their Spanish ‘servants’ when taking their holidays in Spain.
In other words, Ibsen does not make his position clear during the course of the play (at least to the modern reader). I might even go as far to say that the play functioned as a kind of sexual-psychological vehicle for his own sexual hang-ups. In other words, Henrik Ibsen is ‘hiding’ behind Peer Gynt.
Is Ibsen promoting ideas that it is okay to abuse women, or is he criticising these ideas. This is by no means clear in the play. This play may have been written some 150 years ago, nevertheless, it is highly topical today. The abuse, rape and torture of women and other genders is used by various oppressive ‘male’ regimes today to consolidate their power, such as Afghanistan, Iran, Russia, Qatar, Saudi Arabia, Indonesia, and many others. Regarding the harmful beliefs that perpetuate violence against women and girls, this has been well-documented by Oxfam.[21]
As mentioned, the character of Peer is obviously presented satirically – but this does not alter the fact that the author is able to give this description – in other words, it is part of the author’s male mental make-up – a kind of ‘Jekyll and Hyde’ aspect.
As mentioned elsewhere, my aim here is not to give a full translation of Ibsen’s play, or write a full critical analysis, for example, regarding its erotic content. There are many others who have commented on the erotic elements of Ibsen’s play. A brief search on the Internet provides lots of evidence.[22]
Of course, let’s face it – I am being a little unjust here. Ibsen uses folk culture to examine the human psyche. H.C. Anderson also utilised folk culture as a means of commenting on more ‘universal (and current) truths’, such as the story of the “Emperor with no Clothes” (Andersen, 1837). In other words, Ibsen and Andersen were both ahead of their time in the re-writing of folk tales and legends. This, became popular in the ‘liberated’ second half of the twentieth century, as demonstrated by Angela Carter’s rewriting of fairy tales in her collection of stories “The Bloody Chamber” (1979).
Ibsen, Anderson and Carter had different agendas; nevertheless, they had in common that they utilised folk culture to examine human life contemporarily. This contrasts with the work of folklorists such as the Brothers Grimm (Germany), and Asbjørnsen and Moe (Norway) who were funded by their governments (at least in the latter case) to promote a national identity. This was not an isolated phenomenon but can be found in the cultural works of various European artists and writers.
Erotic elements in Peer Gynt
Despite all the poetry and folklore, Peer could star in a modern-day Westerner’s sexologue about a trip to Thailand. Thus, in Act II Scene 3, he is accosted by three dairy maids ‘on-heat’ – in other words, a kind of man’s sexual fantasy.
Folk culture, Peer Gynt and ‘the Fool’
Some commentators have pointed out the similarity of Peer Gynt to the ‘Ash Lad’ (Askeladden) in Norwegian folklore. Of course, the ‘Ash Lad’ is not unique to Norwegian folklore. I have translated folk tales from the Russian about ‘Yemelya’ who is a similar character (see link in footnote).[23]
But we are entering into a very complex discussion here of which I know very little about, that is, ‘the Fool in cultural texts’. As mentioned, Peer Gynt can be related to the character of the ‘Ash Lad’ in Norwegian folktales. There are many types of ‘fools’ in cultural and literary texts. The Ash Lad may be viewed as a so-called “serendipitous fool.” That is, a simpleton, who, in the end, wins big, usually a princess or a kingdom, or wealth. Of course, Ibsen seems to have some kind of contradiction here, because ‘the fool’, like the ‘picaresque hero’ is often of a lower social class. However, I do not intend to get embroiled in a discussion of the ‘picaresque’ here; but the first novel of European literature was a picaresque one, Don Quixote; but he was not from the lower classes
but a nobleman.
‘Politically correct’ Henrik?
I haven’t searched secondary sources, but although we love the ‘socially aware’ Henrik, like his anti-hero Peer, Henrik is a ‘red neck’ at heart, that is, a Norwegian ‘cuntry bumpkin’. I don’t intend to delve into all his issues here, but seem to remember that he is a victim of the traditional male viewing women as whores and Madonnas (Anitra vs Solveig, and so on). I also seem to remember on reading about him in the past that he had a predilection for young girls – but I don’t want to delve into that here but just mention it in passing (see footnote).[24]
Erotic elements in Peer Gynt
Whore and Madonna
As briefly mentioned above, men are traditionally obsessed by the idea of ‘whore and Madonna’. Of course, a man can only have one ‘Madonna’ – a kind of sexual substitute of his mother (without going into a Freudian analysis). Thus Peer has only one ‘Madonna’ – Solveig. But he has many ‘whores’.
As mentioned elsewhere here my aim is not to translate the whole play, or thoroughly analyse it (God forbid!). Nevertheless, one can’t but help but have one’s own thoughts as one reads through the play. I haven’t read any of the secondary literature about the play (apart from the ones mentioned in the internet search above – which I haven’t read). But I would like to wager that many critics have focused on the sexual-psychological aspect of the play; that is, the play is not only a ‘discussion’ of various social, cultural and political topics, but it is also inadvertently a discussion of Ibsen’s ‘repressed’ sexuality, or further, a discussion of man’s sexuality in the nineteenth century. In other words, he uses the vehicle of Peer 
Gynt (whom he seems to be mainly critical of) to discuss implicitly his own sexual hang-ups. Thus, he lists up a bevy of ‘whores’ in the play: Ingrid, the woman in green, Anitra, the three herd girls, and so on.
This often verges on the erotic-comical. The three sæter girls (herd girls) that lure men into having sexual encounters. I didn’t find the source for this legend, but I seem to remember reading it somewhere.
Women want to be raped
As mentioned above in a footnote referring to the Oxfam website, there are many harmful beliefs that perpetuate violence against women and girls; one of these beliefs is that women want to be raped. This idea is indirectly reinforced in the play with Peer Gynt’s rape of Ingrid. After she has been raped, she clings to him, but he casts her off, because he is eroticizing in his mind about possessing the virgin Solveig.
Of course, Ibsen does not freely admit this, because of his socio-political conscience. Peer Gynt is Ibsen’s alter ego. Henrik Ibsen is actually Doctor Henrik Jekyll, and Peer Gynt is Mr Hyde.[25] Ibsen is thus able to live out his sexual fantasies through the character of Peer. Peer rapes the bride (Act One). After the rape, Ingrid clings to him (implying she wanted to be raped by a strong and handsome buck), but he rejects her, as his mind is still dwelling on the ‘underage Solveig’ and her innocent demeanour (‘clasping her prayer book’ with downcast eyes like da Vinci’s Madonna).
Peer sexually ‘expires’ many times throughout the course of the play – with Ingrid, the herd girls, the woman in green and Anitra. But towards the end of the play with Solveig, he expires literally in a kind of sexually satisfying death:
“I will cradle thee, I will watch thee;
Sleep and dream thou, dear my boy!”
(Act Five, Scene 10)
That is, the last lines of the play when he dies being cradled by his virginal love.
Fornicating with trolls with three heads – comical elements
In Act II, Scene III, Peer Gynt says:
“I’m a three-headed troll, and the boy for three girls!”
This surely must be a misprint. Which ‘head’ is he talking about, the ‘small head’ or the ‘big head’? Does he have three ‘little heads’ to ravish three young herd girls. This is perhaps wishful thinking on the part of Peer/Ibsen. This is a worn out theme of various porno sites – one man and several women. In practice this is somewhat difficult. A man can only have penile intercourse with one woman at a time. Of course, if one was some freak of nature with several penises (‘small heads’) then one could satisfy several women simultaneously. However, Ibsen does not elaborate on this point, so it just remains ‘wishful’ thinking.
Prelude
Peer Gynt composed by Edvard Grieg[26]
Peer Gynt, Op. 23, composed by Edvard Grieg is the incidental music to Henrik Ibsen’s 1867 play of the same name, written by the Norwegian composer Edvard Grieg in 1875.
The original score contains 26 movements: ]Movements indicated in bold were extracted by Grieg into two suites.
Act I
Prelude: At the Wedding
The Bridal Procession
Halling
Spring dance
Act II
Prelude: The Abduction of the Bride. Ingrid’s Lament
Peer Gynt and the Herd-Girls
Peer Gynt and the Woman in Green
By His mount You Shall Judge Him
In the Hall of the Mountain King
Dance of the Mountain King’s Daughter
Peer Gynt hunted by the trolls
Peer Gynt and the Boyg
Act III
Prelude: Deep in the Forest
Solveig’s Song
The Death of ÅSE
Act IV
Prelude: Morning Mood
The Thief and the Receiver
Arabian Dance
Anitra’s Dance
Peer Gynt’s Serenade
Peer Gynt and Anitra
Solveig’s Song
Act V
Prelude: Peer Gynt’s Homecoming
Shipwreck
Day Scene
Solveig sings in the hut
Night Scene
Whitsun Hymn
Solveig’s Cradle Song
Peer Gynt[27]
CHARACTERS
ÅSE, a farmer’s widow
Peer Gynt, her son
Two Old Women with sacks of corn
Aslak, a smith
Wedding Guests, Steward, Fiddler etc.
A newly-arrived Man and Wife
Solveig and Little Helga, their daughters
The Farmer at Hægstad
Ingrid, his daughter
Bridegroom and his Parents
Three Herdgirls
Woman in Green
Dovre-King
Senior Troll, several similar. Troll boys and girls. A couple of witches. Gnomes,
elves, goblins etc.
Ugly Child
Voice in the dark
Bird Cries
Kari, a cottager’s wife
Master Cotton, Monsieur Ballon, Herrer v. Eberkopf and Trumpeterstraale, travelling
gentlemen
Thief and a Fence
Anitra, Slave Girls, Dancing Girls etc.
Memnon’s Statue (singing)
Sphinx of Gizeh (mute)
Begriffenfeldt, professor, Ph.D., director of the lunatic asylum in Cairo
Huhu, a language activist from the Malabar coast
Hussein, an oriental government minister
Fellah with the mummy of a king
Several inmates of the asylum, with their keepers
Norwegian Skipper and Crew
Strange Passenger
Priest
Funeral procession
Bailiff
Buttonmoulder
Thin Person
_________
(The action, which begins at the start of this century and ends at about our own time, takes place partly in Gudbrandsdal and the surrounding high country, partly on the coast of Morocco, partly in the Sahara desert, the asylum in Cairo, at sea, etc.)
Act I
Scene 1
(On a wooded mountainside near ÅSE’s farm. A river rushes down the hillside, and on its far bank stands an old mill. It is a hot summer’s day.
PEER GYNT, a well-built youth of twenty, comes walking down the path, followed by his mother, ÅSE, a small and slightly-built woman, who is scolding him angrily.)
ÅSE. Peer, you’re lying!
PEER. (without stopping): No, I’m not!
ÅSE. Well, swear it’s true then!
PEER. Why should I?
ÅSE: Hah. You don’t dare to!
It’s all stuff and nonsense!
PEER. (stops): It’s true – every blessed word!
ÅSE. (confronting him): Shame! How dare you face your mother!
First you take off to the mountains,
Gone for months at harvest time,
Hunting reindeer in the snow,
Come back home with clothes all torn,
With no game, without a gun,
Then to crown it all,
You shamelessly try to take me in
With a pack of huntsman’s tales!
Well, where did you find this buck?
PEER. West of Gjendin.
ÅSE. (laughs mockingly): Very likely!
PEER. It was a biting wind that blew;
Hidden behind a clump of alder,
He was scraping in the snow-crust for lichen –
ÅSE. (interrupts cynically) A likely story!
PEER. Holding my breath, I stood listening,
Heard the scraping of his hooves;
Saw the branching antlers,
So I carefully crept forward,
On my belly between the rocks.
Hidden ‘tween two rocks I watched,
By Jove! Such a magnificent buck,
So sleek and fat,
You never saw one like him!
ÅSE. Good heavens!
PEER. Bang! I fired!
Down the buck crashed to the ground!
The instance he fell,
I climbed astride his back,
Gripped him hard by his left ear,
Was about to plunge my knife
In his neck beneath the skull …
Hey! The wild beast bellowed madly,
Swiftly scrambling to his feet,
Lurching violently backwards,
He jerked the knife out of my hand;
Pinned my legs between his antlers,
Clamping me tightly like a vice;
Then with a sudden leap, he bounded
Right along the ridge of Gjendin!
ÅSE. (involuntarily) God help us!
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PEER. Have you ever seen Gjendin ridge?
Stretching for about three miles,
Sharp its edge cuts like a scythe,
Steeply down on either side,
Down past slope and avalanche,
Straight across the screes of grey,
One can see on both the sides,
Down towards the lakes which sleep
Black and heavy, more than
Thirteen hundred ells[28] beneath.
Right along the ridge we two
Cut a passage through the weather.
Such a foal I never have rode!
Straight in front where we sped ahead,
Seemed to hang the blazing sun.
In between the lakes and us
Tawny backs of eagles hovered
In the vast and dizzy void,
Falling just like specks behind us.
Ice floes crashed against the shores,
Yet no murmur of the sound reached us,
Swirling misty shapes leapt like
Dancers, weaving and spinning around us,
Till all my senses were in turmoil!
ÅSE. (giddy) Oh, God help me!
PEER. Suddenly, near a sharply sloping spot,
Up jumped a grouse-cock,
From the crack where it had lain hidden,
Flapping, cackling, terrified, –
Right beneath the buck’s hoof on the ridge.
The buck took fright, turned half around,
Plunged off the ridge with a mighty leap,
Taking us both down towards the depths below!
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(ÅSE reels. reaching for the trunk of a tree. PEER continues):
Black the mountain wall behind,
Under us the deep abyss!
First we clove through clouds of mist,
Then we split a flock of gulls,
They scattered in all directions,
Filling the air with their screeching.
Downwards we rushed, ever downwards!
Until below us something glistened
Whitish like a reindeer’s belly….
Mother, it was our own reflection,
Flying upwards from the glassy water,
While we darted downwards to meet the reflection
At the same mad rush of speed.
ÅSE. (gasping for breath) Peer! For God’s sake! Tell me quickly – what happened!
PEER. Buck from above, buck from below,
Clashed their antlers in a moment,
So that the foam lashed about us.
There we lay then, floating, splashing;
Buck he swam, I hung on behind;
After many endless hours we were
Able to reach the northern shore.
So I came home.
ÅSE. But what about the buck Peer?
PEER. He’s still there for all I know;
(snapping his fingers, turns on his heel and adds)
If you find him you can have him!
ÅSE. And you didn’t break your neck?
Or break both your legs?
Or rick your spine?
Praise and thanks be to God Almighty
For the way he saved my boy!
It’s true – you’ve torn your trousers though,
Still, that’s hardly worth a mention,
When you think of what might have
Happened to you after such a leap!
(she suddenly pauses, stares at him wide-eyed and open-mouthed; for some time she is lost for words, then at last she bursts out)
Oh, you spin a yarn like the devil!
God almighty, what a liar!
All this nonsense you’ve come out with,
I remember now that I first heard it,
When I was a lass of twenty.
That’s the tale of Gudbrand Glesne,[29][30]
Not of you!
PEER. Of us both.
Such a thing can happen twice you know.
ÅSE. (exasperated): Yes, of course a lie can be turned around
Then adorned with pomp and show,
Clothed in newly fashioned skin
So then none can see its meagre carcass.
That is what you’ve gone and done,
Made the tale so wild and grand,
Spruced it up with tawny eagles,
Not to mention other nonsense,
And then lying through your teeth
Filled me up with speechless dread
So at last I couldn’t make out
What’s true and what’s not!
PEER. If a man had talked like that to me,
I’d beat him black and blue.
ÅSE. (weeping) Would to God I lay a corpse
Deep asleep in the black cold earth!
Tears and prayers don’t affect you,
Peer you’re a wastrel and always will be!
PEER. Dearest pretty little mother,
Every word you’ve said is true;
Yet be happy and gay –
ÅSE. Hold your tongue!
How can I be happy
When my son is such a swine?
Shouldn’t I be deeply hurt?
Me, a poor defenceless widow,
Always to be put to shame?
(starts weeping again)
What’s the family got to show
From your granddad’s days of riches?
Where are all the sacks of coin
Left us by old Rasmus Gynt?
Yes, your father gave them wings,
Scattered it all around like grains of sand,
Buying land in every parish,
Riding around in a gilded carriage.
And where’s the money he squandered
At the famous winter-banquets,
When the guests sent glass and bottle
Smashing on the wall behind them?
PEER. Where is last year’s snow?
ÅSE. Hold your tongue and don’t talk back!
Look at the farm! Every other
Window frame is broken and stuffed with rags!
Hedges, fences, need repairing;
Cattle left out in all weather,
Fields and meadows they lie fallow,
Every month the bailiff visits –
PEER. Enough of your old woman’s prattle!
Luck may sometimes fail you,
But then come back another day!
ÅSE. Salt is now strewn where once it was fertile.
Lord, but you are a fine one, you are!
Just as impudent and cocky still!
Just as jaunty as the day when the parson,
Coming here from Copenhagen,
Asked what your name was,
Then saying the name Peer Gynt
Was a name fit for a prince,
Swearing princes from where he came from
Couldn’t boast of the talents you had;
So your father gave him a horse,
With a sledge as well, in thanks
For his friendly flattery.
Hah! everything was so fine then!
Parsons, officers and all the rest,
Dropped in, especially at meal times,
Ate and drank till they nearly burst.
But a friend in need is a friend indeed.
But no-one comes here anymore,
Not since the day when “Money-Bags John”
Went away with his pedlar’s sack.
(She dries her eyes with her apron.)
You’re a great big strapping fellow,
You should stand like a pillar of strength,
Helping your poor old mother,
Looking after the farm, and looking after the
Little that is left of your inheritance.
(starts crying again)
Heaven knows, it’s little use
You have been to me, you lout!
When you’re at home, you’re by the fireside,
Poking at the coals and embers;[31]
Among the local folk you scare the
Girls from the assembly room,
Picking fights with every lout,
Making me into a laughing stock.
PEER. (leaving her) Leave me alone.
ÅSE (following him) Wasn’t it you who
Was the worst amongst the rabble
In the mighty rough and tumble
The other day at Lunde,
Where you fought like some rabid dog?
Wasn’t it you that broke
Blacksmith Aslak’s arm,
Or, at the very least, wrenched
One of his fingers out of joint?
PEER. Who has told you such nonsense?
ÅSE. (in a temper) The cotter’s wife, she heard the yelling!
PEER. (rubbing his elbow) Yes, but in truth, it was me doing the yelling.
ÅSE. You?
PEER. Yes mother, – it was me that got beaten.
ÅSE. What d’you mean?
PEER. Well he’s a burly fellow, you know.
ÅSE. Who is?
PEER. Aslak of course.
ÅSE. Pah! You make me want to spit!
Letting such a worthless sot,
Just a boozer, and a toss pot
Like him, give you a thrashing.
(she starts crying again)
So much shame I’ve had to suffer;
But for this to happen to me
Is the worst mockery of all.
Just because he’s so strong,
Must you be so weak?
PEER. Hammer or be hammered, it makes no odds,
Either way you’d start your yammering.
(he laughs)
Don’t worry mother –
ÅSE. What? Have you been lying again?
PEER. Well, just this once.
Come and wipe those tears away.
(He clenches his left hand)
See this. It was with this tong
That I bent the blacksmith double;
While my right fist was my hammer –
ÅSE. Oh, you brawler! You’ll send
me to my grave with your ways!
PEER. No; you’re worth something better;
Twenty thousand times better!
My dear little old ma,
Just trust my word,
The whole village will do you honour one day,
Just wait until I have done
Something really marvellous!
ÅSE (sighs exasperated). You!?
PEER. Who knows what can happen?!
ÅSE. If only you were so smart,
You can’t even sew a patch
To fix the hole in your breeches!
PEER. (heatedly) You’ll see, I will become a king, an emperor even!
ÅSE. My God, he’s losing the little wit he has!
PEER. I will! Just give me time!
ÅSE. Indeed, surely one day you’ll be a prince!
PEER. Just you wait and see!
ÅSE. Just keep quiet and stop your blethering!
You’re as mad as mad can be!
But yet, it’s true, something might have become of you,
If you weren’t always carrying on with your lies and dreams!
The Hægstad girl was fond of you.
You could easily have won her,
If you had played your cards right.
PEER. Do you think so?
ÅSE. Her old father is feeble-minded,
And doesn’t have the strength to oppose her wishes.
He’s obstinate enough though,
But it’s always Ingrid who rules the day.
Wherever she walks, step by step,
The old man follows doddering after.
(she starts crying again)
Such a richly dowered girl,
Heir to her father’s lands, just think of it!
You could have had her if you’d wanted to,
She could have been your bride.
You could have been dressed finely like a bridegroom,
But now you just roam around here,
In dirty rags and tatters.
PEER. Very well, I’ll take her for my bride!
ÅSE. What do you mean?
PEER. I’ll go to Hægstad and woo her!
ÅSE. Poor you! That courting road is barred to you!
PEER. What do you mean?
ÅSE. While you were in the Western hills, riding bucks,
She’s become engaged to Mads Moen.
PEER. What? That silly fool?
ÅSE. Ay. She’s taking him as her husband!
The moment is lost. She’s betrothed to him.
PEER. Wait for me here,
I’ll harness the horse and cart.
(just about to leave)
ÅSE. Save such nonsense.
The wedding’s taking place tomorrow –
PEER. Pooh; I’ll go there this evening!
ÅSE. What! Do you want to make things worse?
Inviting everyone’s scorn?
PEER. Take comfort. Everything will go well.
(laughing and shouting)
Mother! We won’t bother taking the cart;
And we haven’t got time to fetch the mare.
(picks her up)
ÅSE. Let me go!
PEER. No, I’ll carry you in my arms
To the wedding courtyard!
(wades out into the river)
ÅSE. Help! Lord have mercy!
Peer! We’ll drown –
PEER. Oh no. I’m destined
To have a more glorious death—
ÅSE. Sure!
You’ll surely end up on a gallows in the end!
(pulling his hair)
Oh, you beast!
PEER. Keep still,
The bottom’s so slimy and slippery here.
ÅSE: Ass!
PEER. Just keep using your tongue,
Words never hurt anyone.
Watch out, it’s getting more difficult underfoot –
ÅSE. Don’t let go of me!
PEER. Hi, watch out!
Let’s play ‘Peer and the buck’; –
(galloping)
I’m the buck, you’re Peer!
ÅSE. How will all this end?!
PEER. You see, we made it in the end!
(He reaches the other bank)
Then just give your buck a nice kiss;
As thanks for the ride –
ÅSE. (boxes his ears). That’s the thanks for the ride!
PEER. Ow! That was poor payment!
ÅSE. Let me go!
PEER. First, we’ll go to the wedding.
Be my advocate. You’re smart;
Talk to him, the old fool;
Tell him Mads Moen is a good-for-nothing –
ÅSE. Let me go!
PEER. And then tell him what a fine lad Peer Gynt is!
ÅSE. Yes, you can count on that!
I’ll give you a pretty testimonial.
In every detail;
All your devil’s tricks,
I won’t leave anything out!
PEER. What!?
ÅSE. (kicks him angrily) I won’t let up,
Until they’ve set the old dog on you,
As if you were a tramp!
PEER. Then I’ll have to go on my own.
ÅSE. Yes, but then I’ll follow you!
PEER. Dear mother, you’re not strong enough.
ÅSE. I’m not? I’m in such a rage
That I could crush rocks to powder!
I could make a meal of flints!
So put me down!
PEER. Only if you promise –
ÅSE. I’ll promise nothing!
I’ll tell everyone at Hægstad what kind of bad sort you are!
PEER. Then you’ll have to stay here.
ÅSE. Never! I’m coming too.
PEER. No you aren’t.
ÅSE. What, how are you going to stop me?
PEER. I’ll put you up on the mill-house roof.
(He lifts her up on to the roof of the mill-house, she screams)
ÅSE. Lift me down!
PEER. Well, if you’ll listen to sense then?
ÅSE. Nonsense!
PEER. Dear mother, I beg you.
ÅSE. (she throws a sod of turf thatch at him)
Lift me down this instant Peer!
PEER. If only I dared, I surely would. (Goes closer)
Remember to sit still and quiet.
Don’t sprawl and kick about;
Don’t tug and tear at the roof shingles,
Otherwise you might get hurt;
You might fall down.
ÅSE. You beast!
PEER. Don’t sprawl and squirm up there on the roof.
ÅSE. You’re no child of mine, changeling![32]
PEER. Fie, mother!
ÅSE. Shut up!
PEER. You ought to give me your blessing for my venture.
Will you?! Well?
ÅSE. I ought to thrash you!
Great lumpkin that you are!
PEER. Well, goodbye dear mother!
Be patient; I won’t be long.
(He leaves, but lifts his finger in warning, and says:)
Careful now, don’t kick and sprawl up there! (He leaves)
ÅSE. God help me, he’s leaving!
Buck-rider. Liar!
Hey, listen to me! –
No, now he’s gone over the meadow! (Shrieks)
Help! I feel giddy!
Scene 2
(Two old women with sacks on their backs come down the path towards the mill-house.)
FIRST WOMAN. Lord! Who’s that shrieking?
ÅSE. It’s me!
SECOND WOMAN. ÅSE! You seem to have gone up in the world.[33]
ÅSE. And that’s not the end of it; I’ll soon be heaven-high and bound.
God help me, I feel faint!
FIRST WOMAN. Bless your passing then!
ÅSE. Get a ladder;
I want to get down from here!
Damn my blasted son!
SECOND WOMAN. Your son?
ÅSE. I can tell you,
You see how he behaves so badly!
FIRST WOMAN. Well, we’ll bear witness.
ÅSE. Just help me down from here;
I have to journey to Hægstad.
SECOND WOMAN. Has he gone there?
FIRST WOMAN. Then you can get revenge;
Because Aslak Smith is also going there.
ÅSE. (wringing her hands) Oh God help my poor boy;
They’ll take his life in the end!
FIRST WOMAN. Well maybe that’s his fate in this life.
Comfort yourself that what will be will be.
SECOND WOMAN. She’s clean out of her mind. (Calls up the hill)
Eivind, Anders! Hi – come down here quick!
A MAN’S VOICE. What’s wrong?
SECOND WOMAN. Peer Gynt has put his mother up on the roof of the mill-house![34]
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Scene 3[35]
(A small hill with bushes and heather. A public road runs behind it, separated by a fence)
(PEER GYNT, from a path, hurries to the fence, stops and scans the view)
PEER There it is, Hægstad. Not far to go. 380
(half-climbs the fence and then hesitates)
I wonder if Ingrid’s at home still or no?
(shades his eyes and surveys)
No. Wedding guests swarming like gnats down the track.
Hmm; maybe it’s better that I should be turning.
(steps down again)
There’s always the laughter behind one’s back,
whispers that seem to go through you, like burning.
(moves away from the fence and plucks absent-mindedly at some
leaves)
If only I had something strong to be drinking.
Or could move around unseen in the throng. —
Or could be quite unknown. — Something really strong
to deaden the mockery’s best to my thinking.
(looks round suddenly as though startled; then hides in the
bushes. Some people with wedding presents pass by on
their way to the wedding party)
MAN (in conversation)
His father was a drunkard, his ma a useless crone. 390
A WOMAN It isn’t to be wondered at the lad turned out a drone.
(as they pass, Peer Gynt emerges, shame-faced and stares after them)
PEER (quietly) Was it me they spoke of?
(with a forced shrug) O, let them chatter!
They can’t take my life away, so what matter?
(throws himself down in the heather stretches out on his
back, with hands behind his head and stares up into the air)
What a wonderful cloud. It looks like a horse.
There’s a man astride, — a halter, a saddle. —
Then there’s a broomstick, an old hag astraddle. —
(chuckles to himself)
That’s my Ma. “You swine” she says, yelling of course;
“Hi, you Peer!” —— (his eyes gradually close)
Yes, now she’ll be scared hollow. —
Peer Gynt rides ahead and a crowd of folk follow. —
His horse silver-crested with gold shoes to step on. 400
Gauntlets for him and a scabbard and weapon.
Loose-flowing cape with a fine silk lining,
those in his train all resplendent and shining.
Nobody sits quite so sturdy and upright.
Nobody glitters like him to the sunlight. —
The people are crowding the barriers below,
waving their hats, gazing up at the show.
The women curtsey. Each knows and admires
Emperor Peer Gynt and his thousands of squires.
Florins are scattered and guineas that litter 410
the road just like pebbles till all’s one great glitter.
Wealthy as lords are the folk in these quarters.
Peer Gynt rides on high as he crosses the waters.
England’s prince waits for him there on the shore,
so do the English girls, lasses galore.
England’s great nobles and England’s great king
rise from high table at Peer’s riding in.
The king, he raises his crown and he says —
ASLAK THE SMITH (to some others as they cross behind the fence)
If it isn’t Peer Gynt, the drunken swine — !
PEER (starts) Your Majesty —
ASLAK (leans over the fence and grins)
Wake up lad, rise and shine! 420
PEER What the hell — ! It’s Aslak! What’s it to you?
ASLAK (to the others)
Got the booze in him still from the Lunde do.
PEER (jumps up) Go, while the going’s good.
SMITH Or I might stay.
Where have you sprung from? You’ve been away
six weeks. What’s happened? Pixified, eh?
PEER I’ve done some wonderful things, you know, smith!
ALSLAK (winks to the others)
Tell us, Peer.
PEER Things you’ve no business with.
ASLAK (pause) Are you off to Hægstad?
PEER No.
ASLAK Is it true
time was when the girl there fancied you?
PEER You sooty crow, you — !
ASLAK (backs away) Now, Peer, don’t be sore. 430
If Ingrid’s ditched you, there’s plenty more — ;
just fancy; Jon Gynt’s son! Come with us, do;
there’s lots of young lamb coming, prime widows too —
PEER To hell!
ASLAK One’ll fancy you, heavens above.
Good day, then. I’ll give the bride all your love.
(they go off laughing and whispering)
PEER (looks after them for a moment, shrugs, and half turns away)
For me, that Hægstad girl can swap oaths
with any man she may choose, who cares?
(inspects himself)
Rough and ragged. Breeks full of tears. —
What wouldn’t I give for a change of clothes. (stamps)
If only I had the butcher’s knack — 440
to rip from their breasts the scorn they all share!
(looks round sharply)
Who’s that sniggered behind my back?
Hmm, sounded real — no, nobody there. —
I’ll go home to Ma.
(starts up the hill but stops again and listens to the wedding party)
The dancing’s begun!
(he stands there listening; descends a step at a time; his eyes shine;
he rubs his hands on his thighs)
What a swam of young lassies! Seven, eight girls to one!
I must go down there — but, hell, there’s a catch! —
There’s Ma — still perched on the mill-house thatch! ——
(his eyes are attracted down the hill again; he gives a skip and
laughs)
Heigh, they’re off in the yard now, for dancing
the Halling! Yes, Guttorm’s hot stuff with the bow! *
It sounds and it spouts like a waterfall’s flow. 450
And that glittering bevy of girls is entrancing! —
I’m off to the party — to hell with the catch!
(leaps over the fence and makes off down the road)
_______________
(The farmyard at Hægstad. The farmhouse at the back.
Crowds of guests. Lively dancing on the grass. The FIDDLER sits on a table. The STEWARD stands in the doorway. SERVING WOMEN
move between the buildings. The OLDER FOLK sit around
talking)
WOMAN (joins a group sitting on logs)
The bride? O, she’s bound to cry at the last;
nothing there though, to worry or nag on.
STEWARD (in another group)
Come on, my friends, you must empty the flagon.
MAN Thank you kindly, but you serve us too fast.
LAD (to the fiddler as he dashed past with a girl on his arm)
Go it, Guttorm, don’t spare the stringing!
GIRL Scrape till the meadows sound with their ringing!
GIRLS (in a ring round a boy dancing)
That’s a great jump!
GIRL He’s got legs full of feeling!
LAD It’s wide to the walls here and high to the ceiling! 460
GROOM (approaches his FATHER who is talking with one or two other men, tugs at his sleeve whispering)
She won’t, Dad, she’s proud, she’s too proud by half.
FATHER What won’t she do, then?
GROOM She’s locked in, you see.
FATHER Well, then, why don’t you look for the key?
GROOM I wouldn’t know how to.
FATHER You gormless calf.
(turns back to the others. The Groom drifts across the yard)
LAD (emerging from behind the house)
Lasses, this party here won’t be a slow one!
Peer Gynt’s just turned up!
ASLAK (who has just come in)
Who asked him?
STEWARD No-one.
(goes towards the house)
ASLAK (to the girls)
If he should speak to you, just ignore him.
GIRLS (to each other)
No; we’ll pretend that we never saw him.
PEER (enters excited and eager, stops in front of the group and
rubs his hands)
Who’s the liveliest girl? You must know one.
GIRL 1 (as he approaches)
‘Tisn’t me.
GIRL 2 (likewise)
‘Tisn’t me.
GIRL 3 Nor me — don’t you kid you. 470
PEER (to a fourth)
Come on, before someone turns up to out-bid you.
GIRL 4 (turns away) Haven’t the time.
PEER (to a fifth) You then!
GIRL 5 I’m leaving, alone.
PEER Today? Are you out of your mind? Why that’s mouldy.
ASLAK (a moment later, sotto voce)
There she goes, Peer — to dance with an oldie.
PEER (turns abruptly to an older man)
Where are the spare ones then, mate?
MAN Find your own. (moves away)
(Peer Gynt is suddenly subdued. He glances furtively and shyly at
the gathering. Everyone stares at him but nobody speaks. He approaches various groups. Wherever he goes, silence falls; when he moves on, people smile and follow him with their eyes)
PEER (to himself)
Glances, gimlet-sharp thoughts and the smile.
It grates like a saw-blade under the file!
(he slinks along the fence. SOLVEIG, holding hands with little HELGA, enters the yard following their parents.)
MAN 1 (to another near Peer Gynt)
The folk who’ve just moved here.
MAN 2 The west country lot?
MAN 1 The ones out at Hedale.
MAN 2 Like as not.
PEER (accosts the arrivals, points to Solveig and asks the husband)
May I dance with your daughter?
FATHER (quietly) You may, yes, but first we must go and pay our respects to our neighbours.
(they go in)
STEWARD (offering a drink)
Now you’re here, d’you fancy a drink for your labours?
PEER (staring after them)
Thanks, but I’m dancing. I don’t have a thirst.
(the Steward moves on. Peer looks towards the house and smiles)
How fair! I’ve not seen the like before!
Eyes on her shoes, the white apron she’s wrapped in — !
And she clutched at her mother’s pinafore,
and carried a prayer-book wrapped in a napkin —
I must watch for that girl. (moves to enter the house)
LAD (coming out with the others) Are you leaving the do
already?
PEER No.
LAD Why, then, your steering’s askew!
(takes him by the shoulder to turn him)
PEER Let me pass; move aside!
LAD Scared the blacksmith will get you? 490
PEER Me, scared?
LAD Yes, remember the Lunde great set-to?
(the group moves towards the dancers laughing)
SOLVEIG (in the doorway)
Are you the boy who would like to dance?
PEER I certainly am, can’t you tell at a glance?
(takes her hand)
Come on then!
SOLVEIG Mum says I mustn’t stay.
PEER Mum says? Mum — ? Were you born yesterday?
SOLVEIG Don’t make fun — !
PEER You look young by my reckoning.
You confirmed yet? *
SOLVEIG I went to the priest last spring.
PEER Well, tell us your name, lass, we’ll chat the more brightly.
SOLVEIG My name is Solveig. — And what are you called?
PEER Peer Gynt.
SOLVEIG (takes her hand away) O heavens!
PEER Why so appalled? 500
SOLVEIG My garter’s come loose; I must tie it more tightly.
(leaves him)
GROOM (tugging at his mother)
Mother, she wouldn’t —
MOTHER What wouldn’t she, pray?
GROOM She wouldn’t, Ma!
MOTHER What?
GROOM Undo the locks.
FATHER (under his breath angrily)
O, for two pins you’d be stalled with the ox!
MOTHER Don’t bully the boy. He’s all right in his way.
(they leave)
LAD (who comes away from the dancing with a whole crowd)
Peer, some brandy?
PEER No.
LAD Just a tot?
PEER (looks at him gloomily)
Got it, have you?
LAD I might have come by some.
(pulls out a hip-flask and drinks)
Wow, does it burn! — Well?
PEER Let me try some.
(drinks)
LAD 2 Now you must try the stuff I’ve got.
PEER No!
SAME LAD Come on! Stop whinging now, stop! 510
Drink up, Peer!
PEER Then give us a drop.
(takes another swig)
GIRL (half under her breath)
Time we were off.
PEER You’re afraid of me, no?
LAD 3 Who isn’t afraid of you?
LAD 4 No wonder, after the tricks you got up to at Lunde.
PEER I could do a sight more if I let myself go!
LAD 1 (whispers) Here comes the old Peer!
SEVERAL Let’s hear you say!
Do what then?
PEER Tomorrow — !
OTHERS No, now, today!
GIRL Are you a magician?
PEER Can call up Old Nick!
MAN And so could my granny before I was born.
PEER Liar! There’s no-one can match my trick.
I once lured him into a nut one fine morn.
It was worm-eaten, see?
VOICES (laughing) Yes, that’s nothing surprising!
PEER He cussed and he cried, said he’d pay me, devising
This way and that —
VOICE But he had to stay in?
PEER O yes. I plugged the hole with a pin.
Heigh; should have heard him buzzing and grumbling!
GIRL Just fancy!
PEER Like hearing a bee when it’s bumbling.
GIRL Have you got him still in your nut, then?
PEER O no.
The devil’s out now and on the go.
And it’s his fault the smith always takes me to task. 530
LAD How’s that?
PEER I went to the smithy to ask
would he please break me the shell with his wrench.
He promised; and set it down on his bench;
But Aslak now, has a heavy hand; —
It comes of using the sledge and no wonder —
VOICE Did he smite the fiend?
PEER Like a man, it was grand.
The fiend though was quick, — like a blazing brand
burst through the roof, split the wall asunder.
VOICES And the smith?
PEER He stood there, hands scorched, like a dummy.
Since that day, we haven’t been chummy.
(general laughter)
VOICE That yarn was a peach!
OTHERS The best of them, clearly.
PEER Think I was making it up?
MAN O no.
There you’re not guilty; I got most of it, nearly,
from Granddad —
PEER Lies. It was me, you know!
MAN It is, every time.
PEER (with a toss of his head) Heigh, I can go through
air on magnificent steeds, I can really!
I can do lots of things, I shall show you.
(another roar of laughter)
VOICE Peer, ride on the air for us!
VOICES Yes, come on Peer —
PEER You’re whining and begging’s not needed, you hear?
I shall ride o’er your heads like a raging thunder! 550
The whole parish shall fall at my feet in wonder!
OLDER MAN Now he’s gone stark staring mad.
MAN 2 Agree.
MAN 3 Loudmouth!
MAN 4 You liar!
PEER (threateningly) Just wait, you shall see!
MAN (tipsy)
Yes wait; you’ll end with your coat well lambasted!
VOICES A lovely black eye! Your back proper pasted!
(The crowd disperses, the older ones angry, the younger ones
with laughter and mockery)
GROOM (sidles close)
Hi, Peer, can you ride through the air? Is it true?
PEER (shortly) Anything, Mads! — I’m, believe me, a swell.
GROOM D’you have the invisible cloak with you too? *
PEER Hat, you mean? Yes, I’ve got that as well.
(turns away from him. Solveig crosses the yard holding
Helga’s hand)
PEER (brightens up, goes to meet them)
Solveig! O, but it’s good to be seeing you! 560
(takes Solveig by the wrists)
Now I can twirl with you, light and free!
SOLVEIG Let me go!
PEER Why?
SOLVEIG You’re as wild as can be.
PEER And the reindeer’s wild too when the summer’s due.
Come on, lassie; don’t be so cross!
SOLVEIG (removes her arm)
I daren’t.
PEER Why not?
SOLVEIG (exits with Helga) No, you’ve been drinking.
PEER O if only my knife-blade were sinking
deep into all of them — all that dross!
GROOM (nudging him)
Can’t you find a way I can get to the bride?
PEER (absently)
Bride? And where’s she?
GROOM In the store-house. *
PEER So?
GROOM O please, Peer Gynt, you must have a go! 570
PEER No, you must cope without me at your side.
(a thought strikes him; he says quietly and keenly)
Ingrid in the store-house! (crosses to Solveig)
Decided yet?
(Solveig wants to leave; he stands in her way)
You’re ashamed; I seem like a tramp to you.
SOLVEIG (quickly) O but you’re not; that just isn’t true!
PEER And, what’s more, I’m a drink oversize;
but that was from spite, ‘cos I was upset.
Come on!
SOLVEIG If I wanted to, well — I daren’t!
PEER Who are you afraid of?
SOLVEIG Mostly Dad.
PEER Dad? Of course; the deep sort of parent!
Looks down his nose, does he? — Answer a lad! 580
SOLVEIG What’s there to answer?
PEER Is Daddy your teacher?
Do you and your mother attend his class?
Now will you answer me!
SOLVEIG Please let me pass.
PEER No! (subdued but sharp and threatening)
I can turn into one of the trolls!
I shall come to your bedside as midnight tolls.
If you hear hissing and snarls from some creature,
don’t imagine it’s pussy you hear at its playtime.
It’s me, love! I’ll drain off your blood in a cup;
and as for your sister, I’ll eat her all up;
o yes, I’m a were-wolf once it’s past daytime; — 590
I’ll nibble your loins and your back with my jowl ——
(changes suddenly and entreats her with anguish)
Dance with me, Solveig!
SOLVEIG (looks somberly at him) That was just foul.
(goes in)
GROOM (drifts in again)
You’ll get a steer if you help me!
PEER Come on!
(they go behind the house. At the same time a big group enters from the dancing. Noise and excitement. Solveig, Helga and their parents emerge in the doorway with sundry other older people)
STEWARD (to the Smith, who heads the group)
Keep calm!
ASLAK (takes off his jacket) No, we’ll settle things now, head-on.
It’s Peer Gynt or me that’ll get a banging.
VOICE Yes. Let them fight!
OTHERS No, just a slanging!
ASLAK Fists it must be; just words are no good.
SOLVEIG’S FATHER
Control yourself, man!
HELGA Are they after his blood?
LAD 1 Why not pay him back for all of his lying!
LAD 2 Spit in his eye, then!
LAD 3 Let’s send him flying! 600
LAD 4 (to the Smith)
Seeing it through, then?
ASLAK (throwing down his jacket) Nag must to knacker.
SOLVEIG’S MOTHER
See what they think of that blow-hard, that slacker.
ÅSE (enters with a stick in her hand)
My son, is he here? He’s due for a whack!
O, I’ll wallop him, I shall mangle him!
ASLAK (rolls up his sleeves)
The rod’s much too soft for that rascally back.
MAN 1 Blacksmith’ll mangle him!
MAN 2 Dangle him!
ASLAK (spits on his hand and nods to ÅSE) Strangle him!
ÅSE What, strangle my Peer? You just try it and see!
Fight tooth and claw will old Åse and me! —
Where is he? (calls across the yard)
Peer!
GROOM (runs in) God’s wounds and his passion!
Quick, Ma and Pa and —
FATHER What is it now? 610
GROOM Fancy, Peer Gynt — !
ÅSE (shrieks) Have they killed him some fashion?
GROOM No, Peer Gynt — ! Look, over the brow —
VOICES With Ingrid!
ÅSE (lowers her stick) The monster!
ASLAK (thunderstruck) He’s tackling the sheer
rock-face, by God, and he climbs like a goat!
GROOM (crying)
He’s carrying her, Ma, like a pig you might tote!
ÅSE (shakes her fist at him)
I hope you fall down!
(screams with terror) Watch your footing, d’you hear!
INGRID’S FATHER (enters bareheaded and white with fury)
His life for this bride-rape — see if I don’t!
ÅSE O no, God punish me, O but you won’t!
Act II[36]
Scene 1
(A narrow path, high up in the mountains. Early morning. Peer Gynt comes hastily and sullenly along the path. Ingrid, still wearing some of her bridal ornaments, is trying to hold him back.)
PEER. Get you from me!
INGRID (weeping). After this, Peer? Whither?
PEER. Where you will for me.
INGRID (wringing her hands). Oh, what falsehood!
PEER. Useless railing. Each alone must go his way.
INGRID. Sin—and sin again unites us!
PEER. Devil take all recollections! Devil take the tribe of women—all but one—!
INGRID. Who is that one, pray?
PEER. ’Tis not you.
INGRID. Who is it then?
PEER. Go! Go thither whence you came! Off! To your father!
INGRID. Dearest, sweetest—
PEER. Peace!
INGRID. You cannot mean it, surely, what you’re saying?
PEER. Can and do.
INGRID. First to lure—and then forsake me!
PEER. And what terms have you to offer?
INGRID. Hægstad Farm, and more besides.
PEER. Is your psalm-book in your kerchief? Where’s the gold-mane on your shoulders? Do you glance adown your apron? Do you hold your mother’s skirt-fold? Speak!
INGRID. No, but—
PEER. Went you to the pastor this last spring-tide?
INGRID. No, but Peer—
PEER. Is there shyness in your glances? When I beg, can you deny?
INGRID. Heaven! I think his wits are going!
PEER. Does your presence sanctify? Speak!
INGRID. No, but—
PEER. What’s all the rest then? (going)
INGRID (blocking his way). Know you it will cost your neck should you fail me?
PEER. What do I care?
INGRID. You may win both wealth and honour if you take me—
PEER. Can’t afford.
INGRID (bursting into tears). Oh, you lured me—!
PEER. You were willing.
INGRID. I was desperate!
PEER. Frantic I.
INGRID (Threatening). Dearly shall you pay for this!
PEER. Dearest payment cheap I’ll reckon.
INGRID. Is your purpose set?
PEER. Like flint.
INGRID. Good! we’ll see, then, who’s the winner!
(Goes downwards.)
PEER (Stands silent a moment, then cries): Devil take all recollections! Devil take the tribe of women!
INGRID (Turning her head, and calling mockingly upwards): All but one!
PEER. Yes, all but one.
(They go their several ways.)
…
“Ingrid’s Lament” by Edvard Grieg:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ugTHvH9aaQ
Scene 2
(Near a mountain tarn; the ground is soft and marshy round about. A storm is gathering. Åse enters, calling and gazing around her despairingly, in every direction. Solveig has difficulty in keeping up with her. Solveig’s father and mother, with Helga, are some way behind.)
ÅSE (Tossing about, and tearing her hair).
All things are against me with wrathful might!
Heaven, and the waters, and the grisly mountains!
Fog-scuds from heaven roll down to bewilder him!
The treacherous waters are lurking to murder him!
The mountains would crush him with landslip and rift!
And the people too! They’re out after his life!
God knows they shan’t have it!
I can’t bear to lose him!
Oh, the oaf! to think that the fiend should tempt him! (Turning to Solveig)
Now isn’t it clean unbelievable, this?
He, that did nought but romance and tell lies;
he, whose sole strength was the strength of his jaw;
he, that did never a stroke of true work;
oh, a body could both cry and laugh!
Oh, we clung closely in sorrow and need.
Ay, you must know that my husband, he drank,
Loafed round the parish to roister and prate,
Wasted and trampled our gear under foot.
And meanwhile at home sat Peerkin and I
Trying the best to forget;
I’ve found it so hard to bear up.
It’s a terrible thing to look fate in the eyes;
And of course one is glad to be quit of one’s cares,
And try all one can to keep thoughts far away.
Some take to brandy, and others to lies;
And we, why we took to fairy-tales
Of princes and trolls, and of all sorts of beasts;
And of bride-rapes as well. Ah, but who could
have dreamt
That those devil’s yarns would have stuck in his head?
(In a fresh access of terror.)
Hu! What a screech! A nixie!
Peer! Oh my Peer! Up there on that hillock!
(She runs to the top of a little rise, and looks out over the tarn. Solveig’s father and mother come up.)
ÅSE. Not a sign to be seen!
THE FATHER (Quietly). It’s worst for him!
ÅSE (Weeping). Oh, my Peer! Oh, my own lost lamb!
THE FATHER (Nods mildly). You may well say lost.
ÅSE. Oh, no, don’t talk like that!
He is so clever. There’s no one like him.
THE FATHER. You foolish woman!
ÅSE. Oh, ay; oh, ay;
Foolish I am, but the boy’s all right!
THE FATHER (Still softly and with mild eyes).
His heart is hardened, his soul is lost.
ÅSE (In terror). No, no, he can’t be so hard, our Lord!
THE FATHER. Do you think he can sigh for his debt of sin?
ÅSE (Eagerly). No, but he can ride through the air on a buck, though!
THE MOTHER. Christ, are you mad?
THE FATHER. Why, what do you mean?
ÅSE. Never a deed is too great for him.
You shall see, if only he lives so long.
THE FATHER. Best if you saw him on the gallows hanging.
ÅSE (Shrieks). Oh, cross of Christ!
THE FATHER. In the hangman’s hands,
It may be his heart would be turned to repentance.
ÅSE (Bewildered). Oh, you’ll soon talk me out of my senses!
We must find him!
THE FATHER. To rescue his soul.
ÅSE. And his body!
If he’s stuck in the swamp, we must drag him out;
If he’s taken by trolls, we must ring the bells for him.
THE FATHER. Hm! We need to help him!
ÅSE. The Lord will repay you for your guidance and help!
THE FATHER. It’s a Christian’s duty.
ÅSE. Then the others, fie! they are heathens all;
There wasn’t one that would go with us.
THE FATHER. They knew him too well.
ÅSE. He was too good for them! (Wrings her hands.)
And to think that his life is at stake!
THE FATHER. Here are tracks of a man.
ÅSE. Then it’s here we must search!
THE FATHER. We’ll scatter around on this side of the sæter[37].
(He and his wife go on ahead)
SOLVEIG (To Åse). Say on; tell me more.
ÅSE (Drying her eyes). Of my son, you mean?
SOLVEIG. Yes, tell everything!
ÅSE (Smiles and tosses her head). Everything? Soon you’d be tired!
SOLVEIG. Sooner by far will you tire of the telling
Than I of the listening.
Scene 3
Low, treeless heights, close under the mountain moorlands; peaks in the distance. The shadows are long; it is late in the day.
Peer Gynt comes running at full speed, and stops short on the hillside.
PEER. The parish is all at my heels in a pack!
Every man of them armed with gun or with club.
Foremost I hear the old Hegstad-churl howling.—
Now it’s noised far and wide that Peer Gynt is abroad!
It is different, this, from a bout with a smith!
This is life! Every limb grows as strong as a bear’s.
(Strikes out with his arms and leaps in the air.)
To crush, overturn, stem the rush of the falls!
To strike! Wrench the fir-tree right up by the root!
This is life! This both hardens and lifts one high!
To hell then with all of the savourless lies!
THREE SÆTER GIRLS[38] (Rush across the hillside, screaming and singing). Trond of the Valfjeld! Bård and Kåre!
Troll-pack! To-night would you sleep in our arms?
PEER. To whom are you calling?
THE GIRLS. To the trolls! to the trolls!
FIRST GIRL. Trond, come with kindness!
SECOND GIRL. Bård, come with force!
THIRD GIRL. The cots in the sæter are all standing empty!
FIRST GIRL. Force is kindness!
SECOND GIRL. And kindness is force!
THIRD GIRL. If lads are a-wanting, one plays with the trolls!
PEER. Why, where are the lads, then?
ALL THREE (With a horse-laugh). They cannot come hither!
FIRST GIRL. Mine called me his sweetheart and called me his darling. Now he has married a grey-headed widow.
SECOND GIRL. Mine met a gipsy-wench north on the upland.
Now they are tramping the country together.
THIRD GIRL. Mine put an end to our bastard brat.
Now his head’s grinning aloft on a stake.
ALL THREE. Trond of the Valfjeld! Bård and Kåre!
Troll-pack! To-night would you sleep in our arms?
PEER (Stands, with a sudden leap, in the midst of them).
I’m a three-headed troll, and the boy for three girls!
THE GIRLS. Are you such a lad, eh?
PEER. You shall judge for yourselves!
FIRST GIRL. To the hut! To the hut!
SECOND GIRL. We have mead!
PEER. Let it flow!
THIRD GIRL. No cot shall stand empty this Saturday night!
SECOND GIRL (Kissing him). He sparkles and glisters like white-heated iron.
THIRD GIRL (Doing likewise). Like a baby’s eyes from the blackest tarn.
PEER (Dancing in the midst of them).
Heavy of heart and wanton of mind.
The eyes full of laughter, the throat of tears!
THE GIRLS (Making mocking gestures towards the mountain-tops, screaming and singing).
Trond of the Valfjeld! Baard and Kaare!
Troll-pack!—To-night will you sleep in our arms?
(They dance away over the heights, with Peer Gynt in their midst.)
Scene 4
Among the Ronde mountains. Sunset. Shining snow-peaks all around.
Peer Gynt enters, dizzy and bewildered.
PEER. Tower over tower arises!
Hei, what a glittering gate!
Stand! Will you stand? It’s drifting
Further and further away!
High on the vane the cock stands lifting his wings for flight;—
Blue spread the rifts and bluer,
Locked is the fell and barred.—
What are those trunks and tree-roots,
That grow from the ridge’s clefts?
They are warriors heron-footed!
Now they, too, are fading away.
A shimmering like rainbow-streamers
Goes shooting through eyes and brain.
What is it, that far-off chiming?
What’s weighing my eyebrows down?
Hu, how my forehead’s throbbing—
A tightening red-hot ring—!
I cannot think who the devil
Has bound it around my head!
(Sinks down.)
Flight o’er the Edge of Gjendin—
Stuff and accursed lies!
Up o’er the steepest hill-wall
With the bride,—and a whole day drunk;
Hunted by hawks and falcons,
Threatened by trolls and such,
Sporting with crazy wenches:—
Lies and accursed stuff!
(Gazes long upwards.)
Yonder sail two brown eagles.
Southward the wild geese fly.
And here I must splash and stumble
In quagmire and filth knee-deep!
(Springs up.)
I’ll fly too! I will wash myself clean in
The bath of the keenest winds!
I’ll fly high! I will plunge myself fair in
The glorious christening-font!
I will soar far over the sæter;
I will ride myself pure of soul;
I will forth o’er the salt sea waters,
And high over Engelland’s prince!
Ay, gaze as ye may, young maidens;
My ride is for none of you;
You’re wasting your time in waiting—!
Yet maybe I’ll swoop down, too.—
What has come of the two brown eagles—?
They’ve vanished, the devil knows where!—
There’s the peak of a gable rising;
It’s soaring on every hand;
It’s growing from out the ruins;—
See, the gateway is standing wide!
Ha-ha, yonder house, I know it;
It’s grandfather’s new-built farm!
Gone are the clouts from the windows;
The crazy old fence is gone.
The lights gleam from every casement;
There’s a feast in the hall to-night.
There, that was the provost clinking
The back of his knife on his glass;—
There’s the captain flinging his bottle,
And shivering the mirror to bits.—
Let them waste; let it all be squandered!
Peace, mother; what need we care!
’Tis the rich Jon Gynt gives the banquet;
Hurrah for the race of Gynt!
What’s all this bustle and hubbub?
Why do they shout and bawl?
The captain is calling the son in;—
Oh, the provost would drink my health.
In then, Peer Gynt, to the judgment;
It rings forth in song and shout:
Peer Gynt, thou art come of great things,
And great things shall come of thee!
(Leaps forward, but runs his head against a rock, falls, and remains stretched on the ground.)
Scene 5
A hillside, wooded with great soughing trees. Stars are gleaming through the leaves; birds are singing in the tree-tops.
A green-clad woman is crossing the hillside; Peer Gynt follows her, with all sorts of lover-like antics.
THE GREEN-CLAD ONE (Stops and turns round). Is it true?
PEER (Drawing his finger across his throat). As true as my name is Peer;—
As true as that you are a lovely woman!
Will you have me? You’ll see what a fine man I’ll be;
You shall neither tread the loom nor turn the spindle.
You shall eat all you want, till you’re ready to burst.
I never will drag you about by the hair—
THE GREEN-CLAD ONE. Nor beat me?
PEER. No, can you think I would?
We kings’ sons never beat women and such.
THE GREEN-CLAD ONE. You’re a king’s son?
PEER. Yes.
THE GREEN-CLAD ONE. I’m the Dovre-King’s daughter.
PEER. Are you? See there, now, how well that fits in!
THE GREEN-CLAD ONE. Deep in the Ronde has father his palace.
PEER. My mother’s is bigger, or much I’m mistaken.
THE GREEN-CLAD ONE. Do you know my father? His name is King Brose.
PEER. Do you know my mother? Her name is Queen Åse.
THE GREEN-CLAD ONE. When my father is angry the mountains are riven.
PEER. They reel when my mother by chance falls a-scolding.
THE GREEN-CLAD ONE. My father can kick e’en the loftiest roof-tree.
PEER. My mother can ride through the rapidest river.
THE GREEN-CLAD ONE. Have you other garments besides those rags?
PEER. Ho, you should just see my Sunday clothes!
THE GREEN-CLAD ONE. My week-day gown is of gold and silk.
PEER. It looks to me like tow and straws.
THE GREEN-CLAD ONE. Ay, there is one thing you must remember:—this is the Ronde-folk’s use and wont: all our possessions have twofold form. When you shall come to my father’s hall, it well may chance that you’re on the point of thinking you stand in a dismal moraine.
PEER. Well now, with us it’s precisely the same. Our gold will seem to you litter and trash! And you’ll think, mayhap, every glittering pane is nought but a bunch of old stockings and clouts.
THE GREEN-CLAD ONE. Black it seems white, and ugly seems fair.
PEER. Big it seems little, and dirty seems clean.
THE GREEN-CLAD ONE (Falling on his neck). Ay, Peer, now I see that we fit, you and I!
PEER. Like the leg and the trouser, the hair and the comb.
THE GREEN-CLAD ONE (Calls away over the hillside). Bridal-steed! Bridal-steed! bridal-steed mine!
(A gigantic pig comes running in with a rope’s end for a bridle and an old sack for a saddle. Peer Gynt vaults on its back, and seats the green-clad one in front of him.)
PEER. Hark-away! Through the Ronde-gate gallop we in! Gee-up, gee-up, my courser fine!
THE GREEN-CLAD ONE (Tenderly). Ah, but lately I wandered and moped and pined—. One never can tell what may happen to one!
PEER (Thrashing the pig and trotting off). You may know the great by their riding-gear!
The Royal Hall of the King of the Dovrë-Trolls. A great assembly of TROLL-COURTIERS, GNOMES, and BROWNIES. THE OLD MAN OF THE DOVRË sits on the throne, crowned, and with his sceptre in his hand. His CHILDREN and NEAREST RELATIONS are ranged on both sides. PEER GYNT stands before him. Violent commotion in the hall.
THE TROLL-COURTIERS.
Slay him! a Christian-man’s son has deluded
The Dovrë-King’s loveliest maid!
A TROLL-IMP.
May I hack him on the fingers?
ANOTHER.
May I tug him by the hair?
A TROLL-MAIDEN.
Hu, hei, let me bite him in the haunches!
A TROLL-WITCH.
[With a ladle.]
Shall he be boiled into broth and bree?
ANOTHER TROLL-WITCH.
[With a chopper.]
Shall he roast on a spit or be browned in a stewpan?
THE OLD MAN OF THE DOVRË.
Ice to your blood, friends!
[Beckons his counsellors closer around him].
Don’t let us talk big.
We’ve been drifting astern in these latter years;
We can’t tell what’s going to stand or to fall,
And there’s no sense in turning recruits away.
Besides the lad’s body has scarce a blemish,
And he’s strongly-built too, if I see aright.
It’s true, he has only a single head;
But my daughter, too, has no more than one.
Three-headed trolls are gone clean out of fashion;
One hardly sees even a two-header now,
And even those heads are but so-so ones.
[To PEER GYNT.]
It’s my daughter, then, you demand of me?
PEER.
Your daughter and the realm to her dowry, yes.
THE OLD MAN.
You shall have the half while I’m still alive,
And the other half when I come to die.
PEER.
I’m content with that.
THE OLD MAN.
Ay, but stop, my lad;—
You also have some undertakings to give.
If you break even one, the whole pact’s at an end,
And you’ll never get away from here living.
First of all you must swear that you’ll never give heed
To aught that lies outside the Rondë-hills’ bounds;
Day you must shun, and deeds, and each sunlit spot.
PEER.
Only call me king, and that’s easy to keep.
THE OLD MAN.
And next—now for putting your wits to the test.
[Draws himself up in his seat.]
THE OLDEST TROLL-COURTIER.
[To PEER GYNT.]
Let us see if you have a wisdom-tooth
That can crack the Dovrë-King’s riddle-nut!
THE OLD MAN.
What difference is there ’twixt trolls and men?
PEER.
No difference at all, as it seems to me.
Big trolls would roast you and small trolls would claw you;—
With us it were likewise, if only they dared.
THE OLD MAN.
True enough; in that and in more we’re alike.
Yet morning is morning, and even is even,
And there is a difference all the same.—
Now let me tell you wherein it lies:
Out yonder, under the shining vault,
Among men the saying goes: “Man, be thyself!”
At home here with us, ’mid the tribe of the trolls,
The saying goes: “Troll, to thyself be—enough!”
THE TROLL-COURTIER.
[To PEER GYNT.]
Can you fathom the depth?
PEER.
It strikes me as misty.
THE OLD MAN.
My son, that “Enough,” that most potent and sundering
Word, must be graven upon your escutcheon.
PEER. [Scratching his head.]
Well, but——
THE OLD MAN.
It must, if you here would be master!
PEER.
Oh well, let it pass; after all, it’s no worse——
THE OLD MAN.
And next you must learn to appreciate
Our homely, everyday way of life.
[He beckons; two TROLLS with pigs’ heads, white
night-caps, and so forth, bring in food and drink.]
The cow gives cakes and the bullock mead;
Ask not if its taste be sour or sweet;
The main matter is, and you mustn’t forget it,
It’s all of it home-brewed.
PEER.
[Pushing the things away from him.]
The devil fly off with your home-brewed drinks!
I’ll never get used to the ways of this land.
THE OLD MAN.
The bowl’s given in, and it’s fashioned of gold.
Whoso own the gold bowl, him my daughter holds dear.
PEER. [Pondering.]
It is written: Thou shalt bridle the natural man;—
And I daresay the drink may in time seem less sour.
So be it!
[Complies.]
THE OLD MAN.
Ay, that was sagaciously said.
You spit?
PEER.
One must trust to the force of habit.
THE OLD MAN.
And next you must throw off your Christian-man’s garb;
For this you must know to our Dovrë’s renown:
Here all things are mountain-made, nought’s from the dale,
Except the silk bow at the end of your tail.
PEER. [Indignant.]
I haven’t a tail!
THE OLD MAN.
Then of course you must get one.
See my Sunday-tail, Chamberlain, fastened to him.
PEER.
I’ll be hanged if you do! Would you make me a fool?
THE OLD MAN.
None comes courting my child with no tail at his rear.
PEER.
Make a beast of a man!
THE OLD MAN.
Nay, my son, you mistake;
I make you a mannerly wooer, no more.
A bright orange bow we’ll allow you to wear,
And that passes here for the highest of honours.
PEER. [Reflectively.]
It’s true, as the saying goes: Man’s but a mote.
And it’s wisest to follow the fashion a bit.
Tie away!
THE OLD MAN.
You’re a tractable fellow, I see.
THE COURTIER.
Just try with what grace you can waggle and whisk it!
PEER. [Peevishly.]
Ha, would you force me to go still further?
Do you ask me to give up my Christian faith?
THE OLD MAN.
No, that you are welcome to keep in peace.
Doctrine goes free; upon that there’s no duty;
It’s the outward cut one must tell a troll by.
If we’re only at one in our manners and dress,
You may hold as your faith what to us is a horror.
PEER.
Why, in spite of your many conditions, you are
A more reasonable chap than one might have expected.
THE OLD MAN.
We troll-folk, my son, are less black than we’re painted;
That’s another distinction between you and us.—
But the serious part of the meeting is over;
Now let us gladden our ears and our eyes.
Music-maid, forth! Set the Dovrë-harp sounding!
Dancing-maid, forth! Tread the Dovrë-hall’s floor!
[Music and a dance.]
THE COURTIER.
How like you it?
PEER.
Like it? H’m—
THE OLD MAN.
Speak without fear!
What see you?
PEER.
Why something unspeakably grim:
A bell-cow with her hoof on a gut-harp strumming.
A sow in socklets a-trip to the tune.
THE COURTIERS.
Eat him!
THE OLD MAN.
His sense is but human, remember!
TROLL-MAIDENS.
Hu, tear away both his ears and his eyes!
THE GREEN-CLAD ONE.
[Weeping.]
Hu-hu! And this we must hear and put up with,
When I and my sister make music and dance.
PEER.
Oho, was it you? Well, a joke at the feast,
You must know, is never unkindly meant.
THE GREEN CLAD ONE.
Can you swear it was so?
PEER.
Both the dance and the music
Were utterly charming, the cat claw me else.
THE OLD MAN.
This same human nature’s a singular thing;
It sticks to people so strangely long.
If it gets a gash in the fight with us,
It heals up at once, though a scar may remain.
My son-in-law, now, is as pliant as any;
He’s willingly thrown off his Christian-man’s garb,
He’s willingly drunk from our chalice of mead,
He’s willingly fastened the tail to his back,—
So willing, in short, did we find him in all things,
I thought to myself the old Adam, for certain,
Had for good and all been kicked out of doors;
But lo! in two shakes he’s atop again!
Ay ay, my son, we must treat you, I see,
To cure this pestilent human nature.
PEER.
What will you do?
THE OLD MAN.
In your left eye, first,
I’ll scratch you a bit, till you see awry;
But all that you see will seem fine and brave.
And then I’ll just cut your right window-pane out——
PEER.
Are you drunk?
THE OLD MAN.
[Lays a number of sharp instruments on the table.]
See, here are the glazier’s tools.
Blinkers you’ll wear, like a raging bull.
Then you’ll recognise that your bride is lovely,—
And ne’er will your vision be troubled, as now,
With bell-cows harping and sows that dance.
PEER.
This is madman’s talk!
THE OLDEST COURTIER.
It’s the Dovrë-King speaking;
’Tis he that is wise, and ’tis you that are crazy!
THE OLD MAN.
Just think how much worry and mortification
You’ll thus escape from, year out, year in.
You must remember, your eyes are the fountain
Of the bitter and searing lye of tears.
PEER.
That’s true; and it says in our sermon-book:
If thine eye offend thee, then pluck it out.
But tell me, when will my sight heal up
Into human sight?
THE OLD MAN.
Nevermore, my friend.
PEER.
Indeed! In that case, I’ll take my leave.
THE OLD MAN.
What would you without?
PEER.
I would go my way.
THE OLD MAN.
No, stop! It’s easy to slip in here,
But outward the Dovrë-King’s gate opens not.
PEER.
You wouldn’t detain me by force, I hope?
THE OLD MAN.
Come now, just listen to reason, Prince Peer!
You have gifts for trolldom. He acts—does he not?—
Even now in a passably troll-like fashion?
And you’d fain be a troll?
PEER.
Yes, I would, sure enough.
For a bride, and a well-managed kingdom to boot,
I can put up with losing a good many things.
But there is a limit to all things on earth.
The tail I’ve accepted, it’s perfectly true;
But no doubt I can loose what the Chamberlain tied.
My breeches I’ve dropped; they were old and patched;
But no doubt I can button them on again.
And lightly enough I can slip my cable
From these your Dovrëfied ways of life.
I am willing to swear that a cow is a maid;
An oath one can always eat up again;—
But to know that one never can free oneself,
That one can’t even die like a decent soul;
To live as a hill-troll for all one’s days—
To feel that one never can beat a retreat,—
As the book has it, that’s what your heart is set on;
But that is a thing I can never agree to.
THE OLD MAN.
Now, sure as I live, I shall soon lose my temper;
And then I am not to be trifled with.
You pasty-faced loon! Do you know who I am?
First with my daughter you make too free——
PEER.
There you lie in your throat!
THE OLD MAN.
You must marry her.
PEER.
Do you dare to accuse me——?
THE OLD MAN.
What? Can you deny
That you lusted for her in heart and eye?
PEER. [With a snort of contempt.]
No more? Who the deuce cares a straw for that?
THE OLD MAN.
It’s ever the same with this humankind.
The spirit you’re ready to own with your lips,
But in fact nothing counts that your fists cannot handle.
So you really think, then, that lust matters nought?
Wait; you shall soon have ocular proof of it——
PEER.
You don’t catch me with a bait of lies!
THE GREEN-CLAD ONE.
My Peer, ere the year’s out, your child will be born.
PEER.
Open doors! let me go!
THE OLD MAN.
In a he-goat’s skin.
You shall have the brat after you.
PEER. [Mopping the sweat off his brow.]
Would I could waken!
THE OLD MAN.
Shall we send him to the palace?
PEER. You can send him to the parish!
THE OLD MAN. Well well, Prince Peer; that’s your own look-out.
But one thing’s certain, what’s done is done;
And your offspring, too, will be sure to grow;
Such mongrels shoot up amazingly fast——
PEER. Old man, don’t act like a headstrong ox!
Hear reason, maiden! Let’s come to terms.
You must know I’m neither a prince nor rich;—
And whether you measure or whether you weigh me,
Be sure you won’t gain much by making me yours.
[THE GREEN-CLAD ONE is taken ill, and is carried out by
TROLL-MAIDS.
THE OLD MAN.
[Looks at him for a while in high disdain; then says:]
Dash him to shards on the rock-walls, children!
THE TROLL-IMPS.
Oh dad, mayn’t we play owl-and-eagle first!
The wolf-game! Grey-mouse and glow-eyed cat!
THE OLD MAN.
Yes, but quick. I am worried and sleepy. Goodnight!
[He goes.]
PEER.
[Hunted by the TROLL-IMPS.]
Let me be, devil’s imps!
[Tries to escape up the chimney.]
THE IMPS.
Come brownies! Come nixies!
Bite him behind!
PEER.
Ow!
[Tries to slip down the cellar trap-door.]
THE IMPS.
Shut up all the crannies!
THE TROLL-COURTIER.
Now the small-fry are happy!
PEER.
[Struggling with a little IMP that has bit himself fast to his ear.]
Let go will you, beast!
THE COURTIER.
[Hitting him across the fingers.]
Gently, you scamp, with a scion of royalty!
PEER.
A rat-hole——!
[Runs to it.]
THE IMPS.
Be quick, Brother Nixie, and block it!
PEER.
The old one was bad, but the youngsters are worse!
THE IMPS.
Slash him!
PEER.
Oh, would I were small as a mouse!
[Rushing around.]
THE IMPS.
[Swarming round him.]
Close the ring! Close the ring!
PEER.
[Weeping.]
Were I only a louse!
[He falls.]
THE IMPS.
Now into his eyes!
PEER.
[Buried in a heap of IMPS.]
Mother, help me, I die!
[Church bells sound far away.]
THE IMPS.
Bells in the mountain! The Black-Frock’s cows!
[THE TROLLS take to flight, amid a confused uproar of yells and shrieks. The palace collapses; everything disappears.
Scene 7
Pitch darkness.
PEER GYNT is heard beating and slashing about him with a large bough.
PEER.
Answer! Who are you?
A VOICE IN THE DARKNESS.
Myself.
PEER.
Clear the way!
THE VOICE.
Go roundabout, Peer! The hill’s roomy enough.
PEER.
[Tries to force a passage at another place, but strikes against something.]
Who are you?
THE VOICE.
Myself. Can you say the same?
PEER.
I can say what I will; and my sword can smite!
Mind yourself! Hu, hei, now the blow falls crushing!
King Saul slew hundreds; Peer Gynt slew thousands!
[Cutting and slashing.]
Who are you?
THE VOICE.
Myself.
PEER.
That stupid reply
You may spare; it doesn’t clear up the matter.
What are you?
THE VOICE.
The great Boyg.
PEER.
Ah, indeed!
The riddle was black; now I’d call it grey.
Clear the way then, Boyg!
THE VOICE.
Go roundabout, Peer!
PEER.
No, through!
[Cuts and slashes.]
There he fell!
[Tries to advance, but strikes against something.]
Ho ho, are there more here?
THE VOICE.
The Boyg, Peer Gynt! the one only one.
It’s the Boyg that’s unwounded, and the Boyg that was hurt,
It’s the Boyg that is dead, and the Boyg that’s alive.
PEER.
[Throws away the branch.]
The weapon is troll-smeared; but I have my fists!
[Fights his way forward.]
THE VOICE.
Ay, trust to your fists, lad, trust to your body.
Hee-hee, Peer Gynt, so you’ll reach the summit.
PEER.
[Falling back again.]
Forward or back, and it’s just as far;
Out or in, and it’s just as strait!
He is there! And there! And he’s round the bend!
No sooner I’m out than I’m back in the ring.
Name who you are! Let me see you! What are you?
THE VOICE.
The Boyg.
PEER.
[Groping around.]
Not dead, not living; all slimy; misty.
Not so much as a shape! It’s as bad as to battle
In a cluster of snarling, half-wakened bears!
[Screams.]
Strike back at me, can’t you!
THE VOICE.
The Boyg isn’t mad.
PEER.
Strike!
THE VOICE.
The Boyg strikes not.
PEER.
Fight! You shall!
THE VOICE.
The great Boyg conquers, but does not fight.
PEER.
Were there only a nixie here that could prick me!
Were there only as much as a year-old troll!
Only something to fight with. But here there is nothing.
Now he’s snoring! Boyg!
THE VOICE.
What’s your will?
PEER.
Use force!
THE VOICE.
The great Boyg conquers in all things without it.
PEER.
[Biting his own arms and hands.]
Claws and ravening teeth in my flesh!
I must feel the drip of my own warm blood.
[A sound is heard like the wing-strokes of great birds.]
BIRD-CRIES.
Comes he now, Boyg?
THE VOICE.
Ay, step by step.
BIRD-CRIES.
All our sisters far off! Gather here to the tryst!
PEER.
If you’d save me now, lass, you must do it quick!
Gaze not adown so, lowly and bending.
Your clasp-book! Hurl it straight into his eyes!
BIRD-CRIES.
He totters!
THE VOICE.
We have him.
BIRD-CRIES.
Sisters! Make haste!
PEER.
Too dear the purchase one pays for life
In such a heart-wasting hour of strife.
[Sinks down.]
BIRD-CRIES.
Boyg, there he’s fallen! Seize him! Seize him!
[A sound of bells and of psalm-singing is heard far away.]
THE BOYG.
[Shrinks up to nothing, and says in a gasp:]
He was too strong. There were women behind him.
Scene 8
Sunrise. The mountain-side in front of ÅSE’S sæter. The door is shut; all is silent and deserted.
Peer Gynt is lying asleep by the wall of the sæter.
PEER.
[Wakens, and looks about him with dull and heavy eyes. He spits.]
What wouldn’t I give for a pickled herring!
[Spits again, and at the same moment catches sight of Helga, who appears carrying a basket of food.]
Ha, child, are you there? What is it you want?
HELGA.
It is Solveig
PEER.
[Jumping up.]
Where is she?
HELGA.
Behind the sæter.
SOLVEIG.
[Unseen.]
If you come nearer, I’ll run away!
PEER.
[Stopping short.]
Perhaps you’re afraid I might take you in my arms?
SOLVEIG.
For shame!
PEER.
Do you know where I was last night?—
Like a horse-fly the Dovrë-King’s daughter is after me.
SOLVEIG.
Then it was well that the bells were set ringing.
PEER.
Peer Gynt’s not the lad they can lure astray.
What do you say?
HELGA.
[Crying.]
Oh, she’s running away!
[Running after her. Wait!]
PEER.
[Catches her by the arm.]
Look here, what I have in my pocket!
A silver button, child! You shall have it,
Only speak for me!
HELGA.
Let me be; let me go!
PEER.
There you have it.
HELGA.
Let go; there’s the basket of food.
PEER.
God pity you if you don’t——
HELGA.
Uf, how you scare me!
PEER.
[Gently; letting her go.]
No, I only meant: beg her not to forget me!
[Helga runs off.]
ACT III
Scene 1
Deep in the pine-woods. Grey autumn weather. Snow is falling.
Peer Gynt stands in his shirt-sleeves, felling timber.
PEER.
[Hewing at a large fir-tree with twisted branches.]
Oh ay, you are tough, you ancient churl;
But it’s all in vain, for you’ll soon be down.
[Hews at it again.]
I see well enough you’ve a chain-mail shirt,
But I’ll hew it through, were it never so stout.
Ay, ay, you’re shaking your twisted arms;
You’ve reason enough for your spite and rage;
But none the less you must bend the knee——!
[Breaks off suddenly.]
Lies! ’Tis an old tree and nothing more.
Lies! It was never a steel-clad churl;
It’s only a fir-tree with fissured bark.—
It is heavy labour this hewing timber;
But the devil and all when you hew and dream too.—
I’ll have done with it all—with this dwelling in mist,
And, broad-awake, dreaming your senses away.—
You’re an outlaw, lad! You are banned to the woods.
[Hews for a while rapidly.]
Ay, an outlaw, ay. You’ve no mother now
To spread your table and bring your food.
If you’d eat, my lad, you must help yourself,
Fetch your rations raw from the wood and stream,
Split your own fir-roots and light your own fire,
Bustle around, and arrange and prepare things.
Would you clothe yourself warmly, you must stalk your deer;
Would you found you a house, you must quarry the stones;
Would you build up its walls, you must fell the logs,
And shoulder them all to the building-place.—
[His axe sinks down; he gazes straight in front of him.]
Brave shall the building be. Tower and vane
Shall rise from the roof-tree, high and fair.
And then I will carve, for the knob on the gable,
A mermaid, shaped like a fish from the navel.
Brass shall there be on the vane and the door-locks.
Glass I must see and get hold of too.
Strangers, passing, shall ask amazed:
What is that glittering far on the hillside?
[Laughs angrily.]
Devil’s own lies! There they come again.
You’re an outlaw, lad!
[Hewing vigorously.]
A bark-thatched hovel
Is shelter enough both in rain and frost.
[Looks up at the tree.]
Now he stands wavering. There; only a kick,
And he topples and measures his length on the ground;—
The thick-swarming undergrowth shudders around him!
[Begins lopping the branches from the trunk; suddenly
he listens, and stands motionless with his axe in the air.]
There’s someone after me;—Ay, are you that sort,
Old Hegstad-churl; would you play me false?
[Crouches behind the tree, and peeps over it.]
A lad! One only. He seems afraid.
He peers all round him. What’s that he hides
’Neath his jacket? A sickle. He stops and looks round,—
Now he lays his hand on a fence-rail flat.
What’s this now? Why does he lean like that——?
Ugh, ugh! Why, he’s chopped his finger off!
A whole finger off!—He bleeds like an ox.—
Now he takes to his heels with his fist in a clout.
[Rises.]
What a devil of a lad! An unmendable finger!
Right off! And with no one compelling him to it!
Ho, now I remember! It’s only thus
You can ’scape from having to serve the King.
That’s it. They wanted to send him soldiering,
And of course the lad didn’t want to go.—
But to chop off——? To sever for good and all——?
Ay, think of it—wish it done—will it to boot,—
But do it——! No, that’s past my understanding!
[Shakes his head a little; then goes on with his work.]
Scene 2
A room in ÅSE’S house. Everything in disorder; boxes standing
open; wearing apparel strewn around. A cat is lying on the bed.
ÅSE and the COTTAR’S WIFE are hard at work packing things
together and putting them straight.
ÅSE.
[Running to one side.]
Kari, come here!
KARI.
What now?
ÅSE.
[On the other side.]
Come here——?
Where is——? Where shall I find——? Tell me where——?
What am I seeking? I’m out of my wits!
Where is the key of the chest?
KARI.
In the key hole.
ÅSE.
What is that rumbling?
KARI.
The last cart-load
They’re driving to Hegstad.
ÅSE.
[Weeping.]
How glad I’d be
In the black chest myself to be driven away!
Oh, what must a mortal abide and live through!
God help me in mercy; The whole house is bare!
What the Hegstad-churl left now the Bailiff has taken.
Not even the clothes on my back have they spared.
Fie! Shame on them all that have judged so hardly!
[Seats herself on the edge of the bed.
Both the land and the farm-place are lost to our line;
The old man was hard, but the law was still harder;—
There was no one to help me, and none would show mercy;
Peer was away; not a soul to give counsel.
KARI.
But here, in this house, you may dwell till you die.
ÅSE.
Ay, the cat and I live on charity.
KARI.
God help you, mother; your Peer’s cost you dear.
ÅSE.
Peer? Why, you’re out of your senses, sure!
Ingrid came home none the worse in the end.
The right thing had been to hold Satan to reckoning;—
He was the sinner, ay, he and none other;
The ugly beast tempted my poor boy astray!
KARI.
Had I not better send word to the parson?
Mayhap you’re worse than you think you are.
ÅSE.
To the parson? Truly I almost think so.
[Starts up.
But, oh God, I can’t! I’m the boy’s own mother;
And help him I must; it’s no more than my duty;
I must do what I can when the rest forsake him.
They’ve left him his coat; I must patch it up.
I wish I dared snap up the fur-rug as well!
What’s come of the hose?
KARI.
They are there, ’mid that rubbish.
ÅSE.
[Rummaging about.]
Why, what have we here? I declare it’s an old
Casting-ladle, Kari! With this he would play
Button-moulder, would melt, and then shape, and then stamp them.
One day—there was company—in the boy came,
And begged of his father a lump of tin.
“Not tin,” says Jon, “but King Christian’s coin;
Silver; to show you’re the son of Jon Gynt.”
God pardon him, Jon; he was drunk, you see,
And then he cared neither for tin nor for gold.
Here are the hose. Oh, they’re nothing but holes;
They want darning, Kari!
KARI.
Indeed but they do.
ÅSE.
When that is done, I must get to bed;
I feel so broken, and frail, and ill——
[Joyfully.
Two woollen-shirts, Kari;—they’ve passed them by!
KARI.
So they have indeed.
ÅSE.
It’s a bit of luck.
One of the two you may put aside;
Or rather, I think we’ll e’en take them both;—
The one he has on is so worn and thin.
KARI.
But oh, Mother Åse, I fear it’s a sin.
ÅSE.
Maybe; but remember the priest holds out
Pardon for this and our other sinnings.
Scene 3
In front of a settlers newly-built hut in the forest. A reindeer’s horns over the door. The snow is lying deep around. It is dusk.
PEER GYNT is standing outside the door, fastening a large
wooden bar to it.
PEER. [Laughing between whiles.]
Bars I must fix me; bars that can fasten
The door against troll-folk, and men, and women.
Bars I must fix me; bars that can shut out
All the cantankerous little hobgoblins.—
They come with the darkness, they knock and they rattle:
Open, Peer Gynt, we’re as nimble as thoughts are!
’Neath the bedstead we bustle, we rake in the ashes,
Down the chimney we hustle like fiery-eyed dragons.
Hee-hee! Peer Gynt; think you staples and planks
Can shut out cantankerous hobgoblin-thoughts?
[SOLVEIG comes on snow-shoes over the heath; she has a
shawl over her head, and a bundle in her hand.
SOLVEIG.
God prosper your labour. You must not reject me.
You sent for me hither, and so you must take me.
PEER.
Solveig! It cannot be——! Ay, but it is!—
And you’re not afraid to come near to me!
SOLVEIG.
One message you sent me by little Helga;
Others came after in storm and in stillness.
All that your mother told bore me a message,
That brought forth others when dreams sank upon me.
Nights full of heaviness, blank, empty days,
Brought me the message that now I must come.
It seemed as though life had been quenched down there;
I could nor laugh nor weep from the depths of my heart.
I knew not for sure how you might be minded;
I knew but for sure what I should do and must do.
PEER.
But your father?
SOLVEIG.
In all of God’s wide earth
I have none I can call either father or mother.
I have loosed me from all of them.
PEER.
Solveig, you fair one—
And to come to me?
SOLVEIG.
Ay, to you alone;
You must be all to me, friend and consoler.
[In tears.
The worst was leaving my little sister;—
But parting from father was worse, still worse;
And worst to leave her at whose breast I was borne;—
Oh no, God forgive me, the worst I must call
The sorrow of leaving them all, ay all!
PEER.
And you know the doom that was passed in spring?
It forfeits my farm and my heritage.
SOLVEIG.
Think you for heritage, goods, and gear,
I forsook the paths all my dear ones tread?
PEER.
And know you the compact? Outside the forest
Whoever may meet me may seize me at will.
SOLVEIG.
I ran upon snow-shoes; I asked my way on;
They said “Whither go you?” I answered, “I go home.”
PEER.
Away, away then with nails and planks!
No need now for bars against hobgoblin-thoughts.
If you dare dwell with the hunter here,
I know the hut will be blessed from ill.
Solveig! Let me look at you! Not too near!
Only look at you! Oh, but you are bright and pure!
Let me lift you! Oh, but you are fine and light!
Let me carry you, Solveig, and I’ll never be tired!
I will not soil you. With outstretched arms
I will hold you far out from me, lovely and warm one!
Oh, who would have thought I could draw you to me,—
Ah, but I have longed for you, daylong and nightlong.
Here you may see I’ve been hewing and building;—
It must down again, dear; it is ugly and mean——
SOLVEIG.
Be it mean or brave,—here is all to my mind.
One so lightly draws breath in the teeth of the wind.
Down below it was airless; one felt as though choked;
That was partly what drove me in fear from the dale.
But here, with the fir-branches soughing o’erhead,—
What a stillness and song!—I am here in my home.
PEER.
And know you that surely? For all your days?
SOLVEIG.
The path I have trodden leads back nevermore.
PEER.
You are mine then! In! In the room let me see you!
Go in! I must go to fetch fir-roots for fuel.
Warm shall the fire be and bright shall it shine,
You shall sit softly and never be a-cold.
[He opens the door; SOLVEIG goes in. He stands still
for a while, then laughs aloud with joy and leaps
into the air.
PEER.
My king’s daughter! Now I have found her and won her!
Hei! Now the palace shall rise, deeply founded!
He seizes his axe and moves away; at the same moment an
OLD-LOOKING WOMAN, in a tattered green gown, comes
out from the wood; an UGLY BRAT, with an ale-flagon
in his hand, limps after, holding on to her skirt.
THE WOMAN.
Good evening, Peer Lightfoot!
PEER.
What is it? Who’s there?
THE WOMAN.
Old friends of yours, Peer Gynt! My home is nearby.
We are neighbours.
PEER.
Indeed! That is more than I know.
THE WOMAN.
Even as your hut was builded, mine built itself too.
PEER.
[Going.]
I’m in haste——
THE WOMAN.
Yes, that you are always, my lad!
But I’ll trudge behind you and catch you at last.
PEER.
You’re mistaken, good woman!
THE WOMAN.
I was so before;
I was when you promised such mighty fine things.
PEER.
I promised——? What devil’s own nonsense is this?
THE WOMAN.
You’ve forgotten the night when you drank with my sire?
You’ve forgot——?
PEER.
I’ve forgot what I never have known.
What’s this that you prate of? When last did we meet?
THE WOMAN.
When last we met was when first we met.
[To THE BRAT.]
Give your father a drink; he is thirsty, I’m sure.
PEER.
Father? You’re drunk, woman! Do you call him——?
THE WOMAN
I should think you might well know the pig by its skin!
Why, where are your eyes? Can’t you see that he’s lame
In his shank, just as you too are lame in your soul?
PEER.
Would you have me believe——?
THE WOMAN.
Would you wriggle away——?
PEER.
This long-leggëd urchin——!
THE WOMAN.
He’s shot up apace.
PEER.
Dare you, you troll-snout, father on me——?
THE WOMAN.
Come now, Peer Gynt, you’re as rude as an ox!
[Weeping.
Is it my fault if no longer I’m fair,
As I was when you lured me on hillside and lea?
Last fall, in my labour, the Fiend held my back,
And so ’twas no wonder I came out a fright.
But if you would see me as fair as before,
You have only to turn yonder girl out of doors,
Drive her clean out of your sight and your mind;—
Do but this, dear my love, and I’ll soon lose my snout!
PEER.
Begone from me, troll-witch!
THE WOMAN.
Ay, see if I do!
PEER
I’ll split your skull open——!
THE WOMAN.
Just try if you dare!
Ho-ho, Peer Gynt, I’ve no fear of blows!
Be sure I’ll return every day of the year.
Through the door, set ajar, I’ll peep in at you both.
When you’re sitting with your girl on the fireside bench,—
When you’re tender, Peer Gynt,—when you’d pet and caress her,—
I’ll seat myself by you, and ask for my share.
She there and I—we will take you by turns.
Farewell, dear my lad, you can marry to-morrow!
PEER.
You nightmare of hell!
THE WOMAN
By-the-bye, I forgot!
You must rear your own youngster, you light-footed scamp!
Little imp, will you go to your father?
THE BRAT.
[Spits at him.]
Faugh!
I’ll chop you with my hatchet; only wait, only wait!
THE WOMAN.
[Kisses THE BRAT.]
What a head he has got on his shoulders, the dear!
You’ll be dad’s living image when once you’re a man!
PEER.
[Stamping.]
Oh, would you were as far——!
THE WOMAN.
As we now are near?
PEER.
[Clenching his hands.]
And all this——!
THE WOMAN.
For nothing but thoughts and desires!
It is hard on you, Peer!
PEER.
It is worst for another!—
Solveig, my fairest, my purest gold!
THE WOMAN.
Oh ay, ’tis the guiltless must smart, said the devil:
His mother boxed his ears when his father was drunk!
[She trudges off into the thicket with THE BRAT, who
throws the flagon at PEER GYNT.
PEER.
[After a long silence.]
The Boyg said, “Go roundabout!”—so one must here.—
There fell my fine palace, with crash and clatter!
There’s a wall around her whom I stood so near,
Of a sudden all’s ugly—my joy has grown old.—
Roundabout, lad! There’s no way to be found
Right through all this, from where you stand to her.
Right through? H’m, surely there should be one.
There’s a text on repentance, unless I mistake.
But what? What is it? I haven’t the book,
I’ve forgotten it mostly, and here there is none
That can guide me aright in the pathless wood.—
Repentance? And maybe ’twould take whole years
Ere I fought my way through. ’Twere a meagre life, that.
To shatter what’s radiant, and lovely, and pure,
And clinch it together in fragments and shards?
You can do it with a fiddle, but not with a bell.
Where you’d have the sward green, you must mind not to trample.
’Twas nought but a lie though, that witch-snout business!
Now all that foulness is well out of sight.—
Ay, out of sight maybe, but not out of mind.
Thoughts will sneak stealthily in at my heel.
Ingrid! And the three, they that danced on the heights!
Will they too want to join us? With vixenish spite
Will they claim to be folded, like her, to my breast,
To be tenderly lifted on outstretched arms?
Roundabout, lad; though my arms were as long
As the root of the fir, or the pine-tree’s stem,—
I think even then I should hold her too near
To set her down pure and untarnished again.—
I must roundabout here, then, as best I may,
And see that it bring me nor gain nor loss.
One must put such things from one, and try to forget.—
[Goes a few steps towards the hut, but stops again.
Go in after this? So befouled and disgraced?
Go in with that troll-rabble after me still?
Speak, yet be silent; confess, yet conceal——?
[Throws away his axe.
It’s a holy-day evening. For me to keep tryst,
Such as now I am, would be sacrilege.
SOLVEIG.
[In the doorway.]
Are you coming?
PEER.
[Half aloud.]
Roundabout!
SOLVEIG.
What?
PEER.
You must wait.
It is dark, and I’ve got something heavy to fetch.
SOLVEIG.
Wait; I will help you; the burden we’ll share.
PEER.
No, stay where you are! I must bear it alone.
SOLVEIG.
But don’t go too far, dear!
PEER.
Be patient, my girl;
Be my way long or short—you must wait.
SOLVEIG.
[Nodding to him as he goes.]
Yes, I’ll wait!
[PEER GYNT goes down the wood-path. SOLVEIG remains standing in the open half-door.
Scene 4
Åse’s room. Evening. The room is lighted by a wood fire on the open hearth. A cat is lying on a chair at the foot of the bed.
Åse lies in the bed, fumbling about restlessly with her hands on the coverlet.
ÅSE.
Oh, Lord my God, isn’t he coming?
The time drags so drearily on.
I have no one to send with a message;
And I’ve much, oh so much, to say.
I haven’t a moment to lose now!
So quickly! Who could have foreseen
Oh me, if I only were certain
I’d not been too strict with him!
PEER GYNT.
[Enters.]
Good evening!
ÅSE.
The Lord give you gladness!
You’ve come then, my boy, my dear!
But how dare you show face in the valley?
You know your life’s forfeit here.
PEER.
Oh, life must e’en go as it may go;
I felt that I must look in.
ÅSE.
Ay, now Kari is put to silence,
And I can depart in peace!
PEER.
Depart? Why, what are you saying?
Where is it you think to go?
ÅSE.
Alas, Peer, the end is nearing;
I have but a short time left.
PEER.
[Writhing, and walking towards the back of the room.]
See there now! I’m fleeing from trouble;
I thought at least here I’d be free——!
Are your hands and your feet a-cold, then?
ÅSE.
Ay, Peer; all will soon be o’er.—
When you see that my eyes are glazing,
You must close them carefully.
And then you must see to my coffin;
And be sure it’s a fine one, dear.
Ah no, by-the-bye——
PEER.
Be quiet!
There’s time yet to think of that.
ÅSE.
Ay, ay.
[Looks restlessly round the room.
Here you see the little
They’ve left us! It’s like them, just.
PEER.
[With a writhe.]
Again!
[Harshly.
Well, I know it was my fault.
What’s the use of reminding me?
ÅSE.
You! No, that accursed liquor,
From that all the mischief came!
Dear my boy, you know you’d been drinking;
And then no one knows what he does;
And besides, you’d been riding the reindeer;
No wonder your head was turned!
PEER.
Ay, ay; of that yarn enough now.
Enough of the whole affair.
All that’s heavy we’ll let stand over
Till after—some other day.
[Sits on the edge of the bed.
Now, mother, we’ll chat together;
But only of this and that,—
Forget what’s awry and crooked,
And all that is sharp and sore.—
Why see now, the same old pussy
So she is alive then, still?
ÅSE.
She makes such a noise o’ nights now;
You know what that bodes, my boy!
PEER.
Changing the subject.]
What news is there here in the parish?
ÅSE.
[Smiling.]
There’s somewhere about, they say,
A girl who would fain to the uplands——
PEER.
[Hastily.]
Mads Moen, is he content?
ÅSE.
They say that she hears and heeds not
The old people’s prayers and tears.
You ought to look in and see them;—
You, Peer, might perhaps bring help——
PEER.
The smith, what’s become of him now?
ÅSE.
Don’t talk of that filthy smith.
Her name I would rather tell you,
The name of the girl, you know——
PEER.
Nay, now we will chat together,
But only of this and that,—
Forget what’s awry and crooked,
And all that is sharp and sore.
Are you thirsty? I’ll fetch you water.
Can you stretch you? The bed is short.
Let me see;—if I don’t believe, now,
It’s the bed that I had when a boy!
Do you mind, dear, how oft in the evenings
You sat at my bedside here,
And spread the fur-coverlet o’er me,
And sang many a lilt and lay?
ÅSE.
Ay, mind you? And then we played sledges,
When your father was far abroad.
The coverlet served for sledge-apron,
And the floor for an ice-bound fiord.
PEER.
Ah, but the best of all, though,—
Mother, you mind that too?
The best was the fleet-foot horses——
ÅSE.
Ay, think you that I’ve forgot?—
It was Kari’s cat that we borrowed;
It sat on the log-scooped chair——
PEER.
To the castle west of the moon, and
The castle east of the sun,
To Soria-Moria Castle
The road ran both high and low.
A stick that we found in the closet,
For a whip-shaft you made it serve.
ÅSE.
Right proudly I perked on the box-seat——
PEER.
Ay, ay; you threw loose the reins,
And kept turning round as we travelled,
And asked me if I was cold.
God bless you, ugly old mother,—
You were ever a kindly soul——!
What’s hurting you now?
ÅSE.
My back aches,
Because of the hard, bare boards.
PEER.
Stretch yourself; I’ll support you.
There now, you’re lying soft.
ÅSE.
[Uneasily.]
No, Peer, I’d be moving!
PEER.
Moving?
ÅSE.
Ay, moving; ’tis ever my wish.
PEER.
Oh, nonsense! Spread o’er you the bed-fur.
Let me sit at your bedside here.
There; now we’ll shorten the evening
With many a lilt and lay.
ÅSE.
Best bring from the closet the prayer-book:
I feel so uneasy of soul.
PEER.
In Soria-Moria Castle
The King and the Prince give a feast.
On the sledge-cushions lie and rest you;
I’ll drive you there over the heath——
ÅSE.
But, Peer dear, am I invited?
PEER.
Ay, that we are, both of us.
[He throws a string round the back of the chair on
which the cat is lying, takes up a stick, and seats
himself at the foot of the bed.
Gee-up! Will you stir yourself, Black-boy?
Mother, you’re not a-cold?
Ay, ay; by the pace one knows it,
When Granë begins to go!
ÅSE.
Why, Peer, what is it that’s ringing——?
PEER.
The glittering sledge-bells, dear!
ÅSE.
Oh, mercy, how hollow it’s rumbling
PEER.
We’re just driving over a fiord.
ÅSE.
I’m afraid! What is that I hear rushing
And sighing so strange and wild?
PEER.
It’s the sough of the pine-trees, mother,
On the heath. Do you but sit still.
ÅSE.
There’s a sparkling and gleaming afar now;
Whence comes all that blaze of light.
PEER.
From the castle’s windows and doorways.
Don’t you hear, they are dancing?
ÅSE.
Yes.
PEER.
Outside the door stands St. Peter,
And prays you to enter in.
ÅSE.
Does he greet us?
PEER.
He does, with honour,
And pours out the sweetest wine.
ÅSE.
Wine! Has he cakes as well, Peer?
PEER.
Cakes? Ay, a heaped-up dish.
And the dean’s wife is getting ready
Your coffee and your dessert.
ÅSE.
Lord, Lord! shall we two come together?
PEER.
As freely as ever you will.
ÅSE.
Oh, deary, Peer, what a frolic
You’re driving me to, poor soul!
PEER.
[Cracking his whip.]
Gee-up; will you stir yourself, Black-boy!
ÅSE.
Peer, dear, you’re driving right?
PEER.
[Cracking his whip again.]
Ay, broad is the way.
ÅSE.
This journey,
It makes me so weak and tired.
PEER.
There’s the castle rising before us;
The drive will be over soon.
ÅSE.
I will lie back and close my eyes then,
And trust me to you, my boy!
PEER.
Come up with you, Granë, my trotter!
In the castle the throng is great;
They bustle and swarm to the gateway:
Peer Gynt and his mother are here!
What say you, Master Saint Peter?
Shall mother not enter in?
You may search a long time, I tell you,
Ere you find such an honest old soul.
Myself I don’t want to speak of;
I can turn at the castle gate.
If you’ll treat me, I’ll take it kindly;
If not, I’ll go off just as pleased.
I have made up as many flim-flams
As the devil at the pulpit desk,
And called my old mother a hen, too,
Because she would cackle and crow.
But her you shall honour and reverence,
And make her at home indeed;
There comes not a soul to beat her
From the parishes nowadays.—
Ho-ho; here comes God the Father!
Saint Peter! you’re in for it now!
[In a deep voice.
“Have done with these jack-in-office airs, sir;
Mother Åse shall enter free!”
[Laughs loudly, and turns towards his mother.
Ay, didn’t I know what would happen?
Now they dance to another tune!
[Uneasily.
Why, what makes your eyes so glassy?
Mother! Have you gone out of your wits——?
[Goes to the head of the bed.
You mustn’t lie there and stare so——!
Speak, mother; it’s I, your boy!
[Feels her forehead and hands cautiously; then throws
the string on the chair, and says softly:
Ay, ay!—You can rest yourself, Granë;
For e’en now the journey’s done.
[Closes her eyes, and bends over her.
For all of your days I thank you,
For beatings and lullabys!
But see, you must thank me back, now—
[Presses his cheek against her mouth._
There; that was the driver’s fare.
THE COTTAR’S WIFE.
[Entering.]
What? Peer! Ah, then we are over
The worse of the sorrow and need!
Dear Lord, but she’s sleeping soundly—
Or can she be——?
PEER.
Hush; she is dead.
[KARI weeps besides the body; PEER GYNT walks up and
down the room for some time; at last he stops beside
the bed.
PEER.
See mother buried with honour.
I must try to fare forth from here.
KARI.
Are you faring afar?
PEER.
To seaward.
KARI.
So far!
PEER.
Ay, and further still.
[He goes.
ACT IV
Scene 1
On the south-west coast of Morocco. A palm-grove. Under an
awning, on ground covered with matting, a table spread for
dinner. Further back in the grove hammocks are slung. In
the offing lies a steam-yacht, flying the Norwegian and
American colours. A jolly-boat drawn up on the beach. It
is towards sunset.
PEER GYNT, a handsome middle-aged gentleman, in an elegant
travelling-dress, with a gold-rimmed double eyeglass
hanging at his waistcoat, is doing the honours at the head
of the table. MR. COTTON, MONSIEUR BALLON, HERR VON
EBERKOPF, and HERR TRUMPETERSTRÅLE, are seated at
the table finishing dinner.
PEER GYNT.
Drink, gentlemen! If man is made
For pleasure, let him take his fill then.
You know ’tis written: Lost is lost,
And gone is gone——. What may I hand you?
TRUMPETERSTRÅLE.
As host you’re princely, Brother Gynt!
PEER.
I share the honour with my cash,
With cook and steward——
MR. COTTON.
Very well;
Let’s pledge a toast to all the four!
MONSIEUR BALLON.
Monsieur,you have a gout,a ton,
That nowadays is seldom met with
Among men living en garçon,
A certain—what’s the word——?
VON EBERKOPF.
A dash,
A tinge of free soul-contemplation,
And cosmopolitanisation,
An outlook through the cloudy rifts
By narrow prejudice unhemmed,
A stamp of high illumination,
An Ur-Natur,with lore of life,
To crown the trilogy, united.
Nicht wahr_, Monsieur, ’twas that you meant?
MONSIEUR BALLON.
Yes, very possible; not quite
So loftily it sounds in French.
VON EBERKOPF.
Ei was!That language is so stiff.—
But the phenomenon’s final cause
If we would seek——
PEER.
It’s found already.
The reason is that I’m unmarried.
Yes, gentlemen, completely clear
The matter is. What should a man be?
Himself, is my concise reply.
He should regard himself and his.
But can he, as a sumpter-mule
For others’ woe and others’ weal?
VON EBERKOPF.
But this same in-and-for-yourself-ness,
I’ll answer for’t, has cost you strife——
PEER.
Ah yes, indeed; in former days;
But always I came off with honour.
Yet one time I ran very near
To being trapped against my will.
I was a brisk and handsome lad,
And she to whom my heart was given,
She was of royal family——
MONSIEUR BALLON.
Of royal——?
PEER.
[Carelessly.]
One of those old stocks,
You know the kind——
TRUMPETERSTRÅLE.
[Thumping the table.]
Those noble-trolls.
PEER.
[Shrugging his shoulders.]
Old fossil Highnesses who make it
Their pride to keep plebeian blots
Excluded from their line’s escutcheon.
MR. COTTON.
Then nothing came of the affair?
MONSIEUR BALLON.
The family opposed the marriage?
PEER.
Far from it!
MONSIEUR BALLON.
Ah!
PEER.
[With forbearance.]
You understand
That certain circumstances made for
Their marrying us without delay.
But truth to tell, the whole affair
Was, first to last, distasteful to me.
I’m finical in certain ways,
And like to stand on my own feet.
And when my father-in-law came out
With delicately veiled demands
That I should change my name and station,
And undergo ennoblement,
With much else that was most distasteful,
Not to say quite inacceptable.—
Why then I gracefully withdrew,
Point-blank declined his ultimatum—
And so renounced my youthful bride.
[Drums on the table with a devout air.
Yes, yes; there is a ruling Fate!
On that we mortals may rely;
And ’tis a comfortable knowledge.
MONSIEUR BALLON.
And so the matter ended, eh?
PEER.
Oh no, far otherwise I found it;
For busy-bodies mixed themselves,
With furious outcries, in the business.
The juniors of the clan were worst;
With seven of them I fought a duel.
That time I never shall forget,
Though I came through it all in safety.
It cost me blood; but that same blood
Attests the value of my person,
And points encouragingly towards
The wise control of Fate aforesaid.
VON EBERKOPF.
Your outlook on the course of life
Exalts you to the rank of thinker.
Whilst the mere commonplace empiric
Sees separately the scattered scenes,
And to the last goes groping on,
You in one glance can focus all things.
One norm to all things you apply.
You point each random rule of life,
Till one and all diverge like rays
From one full-orbed philosophy.—
And you have never been to college?
PEER.
I am, as I’ve already said,
Exclusively a self-taught man.
Methodically naught I’ve learned;
But I have thought and speculated,
And done much desultory reading.
I started somewhat late in life,
And then, you know, it’s rather hard
To plough ahead through page on page,
And take in all of everything.
I’ve done my history piecemeal;
I never have had time for more.
And, as one needs in days of trial
Some certainty to place one’s trust in,
I took religion intermittently.
That way it goes more smoothly down.
One should not read to swallow all,
But rather see what one has use for.
MR. COTTON.
Ay, that is practical!
PEER.
[Lights a cigar.]
Dear friends,
Just think of my career in general.
In what case came I to the West?
A poor young fellow, empty-handed;
I had to battle sore for bread;
Trust me, I often found it hard.
But life, my friends, ah, life is dear,
And, as the phrase goes, death is bitter.
Well! Luck, you see, was kind to me;
Old Fate, too, was accommodating.
I prospered; and, by versatility,
I prospered better still and better.
In ten years’ time I bore the name
Of Crœsus ’mongst the Charleston shippers.
My fame flew wide from port to port,
And fortune sailed on board my vessels——
MR. COTTON.
What did you trade in?
PEER.
I did most
In negro slaves for Carolina,
And idol-images for China.
MONSIEUR BALLON.
Fi donc!
TRUMPETERSTRÅLE.
The devil, Uncle Gynt!
PEER.
You think, no doubt, the business hovered
On the outer verge of the allowable?
Myself I felt the same thing keenly.
It struck me even as odious.
But, trust me, when you’ve once begun,
It’s hard to break away again.
At any rate it’s no light thing,
In such a vast trade-enterprise,
That keeps whole thousands in employ,
To break off wholly, once for all.
That “once for all” I can’t abide,
But own, upon the other side,
That I have always felt respect
For what are known as consequences;
And that to overstep the bounds
Has ever somewhat daunted me.
Besides, I had begun to age.
Was getting on towards the fifties;—
My hair was slowly growing grizzled;
And, though my health was excellent,
Yet painfully the thought beset me:
Who knows how soon the hour may strike,
The jury-verdict be delivered
That parts the sheep and goats asunder?
What could I do? To stop the trade
With China was impossible.
A plan I hit on—opened straightway
A new trade with the self-same land.
I shipped off idols every spring,
Each autumn sent forth missionaries,
Supplying them with all they needed,
As stockings, Bibles, rum, and rice——
MR. COTTON.
Yes, at a profit?
PEER.
Why, of course.
It prospered. Dauntlessly they toiled.
For every idol that was sold
They got a coolie well baptized,
So that the effect was neutralised.
The mission-field lay never fallow,
For still the idol-propaganda
The missionaries held in check.
MR. COTTON.
Well, but the African commodities?
PEER.
There, too, my ethics won the day.
I saw the traffic was a wrong one
For people of a certain age.
One may drop off before one dreams of it.
And then there were the thousand pitfalls
Laid by the philanthropic camp;
Besides, of course, the hostile cruisers,
And all the wind-and-weather risks.
All this together won the day.
I thought: Now, Peter, reef your sails:
See to it you amend your faults!
So in the South I bought some land,
And kept the last meat-importation,
Which chanced to be a superfine one.
They throve so, grew so fat and sleek,
That ’twas a joy to me, and them too.
Yes, without boasting, I may say
I acted as a father to them,—
And found my profit in so doing.
I built them schools, too, so that virtue
Might uniformly be maintained at
A certain general niveau,
And kept strict watch that never its
Thermometer should sink below it.
Now, furthermore, from all this business
I’ve beat a definite retreat;—
I’ve sold the whole plantation, and
It’s tale of live-stock, hide and hair.
At parting, too, I served around,
To big and little, gratis grog,
So men and women all got drunk,
And widows got their snuff as well.
So that is why I trust,—provided
The saying is not idle breath:
Whoso does not do ill, does good,—
My former errors are forgotten,
And I, much more than most, can hold
My misdeeds balanced by my virtues.
VON EBERKOPF.
[Clinking glasses with him.]
How strengthening it is to hear
A principle thus acted out,
Freed from the night of theory,
Unshaken by the outward ferment!
PEER.
[Who has been drinking freely during the preceding passages.]
We Northland men know how to carry
Our battle through! The key to the art
Of life’s affairs is simply this:
To keep one’s ear close shut against
The ingress of one dangerous viper.
MR. COTTON.
What sort of viper, pray, dear friend?
PEER.
A little one that slyly wiles you
To tempt the irretrievable.
[Drinking again.]
The essence of the art of daring,
The art of bravery in act,
Is this: To stand with choice-free foot
Amid the treacherous snares of life,—
To know for sure that other days
Remain beyond the day of battle,—
To know that ever in the rear
A bridge for your retreat stands open.
This theory has borne me on,
Has given my whole career its colour;
And this same theory I inherit,
A race-gift, from my childhood’s home.
MONSIEUR BALLON.
You are Norwegian?
PEER.
Yes, by birth;
But cosmopolitan in spirit.
For fortune such as I’ve enjoyed
I have to thank America.
My amply-furnished library
I owe to Germany’s later schools.
From France, again, I get my waistcoats,
My manners, and my spice of wit,—
From England an industrious hand,
And keen sense for my own advantage.
The Jew has taught me how to wait.
Some taste for dolce far niente
I have received from Italy,—
And one time, in a perilous pass,
To eke the measure of my days,
I had recourse to Swedish steel.
TRUMPETERSTRÅLE.
[Lifting up his glass.]
Ay, Swedish steel——?
VON EBERKOPF.
The weapon’s wielder
Demands our homage first of all!
[They clink glasses and drink with him. The wine begins to go to his head.
MR. COTTON.
All this is very good indeed;—
But, sir, I’m curious to know
What with your gold you think of doing.
PEER.
[Smiling.]
H’m; doing? Eh?
ALL FOUR.
[Coming closer.]
Yes, let us hear!
PEER.
Well, first of all, I want to travel.
You see, that’s why I shipped you four,
To keep me company, at Gibraltar.
I needed such a dancing-choir
Of friends around my gold-calf-altar——
VON EBERKOPF.
Most witty!
MR. COTTON.
Well, but no one hoists
His sails for nothing but the sailing.
Beyond all doubt, you have a goal;
And that is——?
PEER.
To be Emperor.
ALL FOUR.
What?
PEER.
[Nodding.]
Emperor!
THE FOUR.
Where?
PEER.
O’er all the world.
MONSIEUR BALLON.
But how, friend——?
PEER.
By the might of gold!
That plan is not at all a new one;
It’s been the soul of my career.
Even as a boy, I swept in dreams
Far o’er the ocean on a cloud.
I soared with train and golden scabbard,—
And flopped down on all-fours again.
But still my goal, my friends, stood fast.—
There is a text, or else a saying,
Somewhere, I don’t remember where,
That if you gained the whole wide world,
But lost yourself, your gain were but
A garland on a cloven skull.
That is the text—or something like it;
And that remark is sober truth.
VON EBERKOPF.
But what then is the Gyntish Self?
PEER.
The world behind my forehead’s arch,
In force of which I’m no one else
Than I, no more than God’s the Devil.
TRUMPETERSTRÅLE.
I understand now where you’re aiming!
MONSIEUR BALLON.
Thinker sublime!
VON EBERKOPF.
Exalted poet!
PEER.
[More and more elevated.]
The Gyntish Self—it is the host
Of wishes, appetites, desires,—
The Gyntish Self, it is the sea
Of fancies, exigencies, claims,
All that, in short, makes my breast heave,
And whereby I, as I, exist.
But as our Lord requires the clay
To constitute him God o’ the world,
So I, too, stand in need of gold,
If I as Emperor would figure.
MONSIEUR BALLON.
You have the gold, though?
PEER.
Not enough.
Ay, maybe for a nine-days’ flourish,
As Emperor à la Lippe-Detmold.
But I must be myself en bloc,
Must be the Gynt of all the planet,
Sir Gynt throughout, from top to bottom!
MONSIEUR BALLON.
[Enraptured.]
Possess the earth’s most exquisite beauty!
VON EBERKOPF.
All century-old Johannisberger!
TRUMPETERSTRÅLE.
And all the blades of Charles the Twelfth!
MR. COTTON.
But first a profitable opening
For business——
PEER.
That’s already found;
Our anchoring here supplied me with it.
To-night we set off, northward ho!
The papers I received on board
Have brought me tidings of importance——.
[Rises with uplifted glass.]
It seems that Fortune ceaselessly
Aids him who has the pluck to seize it——
THE GUESTS.
Well? Tell us——!
PEER.
Greece is in revolt.
ALL FOUR.
[Springing up.]
What! Greece——?
PEER.
The Greeks have risen in Hellas.
THE FOUR.
Hurrah!
PEER.
And Turkey’s in a fix!
[Empties his glass.]
MONSIEUR BALLON.
To Hellas! Glory’s gate stands open!
I’ll help them with the sword of France!
VON EBERKOPF.
And I with war-whoops—from a distance.
MR. COTTON.
And I as well—by taking contracts!
TRUMPETERSTRÅLE.
Lead on! I’ll find again in Bender
The world-renowned spur-strap-buckles!
MONSIEUR BALLON.
[Falling on PEER GYNT’S neck.]
Forgive me, friend, that I at first
Misjudged you quite!
VON EBERKOPF.
[Pressing his hands.]
I, stupid hound,
Took you for next door to a scoundrel!
MR COTTON.
Too strong that; only for a fool——
TRUMPETERSTRÅLE.
[Trying to kiss him.]
I, Uncle, for a specimen
Of Yankee riff-raff’s meanest spawn——!
Forgive me——!
VON EBERKOPF.
We’ve been in the dark——
PEER.
What stuff is this?
VON EBERKOPF.
We now see gathered
In glory all the Gyntish host
Of wishes, appetites, and desires——!
MONSIEUR BALLON.
[Admiringly.]
So this is being Monsieur Gynt!
VON EBERKOPF.
[In the same tone.]
This I call being Gynt with honour!
PEER.
But tell me——?
MONSIEUR BALLON.
Don’t you understand?
PEER.
May I be hanged if I begin to!
MONSIEUR BALLON.
What? Are you not upon your way
To join the Greeks, with ship and money——?
PEER.
[Contemptuously.]
No, many thanks! I side with strength,
And lend my money to the Turks.
MONSIEUR BALLON.
Impossible!
VON EBERKOPF.
Witty, but a jest!
PEER.
[After a short silence, leaning on a chair and assuming a dignified mien.]
Come, gentlemen, I think it best
We part before the last remains
Of friendship melt away like smoke.
Who nothing owns will lightly risk it.
When in the world one scarce commands
The strip of earth one’s shadow covers,
One’s born to serve as food for powder.
But when a man stands safely landed,
As I do, then his stake is greater.
Go you to Hellas. I will put you
Ashore, and arm you gratis too.
The more you eke the flames of strife,
The better will it serve my purpose.
Strike home for freedom and for right!
Fight! storm! make hell hot for the Turks;—
And gloriously end your days
Upon the Janissaries lances.—
But I —excuse me——
[Slaps his pocket.]
I have cash,
And am myself, Sir Peter Gynt.
[Puts up his sunshade, and goes into the grove, where the hammocks are partly visible.]
TRUMPETERSTRÅLE.
The swinish cur!
MONSIEUR BALLON.
No taste for glory——!
MR. COTTON.
Oh, glory’s neither here nor there;
But think of the enormous profits
We’d reap if Greece should free herself.
MONSIEUR BALLON.
I saw myself a conqueror,
By lovely Grecian maids encircled.
TRUMPETERSTRÅLE.
Grasped in my Swedish hands, I saw
The great, heroic spur-strap-buckles!
VON EBERKOPF.
I my gigantic Fatherland’s
Culture saw spread o’er earth and sea——!
MR. COTTON.
The worst’s the loss in solid cash.
God dam! I scarce can keep from weeping!
I saw me owner of Olympus.
If to its fame the mountain answers,
There must be veins of copper in it,
That could be opened up again.
And furthermore, that stream Castalia,
Which people talk so much about,
With fall on fall, at lowest reckoning,
Must mean a thousand horse-power good——
TRUMPETERSTRÅLE.
Still I will go! My Swedish sword
Is worth far more than Yankee gold!
MR. COTTON.
Perhaps; but, jammed into the ranks,
Amid the press we’d all be drowned;
And then where would the profit be?
MONSIEUR BALLON.
Accurst! So near to fortune’s summit,
And now stopped short beside its grave!
MR. COTTON.
[Shakes his fist towards the yacht.]
That long black chest holds coffered up
The nabob’s golden nigger-sweat——!
VON EBERKOPF.
A royal notion! Quick! Away!
It’s all up with his empire now!
Hurrah!
MONSIEUR BALLON.
What would you?
VON EBERKOPF.
Seize the power!
The crew can easily be bought.
On board then. I annex the yacht!
MR. COTTON.
You—what——?
VON EBERKOPF.
I grab the whole concern!
[Goes down to the jolly-boat.]
MR. COTTON.
Why then self-interest commands me
To grab my share.
[Goes after him.]
TRUMPETERSTRÅLE.
What scoundrelism!
MONSIEUR BALLON.
A scurvy business—but—enfin!
[Follows the others.]
TRUMPETERSTRÅLE.
I’ll have to follow, I suppose,—
But I protest to all the world——!
[Follows.]
Scene 2
Another part of the coast. Moonlight with drifting clouds. The
yacht is seen far out, under full steam.
PEER GYNT comes running along the beach; now pinching his arms,
now gazing out to sea.
PEER.
A nightmare!—Delusion!—I’ll soon be awake!
She’s standing to sea! And at furious speed!—
Mere delusion! I’m sleeping! I’m dizzy and drunk!
[Clenches his hands.
It’s not possible I should be going to die!
[Tearing his hair.
A dream! I’m determined it shall be a dream!
Oh, horror! It’s only too real, worse luck!
My brute-beasts of friends——! Do but hear me, oh Lord!
Since though art so wise and so righteous——! Oh judge——!
[With upstretched arms.
It is I, Peter Gynt! Oh, our Lord, give but heed!
Hold thy hand o’er me, Father; or else I must perish!
Make them back the machine! Make them lower the gig!
Stop the robbers! Make something go wrong with the rigging!
Hear me! Let other folks’ business lie over!
The world can take care of itself for the time!—
I’m blessed if he hears me! He’s deaf as his wont is!
Here’s a nice thing! A God that is bankrupt of help!
[Beckons upwards.
Hist; I’ve abandoned the nigger-plantation!
And missionaries I’ve exported to Asia!
Surely one good turn should be worth another!
Oh, help me on board——!
[A jet of fire shoots into the air from the yacht, followed by thick clouds of smoke; a hollow report is heard. PEER GYNT utters a shriek, and sinks down on the sands. Gradually the smoke clears away; the ship has disappeared.
PEER.
[Softly, with a pale face.]
That’s the sword of wrath!
In a crack to the bottom, every soul, man and mouse!
Oh, forever blest be the lucky chance——
[With emotion.
A chance? No, no, it was more than a chance.
I was to be rescued and they to perish.
Oh, thanks and praise for that thou hast kept me,
Hast cared for me, spite of all my sins!—
[Draws a deep breath.
What a marvellous feeling of safety and peace
It gives one to know oneself specially shielded!
But the desert! What about food and drink?
Oh, something I’m sure to find. He’ll see to that.
There’s no cause for alarm;—
[Loud and insinuatingly.
He would never allow
A poor little sparrow like me to perish!
Be but lowly of spirit. And give him time.
Leave it all in the Lord’s hands; and don’t be cast down.—
[With a start of terror.
Can that be a lion that growled in the reeds——?
[His teeth chattering.
No, it wasn’t a lion.
[Mustering up courage.
A lion, forsooth!
Those beasts, they’ll take care to keep out of the way.
They know it’s no joke to fall foul of their betters.
They have instinct to guide them;—they feel, what’s a fact,
That it’s dangerous playing with elephants.—
But all the same——. I must find a tree.
There’s a grove of acacias and palms over there;
If I once can climb up, I’ll be sheltered and safe,—
Most of all if I knew but a psalm or two.
[Clambers up.
Morning and evening are not alike;
That text has been oft enough weighed and pondered.
[Seats himself comfortably.]
How blissful to feel so uplifted in spirit!
To think nobly is more than to know oneself rich.
Only trust in him. He knows well what share
Of the chalice of need I can bear to drain.
He takes fatherly thought for my personal weal;—
[Casts a glance over the sea, and whispers with a sigh:
But economical—no, that he isn’t!]
Scene 3
Night. An encampment of Moroccan troops on the edge of the
desert. Watch-fires, with SOLDIERS resting by them.
A SLAVE.
[Enters, tearing his hair.]
Gone is the Emperor’s milk-white charger!
ANOTHER SLAVE.
[Enters, rending his garments.]
The Emperor’s sacred robes are stolen!
AN OFFICER.
[Enters.]
A hundred stripes upon the foot-soles
For all who fail to catch the robber!
[The troopers mount their horses, and gallop away in every direction.
Scene 4
Daybreak. The grove of acacias and palms.
PEER GYNT in his tree with a broken branch in his hand, trying
to beat off a swarm of monkeys.
PEER. Confound it! A most disagreeable night.
[Laying about him.]
Are you there again? This is most accursëd!
Now they’re throwing fruit. No, it’s something else.
A loathsome beast is your Barbary ape!
The Scripture says: Thou shalt watch and fight.
But I’m blest if I can; I am heavy and tired,
[Is again attacked; impatiently:]
I must put a stopper upon this nuisance!
I must see and get hold of one of these scamps,
Get him hung and skinned, and then dress myself up,
As best I may, in his shaggy hide,
That the others may take me for one of themselves.
What are we mortals? Motes, no more;
And it’s wisest to follow the fashion a bit.
Again a rabble! They throng and swarm.
Off with you! Shoo! They go on as though crazy.
If only I had a false tail to put on now,
Only something to make me a bit like a beast.
What now? There’s a pattering over my head——!
[Looks up. It’s the grandfather ape,—with his fists full of filth——!
Huddles together apprehensively, and keeps still for a while. The ape makes a motion; PEER GYNT begins coaxing and wheedling him, as he might a dog.]
Ay,—are you there, my good old Bus!
He’s a good beast, he is! He will listen to reason!
He wouldn’t throw;—I should think not, indeed!
It is me! Pip-pip! We are first-rate friends!
Ai-ai! Don’t you hear, I can talk your language?
Bus and I, we are kinsfolk, you see;—
Bus shall have sugar to-morrow——! The beast!
The whole cargo on top of me! Ugh, how disgusting!—
Or perhaps it was food! ’Twas in taste—indefinable;
And taste’s for the most part a matter of habit.
What thinker is it who somewhere says:
You must spit and trust to the force of habit?—
Now here come the small-fry!
[Hits and slashes around him.]
It’s really too bad
That man, who by rights is the lord of creation,
Should find himself forced to——! O murder! murder!
The old one was bad, but the youngsters are worse!
Scene 5
Early morning. A stony region, with a view out over the desert.
On one side a cleft in the hill, and a cave.
A THIEF and a RECEIVER hidden in the cleft, with the Emperor’s
horse and robes. The horse, richly caparisoned, is tied to
a stone. Horsemen are seen afar off.
THE THIEF. The tongues of the lances
All flickering and flashing,—
See, see!
THE RECEIVER. Already my head seems
To roll on the sand-plain!
Woe, woe!
THE THIEF. [Folds his arms over his breast.]
My father he thieved;
So his son must be thieving.
THE RECEIVER.
My father received;
Still his son is receiving.
THE THIEF. Thy lot shalt thou bear still;
Thyself shalt thou be still.
THE RECEIVER. [Listening.] Steps in the brushwood!
Flee, flee! But where?
THE THIEF. The cavern is deep,
And the Prophet great!
[They make off, leaving the booty behind them. The horsemen gradually disappear in the distance.]
PEER GYNT. [Enters, cutting a reed whistle.]
What a delectable morning-tide!—
The dung-beetle’s rolling his ball in the dust;
The snail creeps out of his dwelling-house.
The morning; ay, it has gold in its mouth.—
It’s a wonderful power, when you think of it,
That Nature has given to the light of day.
One feels so secure, and so much more courageous,—
One would gladly, at need, take a bull by the horns.—
What a stillness all round! Ah, the joys of Nature,—
Strange enough I should never have prized them before.
Why go and imprison oneself in a city,
For no end but just to be bored by the mob.—
Just look how the lizards are whisking about,
Snapping, and thinking of nothing at all.
What innocence ev’n in the life of the beasts!
Each fulfils the Creator’s behest unimpeachably,
Preserving its own special stamp undefaced;
Is itself, is itself, both in sport and in strife,
Itself, as it was at his primal: Be!
[Puts on his eye-glasses.
A toad. In the middle of a sandstone block.
Petrifaction all around him. His head alone peering.
There he’s sitting and gazing as though through a window
At the world, and is—to himself enough.—
[Reflectively.
Enough? To himself——? Where is it that’s written?
I’ve read it, in youth, in some so-called classic.
In the family prayer-book? Or Solomon’s Proverbs?
Alas, I notice that, year by year,
My memory for dates and for places is fading.
[Seats himself in the shade.
Here’s a cool spot to rest and to stretch out one’s feet.
Why, look, here are ferns growing—edible roots.
[Eats a little.
’Twould be fitter food for an animal;—
But the text says: Bridle the natural man!
Furthermore it is written: The proud shall be humbled,
And whoso abaseth himself, exalted.
[Uneasily.
Exalted? Yes, that’s what will happen with me;—
No other result can so much as be thought of.
Fate will assist me away from this place,
And arrange matters so that I get a fresh start.
This is only a trial; deliverance will follow,—
If only the Lord lets me keep my health.
[Dismisses his misgivings, lights a cigar, stretches
himself, and gazes out over the desert.]
What an enormous, limitless waste!—
Far in the distance an ostrich is striding.—
What can one fancy was really God’s
Meaning in all of this voidness and deadness?
This desert, bereft of all sources of life;
This burnt-up cinder, that profits no one;
This patch of the world, that forever lies fallow;
This corpse, that never, since earth’s creation,
Has brought its Maker so much as thanks,—
Why was it created?—How spendthrift is Nature!—
Is that sea in the east there, that dazzling expanse
All gleaming? It can’t be; ’tis but a mirage.
The sea’s to the west; it lies piled up behind me,
Dammed out from the desert by a sloping ridge.
[A thought flashes through his mind.]
Dammed out? Then I could——? The ridge is narrow.
Dammed out? It wants but a gap, a canal,—
Like a flood of life would the waters rush
In through the channel, and fill the desert!
Soon would the whole of yon red-hot grave
Spread forth, a breezy and rippling sea.
The oases would rise in the midst, like islands;
Atlas would tower in green cliffs on the north;
Sailing-ships would, like stray birds on the wing,
Skim to the south, on the caravans’ track.
Life-giving breezes would scatter the choking
Vapours, and dew would distil from the clouds.
People would build themselves town on town,
And grass would grow green round the swaying palm-trees.
The southland, behind the Sahara’s wall,
Would make a new seaboard for civilisation.
Steam would set Timbuctoo’s factories spinning;
Bornu would be colonised apace;
The naturalist would pass safely through Habes
In his railway-car to the Upper Nile.
In the midst of my sea, on a fat oasis,
I will replant the Norwegian race;
The Dalesman’s blood is next door to royal;
Arabic crossing will do the rest.
Skirting a bay, on a shelving strand,
I’ll build the chief city, Peeropolis.
The world is decrepit! Now comes the turn
Of Gyntiana, my virgin land!
[Springs up.]
Had I but capital, soon ’twould be done.—
A gold key to open the gate of the sea!
A crusade against Death! The close-fisted old churl
Shall open the sack he lies brooding upon.
Men rave about freedom in every land;—
Like the ass in the ark, I will send forth a cry
O’er the world, and will baptize to liberty
The beautiful, thrall-bounden coasts that shall be.
I must on! To find capital, eastward or west!
My kingdom—well, half of it, say—for a horse!
[The horse in the cleft neighs.]
A horse! Ay, and robes!—Jewels too,—and a sword!
[Goes closer.]
It can’t be! It is though——! But how? I have read,
I don’t quite know where, that the will can move mountains;—
But how about moving a horse as well——?
Pooh! Here stands the horse, that’s a matter of fact;—
For the rest, why, ab esse ad posse, et cetera.
[Puts on the dress and looks down at it.
Sir Peter—a Turk, too, from top to toe!
Well, one never knows what may happen to one.—
Gee-up, now, Granë, my trusty steed!
[Mounts the horse.]
Gold-slipper stirrups beneath my feet!—
You may know the great by their riding-gear!
[Gallops off into the desert.]
Scene 6
The tent of an Arab chief, standing alone on an oasis. Peer Gynt, in his eastern dress, resting on cushions. He is drinking coffee, and smoking a long pipe. Anitra, and a bevy of girls, dancing and singing before him.
CHORUS OF GIRLS.
The Prophet is come!
The Prophet, the Lord, the All-Knowing One,
To us, to us is he come,
O’er the sand-ocean riding!
The Prophet, the Lord, the Unerring One,
To us, to us is he come,
O’er the sand-ocean sailing!
Wake the flute and the drum!
The Prophet, the Prophet is come!
ANITRA.
His courser is white as the milk is
That streams in the rivers of Paradise.
Bend every knee! Bow every head!
His eyes are as bright-gleaming, mild-beaming stars.
Yet none earth-born endureth
The rays of those stars in their blinding splendour!
Through the desert he came.
Gold and pearl-drops sprang forth on his breast.
Where he rode there was light.
Behind him was darkness;
Behind him raged drought and the simoom.
He, the glorious one, came!
Through the desert he came,
Like a mortal apparelled.
Kaaba, Kaaba stands void;—
He himself hath proclaimed it!
THE CHORUS OF GIRLS.
Wake the flute and the drum!
The Prophet, the Prophet is come!
[They continue the dance, to soft music.]
PEER.
I have read it in print—and the saying is true—
That no one’s a prophet in his native land.—
This position is very much more to my mind
Than, my life over there ’mong the Charleston merchants.
There was something hollow in the whole affair,
Something foreign at the bottom, something dubious behind it;—
I was never at home in their company,
Nor felt myself really one of the guild.
What tempted me into that galley at all?
To grub and grub in the bins of trade—
As I think it all over, I can’t understand it;—
It happened so; that’s the whole affair.—
To be oneself on a basis of gold
Is no better than founding one’s house on the sand.
For your watch, and your ring, and the rest of your trappings,
The good people fawn on you, grovelling to earth;
They lift their hats to your jewelled breast-pin;
But your ring and your breast-pin are not your Person.—
A prophet; ay, that is a clearer position.
At least one knows on what footing one stands.
If you make a success, it’s yourself that receives
The ovation, and not your pounds-sterling and shillings.
One is what one is, and no nonsense about it;
One owes nothing to chance or to accident,
And needs neither licence nor patent to lean on.—
A prophet; ay, that is the thing for me.
And I slipped so utterly unawares into it,—
Just by coming galloping over the desert,
And meeting these children of nature en route.
The Prophet had come to them; so much was clear.
It was really not my intent to deceive——;
There’s a difference ’twixt lies and oracular answers;
And then I can always withdraw again.
I’m in no way bound; it’s a simple matter—;
The whole thing is private, so to speak;
I can go as I came; there’s my horse ready saddled;
I am master, in short, of the situation.
ANITRA.
[Approaching the tent-door.]
Prophet and Master!
PEER.
What would my slave?
ANITRA.
The sons of the desert await at thy tent-door;
They pray for the light of thy countenance——
PEER.
Stop!
Say in the distance I’d have them assemble;
Say from the distance I hear all their prayers.
Add that I suffer no menfolk in here!
Men, my child, are a worthless crew,—
Inveterate rascals you well may call them!
Anitra, you can’t think how shamelessly
They have swind——I mean they have sinned, my child!—
Well, enough now of that; you may dance for me, damsels!
The Prophet would banish the memories that gall him.
THE GIRLS.
[Dancing.]
The Prophet is good! The Prophet is grieving
For the ill that the sons of the dust have wrought!
The Prophet is mild; to his mildness be praises;
He opens to sinners his Paradise!
PEER.
[His eyes following ANITRA during the dance.]
Legs as nimble as drumsticks flitting.
She’s a dainty morsel indeed, that wench!
It’s true she has somewhat extravagant contours,—
Not quite in accord with the norms of beauty.
But what is beauty? A mere convention,—
A coin made current by time and place.
And just the extravagant seems most attractive
When one of the normal has drunk one’s fill.
In the law-bound one misses all intoxication.
Either plump to excess or excessively lean;
Either parlously young or portentously old;—
The medium is mawkish.—
Her feet—they are not altogether clean;
No more are her arms; in especial one of them.
But that is at bottom no drawback at all.
I should rather call it a qualification—
Anitra, come listen!
ANITRA.
[Approaching]
Thy handmaiden hears!
PEER.
You are tempting, my daughter! The Prophet is touched.
If you don’t believe me, then hear the proof;—
I’ll make you a Houri in Paradise!
ANITRA.
Impossible, Lord!
PEER.
What? You think I am jesting?
I’m in sober earnest, as true as I live!
Anitra’s Dance |
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ANITRA.
But I haven’t a soul.
PEER.
Then of course you must get one!
ANITRA.
How, Lord?
PEER.
Just leave me alone for that;—
I shall look after your education.
No soul? Why, truly you’re not over bright,
As the saying goes. I’ve observed it with pain.
But pooh! for a soul you can always find room.
Come here! let me measure your brain-pan, child.—
There is room, there is room, I was sure there was.
It’s true you never will penetrate
Very deep; to a large soul you’ll scarcely attain;——
But never you mind; it won’t matter a bit;—
You’ll have plenty to carry you through with credit——
ANITRA.
The Prophet is gracious——
PEER.
You hesitate? Speak!
ANITRA.
But I’d rather——
PEER.
Say on; don’t waste time about it!
ANITRA.
I don’t care so much about having a soul;—
Give me rather——
PEER.
What, child?
ANITRA.
[Pointing to his turban.]
That lovely opal!
PEER.
[Enchanted, handing her the jewel.]
Anitra! Anitra! true daughter of Eve!
I feel thee magnetic; for I am a man,
And, as a much-esteemed author has phrased it:
“Das Ewig-Weibliche ziehet uns an!”
Scene 7
A moonlight night. The palm-grove outside ANITRA’S tent.
PEER GYNT is sitting beneath a tree, with an Arabian lute in his hands. His beard and hair are clipped; he looks considerably younger.
PEER GYNT. [Plays and sings.]
I double-locked my Paradise,
And took its key with me.
The north-wind bore me seaward ho!
While lovely women all forlorn
Wept on the ocean strand.
Still southward, southward clove my keel
The salt sea-currents through.
Where palms were swaying proud and fair,
A garland round the ocean-bight,
I set my ship afire.
I climbed aboard the desert ship,
A ship on four stout legs.
It foamed beneath the lashing whip;——
Oh, catch me; I’m a flitting bird;—
I’m twittering on a bough!
Anitra, thou’rt the palm-tree’s must;
That know I now full well!
Ay, even the Angora goat-milk cheese
Is scarcely half such dainty fare,
Anitra, ah, as thou!
[He hangs the lute over his shoulder, and comes forward.]
Stillness! Is the fair one listening?
Has she heard my little song?
Peeps she from behind the curtain,
Veil and so forth cast aside?—
Hush! A sound as though a cork
From a bottle burst amain!
Now once more! And yet again!
Love-sighs can it be? or songs?—
No, it is distinctly snoring.—
Dulcet strain! Anitra sleepeth!
Nightingale, thy warbling stay!
Every sort of woe betide thee,
If with gurgling trill thou darest—
But, as says the text: Let be!
Nightingale, thou art a singer;
Ah, even such an one am I.
He, like me, ensnares with music
Tender, shrinking little hearts.
Balmy night is made for music;
Music is our common sphere;
In the act of singing, we are
We, Peer Gynt and nightingale.
And the maiden’s very sleeping
Is my passion’s crowning bliss;—
For the lips protruded o’er the
Beaker yet untasted quite——
But she’s coming, I declare!
After all, it’s best she should.
ANITRA.
[From the tent.]
Master, call’st thou in the night?
PEER.
Yes indeed, the Prophet calls.
I was wakened by the cat
With a furious hunting-hubbub——
ANITRA.
Ah, not hunting-noises, Master;
It was something much, much worse.
PEER.
What, then, was’t?
ANITRA.
Oh, spare me!
PEER.
Speak.
ANITRA.
Oh, I blush to——
PEER.
[Approaching.]
Was it, mayhap,
That which filled me so completely
When I let you have my opal?
ANITRA.
[Horrified.]
Liken thee, O earth’s great treasure,
To a horrible old cat!
PEER.
Child, from passion’s standpoint viewed,
May a tom-cat and a prophet
Come to very much the same.
ANITRA.
Master, jest like honey floweth
From thy lips.
PEER.
My little friend,
You, like other maidens, judge
Great men by their outsides only.
I am full of jest at bottom,
Most of all when we’re alone.
I am forced by my position
To assume a solemn mask.
Duties of the day constrain me;
All the reckonings and worry
That I have with one and all,
Make me oft a cross-grained prophet;
But it’s only from the tongue out.—
Fudge, avaunt! En tête-à-tête
I’m Peer—well, the man I am.
Hei, away now with the prophet;
Me, myself, you have me here!
[Seats himself under a tree, and draws her to him._
Come, Anitra, we will rest us
Underneath the palm’s green fan-shade!
I’ll lie whispering, you’ll lie smiling;
Afterwards our rôles exchange we;
Then shall your lips, fresh and balmy,
To my smiling, passion whisper!
ANITRA.
[Lies down at his feet.]
All thy words are sweet as singing,
Though I understand but little.
Master, tell me, can thy daughter
Catch a soul by listening?
PEER.
Soul, and spirit’s light and knowledge,
All in good time you shall have them.
When in east, on rosy streamers
Golden types print: Here is day,—
Then, my child, I’ll give you lessons;
You’ll be well brought up, no fear.
But, ’mid night’s delicious stillness,
It were stupid if I should,
With a threadbare wisdom’s remnants,
Play the part of pedagogue.—
And the soul, moreover, is not,
Looked at properly, the main thing.
It’s the heart that really matters.
ANITRA.
Speak, O Master! When thou speakest,
I see gleams, as though of opals!
PEER.
Wisdom in extremes is folly;
Coward blossoms into tyrant;
Truth, when carried to excess,
Ends in wisdom written backwards.
Ay, my daughter, I’m forsworn
As a dog if there are not
Folk with o’erfed souls on earth
Who shall scarce attain to clearness.
Once I met with such a fellow,
Of the flock the very flower;
And even he mistook his goal,
Losing sense in blatant sound.—
See the waste round this oasis.
Were I but to swing my turban,
I could force the ocean-flood
To fill up the whole concern.
But I were a blockhead, truly
Seas and lands to go creating.
Know you what it is to live?
ANITRA.
Teach me!
PEER.
It is to be wafted
Dry-shod down the stream of time,
Wholly, solely as oneself.
Only in full manhood can I
Be the man I am, dear child!
Aged eagle moults his plumage,
Aged fogey lags declining,
Aged dame has ne’er a tooth left,
Aged churl gets withered hands,—
One and all get withered souls.
Youth! Ah Youth! I mean to reign,
As a sultan, whole and fiery,—
Not on Gyntiana’s shores,
Under trellised vines and palm-leaves,—
But enthroned in the freshness
Of a woman’s virgin thoughts.—
See you now, my little maiden,
Why I’ve graciously bewitched you,—
Why I have your heart selected,
And established, so to speak,
There my being’s Caliphate?
All your longings shall be mine.
I’m an autocrat in passion!
You shall live for me alone.
I’ll be he who shall enthrall
You like gold and precious stones.
Should we part, then life is over,—
That is, your life, nota bene!
Every inch and fibre of you,
Will-less, without yea or nay,
I must know filled full of me.
Midnight beauties of your tresses,
All that’s lovely to be named,
Shall, like Babylonian gardens,
Tempt your Sultan to his tryst.
After all, I don’t complain, then,
Of your empty forehead-vault.
With a soul, one’s oft absorbed in
Contemplation of oneself.
Listen, while we’re on the subject,—
If you like it, faith, you shall
Have a ring about your ankle:—
’Twill be best for both of us.
I will be your soul by proxy;
For the rest—why, status quo.
[ANITRA snores.]
What! She sleeps! Then has it glided
Bootless past her, all I’ve said?—
No; it marks my influence o’er her
That she floats away in dreams
On my love-talk as it flows.
[Rises, and lays trinkets in her lap.
Here are jewels! Here are more!
Sleep, Anitra! Dream of Peer——.
Sleep! In sleeping, you the crown have
Placed upon your Emperor’s brow!
Victory on his Person’s basis
Has Peer Gynt this night achieved.
Scene 8
A caravan route. The oasis is seen far off in the background.
PEER GYNT comes galloping across the desert, on his white
horse, with ANITRA before him on his saddle-bow.
ANITRA. Let be, or I’ll bite you!
PEER. You little rogue!
ANITRA. What would you?
PEER. What would I? Play hawk and dove.
Run away with you! Frolic and frisk a bit!
ANITRA. For shame! An old prophet like you!
PEER. Oh, stuff!
The prophet’s not old at all, you goose!
Do you think all this is a sign of age?
ANITRA. Let me go! I want to go home!
PEER. Coquette!
What, home! To papa-in-law! That would be fine!
We madcap birds that have flown from the cage
Must never come into his sight again.
Besides, my child, in the self-same place
It’s wisest never to stay too long;
For familiarity lessens respect;—
Most of all when one comes as a prophet or such.
One should show oneself glimpse-wise and pass like a dream.
Faith, ’twas time that the visit should come to an end.
They’re unstable of soul, are these sons of the desert;—
Both incense and prayers dwindled off towards the end.
ANITRA. Yes, but are you a prophet?
PEER. Your Emperor I am!
[Tries to kiss her.
Why just see now how coy the wee woodpecker is!
ANITRA. Give me that ring that you have on your finger.
PEER. Take, sweet Anitra, the whole of the trash!
ANITRA. Thy words are as songs! Oh, how dulcet their sound!
PEER. How blessëd to know oneself loved to this pitch!
I’ll dismount! Like your slave, I will lead your palfrey!
[Hands her his riding-whip, and dismounts.
There now, my rosebud, you exquisite flower!
Here I’ll go trudging my way through the sand,
Till a sunstroke o’ertakes me and finishes me.
I’m young, Anitra; bear that in mind!
You mustn’t be shocked at my escapades.
Frolics and high-jinks are youth’s sole criterion!
And so, if your intellect weren’t so dense,
You would see at a glance, oh my fair oleander,—
Your lover is frolicsome— ergo, he’s young!
ANITRA. Yes, you are young. Have you any more rings?
PEER. Am I not? There, grab! I can leap like a buck!
Were there vine-leaves around, I would garland my brow.
To be sure I am young! Hei, I’m going to dance!
[Dances and sings.
I am a blissful game-cock!
Peck me, my little pullet!
Hop-sa-sa! Let me trip it;—
I am a blissful game-cock!
ANITRA. You are sweating, my prophet; I fear you will melt;—
Hand me that heavy bag hung at your belt.
PEER. Tender solicitude! Bear the purse ever;—
Hearts that can love are content without gold!
[Dances and sings again.
Young Peer Gynt is the maddest wag;—
He knows not what foot he shall stand upon.
Pooh, says Peer;—pooh, never mind!
Young Peer Gynt is the maddest wag!
ANITRA. What joy when the Prophet steps forth in the dance!
PEER. Oh, bother the Prophet!—Suppose we change clothes!
Heisa! Strip off!
ANITRA. Your caftan were too long,
Your girdle too wide, and your stockings too tight——
PEER. Eh bien!
[Kneels down.
But vouchsafe me a vehement sorrow;—
To a heart full of love, it is sweet to suffer!
Listen; as soon as we’re home at my castle——
ANITRA. In your Paradise;—have we far to ride?
PEER. Oh, a thousand miles or——
ANITRA. Too far!
PEER. 
Oh, listen;—
You shall have the soul that I promised you once——
ANITRA. Oh, thank you; I’ll get on without the soul.
But you asked for a sorrow——
PEER.
Ay, curse me, I did!
A keen one, but short,—to last two or three days!
ANITRA. Anitra obeyeth the Prophet!—Farewell!
[Gives him a smart cut across the fingers, and dashes off, at a tearing gallop, back across the desert.
PEER. Stands for a long time thunderstruck.]
Well now, may I be——!
Scene 9
The same place, an hour later.
PEER GYNT is stripping off his Turkish costume, soberly and
thoughtfully, bit by bit. Last of all, he takes his little
travelling-cap out of his coat pocket, puts it on, and
stands once more in European dress.
PEER.[Throwing the turban far away from him.]
There lies the Turk, then, and here stand I!—
These heathenish doings are no sort of good.
It’s lucky ’twas only a matter of clothes,
And not, as the saying goes, bred in the bone.—
What tempted me into that galley at all?
It’s best, in the long run, to live as a Christian,
To put away peacock-like ostentation,
To base all one’s dealings on law and morality,
To be ever oneself, and to earn at the last a
Speech at one’s grave-side, and wreaths on one’s coffin.
[Walks a few steps.
The hussy;—she was on the very verge
Of turning my head clean topsy-turvy.
May I be a troll if I understand
What it was that dazed and bemused me so.
Well; it’s well that’s done: had the joke been carried
But one step on, I’d have looked absurd.—
I have erred;——but at least it’s a consolation
That my error was due to the false situation.
It wasn’t my personal self that fell.
’Twas in fact this prophetical way of life,
So utterly lacking the salt of activity,
That took its revenge in these qualms of bad taste.
It’s a sorry business this prophetising!
One’s office compels one to walk in a mist;
In playing the prophet, you throw up the game
The moment you act like a rational being.
In so far I’ve done what the occasion demanded,
In the mere fact of paying my court to that goose.
But, nevertheless——
[Bursts out laughing.
H’m, to think of it now!
To try to make time stop by jigging and dancing,
And to cope with the current by capering and prancing!
To thrum on the lute-strings, to fondle and sigh,
And end, like a rooster,—by getting well plucked!
Such conduct is truly prophetic frenzy.—
Yes, plucked!—Phew! I’m plucked clean enough indeed.
Well, well, I’ve a trifle still left in reserve;
I’ve a little in America, a little in my pocket;
So I won’t be quite driven to beg my bread.—
And at bottom this middle condition is best.
I’m no longer a slave to my coachman and horses;
I haven’t to fret about postchaise or baggage;
I am master, in short, of the situation.—
What path should I choose? Many paths lie before me;
And a wise man is known from a fool by his choice.
My business life is a finished chapter;
My love-sports, too, are a cast-off garment.
I feel no desire to live back like a crab.
“Forward or back, and it’s just as far;
Out or in, and it’s just as strait,”—
So I seem to have read in some luminous work.—
I’ll try something new, then; ennoble my course;
Find a goal worth the labour and money it costs.
Shall I write my life without dissimulation,—
A book for guidance and imitation?
Or, stay——! I have plenty of time at command;—
What if, as a travelling scientist,
I should study past ages and time’s voracity?
Ay, sure enough, that is the thing for me!
Legends I read e’en in childhood’s days,
And since then I’ve kept up that branch of learning.—
I will follow the path of the human race!
Like a feather I’ll float on the stream of history
Make it all live again, as in a dream,—
See the heroes battling for truth and right,
As an onlooker only, in safety ensconced,—
See thinkers perish and martyrs bleed,
See empires founded and vanish away,—
See world-epochs grow from their trifling seeds;
In short, I will skim off the cream of history.—
I must try to get hold of a volume of Becker,
And travel as far as I can by chronology.—
It’s true—my grounding’s by no means thorough,
And history’s wheels within wheels are deceptive;—
But pooh; the wilder the starting-point,
The result will oft be the more original.—
How exalting it is, now, to choose a goal,
And drive straight for it, like flint and steel!
[With quiet emotion.
To break off all round one, on every side,
The bonds that bind one to home and friends,—
To blow into atoms one’s hoarded wealth,—
To bid one’s love and its joys good night,—
All simply to find the arcana of truth,—
[Wiping a tear from his eye._
That is the test of the true man of science!—
I feel myself happy beyond all measure.
Now I have fathomed my destiny’s riddle.
Now ’tis but persevering through thick and thin!
It’s excusable, sure, if I hold up my head,
And feel my worth, as the man, Peer Gynt,
Also called Human-life’s Emperor.—
I will own the sum-total of bygone days;
I’ll nevermore tread in the paths of the living.
The present is not worth so much as a shoe-sole;
All faithless and marrowless the doings of men;
Their soul has no wings and their deeds no
weight;——
[Shrugs his shoulders.
And women,ah, they are a worthless crew!
[Goes off.]
Scene 10
A summer day. Far up in the North. A hut in the forest. The
door, with a large wooden bar, stands open. Reindeer-horns
over it. A flock of goats by the wall of the hut.
A MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN, fair-haired and comely, sits spinning outside in the sunshine.
THE WOMAN.[Glances down the path and sings.]
Maybe both the winter and spring will pass by,
And the next summer too, and the whole of the year;—
But thou wilt come one day, that know I full well;
And I will await thee, as I promised of old.
[Calls the goats, spins, and sings again.
God strengthen thee, whereso thou goest in the world!
God gladden thee, if at his footstool thou stand!
Here will I await thee till thou comest again;
And if thou wait up yonder, then there we’ll meet, my friend!
Scene 11
In Egypt. Daybreak. MEMNON’S STATUE amid the sands.
PEER GYNT enters on foot, and looks around him for a while.
PEER GYNT. Here I might fittingly start on my wanderings.—
So now, for a change, I’ve become an Egyptian;
But Egyptian on the basis of the Gyntish I.
To Assyria next I will bend my steps.
To begin right back at the world’s creation
Would lead to nought but bewilderment.
I will go round about all the Bible history;
Its secular traces I’ll always be coming on;
And to look, as the saying goes, into its seams,
Lies entirely outside both my plan and my powers.
[Sits upon a stone.
Now I will rest me, and patiently wait
Till the statue has sung its habitual dawn-song.
When breakfast is over, I’ll climb up the pyramid;
If I’ve time, I’ll look through its interior afterwards.
Then I’ll go round the head of the Red Sea by land;
Perhaps I may hit on King Potiphar’s grave.—
Next I’ll turn Asiatic. In Babylon I’ll seek for
The far-renowned harlots and hanging gardens,—
That’s to say, the chief traces of civilisation.
Then at one bound to the ramparts of Troy.
From Troy there’s a fareway by sea direct
Across to the glorious ancient Athens;—
There on the spot will I, stone by stone,
Survey the Pass that Leonidas guarded.
I will get up the works of the better philosophers,
Find the prison where Socrates suffered, a martyr——;
Oh no, by-the-bye—there’s a war there at present——!
Well, my studies in Hellas must e’en be postponed.
[Looks at his watch.
It’s really too bad, such an age as it takes
For the sun to rise. I am pressed for time.
Well then, from Troy—it was there I left off——
[Rises and listens.
What is that strange sort of murmur that’s rushing——?
[Sunrise.
MEMNON’S STATUE.
[Sings.]
From the demigod’s ashes there soar, youth-renewing,
Birds ever singing.
Zeus the Omniscient
Shaped them contending.
Owls of wisdom,
My birds, where do they slumber?
Thou must die if thou rede not
The song’s enigma!
PEER. How strange now,—I really fancied there came
From the statue a sound. Music, this, of the Past.
I heard the stone-accents now rising, now sinking.—
I will register it, for the learned to ponder.
[Notes in his pocket-book
“The statue did sing. I heard the sound plainly,
But didn’t quite follow the text of the song.
The whole thing, of course, was hallucination.—
Nothing else of importance observed to-day.”
[Proceeds on his way.
Scene 12
Near the village of Gizeh. The great SPHINX carved out of the
rock. In the distance the spires and minarets of Cairo.
PEER GYNT enters; he examines the SPHINX attentively, now
through his eyeglass, now through his hollowed hand.
PEER GYNT. Now, where in the world have I met before
Something half-forgotten that’s like this hobgoblin?
For met it I have, in the north or the south.
Was it a person? And, if so, who?
That Memnon, it afterwards crossed my mind,
Was like the Old Man of the Dovrë, so called,
Just as he sat there, stiff and stark,
Planted on end on the stumps of pillars.—
But this most curious mongrel here,
This changeling, a lion and woman in one,—
Does he come to me, too, from a fairy-tale,
Or from a remembrance of something real?
From a fairy-tale? Ho, I remember the fellow!
Why, of course it’s the Boyg, that I smote on the skull,—
That is, I dreamt it,—I lay in fever.—
[Going closer.
The self-same eyes, and the self-same lips;—
Not quite so lumpish; a little more cunning;
But the same, for the rest, in all essentials.—
Ay, so that’s it, Boyg; so you’re like a lion
When one sees you from behind and meets you in the day-time!
Are you still good at riddling? Come, let us try.
Now we shall see if you answer as last time!
[Calls out towards the SPHINX.
Hei, Boyg, who are you?
A VOICE. [Behind the SPHINX.]
Ach, Sphinx, wer bist du?
PEER.What! Echo answers in German! How strange!
THE VOICE. Wer bist du?
PEER. It speaks it quite fluently too!
That observation is new, and my own.
[Notes in his book.
“Echo in German. Dialect, Berlin.”
[BEGRIFFENFELDT comes out from behind the SPHINX.]
BEGRIFFENFELDT. A man!
PEER. Oh, then it was he that was chattering.
[Notes again.
“Arrived in the sequel at other results.”
BEGRIFFENFELDT. [With all sorts of restless antics.]
Excuse me, mein Herr——! Eine Lebensfrage——!
What brings you to this place precisely to-day?
PEER. A visit. I’m greeting a friend of my youth.
BEGRIFFENFELDT. What? The Sphinx——?
PEER. [Nods.] Yes, I knew him in days gone by.
BEGRIFFENFELDT. Famos!—And that after such a night!
My temples are hammering as though they would burst!
You know him, man! Answer! Say on! Can you tell
What he is?
PEER. What he is? Yes, that’s easy enough.
He’s himself.
BEGRIFFENFELDT. [With a bound.]
Ha, the riddle of life lightened forth
In a flash to my vision!—It’s certain he is
Himself?
PEER. Yes, he says so, at any rate.
BEGRIFFENFELDT. Himself! Revolution! thine hour is at hand!
[Takes off his hat.
Your name, pray, mein Herr?
PEER. I was christened Peer Gynt.
BEGRIFFENFELDT. [In rapt admiration.]
Peer Gynt! Allegoric! I might have foreseen it.—
Peer Gynt? That must clearly imply: The Unknown,—
The Comer whose coming was augured to me——
PEER. What, really? And now you are here to meet——
BEGRIFFENFELDT. Peer Gynt! Profound! Enigmatic! Incisive!
Each word, as it were, an abysmal lesson!
What are you?
PEER. [Modestly.]
I’ve always endeavoured to be
Myself. For the rest, here’s my passport, you see.
BEGRIFFENFELDT. Again that mysterious word at the bottom.
[Seizes him by the wrist.
To Cairo! The Interpreters’ Kaiser is found!
PEER. Kaiser?
BEGRIFFENFELDT. Come on!
PEER. Am I really known——?
BEGRIFFENFELDT. [Dragging him away.]
The Interpreters’ Kaiser—on the basis of Self!
Scene 13
In Cairo. A large courtyard, surrounded by high walls and buildings, barred windows; iron cages.
THREE KEEPERS in the courtyard. A FOURTH comes in.
THE NEWCOMER. Schafmann, say, where’s the director gone?
A KEEPER. He drove out this morning some time before dawn.
THE FIRST. think something must have occurred to annoy him;
For last night——
ANOTHER. Hush, be quiet; he’s there at the door!
[BEGRIFFENFELDT leads PEER GYNT in, locks the gate, and
puts the key in his pocket.
PEER. [To himself.]
Indeed an exceedingly gifted man;
Almost all that he says is beyond comprehension.
[Looks around.
So this is the Club of the Savants, eh?
BEGRIFFENFELDT. Here you will find them, every man jack of them;—
The group of Interpreters threescore and ten;
Of late it has grown by a hundred and sixty——
[Shouts to the KEEPERS.
Mikkel, Schlingelberg, Schafmann, Fuchs,—
Into the cages with you at once!
THE KEEPERS. We!
BEGRIFFENFELDT. Who else, pray? Get in, get in!
When the world twirls around, we must twirl with it too.
[Forces them into a cage.
He’s arrived this morning, the mighty Peer;—
The rest you can guess,—I need say no more.
[Locks the cage door, and throws the key into a well.
PEER. But, my dear Herr Doctor and Director, pray——?
BEGRIFFENFELDT. Neither one nor the other! I was before——
Herr Peer, are you secret? I must ease my heart——
PEER. [With increasing uneasiness.]
What is it?
BEGRIFFENFELDT. Promise you will not tremble.
PEER. I will do my best, but——
BEGRIFFENFELDT. [Draws him into a corner, and whispers.]
The Absolute Reason
Departed this life at eleven last night.
PEER. God help me——!
BEGRIFFENFELDT. Why, yes, it’s extremely deplorable.
And as I’m placed, you see, it is doubly unpleasant;
For this institution has passed up to now
For what’s called a madhouse.
PEER. A madhouse, ha!
BEGRIFFENFELDT. Not now, understand!
PEER. [Softly, pale with fear.]
Now I see what the place is!
And the man is mad;—and there’s none that knows it!
[Tries to steal away.
BEGRIFFENFELDT. [Following him.]
However, I hope you don’t misunderstand me?
When I said he was dead, I was talking stuff.
He’s beside himself. Started clean out of his skin,—
Just like my compatriot Münchausen’s fox.
PEER. Excuse me a moment——
BEGRIFFENFELDT.[Holding him back.]
I meant like an eel;—
It was not like a fox. A needle through his eye;—
And he writhed on the wall——
PEER. Where can rescue be found?
BEGRIFFENFELDT. A snick round his neck, and whip! out of his skin!
PEER. He’s raving! He’s utterly out of his wits!
BEGRIFFENFELDT. Now it’s patent, and can’t be dissimulated,
That this from-himself-going must have for result
A complete revolution by sea and land.
The persons one hitherto reckoned as mad,
You see, became normal last night at eleven,
Accordant with Reason in its newest phase.
And more, if the matter be rightly regarded,
It’s patent that, at the aforementioned hour,
The sane folks, so called, began forthwith to rave.
PEER. You mentioned the hour, sir; my time is but scant——
BEGRIFFENFELDT. Your time, did you say? There you jog my remembrance!
[Opens a door and calls out.
Come forth all! The time that shall be is proclaimed!
Reason is dead and gone; long live Peer Gynt!
PEER. Now, my dear good fellow——!
[The LUNATICS come one by one, and at intervals, into
the courtyard.]
BEGRIFFENFELDT. Good morning! Come forth,
And hail the dawn of emancipation!
Your Kaiser has come to you!
PEER. Kaiser?
BEGRIFFENFELDT. Of course!
PEER. But the honour’s so great, so entirely excessive——
BEGRIFFENFELDT. Oh, do not let any false modesty sway you
At an hour such as this.
PEER. But at least give me time——
No, indeed, I’m not fit; I’m completely dumbfounded!
BEGRIFFENFELDT. A man who has fathomed the Sphinx’s meaning!
A man who’s himself!
PEER. Ay, but that’s just the rub.
It’s true that in everything I am myself;
But here the point is, if I follow your meaning,
To be, so to phrase it, outside oneself.
BEGRIFFENFELDT. Outside? No, there you are strangely mistaken!
It’s here, sir, that one is oneself with a vengeance;
Oneself, and nothing whatever besides.
We go, full sail, as our very selves.
Each one shuts himself up in the barrel of self,
In the self-fermentation he dives to the bottom,—
With the self-bung he seals it hermetically,
And seasons the staves in the well of self.
No one has tears for the other’s woes;
No one has mind for the other’s ideas.
We’re our very selves, both in thought and tone,
Ourselves to the spring-board’s uttermost verge,—
And so, if a Kaiser’s to fill the Throne,
It is clear that you are the very man.
PEER. O would that the devil——!
BEGRIFFENFELDT. Come, don’t be cast down;
Almost all things in nature are new at the first.
“Oneself”;—come, here you shall see an example;
I’ll choose you at random the first man that comes——
[To a gloomy figure.]
Good-day, Huhu? Well, my boy, wandering round
For ever with misery’s impress upon you?
HUHU. Can I help it, when the people,
Race by race, dies untranslated.
[To PEER GYNT.
You’re a stranger; will you listen?
PEER. [Bowing.]
Oh, by all means!
HUHU. Lend your ear then.—
Eastward far, like brow-borne garlands,
Lie the Malabarish seaboards.
Hollanders and Portugueses
Compass all the land with culture.
There, moreover, swarms are dwelling
Of the pure-bred Malabaris.
These have muddled up the language,
They now lord it in the country.—
But in long-departed ages
There the orang-outang was the ruler.
He, the forest’s lord and master,
Freely fought and snarled in freedom.
As the hand of nature shaped him,
Just so grinned he, just so gaped he.
He could shriek unreprehended;
He was ruler in his kingdom.—
Ah, but then the foreign yoke came,
Marred the forest-tongue primeval.
Twice two hundred years of darkness
Brooded o’er the race of monkeys;
And, you know, nights so protracted
Bring a people to a standstill.—
Mute are now the wood-notes primal;
Grunts and growls are heard no longer;—
If we’d utter our ideas,
It must be by means of language.
What constraint on all and sundry!
Hollanders and Portugueses,
Half-caste race and Malabaris,
All alike must suffer by it.—
I have tried to fight the battle
Of our real, primal wood-speech,—
Tried to bring to life its carcass,—
Proved the people’s right of shrieking,—
Shrieked myself, and shown the need of
Shrieks in poems for the people.—
Scantly, though, my work is valued.—
Now I think you grasp my sorrow.
Thanks for lending me a hearing;—
Have you counsel, let me hear it!
PEER. [Softly.]
It is written: Best be howling
With the wolves that are about you.
[Aloud.
Friend, if I remember rightly,
There are bushes in Morocco,
Where orang-outangs in plenty
Live with neither bard nor spokesman;—
Their speech sounded Malabarish;—
It was classical and pleasing.
Why don’t you, like other worthies,
Emigrate to serve your country?
HUHU. Thanks for lending me a hearing;—
I will do as you advise me.
[With a large gesture.
East! thou hast disowned thy singer!
West! thou hast orang-outangs still!
[Goes.]
BEGRIFFENFELDT. Well, was he himself? I should rather think so.
He’s filled with his own affairs, simply and solely.
He’s himself in all that comes out of him,—
Himself, just because he’s beside himself.
Come here! Now I’ll show you another one
Who’s no less, since last evening, accordant with Reason.
[To a FELLAH, with a mummy on his back.
King Apis, how goes it, my mighty lord?
THE FELLAH. [Wildly, to PEER GYNT.]
Am I King Apis?
PEER. [Getting behind the Doctor.]
I’m sorry to say
I’m not quite at home in the situation;
But I certainly gather, to judge by your tone——
THE FELLAH. Now you too are lying.
BEGRIFFENFELDT. Your Highness should state
How the whole matter stands.
THE FELLAH. Yes, I’ll tell him my tale.
[Turns to PEER GYNT.
Do you see whom I bear on my shoulders?
His name was King Apis of old.
Now he goes by the title of mummy,
And withal he’s completely dead.
All the pyramids yonder he builded,
And hewed out the mighty Sphinx,
And fought, as the Doctor puts it,
With the Turks, both to rechts and links.
And therefore the whole of Egypt
Exalted him as a god,
And set up his image in temples,
In the outward shape of a bull.—
But I am this very King Apis,
I see that as clear as day;
And if you don’t understand it,
You shall understand it soon.
King Apis, you see, was out hunting,
And got off his horse awhile,
And withdrew himself unattended
To a part of my ancestor’s land.
But the field that King Apis manured
Has nourished me with its corn;
And if further proofs are demanded,
Know, I have invisible horns.
Now, isn’t it most accursëd
That no one will own my might!
By birth I am Apis of Egypt,
But a fellah in other men’s sight.
Can you tell me what course to follow?—
Then counsel me honestly.—
The problem is how to make me
Resemble King Apis the Great.
PEER. Build pyramids then, your highness,
And carve out a greater Sphinx,
And fight, as the Doctor puts it,
With the Turks, both to rechts and links.
THE FELLAH. Ay, that is all mighty fine talking!
A fellah! A hungry louse!
I, who scarcely can keep my hovel
Clear even of rats and mice.
Quick, man,—think of something better,
That’ll make me both great and safe,
And further, exactly like to
King Apis that’s on my back!
PEER. What if your highness hanged you,
And then, in the lap of earth,
’Twixt the coffin’s natural frontiers,
Kept still and completely dead.
THE FELLAH. I’ll do it! My life for a halter!
To the gallows with hide and hair!—
At first there will be some difference,
But that time will smooth away.
[Goes off and prepares to hang himself.
BEGRIFFENFELDT. There’s a personality for you, Herr Peer,—
A man of method——
PEER. Yes, yes; I see——;
But he’ll really hang himself! God grant us grace!
I’ll be ill;—I can scarcely command my thoughts!
BEGRIFFENFELDT. A state of transition; it won’t last long.
PEER. Transition? To what? With your leave—I must go——
BEGRIFFENFELDT. Holding him.] Are you crazy?
PEER. Not yet——. Crazy? Heaven forbid!
[A commotion. The Minister HUSSEIN forces his way
through the crowd.
HUSSEIN. They tell me a Kaiser has come to-day.
[To PEER GYNT.]
It is you?
PEER. [In desperation.] Yes, that is a settled thing!
HUSSEIN. Good.—Then no doubt there are notes to be answered?
PEER. [Tearing his hair.] Come on! Right you are, sir;—the madder the better!
HUSSEIN. Will you do me the honour of taking a dip?
[Bowing deeply.]
I am a pen.
PEER. [Bowing still deeper.]
Why then I am quite clearly
A rubbishy piece of imperial parchment.
HUSSEIN. My story, my lord, is concisely this:
They take me for a pounce-box, and I am a pen.
PEER. My story, Sir Pen, is, to put it briefly:
I’m a blank sheet of paper that no one will write on.
HUSSEIN. No man understands in the least what I’m good for;
They all want to use me for scattering sand with!
PEER. I was in a woman’s keeping a silver-clasped book;—
It’s one and the same misprint to be either mad or sane!
HUSSEIN. Just fancy, what an exhausting life.
To be a pen and never taste the edge of a knife!
PEER. [With a high leap.]
Just fancy, for a reindeer to leap from on high—
To fall and fall—and never feel the ground beneath your hoofs!
HUSSEIN. A knife! I am blunt;—quick, mend me and slit me!
The world will go to ruin if they don’t mend my point for me!
PEER. A pity for the world which, like other self-made things,
Was reckoned by the Lord to be so excellently good.
BEGRIFFENFELDT. Here’s a knife!
HUSSEIN. [Seizing it.]
Ah, how I shall lick up the ink now!
Oh, what rapture to cut oneself!
[Cuts his throat.]
BEGRIFFENFELDT.
[Stepping aside.]
Pray do not sputter.
PEER.
[In increasing terror.]
Hold him!
HUSSEIN.
Ay, hold me! That is the word!
Hold! Hold the pen! On the desk with the paper——!
[Falls.
I’m outworn. The postscript—remember it, pray:
He lived and he died as a fate-guided pen.
PEER. [Dizzily.]
What shall I——! What am I? Thou mighty——hold fast!
I am all that thou wilt,—I’m a Turk, I’m a sinner——
A hill-troll——; but help;—there was something that burst——!
[Shrieks.
I cannot just hit on thy name at the moment;—
Oh, come to my aid, thou—all madmen’s protector!
[Sinks down insensible.
BEGRIFFENFELDT. [With a wreath of straw in his hand, gives a bound and sits astride of him.]
Ha! See him in the mire enthronëd;—
Beside himself——To crown him now!
[Presses the wreath on PEER GYNT’S head, and shouts:
Long life, long life to Self-hood’s Kaiser!
SCHAFMANN.
[In the cage.]
Es lebe hoch der grosse Peer!
Act V
Scene 1
On board a ship on the North Sea, off the Norwegian coast.
Sunset. Stormy weather.
PEER GYNT, a vigorous old man, with grizzled hair and beard,
is standing aft on the poop. He is dressed half
sailor-fashion, with a pea-jacket and long boots. His
clothing is rather the worse for wear; he himself is
weather-beaten, and has a somewhat harder expression.
The CAPTAIN is standing beside the steersman at the
wheel. The crew are forward.
PEER GYNT.
[Leans with his arms on the bulwark, and gazes towards the land.]
Look at Hallingskarv in his winter furs;—
He’s ruffling it, old one, in the evening glow.
The Jokel, his brother, stands behind him askew;
He’s got his green ice-mantle still on his back.
The Folgefånn, now, she is mighty fine,—
Lying there like a maiden in spotless white.
Don’t you be madcaps, old boys that you are!
Stand where you stand; you’re but granite knobs.
THE CAPTAIN.
[Shouts forward.]
Two hands to the wheel, and the lantern aloft!
PEER.
It’s blowing up stiff——
THE CAPTAIN.
——for a gale to-night.
PEER.
Can one see the Rondë Hills from the sea?
THE CAPTAIN.
No, how should you? They lie at the back of the snowfields.
PEER.
Or Blåhö?
THE CAPTAIN.
No; but from up in the rigging,
You’ve a glimpse, in clear weather, of Galdhöpiggen.
PEER.
Where does Hårteig lie?
THE CAPTAIN.
[Pointing.]
About over there.
PEER.
I thought so.
THE CAPTAIN.
You know where you are, it appears.
PEER.
When I left the country, I sailed by here;
And the dregs, says the proverb, hang in to the last.
[Spits, and gazes at the coast.
In there, where the screes and the clefts lie blue,—
Where the valleys, like trenches, gloom narrow and black,—
And underneath, skirting the open fiords,—
It’s in places like these human beings abide.
[Looks at the Captain.
They build far apart in this country.
THE CAPTAIN.
Ay;
Few are the dwellings and far between.
PEER.
Shall we get in by day-break?
THE CAPTAIN.
Thereabouts;
If we don’t have too dirty a night altogether.
PEER.
It grows thick in the west.
THE CAPTAIN.
It does so.
PEER.
Stop a bit!
You might put me in mind when we make up accounts—
I’m inclined, as the phrase goes, to do a good turn
To the crew——
THE CAPTAIN.
I thank you.
PEER.
It won’t be much
I have dug for gold, and lost what I found;—
We are quite at loggerheads, Fate and I.
You know what I’ve got in safe keeping on board—
That’s all I have left;—the rest’s gone to the devil.
THE CAPTAIN.
It’s more than enough, though, to make you of weight
Among people at home here.
PEER.
I’ve no relations.
There’s no one awaiting the rich old curmudgeon.—
Well; that saves you, at least, any scenes on the pier!
THE CAPTAIN.
Here comes the storm.
PEER.
Well, remember then—
If any of your crew are in real need,
I won’t look too closely after the money——
THE CAPTAIN.
That’s kind. They are most of them ill enough off;
They have all got their wives and their children at home.
With their wages alone they can scarce make ends meet;
But if they come home with some cash to the good,
It will be a return not forgot in a hurry.
PEER.
What do you say? Have they wives and children?
Are they married?
THE CAPTAIN.
Married? Ay, every man of them.
But the one that is worst off of all is the cook;
Black famine is ever at home in his house.
PEER.
Married? They’ve folks that await them at home?
Folks to be glad when they come? Eh?
THE CAPTAIN.
Of course,
In poor people’s fashion.
PEER.
And come they one evening,
What then?
THE CAPTAIN.
Why, I daresay the goodwife will fetch
Something good for a treat——
PEER.
And a light in the sconce?
THE CAPTAIN.
Ay, ay, may be two; and a dram to their supper.
PEER.
And there they sit snug! There’s a fire on the hearth!
They’ve their children about them! The room’s full of chatter;
Not one hears another right out to an end,
For the joy that is on them——!
THE CAPTAIN.
It’s likely enough.
So it’s really kind, as you promised just now,
To help eke things out.
PEER.
[Thumping the bulwark.]
I’ll be damned if I do.
Do you think I am mad? Would you have me fork out
For the sake of a parcel of other folks’ brats?
I’ve slaved much too sorely in earning my cash
There’s nobody waiting for old Peer Gynt.
THE CAPTAIN.
Well well; as you please then; your money’s your own.
PEER.
Right! Mine it is, and no one else’s.
We’ll reckon as soon as your anchor is down!
Take my fare, in the cabin, from Panama here.
Then brandy all round to the crew. Nothing more.
If I give a doit more, slap my jaw for me, Captain.
THE CAPTAIN.
I owe you a quittance, and not a thrashing;—
But excuse me, the wind’s blowing up to a gale.
[He goes forward. It has fallen dark; lights are lit in
the cabin. The sea increases. Fog and thick clouds.
PEER.
To have a whole bevy of youngsters at home;—
Still to dwell in their minds as a coming delight;—
To have others’ thoughts follow you still on your path!—
There’s never a soul gives a thought to me.—
Lights in the sconces! I’ll put out those lights.
I will hit upon something!—I’ll make them all drunk;—
Not one of the devils shall go sober ashore.
They shall all come home drunk to their children and wives!
They shall curse; bang the table till it rings again,—
They shall scare those that wait for them out of their wits!
The goodwife shall scream and rush forth from the house,—
Clutch her children along! All their joy gone to ruin!
[The ship gives a heavy lurch; he staggers and keeps
his balance with difficulty.
Why, that was a buffet and no mistake.
The sea’s hard at labour, as though it were paid for it;—
It’s still itself here on the coasts of the north;—
A cross-sea, as wry and wrong-headed as ever——
[Listens.
Why, what can those screams be?
THE LOOK-OUT.
[Forward.]
A wreck a-lee!
THE CAPTAIN.
[On the main deck, shouts.]
Starboard your helm! Bring her up to the wind!
THE MATE.
Are there men on the wreck?
THE LOOK-OUT.
I can just see three!
PEER.
Quick: lower the stern boat——
THE CAPTAIN.
She’d fill ere she floated.
[Goes forward.
PEER.
Who can think of that now?
[To some of the crew.]
If you’re men, to the rescue!
What the devil, if you should get a bit of a ducking.
THE BOATSWAIN.
It’s out of the question in such a sea.
PEER.
They are screaming again! There’s a lull in the wind.—
Cook, will you risk it? Quick! I will pay——
THE COOK.
No, not if you offered me twenty pounds-sterling——
PEER.
You hounds! You chicken-hearts! Can you forget
These are men that have goodwives and children at home?
There they’re sitting and waiting——
THE BOATSWAIN.
Well, patience is wholesome.
THE CAPTAIN.
Bear away from that sea!
THE MATE.
There the wreck capsized!
PEER.
All is silent of a sudden——!
THE BOATSWAIN.
Were they married, as you think,
There are three new-baked widows even now in the world.
[The storm increases. PEER GYNT moves away aft.
PEER.
There is no faith left among men any more,—
No Christianity,—well may they say it and write it;—
Their good deeds are few and their prayers are still fewer,
And they pay no respect to the Powers above them.—
In a storm like to-night’s, he’s a terror, the Lord is.
These beasts should be careful, and think, what’s the truth,
That it’s dangerous playing with elephants;—
And yet they must openly brave his displeasure!
I am no whit to blame; for the sacrifice
I can prove I stood ready, my money in hand.
But how does it profit me?—What says the proverb?
A conscience at ease is a pillow of down.
Oh ay, that is all very well on dry land,
But I’m blest if it matters a snuff on board ship,
When a decent man’s out on the seas with such riff-raff.
At sea one can never be one’s self;
One must go with the others from deck to keel;
If for boatswain and cook the hour of vengeance should strike,
I shall no doubt be swept to the deuce with the rest;—
One’s personal welfare is clean set aside;—
One counts but as a sausage in slaughtering-time.—
My mistake is this: I have been too meek;
And I’ve had no thanks for it after all.
Were I younger, I think I would shift the saddle,
And try how it answered to lord it awhile.
There is time enough yet! They shall know in the parish
That Peer has come sailing aloft o’er the seas!
I’ll get back the farmstead by fair means or foul;—
I will build it anew; it shall shine like a palace.
But none shall be suffered to enter the hall!
They shall stand at the gateway, all twirling their caps;—
They shall beg and beseech—that they freely may do;
But none gets so much as a farthing of mine.
If I’ve had to howl ’neath the lashes of fate,
Trust me to find folks I can lash in my turn——
THE STRANGE PASSENGER.
[Stands in the darkness at PEER GYNT’S side, and salutes him in friendly fashion.]
Good evening!
PEER.
Good evening! What——? Who are you?
THE PASSENGER.
Your fellow-passenger, at your service.
PEER.
Indeed? I thought I was the only one.
THE PASSENGER.
A mistaken impression, which now is set right.
PEER.
But it’s singular that, for the first time to-night,
I should see you——
THE PASSENGER.
I never come out in the day-time.
PEER.
Perhaps you are ill? You’re as white as a sheet——
THE PASSENGER.
No, thank you—my health is uncommonly good.
PEER.
What a raging storm!
THE PASSENGER.
Ay, a blessëd one, man!
PEER.
A blessëd one?
THE PASSENGER.
Sea’s running high as houses
Ah, one can feel one’s mouth watering!
Just think of the wrecks that to-night will be shattered;—
And think, too, what corpses will drive ashore!
PEER.
Lord save us!
THE PASSENGER.
Have ever you seen a man strangled,
Or hanged,—or drowned?
PEER.
This is going too far——!
THE PASSENGER.
The corpses all laugh. But their laughter is forced;
And the most part are found to have bitten their tongues.
PEER.
Hold off from me——!
THE PASSENGER.
Only one question, pray!
If we, for example, should strike on a rock,
And sink in the darkness——
PEER.
You think there is danger?
THE PASSENGER.
I really don’t know what I ought to say.
But suppose, now, I float and you go to the bottom——
PEER.
Oh, rubbish——
THE PASSENGER.
It’s just a hypothesis.
But when one is placed with one foot in the grave,
One grows softhearted and open-handed——
PEER.
[Puts his hand in his pocket.]
Ho, money?
THE PASSENGER.
No, no; but perhaps you would kindly
Make me a gift of your much-esteemed carcass——?
PEER.
This is too much!
THE PASSENGER.
No more than your body, you know!
To help my researches in science——
PEER.
Begone!
THE PASSENGER.
But think, my dear sir—the advantage is yours!
I’ll have you laid open and brought to the light.
What I specially seek is the centre of dreams,—
And with critical care I’ll look into your seams——
PEER.
Away with you!
THE PASSENGER.
Why, my dear sir—a drowned corpse——!
PEER.
Blasphemer! You’re goading the rage of the storm!
I call it too bad! Here it’s raining and blowing,
A terrible sea on, and all sorts of signs
Of something that’s likely to shorten our days;—
And you carry on so as to make it come quicker.
THE PASSENGER.
You’re in no mood, I see, to negotiate further;
But time, you know, brings with it many a change——
[Nods in a friendly fashion.
We’ll meet when you’re sinking, if not before;
Perhaps I may then find you more in the humour.
[Goes into the cabin.
PEER.
Unpleasant companions these scientists are!
With their freethinking ways——
[To the BOATSWAIN, who is passing.
Hark, a word with you, friend!
That passenger? What crazy creature is he?
THE BOATSWAIN.
I know of no passenger here but yourself.
PEER.
No others? This thing’s getting worse and worse.
[To the SHIP’S BOY, who comes out of the cabin.
Who went down the companion just now?
THE BOY.
The ship’s dog, sir!
[Passes on.]
THE LOOK-OUT.
[Shouts.]
Land close ahead!
PEER.
Where’s my box? Where’s my trunk?
All the baggage on deck!
THE BOATSWAIN.
We have more to attend to!
PEER.
It was nonsense, captain! ’Twas only my joke;—
As sure as I’m here I will help the cook——
THE CAPTAIN.
The jib’s blown away!
THE MATE.
And there went the foresail!
THE BOATSWAIN.
[Shrieks from forward.]
Breakers under the bow!
THE CAPTAIN.
She will go to shivers!
[The ship strikes. Noise and confusion.]
Scene 2
Close under the land, among sunken rocks and surf. The ship
sinks. The jolly-boat, with two men in her, is seen for a
moment through the scud. A sea strikes her; she fills and
upsets. A shriek is heard; then all is silent for a while.
Shortly afterwards the boat appears floating bottom upwards.
PEER GYNT comes to the surface near the boat.
PEER.
Help! Help! A boat! Help! I’ll be drowned!
Save me, oh Lord—as saith the text!
[Clutches hold of the boat’s keel.
THE COOK.
[Comes up on the other side.]
Oh, Lord God—for my children’s sake,
Have mercy! Let me reach the land!
[Seizes hold of the keel.
PEER.
Let go!
THE COOK.
Let go!
PEER.
I’ll strike!
THE COOK.
So’ll I!
PEER.
I’ll crush you down with kicks and blows!
Let go your hold! She won’t float two!
THE COOK.
I know it! Yield!
PEER.
Yield you!
THE COOK.
Oh yes!
[They fight; one of the Cook’s hands is disabled; he clings on with the
other.]
PEER.
Off with that hand!
THE COOK.
Oh, kind sir—spare!
Think of my little ones at home
PEER.
I need my life far more than you,
For I am lone and childless still.
THE COOK.
Let go! You’ve lived, and I am young!
PEER.
Quick; haste you; sink;—you drag us down.
THE COOK.
Have mercy! Yield in heaven’s name!
There’s none to miss and mourn for you—
[His hand slips; he screams.
I’m drowning!
PEER.
[Seizing him.]
By this wisp of hair I’ll hold you; say your Lord’s Prayer, quick!
THE COOK.
I can’t remember; all turns black——
PEER.
Come, the essentials in a word——!
THE COOK.
Give us this day——!
PEER.
Skip that part, Cook;
You’ll get all you need, safe enough.
THE COOK.
Give us this day——
PEER.
The same old song!
’Tis plain you were a cook in life——
[The COOK slips from his grasp.
THE COOK.
[Sinking.]
Give us this day our——
[Disappears.
PEER.
Amen, lad!
To the last gasp you were yourself.—
[Draws himself up on to the bottom of the boat._
So long as there is life there’s hope——
THE STRANGE PASSENGER.
[Catches hold of the boat.]
Good morning!
PEER.
Hoy!
THE PASSENGER.
I heard you shout.—
It’s pleasant finding you again.
Well? So my prophecy came true!
PEER.
Let go! Let go! ’Twill scarce float one!
THE PASSENGER.
I’m striking out with my left leg.
I’ll float, if only with their tips
My fingers rest upon this ledge.
But apropos: your body——
PEER.
Hush!
THE PASSENGER.
The rest, of course, is done for, clean——
PEER.
No more!
THE PASSENGER.
Exactly as you please.
[Silence.
PEER.
Well?
THE PASSENGER.
I am silent.
PEER.
Satan’s tricks!—
What now?
THE PASSENGER.
I’m waiting.
PEER.
[Tearing his hair.]
I’ll go mad!—
What are you?
THE PASSENGER.
[Nods.]
Friendly.
PEER.
What else! Speak!
THE PASSENGER.
What think you? Do you know none other
That’s like me?
PEER.
Do I know the devil——?
THE PASSENGER.
[In a low voice.]
Is it his way to light a lantern
For life’s night-pilgrimage through fear?
PEER.
Ah, come! When once the thing’s cleared up,
You’d seem a messenger of light?
THE PASSENGER.
Friend, have you once in each half-year
Felt all the earnestness of dread?
PEER.
Why, one’s afraid when danger threatens;—
But all your words have double meanings.
THE PASSENGER.
Ay, have you gained but once in life
The victory that is given in dread?
PEER.
[Looks at him.]
Came you to open for me a door,
’Twas stupid not to come before.
What sort of sense is there in choosing
Your time when seas gape to devour one?
THE PASSENGER.
Were, then, the victory more likely
Beside your hearthstone, snug and quiet?
PEER.
Perhaps not; but your talk was quizzical.
How could you fancy it awakening?
THE PASSENGER.
Where I come from, there smiles are prized
As highly as pathetic style.
PEER.
All has its time; what fits the taxman,
So says the text, would damn the bishop.
THE PASSENGER.
The host whose dust inurned has slumbered
Treads not on week-days the cothurnus.
PEER.
Avaunt thee, bugbear! Man, begone!
I will not die! I must ashore!
THE PASSENGER.
Oh, as for that, be reassured;—
One dies not midmost of Act Five.
[Glides away.
PEER.
Ah, there he let it out at last;—
He was a sorry moralist.
Scene 3
A churchyard in a high lying mountain parish.
A funeral is going on. By the grave, the PRIEST and a gathering
of people. The last verse of the psalm is being sung. PEER
GYNT passes by on the road.
PEER.
[At the gate.]
Here’s a countryman going the way of all flesh.
God be thanked that it isn’t me.
[Enters the churchyard.
THE PRIEST.
[Speaking beside the grave.]
Now, when the soul has gone to meet its doom,
And here the dust lies, like an empty pod,—
Now, my dear friends, we’ll speak a word or two
About this dead man’s pilgrimage on earth.
He was not wealthy, neither was he wise,
His voice was weak, his bearing was unmanly,
He spoke his mind abashed and faltering,
He scarce was master at his own fireside;
He sidled into church, as though appealing
For leave, like other men, to take his place.
It was from Gudbrandsdale, you know, he came.
When here he settled he was but a lad;—
And you remember how, to the very last,
He kept his right hand hidden in his pocket.
That right hand in the pocket was the feature
That chiefly stamped his image on the mind,—
And therewithal his writhing, his abashed
Shrinking from notice wheresoe’er he went.
But, though he still pursued a path aloof,
And ever seemed a stranger in our midst,
You all know what he strove so hard to hide,—
The hand he muffled had four fingers only.—
I well remember, many years ago,
One morning; there were sessions held at Lundë.
’Twas war-time, and the talk in every mouth
Turned on the country’s sufferings and its fate.
I stood there watching. At the table sat
The Captain, ’twixt the Bailiff and the sergeants;
Lad after lad was measured up and down,
Passed, and enrolled, and taken for a soldier.
The room was full, and from the green outside,
Where thronged the young folks, loud the laughter rang.
A name was called, and forth another stepped,
One pale as snow upon the glacier’s edge.
They bade the youth advance; he reached the table;
We saw his right hand swaddled in a clout;—
He gasped, he swallowed, battling after words,—
But, though the Captain urged him, found no voice.
Ah yes, at last! Then with his cheek aflame,
His tongue now failing him, now stammering fast
He mumbled something of a scythe that slipped
By chance, and shore his finger to the skin.
Straightway a silence fell upon the room.
Men bandied meaning glances; they made mouths;
They stoned the boy with looks of silent scorn.
He felt the hail-storm, but he saw it not.
Then up the Captain stood, the grey old man;
He spat, and pointed forth, and thundered “Go!”
And the lad went. On both sides men fell back,
Till through their midst he had to run the gauntlet.
He reached the door; from there he took to flight;—
Up, up he went,—through wood and over hillside,
Up through the stone-screes, rough, precipitous.
He had his home up there among the mountains.—
It was some six months later he came here,
With mother, and betrothed, and little child.
He leased some ground upon the high hill-side,
There where the waste lands trend away towards Lomb.
He married the first moment that he could;
He built a house; he broke the stubborn soil;
He throve, as many a cultivated patch
Bore witness, bravely clad in waving gold.
At church he kept his right hand in his pocket,—
But sure I am at home his fingers nine
Toiled every whit as hard as others’ ten.—
One spring the torrent washed it all away.
Their lives were spared. Ruined and stripped of all,
He set to work to make another clearing;
And, ere the autumn, smoke again arose
From a new, better-sheltered, mountain farm-house.
Sheltered? From torrent—not from avalanche;
Two years, and all beneath the snow lay buried.
But still the avalanche could not daunt his spirit.
He dug, and raked, and carted—cleared the ground—
And the next winter, ere the snow-blasts came,
A third time was his little homestead reared.
Three sons he had, three bright and stirring boys;
They must to school, and school was far away;—
And they must clamber, where the hill-track failed,
By narrow ledges past the headlong scree.
What did he do? The eldest had to manage
As best he might, and, where the path was worst,
His father bound a rope round him to stay him;—
The others on his back and arms he bore.
Thus he toiled, year by year, till they were men.
Now might he well have looked for some return.
In the New World, three prosperous gentlemen
Their school-going and their father have forgotten.
He was short-sighted. Out beyond the circle
Of those most near to him he nothing saw.
To him seemed meaningless as cymbals’ tinkling
Those words that to the heart should ring like steel.
His race, his fatherland, all things high and shining,
Stood ever, to his vision, veiled in mist.
But he was humble, humble, was this man;
And since that sessions-day his doom oppressed him,
As surely as his cheeks were flushed with shame,
And his four fingers hidden in his pocket.—
Offender ’gainst his country’s laws? Ay, true!
But there is one thing that the law outshineth
Sure as the snow-white tent of Glittertind
Has clouds, like higher rows of peaks, above it.
No patriot was he. Both for church and state
A fruitless tree. But there, on the upland ridge,
In the small circle where he saw his calling,
There he was great, because he was himself.
His inborn note rang true unto the end.
His days were as a lute with muted strings.
And therefore, peace be with thee, silent warrior,
That fought the peasant’s little fight, and fell!
It is not ours to search the heart and reins;—
That is no task for dust, but for its ruler;—
Yet dare I freely, firmly, speak my hope:
He scarce stands crippled now before his God!
[The gathering disperses. PEER GYNT remains behind,
alone.]
PEER.
Now that is what I call Christianity!
Nothing to seize on one’s mind unpleasantly.—
And the topic—immovably being oneself,—
That the pastor’s homily turned upon,—
Is full, in its essence, of edification.
[Looks down upon the grave.
Was it he, I wonder, that hacked through his knuckle
That day I was out hewing logs in the forest?
Who knows? If I weren’t standing here with my staff
By the side of the grave of this kinsman in spirit,
I could almost believe it was I that slept,
And heard in a vision my panegyric.—
It’s a seemly and Christian-like custom indeed
This casting a so-called memorial glance
In charity over the life that is ended.
I shouldn’t at all mind accepting my verdict
At the hands of this excellent parish priest.
Ah well, I dare say I have some time left
Ere the gravedigger comes to invite me to stay with him;—
And as Scripture has it: What’s best is best,—
And: Enough for the day is the evil thereof,—
And further: Discount not thy funeral.—
Ah, the Church, after all, is the true consoler.
I’ve hitherto scarcely appreciated it;—
But now I feel clearly how blessëd it is
To be well assured upon sound authority:
Even as thou sowest thou shalt one day reap.—
One must be oneself; for oneself and one’s own
One must do one’s best, both in great and in small things.
If the luck goes against you, at least you’ve the honour
Of a life carried through in accordance with principle.—
Now homewards! Though narrow and steep the path,
Though fate to the find may be never so biting—
Still old Peer Gynt will pursue his own way,
And remain what he is: poor, but virtuous ever.
[Goes out.]
Scene 4
A hill-side seamed by the dry bed of a torrent. A ruined mill
house beside the stream. The ground is torn up, and the
whole place waste. Further up the hill, a large farm-house.
An auction is going on in front of the farm-house. There is a
great gathering of people, who are drinking, with much
noise. PEER GYNT is sitting on a rubbish-heap beside the
mill.
PEER.
Forward and back, and it’s just as far;
Out and in, and it’s just as strait.—
Time wears away and the river gnaws on.
Go roundabout, the Boyg said;—and here one must.
A MAN DRESSED IN MOURNING.
Now there is only rubbish left over.
[Catches sight of PEER GYNT.
Are there strangers here too? God be with you, good friend!
PEER.
Well met! You have lively times here to-day.
Is’t a christening junket or wedding feast?
THE MAN IN MOURNING.
I’d rather call it a house-warming treat;—
The bride is laid in a wormy bed.
PEER.
And the worms are squabbling for rags and clouts.
THE MAN IN MOURNING.
That’s the end of the ditty; it’s over and done.
PEER.
All the ditties end just alike;
And they’re all old together; I knew ’em as a boy.
A LAD OF TWENTY.
[With a casting-ladle.]
Just look what a rare thing I’ve been buying!
In this Peer Gynt cast his silver buttons.
ANOTHER.
Look at mine, though! The money-bag bought for a halfpenny.
A THIRD.
No more, eh? Twopence for the pedlar’s pack!
PEER.
Peer Gynt? Who was he?
THE MAN IN MOURNING.
All I know is this:
He was kinsman to Death and to Aslak the Smith.
A MAN IN GREY.
You’re forgetting me, man! Are you mad or drunk?
THE MAN IN MOURNING.
You forget that at Hegstad was a storehouse door
THE MAN IN GREY.
Ay, true; but we know you were never dainty.
THE MAN IN MOURNING.
If only she doesn’t give Death the slip——
THE MAN IN GREY.
Come, kinsman! A dram, for our kinship’s sake!
THE MAN IN MOURNING.
To the deuce with your kinship! You’re maundering in drink——
THE MAN IN GREY.
Oh, rubbish; blood’s never so thin as all that;
One cannot but feel one’s akin to Peer Gynt.
[Goes off with him.
PEER.
[To himself.]
One meets with acquaintances.
A LAD.
[Calls after the MAN IN MOURNING.]
Mother that’s dead
Will be after you, Aslak, if you wet your whistle.
PEER.
[Rises.]
The husbandman’s saying seems scarce to hold here:
The deeper one harrows the better it smells.
A LAD.
[With a bear’s skin.]
Look, the cat of the Dovrë! Well, only his fell.
It was he chased the trolls out on Christmas Eve.
ANOTHER.
[With a reindeer skull.]
Here is the wonderful reindeer that bore,
At Gendin, Peer Gynt over edge and scree.
A THIRD.
[With a hammer, calls out to the MAN IN MOURNING.]
Hei, Aslak, this sledge-hammer, say, do you know it?
Was it this that you used when the devil clove the wall?
A FOURTH.
[Empty-handed.]
Mads Moen, here’s the invisible cloak
Peer Gynt and Ingrid flew off through the air with.
PEER.
Brandy here, boys! I feel I’m grown old;—
I must put up to auction my rubbish and lumber!
A LAD.
What have you to sell, then?
PEER.
A palace I have;—
It lies in the Rondë; it’s solidly built.
THE LAD.
A button is bid!
PEER.
You must run to a dram.
’Twere a sin and a shame to bid anything less.
ANOTHER.
He’s a jolly old boy this!
[The bystanders crowd around him.
PEER.
[Shouts.]
Granë,my steed;
Who bids?
ONE OF THE CROWD.
Where’s he running?
PEER.
Why, far in the west!
Near the sunset, my lads! Ah, that courser can fly
As fast, ay, as fast as Peer Gynt could lie.
VOICES.
What more have you got?
PEER.
I’ve both rubbish and gold!
I bought it with ruin; I’ll sell it at a loss.
A LAD.
Put it up!
PEER.
A dream of a silver-clasped book!
That you can have for an old hook and eye.
THE LAD.
To the devil with dreams!
PEER.
Here’s my Kaiserdom!
I throw it in the midst of you; scramble for it!
THE LAD.
Is the crown given in?
PEER.
Of the loveliest straw.
It will fit whoever first puts it on.
Hei, there is more yet! An addled egg!
A madman’s grey hair! And the Prophet’s beard!
All these shall be his that will show on the hillside
A post that has writ on it; Here lies your path!
THE BAILIFF.
[Who has come up.]
You’re carrying on, my good man, so that almost
I think that your path will lead straight to the lock-up.
PEER.
[Hat in hand.]
Quite likely. But, tell me, who was Peer Gynt?
THE BAILIFF.
Oh, nonsense——
PEER.
Your pardon! Most humbly I beg——!
THE BAILIFF.
Oh, he’s said to have been an abominable liar——
PEER.
A liar——?
THE BAILIFF.
Yes—all that was strong and great
He made believe always that he had done it.
But, excuse me, friend—I have other duties——
[Goes.]
PEER.
And where is he now, this remarkable man?
AN ELDERLY MAN.
He fared overseas to a foreign land;
It went ill with him there, as one well might foresee;—
It’s many a year now since he was hanged.
PEER.
Hanged! Ay, ay! Why, I thought as much;
Our lamented Peer Gynt was himself to the last.
[Bows.
Good-bye,—and best thanks for to-day’s merry meeting.
[Goes a few steps, but stops again.
You joyous youngsters, you comely lasses,—
Shall I pay my shot with a traveller’s tale?
SEVERAL VOICES.
Yes; do you know any?
PEER.
Nothing more easy.—
[He comes nearer; a look of strangeness comes over
him.
I was gold-digging once in San Francisco.
There were mountebanks swarming all over the town.
One with his toes could perform on the fiddle;
Another could dance a Spanish halling on his knees;
A third, I was told, kept on making verses
While his brain-pan was having a hole bored right through it.
To the mountebank-meeting came also the devil;—
Thought he’d try his luck with the rest of them.
His talent was this: in a manner convincing,
He was able to grunt like a flesh-and-blood pig.
He was not recognised, yet his manners attracted.
The house was well filled; expectation ran high.
He stepped forth in a cloak with an ample cape to it;
Man muss sich drappiren, as the Germans say.
But under the mantle—what none suspected—
He’d managed to smuggle a real live pig.
And now he opened the representation;
The devil he pinched, and the pig gave voice.
The whole thing purported to be a fantasia
On the porcine existence, both free and in bonds;
And all ended up with a slaughter-house squeal—
Whereupon the performer bowed low and retired.—
The critics discussed and appraised the affair;
The tone of the whole was attacked and defended.
Some fancied the vocal expression too thin,
While some thought the death-shriek too carefully studied;
But all were agreed as to one thing: qua grunt,
The performance was grossly exaggerated.—
Now that, you see, came of the devil’s stupidity
In not taking the measure of his public first.
[He bows and goes off. A puzzled silence comes over the
crowd.
Scene 5
Whitsun Eve.—In the depths of the forest. To the back, in a
clearing, is a hut with a pair of reindeer horns over the
porch-gable.
PEER GYNT is creeping among the undergrowth, gathering wild
onions.
PEER.
Well, this is one standpoint. Where is the next?
One should try all things and choose the best.
Well, I have done so,—beginning from Cæsar,
And downwards as far as to Nebuchadnezzar.
So I’ve had, after all, to go through Bible history;—
The old boy has come back to his mother again.
After all it is written: Of the earth art thou come.—
The main thing in life is to fill one’s belly.
Fill it with onions? That’s not much good;—
I must take to cunning, and set out snares.
There’s water in the beck here; I shan’t suffer thirst;
And I count as the first ’mong the beasts after all.
When my time comes to die—as most likely it will,—
I shall crawl in under a wind-fallen tree;
Like the bear, I will heap up a leaf-mound above me,
And I’ll scratch in big print on the bark of the tree:
Here rests Peer Gynt, that decent soul
Kaiser o’er all of the other beasts.—
Kaiser?
[Laughs inwardly.]
Why, you old soothsayer’s-dupe!
No Kaiser are you; you are nought but an onion.
I’m going to peel you now, my good Peer!
You won’t escape either by begging or howling.
[Takes an onion and strips off one coat after another.
There lies the outermost layer, all torn;
That’s the shipwrecked man on the jolly-boat’s keel.
Here’s the passenger layer, scanty and thin;—
And yet in its taste there’s a tang of Peer Gynt.
Next underneath is the gold-digger ego;
The juice is all gone—if it ever had any.
This coarse-grained layer with the hardened skin
Is the peltry hunter by Hudson’s Bay.
The next one looks like a crown;—oh, thanks!
We’ll throw it away without more ado.
Here’s the archeologist, short but sturdy,
And here is the Prophet, juicy and fresh.
He stinks, as the Scripture has it, of lies,
Enough to bring the water to an honest man’s eyes.
This layer that rolls itself softly together
Is the gentleman, living in ease and good cheer.
The next one seems sick. There are black streaks upon it;—
Black symbolises both parsons and niggers.
[Pulls off several layers at once.
What an enormous number of swathings!
Is not the kernel soon coming to light?
[Pulls the whole onion to pieces.
I’m blest if it is! To the innermost centre,
It’s nothing but swathings—each smaller and smaller.—
Nature is witty!
[Throws the fragments away._
The devil take brooding!
If one goes about thinking, one’s apt to stumble.
Well, I can at any rate laugh at that danger;—
For here on all fours I am firmly planted.
[Scratches his head.
A queer enough business, the whole concern!
Life, as they say, plays with cards up its sleeve;
But when one snatches at them, they’ve disappeared,
And one grips something else,—or else nothing at all.
[He has come near to the hut; he catches sight of it
and starts.]
This hut? On the heath——! Ha!
[Rubs his eyes.
It seems exactly
As though I had known this same building before.—
The reindeer-horns jutting above the gable!—
A mermaid, shaped like a fish from the navel!—
Lies! there’s no mermaid! But nails—and planks,—
Bars too, to shut out hobgoblin thoughts!—
SOLVEIG.
[Singing in the hut.]
Now all is ready for Whitsun Eve.
Dearest boy of mine, far away,
Comest thou soon?
Is thy burden heavy,
Take time, take time;—
I will await thee;
I promised of old.
PEER.
[Rises, quiet and deadly pale.]
One that’s remembered,—and one that’s forgot.
One that has squandered,—and one that has saved.—
Oh, earnest!—and never can the game be played o’er!
Oh, dread![—here was my Kaiserdom!
[Hurries off-along the wood path.
Scene 6
Night. A heath, with fir-trees. A forest fire has been raging;
charred tree-trunks are seen stretching for miles. White mists here and
there clinging to the earth.
PEER GYNT comes running over the heath.
PEER.
Ashes, fog-scuds, dust wind-driven,—
Here’s enough for building with!
Stench and rottenness within it;
All a whited sepulchre.
Figments, dreams, and still-born knowledge
Lay the pyramid’s foundation;
O’er them shall the work mount upwards,
With its step on step of falsehood.
Earnest shunned, repentance dreaded,
Flaunt at the apex like a scutcheon,
Fill the trump of judgment with their
“Petrus Gyntus Cæsar fecit!”
[Listens.
What is this, like children’s weeping?
Weeping, but half-way to song.—
Thread-balls at my feet are rolling!—
[Kicking at them.
Off with you! You block my path!
THE THREAD-BALLS.
[On the ground.]
We are thoughts;
Thou shouldst have thought us;—
Feet to run on
Thou shouldst have given us!
PEER.
[Going round about.]
I have given life to one;—
’Twas a bungled, crook-legged thing!
THE THREAD-BALLS.
We should have soared up
Like clangorous voices,——
And here we must trundle
As grey-yarn thread-balls.
PEER.
[Stumbling.]
Thread-clue! you accursed scamp!
Would you trip your father’s heels?
[Flees.
WITHERED LEAVES.
[Flying before the wind.]
We are a watchword;
Thou shouldst have proclaimed us!
See how thy dozing
Has woefully riddled us.
The worm has gnawed us.
In every crevice;
We have never twined us
Like wreaths round fruitage.
PEER.
Not in vain your birth, however;—
but still and serve as manure.
A SIGHING IN THE AIR.
We are songs;
Thou shouldst have sung us!—
A thousand times over
Hast thou cowed us and smothered us.
Down in thy heart’s pit
We have lain and waited;—
We were never called forth.
Thy gorge we poison!
PEER.
Poison thee, thou foolish stave!
Had I time for verse and stuff?
[Attempts a short cut.
DEWDROPS.
[Dripping from the branches.]
We are tears
Unshed forever.
Ice-spears, sharp-wounding,
We could have melted.
Now the barb rankles
In the shaggy bosom;—
The wound is closed over;
Our power is ended.
PEER.
Thanks;—I wept in Rondë-cloisters,—
None the less my tail-part smarted!
BROKEN STRAWS.
We are deeds;
Thou shouldst have achieved us!
Doubt, the throttler,
Has crippled and riven us.
On the Day of Judgment
We’ll come a-flock,
And tell the story,—
Then woe to you!
PEER.
Rascal-tricks! How dare you debit
What is negative against me?
[Hastens away.]
ÅSE’S VOICE.
[Far away.]
Fie, what a post-boy!
Hu, you’ve upset me
Here in the slush, boy!
Sadly it’s smirched me.—
You’ve driven me the wrong way.
Peer, where’s the castle?
The Fiend has misled you
With the switch from the cupboard.
PEER.
Better haste away, poor fellow!
With the devil’s sins upon you,
Soon you’ll faint upon the hillside;—
Hard enough to bear one’s own sins.
[Runs off.
Scene 7
Another part of the heath.
PEER GYNT.
[Sings.]
A sexton! A sexton! where are you, hounds?
A song from braying precentor-mouths:
Around your hat-brim a mourning band;—
My dead are many; I must follow their biers!
THE BUTTON-MOULDER, with a box of tools and a large
casting-ladle, comes from a side path.
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
Well met, old gaffer!
PEER.
Good evening, friend!
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
The man’s in a hurry. Why, where is he going?
PEER.
To a grave-feast.
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
Indeed? My sight’s not very good;—
Excuse me,—your name doesn’t chance to be Peer?
PEER.
Peer Gynt, as the saying is.
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
That I call luck!
It’s precisely Peer Gynt I am sent for to-night.
PEER.
You’re sent for? What do you want?
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
Why, see here;
I mould buttons; and you must go into my ladle.
PEER.
What to do there?
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
To be melted up.
PEER.
To be melted?
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
Here it is, empty and scoured.
Your grave is dug ready, your coffin bespoke.
The worms in your body will live at their ease;—
But I have orders, without delay,
On Master’s behalf to fetch in your soul.
PEER.
It can’t be! Like this, without any warning——!
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
It’s an old tradition at burials and births
To appoint in secret the day of the feast,
With no warning at all to the guest of honour.
PEER.
Ay, ay, that’s true. All my brain’s awhirl.
You are——?
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
Why, I told you—a button-moulder.
PEER.
I see! A pet child has many nicknames.
So that’s it, Peer; it is there you’re to harbour
But these, my good man, are most unfair proceedings!
I’m sure I deserve better treatment than this;—
I’m not nearly so bad as perhaps you think,—
Indeed I’ve done more or less good in the world;—
At worst you may call me a sort of a bungler,—
But certainly not an exceptional sinner.
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
Why that is precisely the rub, my man;
You’re no sinner at all in the higher sense;
That’s why you’re excused all the torture-pangs,
And, like others, land in the casting-ladle.
PEER.
Give it what name you please—call it ladle or pool;
Spruce ale and swipes, they are both of them beer.
Avaunt from me, Satan!
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
You can’t be so rude
As to take my foot for a horse’s hoof?
PEER.
On horse’s hoof or on fox’s claws—
Be off; and be careful what you’re about!
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
My friend, you’re making a great mistake.
We’re both in a hurry, and so, to save time,
I’ll explain the reason of the whole affair.
You are, with your own lips you told me so,
No sinner on the so-called heroic scale,—
Scarce middling even——
PEER.
Ah, now you’re beginning
To talk common sense——
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
Just have patience a bit—
But to call you a good man were going too far.—
PEER.
Well, you know I have never laid claim to that.
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
You’re nor one thing nor t’other then, only so-so.
A sinner of really grandiose style
Is nowadays not to be met on the highways.
It wants much more than merely to wallow in mire;
For both vigour and earnestness go to a sin.
PEER.
Ay, it’s very true that remark of yours;
One has to lay on, like the old Berserkers.
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
You, friend, on the other hand, took your sin lightly.
PEER.
Only outwardly, friend, like a splash of mud.
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
Ah, we’ll soon be at one now. The sulphur pool
Is no place for you, who but plashed in the mire.
PEER.
And in consequence, friend, I may go as I came?
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
No, in consequence, friend, I must melt you up.
PEER.
What tricks are these that you’ve hit upon
At home here, while I’ve been in foreign parts?
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
The custom’s as old as the Snake’s creation;
It’s designed to prevent loss of good material.
You’ve worked at the craft—you must know that often
A casting turns out, to speak plainly, mere dross;
The buttons, for instance, have sometimes no loop to them.
What did you do then?
PEER.
Flung the rubbish away.
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
Ah, yes; Jon Gynt was well known for a waster,
So long as he’d aught left in wallet or purse.
But Master, you see, he is thrifty, he is;
And that is why he’s so well-to-do.
He flings nothing away as entirely worthless
That can be made use of as raw material.
Now, you were designed for a shining button
On the vest of the world; but your loop gave way;
So into the waste-box you needs must go,
And then, as they phrase it, be merged in the mass.
PEER.
You’re surely not meaning to melt me up,
With Dick, Tom, and Hal, into something new?
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
That just what I do mean, and nothing else.
We’ve done it already to plenty of folks.
At Kongsberg they do just the same with coin
That’s been current so long that its impress is lost.
PEER.
But this is the wretchedest miserliness!
My dear good friend, let me get off free;—
A loopless button, a worn out farthing,—
What is that to a man in your Master’s position?
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
Oh, so long as, and seeing, the spirit is in you,
You always have value as so much metal.
PEER.
No, I say! No! With both teeth and claws
I’ll fight against this! Sooner anything else!
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
But what else? Come now, be reasonable.
You know you’re not airy enough for heaven——
PEER.
I’m not hard to content; I don’t aim so high;—
But I won’t be deprived of one doit of my Self.
Have me judged by the law in the old-fashioned way!
For a certain time place me with Him of the Hoof;—
Say a hundred years, come the worst to the worst;
That, now, is a thing that one surely can bear;
They say that the torment is moral no more,
So it can’t be so pyramid-like after all.
It is, as ’tis written, a mere transition;
And as the fox said: One waits; there comes
An hour of deliverance; one lives in seclusion,
And hopes in the meantime for happier days.—
But this other notion—to have to be merged,
Like a mote, in the carcass of some outsider,—
This casting-ladle business, this Gynt-cessation,—
It stirs up my innermost soul in revolt!
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
Bless me, my dear Peer, there is surely no need
To get so wrought up about trifles like this.
Yourself you never have been at all;—
Then what does it matter, your dying right out?
PEER.
Have I not been——? I could almost laugh!
Peer Gynt, then, has been something else, I suppose!
No, Button-moulder, you judge in the dark.
If you could but look into my very reins,
You’d find only Peer there, and Peer all through,—
Nothing else in the world, no, nor anything more.
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
It’s impossible. Here I have got my orders.
Look, here it is written: Peer Gynt shalt thou summon.
He has set at defiance his life’s design;
Clap him into the ladle with other spoilt goods.
PEER.
What nonsense! They must mean some other person.
Is it really Peer? It’s not Rasmus, or Jon?
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
It is many a day since I melted them.
So come quietly now, and don’t waste my time.
PEER.
I’ll be damned if I do! Ay, ’twould be a fine thing
If it turned out to-morrow someone else was meant.
You’d better take care what you’re at, my good man!
Think of the onus you’re taking upon you——
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
I have it in writing——
PEER.
At least give me time!
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
What good would that do you?
PEER.
I’ll use it to prove
That I’ve been myself all the days of my life;
And that’s the question that’s in dispute.
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
You’ll prove it? And how?
PEER.
Why, by vouchers and witnesses.
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
I’m sadly afraid Master will not accept them.
PEER.
Impossible! However, enough for the day[133]—!
My dear man, allow me a loan of myself;
I’ll be back again shortly. One is born only once,
And one’s self, as created, one fain would stick to.
Come, are we agreed?
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
Very well then, so be it.
But remember, we meet at the next cross-roads.
[PEER GYNT runs off.]
Scene 8
A further point on the heath.
PEER.
[Running hard.]
Time is money, as the Scripture says.
If I only knew where the cross-roads are;—
They may be near and they may be far.
The earth burns beneath me like red-hot iron.
A witness! A witness! Oh, where shall I find one?
It’s almost unthinkable here in the forest.
The world is a bungle! A wretched arrangement,
When a right must be proved that is patent as day!
An OLD MAN, bent with age, with a staff in his hand and
a bag on his back, is trudging in front of him.
THE OLD MAN.
[Stops.]
Dear, kind sir—a trifle to a houseless soul!
PEER.
Excuse me; I’ve got no small change in my pocket——
THE OLD MAN.
Prince Peer! Oh, to think we should meet again——!
PEER.
Who are you?
THE OLD MAN.
You forget the Old Man in the Rondë?
PEER.
Why, you’re never——?
THE OLD MAN.
The King of the Dovrë, my boy!
PEER.
The Dovrë-King? Really? The Dovrë-King? Speak!
THE OLD MAN.
Oh, I’ve come terribly down in the world——!
PEER.
Ruined?
THE OLD MAN.
Ay, plundered of every stiver.
Here am I tramping it, starved as a wolf.
PEER.
Hurrah! Such a witness doesn’t grow on the trees.
THE OLD MAN.
My Lord Prince, too, has grizzled a bit since we met.
PEER.
My dear father-in-law, the years gnaw and wear one.—
Well well, a truce to all private affairs,—
And pray, above all things, no family jars.
I was then a sad madcap——
THE OLD MAN.
Oh yes; oh yes;—
His Highness was young; and what won’t one do then?
But his Highness was wise in rejecting his bride.
He saved himself thereby both worry and shame,
For since then she’s utterly gone to the bad——
PEER.
Indeed!
THE OLD MAN.
She has led a deplorable life;
And, just think,—she and Trond are now living together.
PEER.
Which Trond?
THE OLD MAN.
Of the Valfjeld.
PEER.
It’s he? Aha;
It was he I cut out with the sæter-girls.
THE OLD MAN.
But my grandson has shot up both stout and tall,
And has flourishing children all over the land——
PEER.
Now, my dear man, spare us this flow of words;—
I’ve something quite different troubling my mind.—
I’ve got into rather a ticklish position,
And am greatly in need of a witness or voucher;—
That’s how you could help me best, father-in-law,
And I’ll find you a trifle to drink my health.
THE OLD MAN.
You don’t say so; can I be of use to his Highness?
You’ll give me a character, then, in return?
PEER.
Most gladly. I’m somewhat hard pressed for cash,
And must cut down expenses in every direction.
Now hear what’s the matter. No doubt you remember
That night when I came to the Rondë a-wooing——
THE OLD MAN.
Why, of course, my Lord Prince!
PEER.
Oh, no more of the Prince!
But no matter. You wanted, by sheer brute force,
To bias my sight, with a slit in the lens,
And to change me about from Peer Gynt to a troll.
What did I_ do then? I stood out against it,—
Swore I would stand on no feet but my own;
Love, power, and glory at once I renounced,
And all for the sake of remaining myself.
Now this fact, you see, you must swear to in Court——
THE OLD MAN.
No, I’m blest if I can.
PEER.
Why, what nonsense is this?
THE OLD MAN.
You surely don’t want to compel me to lie?
You pulled on the troll-breeches, don’t you remember,
And tasted the mead——
PEER.
Ay, you lured me seductively;—
But I flatly declined the decisive test,
And that is the thing you must judge your man by.
It’s the end of the ditty that all depends on.
THE OLD MAN.
But it ended, Peer, just in the opposite way.
PEER.
What rubbish is this?
THE OLD MAN.
When you left the Rondë,
You inscribed my motto upon your escutcheon.
PEER.
What motto?
THE OLD MAN.
The potent and sundering word.
PEER.
The word?
THE OLD MAN.
That which severs the whole race of men
From the troll-folk: Troll! To thyself be enough!
PEER.
[Recoils a step.]
Enough!
THE OLD MAN.
And with every nerve in your body,
You’ve been living up to it ever since.
PEER.
What, I? Peer Gynt?
THE OLD MAN.
[Weeps.]
It’s ungrateful of you!
You’ve lived as a troll, but have still kept it secret.
The word I taught you has shown you the way
To swing yourself up as a man of substance;—
And now you must needs come and turn up your nose
At me and the word you’ve to thank for it all.
PEER.
Enough! A hill-troll! An egoist!
This must be all rubbish; that’s perfectly certain!
THE OLD MAN.
[Pulls out a bundle of old newspapers.]
I daresay you think we don’t take in the papers?
Wait; here I’ll show you in red and black
How the “Bloksberg Post” eulogises you;
And the “Heklefjeld Journal” has done the same
Ever since the winter you left the country.—
Do you care to read them? You’re welcome, Peer.
Here’s an article, look you, signed “Stallion-hoof.”
And here too is one: “On Troll-Nationalism.”
The writer points out and lays stress on the truth
That horns and a tail are of little importance,
So long as one has but a strip of the hide.
“Our enough,” he concludes, “gives the hallmark of trolldom
To man,”—and proceeds to cite you as an instance.
PEER.
A hill-troll? I?
THE OLD MAN.
Yes, that’s perfectly clear.
PEER.
Might as well have stayed quietly where I was?
Might have stayed in the Rondë in comfort and peace?
Saved my trouble and toil and no end of shoe-leather?
Peer Gynt—a troll? Why, it’s rubbish! It’s stuff!
Good-bye! There’s a halfpenny to buy you tobacco.
THE OLD MAN.
Nay, my good Prince Peer!
PEER.
Let me go! You’re mad,
Or else doting. Off to the hospital with you!
THE OLD MAN.
Oh, that is exactly what I’m in search of.
But, as I told you, my grandson’s offspring
Have become overwhelmingly strong in the land,
And they say that I only exist in books.
The saw says: One’s kin are unkindest of all;
I’ve found to my cost that that saying is true.
It’s cruel to count as mere figment and fable——
PEER.
My dear man, there are others who share the same fate.
THE OLD MAN.
And ourselves we’ve no Mutual Aid Society,
No alms-box or Penny Savings Bank;—
In the Rondë, of course, they’d be out of place.
PEER.
No, that curs’d: To thyself be enough was the word there!
THE OLD MAN.
Oh, come now, the Prince can’t complain of the word.
And if he could manage by hook or by crook——
PEER.
My man, you have got on the wrong scent entirely;
I’m myself, as the saying goes, fairly cleaned out——
THE OLD MAN.
You surely can’t mean it? His Highness a beggar?
PEER.
Completely. His Highness’s ego’s in pawn.
And it’s all your fault, you accursed trolls!
That’s what comes of keeping bad company.
THE OLD MAN.
So there came my hope toppling down from its perch again!
Good-bye! I had best struggle on to the town——
PEER.
What would you do there?
THE OLD MAN.
I will go to the theatre.
The papers are clamouring for national talents——
PEER.
Good luck on your journey; and greet them from me.
If I can but get free, I will go the same way.
A farce I will write them, a mad and profound one;
Its name shall be: “Sic transit gloria mundi.”
[He runs off along the road; the OLD MAN shouts after him.]
Scene 9
[At a cross-road.]
PEER GYNT.
Now comes the pinch, Peer, as never before!
This Dovrish has passed judgment upon you.
The vessel’s a wreck; one must float with the spars.
All else; but to go to the scrap-heap—no, no!
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
[At the cross-road.]
Well now, Peer Gynt, have you found your voucher?
PEER.
Is this, then, the cross-road? Well, that is short work!
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
I can see on your face, as it were on a sign-board,
The gist of the paper before I have read it.
PEER.
I got tired of the hunt;—one might lose one’s way——
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
Yes; and what does it lead to, after all?
PEER.
True enough; in the wood, and by night as well——
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
There’s an old man, though, trudging. Shall we call him here?
PEER.
No, let him go. He is drunk, my dear fellow!
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
But perhaps he might——
PEER.
Hush; no—let him alone!
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
Well, shall we begin then?
PEER.
One question—just one:
What is it, at bottom, this “being oneself”?
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
A singular question, most odd in the mouth
Of a man who but now——
PEER.
Come, a straightforward answer.
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
To be oneself is: to slay oneself.
But on you that answer is doubtless lost;
And therefore we’ll say: to stand forth everywhere
With Master’s intention displayed like a sign-board.
PEER.
But suppose a man never has come to know
What Master meant with him?
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
He must divine it.
PEER.
But how oft are divinings beside the mark,—
Then one’s carried “ad undas” in middle career.
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
That is certain, Peer Gynt; in default of divining
The cloven-hoofed gentleman finds his best hook.
PEER.
This matter’s excessively complicated.—
See here! I no longer plead being myself;—
It might not be easy to get it proven.
That part of my case I must look on as lost.
But just now, as I wandered alone o’er the heath,
I felt my conscience-shoe pinching me;
I said to myself: After all, you’re a sinner——
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
You seem bent on beginning all over again——
PEER.
No, very far from it; a great one I mean;
Not only in deeds, but in words and desires.
I’ve lived a most damnable life abroad——
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
Perhaps; I must ask you to show me the schedule!
PEER.
Well well, give me time; I will find out a parson,
Confess with all speed, and then bring you his voucher.
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
Ay, if you can bring me that, then it is clear
You may yet escape from the casting-ladle.
But Peer, I’d my orders——
PEER.
The paper is old;
It dates no doubt from a long past period;—
At one time I lived with disgusting slackness,
Went playing the prophet, and trusted in Fate.
Well, may I try?
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
But——!
PEER.
My dear, good man,
I’m sure you can’t have so much to do.
Here, in this district, the air is so bracing,
It adds an ell to the people’s ages.
Recollect what the Justedal parson wrote:
“It’s seldom that any one dies in this valley.”
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
To the next cross-roads then; but not a step further.
PEER.
A priest I must catch, if it be with the tongs.
[He starts running.
Scene 10
A heather-clad hillside with a path following the windings of
the ridge.
PEER.
This may come in useful in many ways,
Said Esben as he picked up a magpie’s wing.
Who could have thought one’s account of sins
Would come to one’s aid on the last night of all?
Well, whether or no, it’s a ticklish business;
A move from the frying-pan into the fire;—
But then there’s a proverb of well-tried validity
Which says that as long as there’s life there is hope.
A LEAN PERSON in a priest’s cassock, kilted-up high,
and with a birding-net over his shoulder, comes hurrying along the ridge.
PEER.
Who goes there? A priest with a fowling-net!
Hei, hop! I’m the spoilt child of fortune indeed!
Good evening, Herr Pastor! the path is bad——
THE LEAN ONE.
Ah yes; but what wouldn’t one do for a soul?
PEER.
Aha! then there’s someone bound heavenwards?
THE LEAN ONE.
No;
I hope he is taking a different road.
PEER.
May I walk with Herr Pastor a bit of the way?
THE LEAN ONE.
With pleasure; I’m partial to company.
PEER.
I should like to consult you——
THE LEAN ONE.
Heraus! Go ahead!
PEER.
You see here before you a good sort of man.
The laws of the state I have strictly observed,
Have made no acquaintance with fetters or bolts;—
But it happens at times that one misses one’s footing
And stumbles——
THE LEAN ONE.
Ah yes; that occurs to the best of us.
PEER.
Now these trifles you see——
THE LEAN ONE.
Only trifles?
PEER.
Yes;
From sinning en gros I have ever refrained.
THE LEAN ONE.
Oh then, my dear fellow, pray leave me in peace;—
I’m not the person you seem to think me.—
You look at my fingers: What see you in them?
PEER.
A nail-system somewhat extremely developed.
THE LEAN ONE.
And now? You are casting a glance at my feet?
PEER.
[Pointing.]
That’s a natural hoof?
THE LEAN ONE.
So I flatter myself.
PEER.
[Raises his hat.]
I’d have taken my oath you were simply a parson;
And I find I’ve the honour——. Well, best is best;—
When the hall door stands wide,—shun the kitchen way;
When the king’s to be met with,—avoid the lackey.
THE LEAN ONE.
Your hand! You appear to be free from prejudice.
Say on then, my friend; in what way can I serve you?
Now you mustn’t ask me for wealth or power;
I couldn’t supply them although I should hang for it.
You can’t think how slack the whole business is;—
Transactions have dwindled most pitiably.
Nothing doing in souls; only now and again
A stray one——
PEER.
The race has improved so remarkably?
THE LEAN ONE.
No, just the reverse; it’s sunk shamefully low;—
The majority end in a casting-ladle.
PEER.
Ah yes—I have heard that ladle mentioned;
In fact, ’twas the cause of my coming to you.
THE LEAN ONE.
Speak out!
PEER.
If it were not too much to ask,
I should like——
THE LEAN ONE.
A harbour of refuge? eh?
PEER.
You’ve guessed my petition before I have asked.
You tell me the business is going awry;
So I daresay you will not be over-particular.
THE LEAN ONE.
But, my dear——
PEER.
My demands are in no way excessive.
I shouldn’t insist on a salary;
But treatment as friendly as things will permit.
THE LEAN ONE.
A fire in your room?
PEER.
Not too much fire;—and chiefly
The power of departing in safety and peace,—
The right, as the phrase goes, of freely withdrawing
Should an opening offer for happier days.
THE LEAN ONE.
My dear friend, I vow I’m sincerely distressed;
But you cannot imagine how many petitions
Of similar purport good people send in,
When they’re quitting the scene of their earthly activity.
PEER.
But now that I think of my past career,
I feel I’ve an absolute claim to admission——
THE LEAN ONE.
’Twas but trifles, you said——
PEER.
In a certain sense;—
But, now I remember, I’ve trafficked in slaves——
THE LEAN ONE.
There are men that have trafficked in wills and souls,
But who bungled it so that they failed to get in.
PEER.
I’ve shipped Bramah-figures in plenty to China.
THE LEAN ONE.
Mere wish-wash again! Why, we laugh at such things.
There are people that ship off far gruesomer figures
In sermons, in art, and in literature,
Yet have to stay out in the cold——
PEER.
Ah, but then,
Do you know—I once went and set up as a prophet!
THE LEAN ONE.
In foreign parts? Humbug! Why most people’s _Sehen
Ins Blaue ends in the casting-ladle.
If you’ve no more than that to rely upon,
With the best of good will, I can’t possibly house you.
PEER.
But hear this: In a shipwreck—I clung to a boat’s keel,—
And it’s written: A drowning man grasps at a straw,—
Furthermore it is written: You’re nearest yourself,—
So I half-way divested a cook of his life.
THE LEAN ONE.
It were all one to me if a kitchen-maid
You had half-way divested of something else.
What sort of stuff is this half-way jargon,
Saving your presence? Who, think you, would care
To throw away dearly-bought fuel, in times
Like these, on such spiritless rubbish as this?
There now, don’t be enraged; ’twas your sins that I scoffed at;
And excuse my speaking my mind so bluntly.—
Come, my dearest friend, banish this stuff from your head,
And get used to the thought of the casting-ladle.
What would you gain if I lodged you and boarded you?
Consider; I know you’re a sensible man.
Well, you’d keep your memory; that’s so far true;—
But the retrospect o’er recollection’s domain
Would be, both for heart and for intellect,
What the Swedes call “Mighty poor sport” indeed.
You have nothing either to howl or to smile about;
No cause for rejoicing nor yet for despair;
Nothing to make you feel hot or cold;
Only a sort of a something to fret over.
PEER.
It is written: It’s never so easy to know
Where the shoe is tight that one isn’t wearing.
THE LEAN ONE.
Very true; I have—praise be to so-and-so!—
No occasion for more than a single odd shoe.
But it’s lucky we happened to speak of shoes;
It reminds me that I must be hurrying on;—
I’m after a roast that I hope will prove fat;
So I really mustn’t stand gossiping here.—
PEER.
And may one inquire, then, what sort of sin-diet
The man has been fattened on?
THE LEAN ONE.
I understand
He has been himself both by night and by day,
And that, after all, is the principal point.
PEER.
Himself? Then do such folks belong to your parish?
THE LEAN ONE.
That depends; the door, at least, stands ajar for them.
Remember, in two ways a man can be
Himself—there’s a right and wrong side to the jacket.
You know they have lately discovered in Paris
A way to take portraits by help of the sun.
One can either produce a straightforward picture
Or else what is known as a negative one.
In the latter the lights and the shades are reversed,
And they’re apt to seem ugly to commonplace eyes;
But for all that the likeness is latent in them,
And all you require is to bring it out.
If, then, a soul shall have pictured itself
In the course of its life by the negative method,
The plate is not therefore entirely cashiered,—
But without more ado they consign it to me.
For ulterior treatment I take it in hand,
And by suitable methods effect its development.
I steam it, I dip it, I burn it, I scour it,
With sulphur and other ingredients like that,
Till the image appears which the plate was designed for,—
That, namely, which people call positive.
But for one who, like you, has smudged himself out,
Neither sulphur nor potash avails in the least.
PEER.
I see; one must come to you black as a raven
To turn out a white ptarmigan? Pray what’s the name
Inscribed ’neath the negative counterfeit
That you’re now to transfer to the positive side?
THE LEAN ONE.
The name’s Peter Gynt.
PEER.
Peter Gynt? Indeed?
Is Herr Gynt himself?
THE LEAN ONE.
Yes, he vows he is.
PEER.
Well, he’s one to be trusted, that same Herr Peter.
THE LEAN ONE.
You know him, perhaps?
PEER.
Oh yes, after a fashion;—
One knows all sorts of people.
THE LEAN ONE.
I’m pressed for time;
Where saw you him last?
PEER.
It was down at the Cape.
THE LEAN ONE.
Di Buona Speranza?
PEER.
Just so; but he sails
Very shortly again, if I’m not mistaken.
THE LEAN ONE.
I must hurry off then without delay.
I only hope I may catch him in time!
That Cape of Good Hope—I could never abide it;—
It’s ruined by missionaries from Stavanger.
[He rushes off southwards.
PEER.
The stupid hound! There he takes to his heels
With his tongue lolling out. He’ll be finely sold.
It delights me to humbug an ass like that.
He to give himself airs, and to lord it forsooth!
He’s a mighty lot, truly, to swagger about!
He’ll scarcely grow fat at his present trade;—
He’ll soon drop from his perch with his whole apparatus.—
H’m, I’m not over-safe in the saddle either;
I’m expelled, one may say, from self-owning nobility.
[A shooting star is seen; he nods after it.
Greet all friends from Peer Gynt, Brother Starry-Flash!
To flash forth, to go out, and be naught at a gulp—
[Pulls himself together as though in terror, and goes
deeper in among the mists; stillness for a while; then he cries:
Is there no one, no one in all the whirl,—
In the void no one, and no one in heaven—!
[He comes forward again further down, throws his hat upon the ground, and tears at his hair. By degrees a stillness comes over him.
So unspeakably poor, then, a soul can go
Back to nothingness, into the grey of the mist.
Thou beautiful earth, be not angry with me
That I trampled thy grasses to no avail.
Thou beautiful sun, thou hast squandered away
Thy glory of light in an empty hut.
There was no one within it to hearten and warm;—
The owner, they tell me, was never at home.
Beautiful sun and beautiful earth,
You were foolish to bear and give light to my mother.
The spirit is niggard and nature lavish;
And dearly one pays for one’s birth with one’s life.—
I will clamber up high, to the dizziest peak;
I will look once more on the rising sun,
Gaze till I’m tired o’er the promised land;
Then try to get snowdrifts piled up over me.
They can write above them: “Here No One lies buried”;
And afterwards,—then——! Let things go as they can.
CHURCH-GOERS.
[Singing on the forest path.]
Oh, morning thrice blest,
When the tongues of God’s kingdom
Struck the earth like to flaming steel!
From the earth to his dwelling
Now the heirs’ song ascendeth
In the tongue of the kingdom of God.
PEER.
[Crouches as in terror.]
Never look there! there all’s desert and waste.—
I fear I was dead long before I died.
[Tries to slink in among the bushes, but comes upon the cross-roads.]
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
Good morning, Peer Gynt! Where’s the list of your sins?
PEER.
Do you think that I haven’t been whistling and shouting
As hard as I could?
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
And met no one at all?
PEER.
Not a soul but a tramping photographer.
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
Well, the respite is over.
PEER.
Ay, everything’s over.
The owl smells the daylight. Just list to the hooting!
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
It’s the matin-bell ringing——
PEER.
[Pointing.]
What’s that shining yonder?
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
Only light from a hut.
PEER.
And that wailing sound——?
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
But a woman singing.
PEER.
Ay, there—there I’ll find
The list of my sins——
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
[Seizing him.]
Set your house in order!
[They have come out of the underwood, and are standing near the hut.
Day is dawning.
PEER.
Set my house in order? It’s there! Away.
Get you gone! Though your ladle were huge as a coffin,
It were too small, I tell you, for me and my sins.
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
Well, to the third cross-road, Peer; but then——.
[Turns aside and goes.
PEER.
[Approaches the hut.]
Forward and back, and it’s just as far.
Out and in, and it’s just as strait.
[Stops.
No!—like a wild, an unending lament,
Is the thought: to come back, to go in, to go home.
[Takes a few steps on, but stops again.
Round about, said the Boyg!
[Hears singing in the hut.
Ah no; this time at least
Right through, though the path may be never so strait!
[He runs towards the hut; at the same moment SOLVEIG
appears in the doorway, dressed for church, with a
psalm-book wrapped in a kerchief, and a staff in her
hand. She stands there erect and mild.]
PEER.
[Flings himself down on the threshold.]
Hast thou doom for a sinner, then speak it forth!
SOLVEIG.
He is here! He is here! Oh, to God be the praise!
[Stretches out her arms as though groping for him.]
PEER.
Cry out all my sins and my trespasses!
SOLVEIG.
In nought hast thou sinned, oh my own only boy.
[Gropes for him again, and finds him.
THE BUTTON-MOULDER.
[Behind the house.]
The sin-list, Peer Gynt?
PEER.
Cry aloud my crime!
SOLVEIG.
[Sits down beside him.]
Thou hast made all my life as a beautiful song.
Blessëd be thou that at last thou hast come!
Blessëd, thrice blessëd our Whitsun-morn meeting!
PEER.
Then I am lost!
SOLVEIG.
There is one that rules all things.
PEER.
[Laughs.]
Lost! Unless thou canst answer riddles.
SOLVEIG.
Tell me them.
PEER.
Tell them! Come on! To be sure!
Canst thou tell where Peer Gynt has been since we parted?
SOLVEIG.
Been?
PEER.
With his destiny’s seal on his brow;
Been, as in God’s thought he first sprang forth!
Canst thou tell me? If not, I must get me home,—
Go down to the mist-shrouded regions.
SOLVEIG.
[Smiling.]
Oh, that riddle is easy.
PEER.
Then tell what thou knowest!
Where was I, as myself, as the whole man, the true man?
Where was I, with God’s sigil upon my brow?
SOLVEIG.
In my faith, in my hope, and in my love.
PEER.
[Starts back.]
What sayest thou——? Peace! These are juggling words.
Thou art mother thyself to the man that’s there.
SOLVEIG.
Ay, that I am; but who is his father?
Surely he that forgives at the mother’s prayer.
PEER.
[A light shines in his face; he cries:]
My mother; my wife; oh, thou innocent woman!—
In thy love—oh, there hide me, hide me!
[Clings to her end hides his face in her lap. A long
silence. The sun rises.]
SOLVEIG.
[Sings softly.]
Sleep thou, dearest boy of mine!
I will cradle thee, I will watch thee——
The boy has been sitting on his mother’s lap.
They two have been playing all the life-day long.
The boy has been resting at his mother’s breast
All the life-day long. God’s blessing on my joy!
The boy has been lying close in to my heart
All the life-day long. He is weary now.
Sleep thou, dearest boy of mine!
I will cradle thee, I will watch thee.
THE BUTTON-MOULDER’S VOICE.
[Behind the house.]
At the last cross-road we will meet again, Peer;
And then we’ll see whether——; I say no more.
SOLVEIG.
[Sings louder in the full daylight.]
I will cradle thee, I will watch thee;
Sleep and dream thou, dear my boy!
References
Anderson, H.C. 1837. “Emperor with no Clothes.”
Asbjørnsen and Moe. 1841. Norwegian Folktales.
Asbjørnsen, P. C. “Norske folke og huldre-eventyr”. 1848. (this includes the story of “Gudbrand Glesne” and “Fra Sognefjord”.
Braine, John. (1957). Room at the Top.
Carter, Angela. (1979). The Bloody Chamber.
de Cervantes, Miguel. 1615. Don Quixote.
Harkness, Ian. 2022. “From Sognefjord,” a retelling of the story in Asbjørnsen’s “Norwegian folktales and legends.” See: www.artstraveling.com Accessed: 3 Jan. 2022.
Huxley, Aldous. Brave New World. 1932.
Ibsen, Henrik. Peer Gynt. Translation by Archer, William and Charles. Heinemann. 1923 (1907). (This seems to be the ‘definitive’ translation – at least historically).
Ibsen, Henrik. Peer Gynt. 1966. Peter Watts’ translation with an introduction. Penguin.
Ibsen, Henrik, Peer Gynt. 1985. Translation by Farquharson Sharp, R. (first published 1921, and 1936). Harrap, London. (this publication is perhaps ‘dated’, but presents great illustrations by Arthur Rackham).
Ibsen, Henrik. Samlede Verker 1. 1991. Den Norske Bokklubben.
McGuinness, Frank. 1990. Faber and Faber. London. (a ‘modern’ translation).
Ibsen, Henrik. Peer Gynt. Translation by John Northam. https://www.hf.uio.no/is/tjenester/virtuelle-ibsensenteret/ibsen-arkivet/tekstarkiv/oversettelser/114049.pdf Accessed: 6 Dec. 2022.
Miller, Arthur. (1949) Death of a Salesman.
Newmark, Peter. 1988. A Textbook of Translation. Prentice-Hall International.
Norwegian text of the play
Artists
Khristoljubov, Mikhail.
Munch, Edvard. The illustrations were downloaded from the website of the Munch Museum: https://www.munchmuseet.no/
Rackham, Arthur. The illustrations were scanned from the following book: Ibsen, Henrik, Peer Gynt. 1985. Translation by Farquharson Sharp, R. (first published 1921, and 1936). Harrap, London.
External links:
- An audio version of the play in English:
https://librivox.org/peer-gynt-by-henrik-ibsen/
- Ibsen, Henrik. Peer Gynt. Translation by John Northam. https://www.hf.uio.no/is/tjenester/virtuelle-ibsensenteret/ibsen-arkivet/tekstarkiv/oversettelser/114049.pdf Accessed: 6 Dec. 2022.
- Translation of Peer Gynt By William and Charles Archer: https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/66239/pg66239.txt Accessed: 13 Dec. 2022
- Original folktale of “Per Gynt” in English: https://www.gutenberg.org/files/38070/38070-h/38070-h.htm
Appendix
Gudbrand Glesne
(an extract from: “Norske Huldreeventyr og Folkesagn: Hoifjeldsbilleder 2: Reensdyrjagt ved Ronderne” av Peter Chr. Asbjørnsen).[39]
«Kanskee Hjorten ikke behøver saa stærkt Dødsskud,» sagde Thor; «paa Renen maa der brydes Been eller træffes Hjerte, ellers bliver den ikke liggende. Der var en Skytter i Vestfjeldene. Han hedte Gudbrand Glesne, og var gift med Bedstemoder til Gutten, I saae i Sæteren i Gaarkveld, og en glup Skytter skal han have været. En Høst var han kommen i Hold med en svær Buk. Han skjød paa den og kunde ikke andet vide, end at den var stokdød, saa faldt den. Saa gik han, som En ofte pleier, og satte sig skrævs over Ryggen paa den, og skulde løse paa Kniven og byde til at skille Nakkebenet fra Skallen. Men bedst han havde sat sig, sprat den op, lagde Hornene tilbage og trykte ham ned mellem dem, saa han sad som i en Armstol, og saa gik det afsted, for Kuglen havde bare strøget Dyret paa Hovedet, saa det var falden i Svime. Slig Skyds har vel aldrig noget Menneske havt som den han Gudbrand fik. Det gik mod Veir og Vind, over de fæleste Bræer og Stygurer. Saa satte den over Gjendeeggen, men da bad han til Vorherre, for da troede han, at han aldrig skulde faae see Sol eller Maane mere. Men tilsidst lagde Renen paa Vandet og svømmede tværs over med Skytteren paa Ryggen. Imens havde han faaet Kniven løs, og idetsamme Bukken satte Foden paa Landet, stødte han den i Nakken, og død var den, og Gudbrand Glesne havde vist ikke gjort den Reisen om igjen, om han kunde have vundet al den Rigdom, som til var.»
Rough English translation of “Gudbrand Glesne”
(an extract from: “Norwegian Folktales: Pictures of the Mountains 2: The Reindeer Hunt in the Rondane Mountains”, by Peter Christian Asbjørnsen.[40]
“Perhaps the stag does not need so strong a death shot,” said Thor; “when it’s a reindeer, a leg must be broken or the bullet must pierce the heart, otherwise it will not lie down. There was a hunter in the West Mountains. His name was Gudbrand Glesne, and he was married to the boy’s grandmother, you saw in the cottage yesterday evening. He must have been a sharp shooter. One autumn he had tracked down a mighty buck. He took a shot at it, and far as he knew it fell down stone dead. Then he walked towards the buck, as one often does, and sat astride its back, took out his knife, so he could cleave the neck bone from the skull. But as soon as he had sat down on the beast, it sprang up, turned back its antlers, pinning him down between them, so that he sat there pinned; then it set off at a gallop, for the bullet had just grazed the animal’s head, so that it had only fallen into a brief swoon. Gudbrand clung to its antlers as it set off. No human being has ever had such a terrifying ride before. The buck rode on through foul weather and strong winds, over the worst of glaciers and screes. Then it galloped along the ridge. Glesne prayed to Our Lord, because he thought he would never see the sun or the moon again. But at last the buck plunged into the lake and began to swim across with the hunter on his back. In the meantime, Gudbrand had managed to unsheathe his knife, and as soon as the buck set its hooves on dry land he stabbed it in the neck, and it really fell down dead this time. Gudbrand told everyone later that he would not have made that journey again, even for all the riches of the world.
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https://www.masterclass.com/articles/understanding-iambic-meter 9 Dec. 2022. ↑
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Harkness, Ian. 2022. “Sverre’s Saga – the Battle of Fimreite.” Re-telling in English of the “Battle of Fimreite”. Illustrated by Mikhail Khristoljubov. Harkness, Ian. 2022. “The Poems of Gjest Baardsen” – a re-telling. Illustrated by Mikhail Khristoljubov. (see following website: http://artstraveling.com/ ) ↑
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https://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-china-63447755 9 Dec. 2022. ↑
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https://www.volkswagenag.com/presence/konzern/documents/history/englisch/Katalog_Erinnerungsst%C3%A4tte_EN.pdf 9 Dec. 2022. ↑
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“Elon Musk sacks 80% of Twitter staff as company descends into chaos” https://www.lbc.co.uk/news/elon-musk-twitter-staff-sacked-eighty-per-cent/ Read: 11 December 2022. ↑
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https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dudgeon_(steam_automobile_company) ↑
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https://www.smithsonianmag.com/science-nature/a-salute-to-the-wheel-31805121/#:~:text=The%20first%20wheels%20were%20not,to%20use%20them%20for%20chariots. ↑
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https://www.hf.uio.no/is/tjenester/virtuelle-ibsensenteret/ibsen-arkivet/tekstarkiv/oversettelser/114049.pdf Accessed: 6 Dec. 2022. ↑
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https://www.logoslibrary.org/ibsen/peer/index.html Accessed: 13 Dec. 2022. ↑
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https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/66239/pg66239.txt Accessed: 13 Dec. 2022. ↑
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Iran publicly hanged Majidreza Rahnavard, 23, for protesting against the oppressive all-male Iranian government, and the government’s justification of the rape and murder of women who do not follow the obligatory hijab headscarf ruling. Majidreza Rahnavard, 23, was convicted of “enmity against God” without due legal process. https://www.bbc.com/news/world-middle-east-63939428 Accessed: 13 Dec. 2022. ↑
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Ibsen, Henrik. 1966. Peer Gynt. Peter Watts translations with an introduction. Penguin. ↑
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Without going into deeper research here, it seems that Grieg has Scottish ancestors. In fact, the Norwegians have misspelt his name, which should be Greig. Grieg is certainly not a Norwegian name. Grieg’s ancestor left Scotland after the Battle of Culloden. So, as mentioned, without going into deeper research Grieg’s ancestor was probably a brother-in-arms to my MacGillivray ancestors who fought at Culloden. https://www.classicfm.com/composers/grieg/guides/grieg-facts/young-grieg-1/#:~:text=Born%20on%2015%20June%201843,after%20the%20Battle%20of%20Culloden. ↑
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Ibsen also laid claim to Scottish ancestors. (see Wikipedia) ↑
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Edvard Grieg: Peer Gynt Suite No.1:
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https://www.theguardian.com/stage/2014/oct/29/the-master-linguist-the-problem-with-translating-ibsen Date of reading: 3 Jan. 2023. ↑
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https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fawlty_Towers ↑
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https://www.oxfam.org/en/ten-harmful-beliefs-perpetuate-violence-against-women-and-girls Date of reading: 5 Jan. 2023. ↑
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For example, searching “peer gynt and sexuality” in Google without using the inverted commas provided numerous hits, such as: “The Structure of desire in Peer Gynt’s relationship to Solveig” by Marit Aalen and Anders Zachrisson: https://www.researchgate.net/publication/263221766_The_Structure_of_desire_in_peer_gynt’s_relationship_to_solveig
Also: “Peer Gynt: Love and the Dilemma of Dependency” by Rollo May: https://www.jstor.org/stable/24458696
There are obviously very many other articles written on this topic. ↑
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https://artstraveling.com/2022/11/25/yemelya-the-fool/ Read: 16 December 2022. ↑
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“Norwegian playwright Henrik Ibsen (1828-1906) was married to Suzannah but was addicted to the friendship of young women.” https://www.dailyscandinavian.com/norwegian-playwright-in-love-with-youth/ Read: 4 Jan. 2022. ↑
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https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Strange_Case_of_Dr_Jekyll_and_Mr_Hyde ↑
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https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peer_Gynt_(Grieg)#Suite_No._1,_Op._46 Date: 20 Dec. 2022. ↑
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Sourced from: https://www.hf.uio.no/is/tjenester/virtuelle-ibsensenteret/ibsen-arkivet/tekstarkiv/oversettelser/114049.pdf Accessed: 6 Dec. 2022. ↑
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Roughly one yard. ↑
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Like Peer Gynt, Glesne was a real person. He appears in Asbjørnsen’s “Folk Tales”. ↑
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The great irony regarding the story of Peer’s buck ride along the ridge of Gjendin, and the fact that ÅSE says it is all a bunch of lies, and that: “It’s really the tale of Gudbrand Glesne, and not of Peer. That it is a lie, a story turned around and adorned with pomp and show; clothed in newly fashioned skin, so then none can see its meagre carcass. (…) made the tale so wild and grand, spruced it up with tawny eagles,” is that it is both Ibsen and Peer who are the ‘liars’ “sprucing up the original tale”. In other words, Peer’s ‘crime’, and Ibsen’s ‘crime’ is that of poetic licence. In other words, in this sense, all artists and dreamers are ‘liars’ in that they appeal to the world of the imagination, rather than the real world.
However, the original tale makes more logical sense and could have been something that actually happened. But it can also be imagined that the ‘original’ event has also been embellished with the ideas of Asbjørnsen. Peter Christen Asbjørnsen was a collector of Norwegian folklore, and often embellished the stories he heard or recorded.
I have translated/rewritten “From Sognefjord” which is also included (like the story of Gudbrand Glesne), in “Norwegian Folktales, a collection of Norwegian folktales and legends” (Norwegian: “Norske folke og huldre-eventyr”). “From Sognefjord” is also wildly romantic.
These folk tales are of course based on an oral tradition. The ‘original’ stories may have had some element of truth, but after the telling and re-telling hundreds of times the ‘original’ story would often be lost. Thus, Asbjørnsen recorded the story of Gudbrand Glesne (told hundreds of times before) adding his own embellishments. In turn, Ibsen added further embellishments, lifting the story up to the level of ‘poetry’.
Ibsen’s version is of course pure fantasy and incongruous – as Peer would not have survived falling several hundred yards into the lake on the back of the buck.
Moreover, Ibsen seem to get his facts mixed up – what happened to Peer’s gun (as mentioned by ÅSE)? Neither Ibsen’s version nor the original version seem to provide a cohesive narrative of why Peer didn’t fall off the buck’s back (no mention is made of him clinging to the buck’s antlers as far as I can remember).
Of course, Ibsen was not concerned with ‘keeping to the facts’. In the Norwegian, despite incongruities, the buck ride ‘makes sense’, and is a poetic whole. However, I have to admit that my translation of the ‘buck ride’ captured only a part of the original. My only consolation is that other translators seemed also incapable of translating this passage well.
I have included the original story of Gudbrand Glesne in the appendix, as well as a rough translation. ↑
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This is a direct reference to the Norwegian folk tale hero, Askeladden (the Ash Lad); who, in reality is not so much ‘Norwegian’ but a folk hero of a wider culture; for instance, compare the Ash Lad to ‘Yemelya’ in Slavic folk tales. What is of interest here is that the ‘Ash Lad’ and ‘Yemelya’ – although they were ‘lazy country bumpkins’ managed nevertheless to run off with the princess in the end. Of course, this was a tale that delighted simple country people in the sense that they could also be socially mobile and ‘capture a princess’. This is a theme utilised by novel writing since the creation of the genre around the seventeenth century – which may be viewed in connection with the idea of ‘the individual and social mobility’ associated with the birth of capitalism.
In other words, Ibsen utilises various ‘folk’ sources. He utilises the sources to ‘discuss’ various social, political and philosophical topics. In this way, he resembles H. C. Anderson, and his use of folk tales to ‘discuss’ social topics.
‘Modern’ writers, such as Angela Carter, also use folk tales to discuss contemporary issues (see: “The Bloody Chamber”, 1979).
Regarding ‘social mobility and literature’, we can also mention ‘social climbers’ such as Joe Lampton in John Braine’s “Room at the Top” (1957).
I don’t want to definitively state Ibsen’s intentions regarding “Peer Gynt”, but it is obvious that Peer Gynt is no Joe Lampton; in other words, Ibsen is satirising such ‘dreamers’; although hardly directly related in a literary context, one can think of other such ‘dreamers’ in the world of literature, such as Willy Loman in Arthur Miller’s “Death of a Salesman”. ↑
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It is believed in some parts of Norway that ‘changelings’ (elf-children left in the stead of those taken away by the fairies) can, by certain spells, be made to fly away up the chimney. (Archer, William and Charles. 1923 (1907). ↑
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Ibsen is brilliant in the way he ‘discusses’ serious issues but manages to insert light-hearted elements. In this way, he resembles Shakespeare (and many others) in that he introduces comic elements into the tragedy “Peer Gynt”. “Peer Gynt” may not be a tragedy in the strict definition of the genre – but it seems obvious that Ibsen had such an intent – that is, Peer Gynt as an ‘anti-hero’, or a character with flaws. ↑
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From this point on I will insert Northam’s translation for the rest of Act One: https://www.hf.uio.no/is/tjenester/virtuelle-ibsensenteret/ibsen-arkivet/tekstarkiv/oversettelser/114049.pdf Accessed: 2022. ↑
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Northam’s translation from here. ↑
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From this point onwards the following translation is used: Ibsen, Henrik. Peer Gynt. Translation by Archer, William and Charles. Heinemann. 1923 (1907). ↑
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A small mountain farm, where the cattle are sent to pasture in the summer months. ↑
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Herd girl. ↑
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https://www.bokselskap.no/boker/huldreeventyr/hoifjeldsbilleder2 Date of reading: 3 Jan. 2022. ↑
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Norwegian: Norske Huldreeventyr og Folkesagn: Hoifjeldsbilleder 2: Reensdyrjagt ved Ronderne” av Peter Chr. Asbjørnsen https://www.bokselskap.no/boker/huldreeventyr/hoifjeldsbilleder2 Date of reading: 3 Jan. 2022. ↑