SCENE SECOND.

[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 Gyntcomes 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 homePeer.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—[Hishandhandslips; he screams.I’m drowning!Peer.[Seizing him.]By this wisp of hairI’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 allyouneed, safe enough.The Cook.Give us this day——Peer.The same old song!’Tis plain you were a cook in life——[TheCookslips 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 floatone!The Passenger.I’m striking out with my left leg.I’ll float, if only with their tipsMy 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 otherThat’s like me?Peer.Do I know the devil——?The Passenger.[In a low voice.]Is ithisway to light a lanternFor 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 youoncein each half-yearFelt all the earnestness of dread?[112]Peer.Why, one’s afraid when danger threatens;—But all your words have double meanings.[113]The Passenger.Ay, have you gained butoncein lifeThe 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 choosingYour time when seas gape to devour one?The Passenger.Were, then, the victory more likelyBeside 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 prizedAs highly as pathetic style.Peer.All has its time; what fits the taxman,[114]So says the text, would damn the bishop.The Passenger.The host whose dust inurned has slumberedTreads 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, thePriestand a gathering of people. The last verse of the psalm is being sung.Peer Gyntpasses 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 twoAbout 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 appealingFor 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 featureThat chiefly stamped his image on the mind,—And therewithal his writhing, his abashedShrinking 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 mouthTurned on the country’s sufferings and its fate.I stood there watching. At the table satThe 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 fastHe mumbled something of a scythe that slippedBy 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 patchBore witness, bravely clad in waving gold.At church he kept his right hand in his pocket,—But sure I am at home his fingers nineToiled 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 aroseFrom 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 manageAs 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 gentlemenTheir school-going and their father have forgotten.He was short-sighted. Out beyond the circleOf those most near to him he nothing saw.To him seemed meaningless as cymbals’ tinklingThose 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 outshinethSure 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 stateA fruitless tree. But there, on the upland ridge,In the small circle where he saw his calling,Therehe 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 Gyntremains behind, alone.Peer.Nowthatis 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 knuckleThat day I was out hewing logs in the forest?Who knows? If I weren’t standing here with my staffBy 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 indeedThis casting a so-called memorial glanceIn charity over the life that is ended.I shouldn’t at all mind accepting my verdictAt the hands of this excellent parish priest.Ah well, I dare say I have some time leftEre 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,—[117]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 isTo be well assured upon sound authority:Even as thou sowest thou shalt one day reap.—One must be oneself; for oneself and one’s ownOne must do one’s best, both in great and in small things.If the luck goes against you, at least you’ve the honourOf 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 Gyntis 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 ofPeer 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[118]bought for a halfpenny.A Third.No more, eh? Twopence for the pedlar’spack!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 doorThe 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 theMan in Mourning.]Mother that’s deadWill 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![119]Well, only his fell.It was he chased the trolls out on ChristmasEve.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 theMan 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 cloakPeer 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.

[The ship strikes. Noise and confusion.

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 Gyntcomes 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.

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.]

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.

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!

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

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.

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—[Hishandhandslips; he screams.I’m drowning!

Have mercy! Yield in heaven’s name!

There’s none to miss and mourn for you—

[Hishandhandslips; he screams.

I’m drowning!

Peer.[Seizing him.]

Peer.

[Seizing him.]

By this wisp of hairI’ll hold you; say your Lord’s Prayer, quick!

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 allyouneed, safe enough.

Skip that part, Cook;

You’ll get allyouneed, safe enough.

The Cook.

Give us this day——

Peer.

The same old song!’Tis plain you were a cook in life——[TheCookslips from his grasp.

The same old song!

’Tis plain you were a cook in life——

[TheCookslips from his grasp.

The Cook.[Sinking.]

The Cook.

[Sinking.]

Give us this day our——[Disappears.

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——

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.]

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!

I heard you shout.—

It’s pleasant finding you again.

Well? So my prophecy came true!

Peer.

Let go! Let go! ’Twill scarce floatone!

The Passenger.

I’m striking out with my left leg.I’ll float, if only with their tipsMy fingers rest upon this ledge.But apropos: your body——

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.

Exactly as you please.

[Silence.

Peer.

Well?

The Passenger.

I am silent.

Peer.

Satan’s tricks!—What now?

Satan’s tricks!—

What now?

The Passenger.

I’m waiting.

Peer.[Tearing his hair.]

Peer.

[Tearing his hair.]

I’ll go mad!—What are you?

I’ll go mad!—

What are you?

The Passenger.[Nods.]

The Passenger.

[Nods.]

Friendly.

Peer.

What else! Speak!

The Passenger.

What think you? Do you know none otherThat’s like me?

What think you? Do you know none other

That’s like me?

Peer.

Do I know the devil——?

The Passenger.[In a low voice.]

The Passenger.

[In a low voice.]

Is ithisway to light a lanternFor life’s night-pilgrimage through fear?

Is ithisway 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?

Ah, come! When once the thing’s cleared up,

You’d seem a messenger of light?

The Passenger.

Friend,—have youoncein each half-yearFelt all the earnestness of dread?[112]

Friend,—have youoncein each half-year

Felt all the earnestness of dread?[112]

Peer.

Why, one’s afraid when danger threatens;—But all your words have double meanings.[113]

Why, one’s afraid when danger threatens;—

But all your words have double meanings.[113]

The Passenger.

Ay, have you gained butoncein lifeThe victory that is given in dread?

Ay, have you gained butoncein life

The victory that is given in dread?

Peer.[Looks at him.]

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 choosingYour time when seas gape to devour one?

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 likelyBeside your hearthstone, snug and quiet?

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?

Perhaps not; but your talk was quizzical.

How could you fancy it awakening?

The Passenger.

Where I come from, there smiles are prizedAs highly as pathetic style.

Where I come from, there smiles are prized

As highly as pathetic style.

Peer.

All has its time; what fits the taxman,[114]So says the text, would damn the bishop.

All has its time; what fits the taxman,[114]

So says the text, would damn the bishop.

The Passenger.

The host whose dust inurned has slumberedTreads not on week-days the cothurnus.

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!

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.

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.

Ah, there he let it out at last;—

He was a sorry moralist.

Churchyard in a high lying mountain parish.

A funeral is going on. By the grave, thePriestand a gathering of people. The last verse of the psalm is being sung.Peer Gyntpasses by on the road.

Peer.[At the gate.]

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.

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.]

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 twoAbout 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 appealingFor 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 featureThat chiefly stamped his image on the mind,—And therewithal his writhing, his abashedShrinking 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 mouthTurned on the country’s sufferings and its fate.I stood there watching. At the table satThe 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 fastHe mumbled something of a scythe that slippedBy 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 patchBore witness, bravely clad in waving gold.At church he kept his right hand in his pocket,—But sure I am at home his fingers nineToiled 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 aroseFrom 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 manageAs 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 gentlemenTheir school-going and their father have forgotten.He was short-sighted. Out beyond the circleOf those most near to him he nothing saw.To him seemed meaningless as cymbals’ tinklingThose 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 outshinethSure 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 stateA fruitless tree. But there, on the upland ridge,In the small circle where he saw his calling,Therehe 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!

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,

Therehe 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 Gyntremains behind, alone.

Peer.

Nowthatis 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 knuckleThat day I was out hewing logs in the forest?Who knows? If I weren’t standing here with my staffBy 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 indeedThis casting a so-called memorial glanceIn charity over the life that is ended.I shouldn’t at all mind accepting my verdictAt the hands of this excellent parish priest.Ah well, I dare say I have some time leftEre 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,—[117]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 isTo be well assured upon sound authority:Even as thou sowest thou shalt one day reap.—One must be oneself; for oneself and one’s ownOne must do one’s best, both in great and in small things.If the luck goes against you, at least you’ve the honourOf 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.

Nowthatis 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,—[117]

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.

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 Gyntis 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.

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 ofPeer Gynt.Are there strangers here too? God be with you, good friend!

Now there is only rubbish left over.

[Catches sight ofPeer 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?

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.

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.

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.]

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.

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[118]bought for a halfpenny.

A Third.

No more, eh? Twopence for the pedlar’spack!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.

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.

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.]

Peer.

[To himself.]

One meets with acquaintances.

A Lad.[Calls after theMan in Mourning.]

A Lad.

[Calls after theMan in Mourning.]

Mother that’s deadWill be after you, Aslak, if you wet your whistle.

Mother that’s dead

Will be after you, Aslak, if you wet your whistle.

Peer.[Rises.]

Peer.

[Rises.]

The husbandman’s saying seems scarce to hold here:The deeper one harrows the better it smells.

The husbandman’s saying seems scarce to hold here:

The deeper one harrows the better it smells.

A Lad.[With a bear’s skin.]

A Lad.

[With a bear’s skin.]

Look, the cat of the Dovrë![119]Well, only his fell.It was he chased the trolls out on ChristmasEve.Eve.

Look, the cat of the Dovrë![119]Well, only his fell.

It was he chased the trolls out on ChristmasEve.Eve.

Another.[With a reindeer skull.]

Another.

[With a reindeer skull.]

Here is the wonderful reindeer that bore,At Gendin, Peer Gynt over edge and scree.

Here is the wonderful reindeer that bore,

At Gendin, Peer Gynt over edge and scree.

A Third.[With a hammer, calls out to theMan in Mourning.]

A Third.

[With a hammer, calls out to theMan in Mourning.]

Hei, Aslak, this sledge-hammer, say, do you know it?Was it this that you used when the devil clove the wall?

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.]

A Fourth.

[Empty-handed.]

Mads Moen, here’s the invisible cloakPeer Gynt and Ingrid flew off through the air with.

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!

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.

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