Peer Gynt

SCENE FIRST.

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 Hallingskarv¹ in his winter furs;—

He’s ruffling it, old one, in the evening glow.

The Jokel,¹ his brother, stands behind him askew;

He’s got his green ice-mantle still on his back.

The Folgefånn,¹ 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?¹

The Captain.

No; but from up in the rigging,

You’ve a glimpse, in clear weather, of Galdhöpiggen.¹

Peer.

Where does Hårteig¹ 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-sterling² ——

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 SECOND.

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?³

Peer.

Why, one’s afraid when danger threatens;—

But all your words have double meanings.⁴

The Passenger.

Ay, have you gained but once in life

The victory that is given in dread?

Peer.

[Looks at him.]

Came you to ope 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,⁵

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 THIRD.

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^[115] 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^[116]

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 Christianlike 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,—⁶

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 FOURTH.

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-bag⁷ 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——⁸

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 over seas 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 manners⁹ 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 FIFTH.

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 archæologist, 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;¹⁰

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 SIXTH.

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 wofully 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 for ever.

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 SEVENTH.

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;^[129]

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,¹¹ 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 Kongsberg¹² 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 some one 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—!

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 EIGHTH.

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;¹³

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.¹⁴

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 black¹⁵

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 out¹⁶——

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 NINTH.

[At a cross-road.]

Peer Gynt.

Now comes the pinch, Peer, as never before!

This Dovrish Enough 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”² 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 TENTH.

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-pan¹⁷ 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 some one 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!² 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 gros² 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 Blaue² 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,¹⁸

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”^[143] 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 Peter² 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.¹⁹

[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 awhile; 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.²⁰

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!