SCENE SEVENTH.

The Girls.[Dancing.]The Prophet is good! The Prophet is grievingFor the ill that the sons of the dust have wrought!The Prophet is mild; to his mildness be praises;He opens to sinners his Paradise!Peer.[His eyes followingAnitraduring the dance.]Legs as nimble as drumsticks flitting.She’s a dainty morsel indeed, that wench!It’s true she has somewhat extravagant contours,—Not quite in accord with the norms of beauty.But what is beauty? A mere convention,—A coin made current by time and place.And just the extravagant seems most attractiveWhen one of the normal has drunk one’s fill.In the law-bound one misses all intoxication.Either plump to excess or excessively lean;Either parlously young or portentously old;—The medium is mawkish.—Her feet—they are not altogether clean;No more are her arms; in especial one of them.But that is at bottom no drawback at all.I should rather call it a qualification—Anitra, come listen!Anitra.[Approaching]Thy handmaiden hears!Peer.You are tempting, my daughter! The Prophet is touched.If you don’t believe me, then hear the proof;—I’ll make you a Houri in Paradise!Anitra.Impossible, Lord!Peer.What? You think I am jesting?I’m in sober earnest, as true as I live!Anitra.But I haven’t a soul.Peer.Then of course you must get one!Anitra.How, Lord?Peer.Just leave me alone for that;—I shall look after your education.No soul? Why, truly you’re not over bright,As the saying goes. I’ve observed it with pain.But pooh! for a soul you can always find room.Come here! let me measure your brain-pan, child.—There is room, there is room, I was sure there was.It’s true you never will penetrateVery deep; to alargesoul you’ll scarcely attain;——But never you mind; it won’t matter a bit;—You’ll have plenty to carry you through with credit——Anitra.The Prophet is gracious——Peer.You hesitate? Speak!Anitra.But I’d rather——Peer.Say on; don’t waste time about it!Anitra.I don’t care so much about having a soul;—Give me rather——Peer.What, child?Anitra.[Pointing to his turban.]That lovely opal!Peer.[Enchanted, handing her the jewel.]Anitra! Anitra! true daughter of Eve!I feel thee magnetic; for I am a man,And, as a much-esteemed author has phrased it:“Das Ewig-Weibliche ziehet uns an!”[91]SCENE SEVENTH.A moonlight night. The palm-grove outsideAnitra’stent.Peer Gyntis sitting beneath a tree, with an Arabian lute in his hands. His beard and hair are clipped; he looks considerably younger.Peer Gynt.[Plays and sings.]I double-locked my Paradise,And took its key with me.The north-wind bore me seaward ho!While lovely women all forlornWept on the ocean strand.Still southward, southward clove my keelThe salt sea-currents through.Where palms were swaying proud and fair,A garland round the ocean-bight,I set my ship afire.I climbed aboard the desert ship,A ship on four stout legs.It foamed beneath the lashing whip;——Oh, catch me; I’m a flitting bird;—I’m twittering on a bough!Anitra, thou’rt the palm-tree’s must;That know I now full well!Ay, even the Angora goat-milk cheeseIs scarcely half such dainty fare,Anitra, ah, as thou![He hangs the lute over his shoulder, and comes forward.]Stillness! Is the fair one listening?Has she heard my little song?Peeps she from behind the curtain,Veil and so forth cast aside?—Hush! A sound as though a corkFrom a bottle burst amain!Now once more! And yet again!Love-sighs can it be? or songs?—No, it is distinctly snoring.—Dulcet strain! Anitra sleepeth!Nightingale, thy warbling stay!Every sort of woe betide thee,If with gurgling trill thou darest—But, as says the text: Let be!Nightingale, thou art a singer;Ah, even such an one am I.He, like me, ensnares with musicTender, shrinking littlehearts.hearts.Balmy night is made for music;Music is our common sphere;In the act of singing, we areWe, Peer Gynt and nightingale.And the maiden’s very sleepingIs my passion’s crowning bliss;—For the lips protruded o’er theBeaker yet untasted quite——But she’s coming, I declare!After all, it’s best she should.Anitra.[From the tent.]Master, call’st thou in the night?Peer.Yes indeed, the Prophet calls.I was wakened by the catWith a furious hunting-hubbub——Anitra.Ah, not hunting-noises, Master;It was something much, much worse.Peer.What, then, was’t?Anitra.Oh, spare me!Peer.Speak.Anitra.Oh, I blush to——Peer.[Approaching.]Was it, mayhap,That which filled me so completelyWhen I let you have my opal?Anitra.[Horrified.]Liken thee, O earth’s great treasure,To a horrible old cat!Peer.Child, from passion’s standpoint viewed,May a tom-cat and a prophetCome to very much the same.Anitra.Master, jest like honey flowethFrom thy lips.Peer.My little friend,You, like other maidens, judgeGreat men by their outsides only.I am full of jest at bottom,Most of all when we’re alone.I am forced by my positionTo assume a solemn mask.Duties of the day constrain me;All the reckonings and worryThat I have with one and all,Make me oft a cross-grained prophet;But it’s only from the tongue out.—Fudge, avaunt!En tête-à-têteI’m Peer—well, the man I am.Hei, away now with the prophet;Me, myself, you have me here![Seats himself under a tree, and draws her to him.Come, Anitra, we will rest usUnderneath the palm’s green fan-shade!I’ll lie whispering, you’ll lie smiling;Afterwards our rôles exchange we;Then shall your lips, fresh and balmy,To my smiling, passion whisper!Anitra.[Lies down at his feet.]All thy words are sweet as singing,Though I understand but little.Master, tell me, can thy daughterCatch a soul by listening?Peer.Soul, and spirit’s light and knowledge,All in good time you shall have them.When in east, on rosy streamersGolden types print: Here is day,—Then, my child, I’ll give you lessons;You’ll be well brought up, no fear.But, ’mid night’s delicious stillness,It were stupid if I should,With a threadbare wisdom’s remnants,Play the part of pedagogue.—And the soul, moreover, is not,Looked at properly, the main thing.It’s the heart that really matters.Anitra.Speak, O Master! When thou speakest,I see gleams, as though of opals!Peer.Wisdom in extremes is folly;Coward blossoms into tyrant;Truth, when carried to excess,Ends in wisdom written backwards.Ay, my daughter, I’m forswornAs a dog if there are notFolk with o’erfed souls on earthWho shall scarce attain to clearness.Once I met with such a fellow,Of the flock the very flower;And even he mistook his goal,Losing sense in blatant sound.—See the waste round this oasis.Were I but to swing my turban,I could force the ocean-floodTo fill up the whole concern.But I were a blockhead, trulySeas and lands to go creating.Know you what it is to live?Anitra.Teach me!Peer.It is to be waftedDry-shod down the stream of time,Wholly, solely as oneself.Only in full manhood can IBe the man I am, dear child!Aged eagle moults his plumage,Aged fogey lags declining,Aged dame has ne’er a tooth left,Aged churl gets withered hands,—One and all get withered souls.Youth! Ah Youth! I mean to reign,As a sultan, whole and fiery,—Not on Gyntiana’s shores,Under trellised vines and palm-leaves,—But enthronëd[92]in the freshnessOf a woman’s virgin thoughts.—See you now, my little maiden,Why I’ve graciously bewitched you,—Why I have your heart selected,And established, so to speak,Theremy being’s Caliphate?All your longings shall be mine.I’m anautocratin passion!You shall live for me alone.I’ll be he who shall enthrallYou like gold and precious stones.Should we part, then life is over,—That is,yourlife,nota bene!Every inch and fibre of you,Will-less, without yea or nay,I must know filled full of me.Midnight beauties of your tresses,All that’s lovely to be named,Shall, like Babylonian gardens,Tempt your Sultan to his tryst.After all, I don’t complain, then,Of your empty forehead-vault.With a soul, one’s oft absorbed inContemplation of oneself.Listen, while we’re on the subject,—If you like it, faith, you shallHave a ring about your ankle:—’Twill be best for both of us.Iwill be your soul by proxy;For the rest—why,status quo.[Anitrasnores.What! She sleeps! Then has it glidedBootless past her, all I’ve said?—No; it marks my influence o’er herThat she floats away in dreamsOn my love-talk as it flows.[Rises, and lays trinkets in her lap.Here are jewels! Here are more!Sleep, Anitra! Dream of Peer——.Sleep! In sleeping, you the crown havePlaced upon your Emperor’s brow!Victory on his Person’s basisHas Peer Gynt this night achieved.SCENE EIGHTH.A caravan route. The oasis is seen far off in the background.Peer Gyntcomes galloping across the desert, on his white horse, withAnitrabefore him on his saddle-bow.Anitra.Let be, or I’ll bite you!Peer.You little rogue!Anitra.What would you?Peer.What would I? Play hawk and dove.Run away with you! Frolic and frisk a bit!Anitra.For shame! An old prophet like you!Peer.Oh, stuff!The prophet’s not old at all, you goose!Do you think all this is a sign of age?Anitra.Let me go! I want to go home!Peer.Coquette!What, home! To papa-in-law! That would be fine!We madcap birds that have flown from the cageMust never come into his sight again.Besides, my child, in the self-same placeIt’s wisest never to stay too long;For familiarity lessens respect;—Most of all when one comes as a prophet or such.One should show oneself glimpse-wise and pass like a dream.Faith, ’twas time that the visit should come to an end.They’re unstable of soul, are these sons of the desert;—Both incense and prayers dwindled off towards the end.Anitra.Yes, but are you a prophet?Peer.Your Emperor Iam!am![Tries to kiss her.Why just see now how coy the wee woodpecker is!Anitra.Give me that ring that you have on your finger.Peer.Take, sweet Anitra, the whole of the trash!Anitra.Thy words are as songs! Oh, how dulcet their sound!Peer.How blessëd to know oneself loved to thispitch!pitch!I’ll dismount! Like your slave, I will lead your palfrey![Hands her his riding-whip, and dismounts.There now, my rosebud, you exquisite flower!Here I’ll go trudging my way through the sand,Till a sunstroke o’ertakes me and finishes me.I’m young, Anitra; bear that in mind!You mustn’t be shocked at my escapades.Frolics and high-jinks are youth’s sole criterion!And so, if your intellect weren’t so dense,You would see at a glance, oh my fair oleander,—Your lover is frolicsome—ergo, he’s young!Anitra.Yes, you are young. Have you any more rings?Peer.Am I not? There, grab! I can leap like a buck!Were there vine-leaves around, I would garland my brow.To be sure I am young! Hei, I’m going to dance![Dances and sings.I am a blissful game-cock!Peck me, my little pullet!Hop-sa-sa! Let me trip it;—I am a blissful game-cock!Anitra.You are sweating, my prophet; I fear you will melt;—Hand me that heavy bag hung at your belt.Peer.Tender solicitude! Bear the purse ever;—Heartsthatthatcan love are content without gold![Dances and sings again.Young Peer Gynt is the maddest wag;—He knows not what foot he shall stand upon.Pooh, says Peer;—pooh, never mind!Young Peer Gynt is the maddest wag!Anitra.What joy when the Prophet steps forth in the dance!Peer.Oh, bother the Prophet!—Suppose we change clothes!Heisa! Strip off!Anitra.Your caftan were too long,Your girdle too wide, and your stockings too tight——Peer.Eh bien![93][Kneels down.But vouchsafe me a vehement sorrow;—To a heart full of love, it is sweet to suffer!Listen; as soon as we’re home at my castle——Anitra.In your Paradise;—have we far to ride?Peer.Oh, a thousand miles or——Anitra.Too far!Peer.Oh, listen;—You shall have the soul that I promised you once——Anitra.Oh, thank you; I’ll get on without the soul.But you asked for a sorrow——Peer.[Rising.]Ay, curse me, I did!A keen one, but short,—to last two or three days!Anitra.Anitra obeyeth the Prophet!—Farewell![Gives him a smart cut across the fingers, and dashes off, at a tearing gallop, back across the desert.Peer.[Stands for a long time thunderstruck.]Well now, may I be——!SCENE NINTH.The same place, an hour later.Peer Gyntis stripping off his Turkish costume, soberly and thoughtfully, bit by bit. Last of all, he takes his little travelling-cap out of his coat pocket, puts it on, and stands once more in European dress.Peer.[Throwing the turban far away from him.]There lies the Turk, then, and here stand I!—These heathenish doings are no sort of good.It’s lucky ’twas only a matter of clothes,And not, as the saying goes, bred in the bone.—What tempted me into that galley at all?It’s best, in the long run, to live as a Christian,To put away peacock-like ostentation,To base all one’s dealings on law and morality,To be ever oneself, and to earn at the last aSpeech at one’s grave-side, and wreaths on one’s coffin.[Walks a few steps.The hussy;—she was on the very vergeOf turning my head clean topsy-turvy.May I be a troll if I understandWhat it was that dazed and bemused me so.Well; it’s well that’s done: had the joke been carriedBut one step on, I’d have looked absurd.—I have erred;——but at least it’s a consolationThat my error was due to the false situation.It wasn’t my personal self that fell.’Twas in fact this prophetical way of life,So utterly lacking the salt of activity,That took its revenge in these qualms of bad taste.It’s a sorry business this prophetising!One’s office compels one to walk in a mist;In playing the prophet, you throw up the game[94]The moment you act like a rational being.[95]In so far I’ve done what the occasion demanded,In the mere fact of paying my court to that goose.But, nevertheless——[Bursts out laughing.H’m, to think of it now!To try to make time stop by jigging and dancing,And to cope with the current by capering and prancing!To thrum on the lute-strings, to fondle and sigh,And end, like a rooster,—by getting well plucked!Such conduct is truly prophetic frenzy.—Yes, plucked!—Phew! I’m plucked clean enough indeed.Well, well, I’ve a trifle still left in reserve;I’ve a little in America, a little in my pocket;So I won’t be quite driven to beg my bread.—And at bottom this middle condition is best.I’m no longer a slave to my coachman and horses;I haven’t to fret about postchaise or baggage;I am master, in short, of the situation.—What path should I choose? Many paths lie before me;And a wise man is known from a fool by his choice.My business life is a finished chapter;My love-sports, too, are a cast-off garment.I feel no desire to live back like a crab.“Forward or back, and it’s just as far;Out or in, and it’s just as strait,”—So I seem to have read in some luminous[96]work.—I’ll try something new, then; ennoble my course;Find a goal worth the labour and money it costs.Shall I write my life without dissimulation,—A book for guidance and imitation?Or, stay——! I have plenty of time at command;—What if, as a travelling scientist,I should study past ages and time’s voracity?Ay, sure enough,thatis the thing for me!Legends I read e’en in childhood’s days,And since then I’ve kept up that branch of learning.—I will follow the path of the human race!Like a feather I’ll float on the stream of historyMake it all live again, as in a dream,—See the heroes battling for truth and right,As an onlooker only, in safety ensconced,—See thinkers perish and martyrs bleed,See empires founded and vanish away,—See world-epochs grow from their trifling seeds;In short, I will skim off the cream of history.—I must try to get hold of a volume of Becker,And travel as far as I can by chronology.—It’s true—my grounding’s by no means thorough,And history’s wheels within wheels are deceptive;—But pooh; the wilder the starting-point,The result will oft be the more original.—How exalting it is, now, to choose a goal,And drive straight for it, like flint and steel![With quiet emotion.To break off all round one, on every side,The bonds that bind one to home and friends,—To blow into atoms one’s hoarded wealth,—To bid one’s love and its joys good night,—All simply to find the arcana of truth,—[Wiping a tear from his eye.That is the test of the true man of science!—I feel myself happy beyond all measure.Now I have fathomed my destiny’s riddle.Now ’tis but persevering through thick and thin!It’s excusable, sure, if I hold up my head,And feel my worth, as the man, Peer Gynt,Also called Human-life’s Emperor.—I will own the sum-total of bygone days;I’ll nevermore tread in the paths of the living.The present is not worth so much as a shoe-sole;All faithless and marrowless the doings of men;Their soul has no wings and their deeds noweight;——[Shrugs his shoulders.And women,—ah, they are a worthless crew![Goes off.

The Girls.[Dancing.]

The Girls.

[Dancing.]

The Prophet is good! The Prophet is grievingFor the ill that the sons of the dust have wrought!The Prophet is mild; to his mildness be praises;He opens to sinners his Paradise!

The Prophet is good! The Prophet is grieving

For the ill that the sons of the dust have wrought!

The Prophet is mild; to his mildness be praises;

He opens to sinners his Paradise!

Peer.[His eyes followingAnitraduring the dance.]

Peer.

[His eyes followingAnitraduring the dance.]

Legs as nimble as drumsticks flitting.She’s a dainty morsel indeed, that wench!It’s true she has somewhat extravagant contours,—Not quite in accord with the norms of beauty.But what is beauty? A mere convention,—A coin made current by time and place.And just the extravagant seems most attractiveWhen one of the normal has drunk one’s fill.In the law-bound one misses all intoxication.Either plump to excess or excessively lean;Either parlously young or portentously old;—The medium is mawkish.—Her feet—they are not altogether clean;No more are her arms; in especial one of them.But that is at bottom no drawback at all.I should rather call it a qualification—Anitra, come listen!

Legs as nimble as drumsticks flitting.

She’s a dainty morsel indeed, that wench!

It’s true she has somewhat extravagant contours,—

Not quite in accord with the norms of beauty.

But what is beauty? A mere convention,—

A coin made current by time and place.

And just the extravagant seems most attractive

When one of the normal has drunk one’s fill.

In the law-bound one misses all intoxication.

Either plump to excess or excessively lean;

Either parlously young or portentously old;—

The medium is mawkish.—

Her feet—they are not altogether clean;

No more are her arms; in especial one of them.

But that is at bottom no drawback at all.

I should rather call it a qualification—

Anitra, come listen!

Anitra.[Approaching]

Anitra.

[Approaching]

Thy handmaiden hears!

Peer.

You are tempting, my daughter! The Prophet is touched.If you don’t believe me, then hear the proof;—I’ll make you a Houri in Paradise!

You are tempting, my daughter! The Prophet is touched.

If you don’t believe me, then hear the proof;—

I’ll make you a Houri in Paradise!

Anitra.

Impossible, Lord!

Peer.

What? You think I am jesting?I’m in sober earnest, as true as I live!

What? You think I am jesting?

I’m in sober earnest, as true as I live!

Anitra.

But I haven’t a soul.

Peer.

Then of course you must get one!

Anitra.

How, Lord?

Peer.

Just leave me alone for that;—I shall look after your education.No soul? Why, truly you’re not over bright,As the saying goes. I’ve observed it with pain.But pooh! for a soul you can always find room.Come here! let me measure your brain-pan, child.—There is room, there is room, I was sure there was.It’s true you never will penetrateVery deep; to alargesoul you’ll scarcely attain;——But never you mind; it won’t matter a bit;—You’ll have plenty to carry you through with credit——

Just leave me alone for that;—

I shall look after your education.

No soul? Why, truly you’re not over bright,

As the saying goes. I’ve observed it with pain.

But pooh! for a soul you can always find room.

Come here! let me measure your brain-pan, child.—

There is room, there is room, I was sure there was.

It’s true you never will penetrate

Very deep; to alargesoul you’ll scarcely attain;——

But never you mind; it won’t matter a bit;—

You’ll have plenty to carry you through with credit——

Anitra.

The Prophet is gracious——

Peer.

You hesitate? Speak!

Anitra.

But I’d rather——

Peer.

Say on; don’t waste time about it!

Anitra.

I don’t care so much about having a soul;—Give me rather——

I don’t care so much about having a soul;—

Give me rather——

Peer.

What, child?

Anitra.[Pointing to his turban.]

Anitra.

[Pointing to his turban.]

That lovely opal!

Peer.[Enchanted, handing her the jewel.]

Peer.

[Enchanted, handing her the jewel.]

Anitra! Anitra! true daughter of Eve!I feel thee magnetic; for I am a man,And, as a much-esteemed author has phrased it:“Das Ewig-Weibliche ziehet uns an!”[91]

Anitra! Anitra! true daughter of Eve!

I feel thee magnetic; for I am a man,

And, as a much-esteemed author has phrased it:

“Das Ewig-Weibliche ziehet uns an!”[91]

A moonlight night. The palm-grove outsideAnitra’stent.

Peer Gyntis sitting beneath a tree, with an Arabian lute in his hands. His beard and hair are clipped; he looks considerably younger.

Peer Gynt.[Plays and sings.]

Peer Gynt.

[Plays and sings.]

I double-locked my Paradise,And took its key with me.The north-wind bore me seaward ho!While lovely women all forlornWept on the ocean strand.Still southward, southward clove my keelThe salt sea-currents through.Where palms were swaying proud and fair,A garland round the ocean-bight,I set my ship afire.I climbed aboard the desert ship,A ship on four stout legs.It foamed beneath the lashing whip;——Oh, catch me; I’m a flitting bird;—I’m twittering on a bough!Anitra, thou’rt the palm-tree’s must;That know I now full well!Ay, even the Angora goat-milk cheeseIs scarcely half such dainty fare,Anitra, ah, as thou!

I double-locked my Paradise,

And took its key with me.

The north-wind bore me seaward ho!

While lovely women all forlorn

Wept on the ocean strand.

Still southward, southward clove my keel

The salt sea-currents through.

Where palms were swaying proud and fair,

A garland round the ocean-bight,

I set my ship afire.

I climbed aboard the desert ship,A ship on four stout legs.It foamed beneath the lashing whip;——Oh, catch me; I’m a flitting bird;—I’m twittering on a bough!

I climbed aboard the desert ship,

A ship on four stout legs.

It foamed beneath the lashing whip;——

Oh, catch me; I’m a flitting bird;—

I’m twittering on a bough!

Anitra, thou’rt the palm-tree’s must;That know I now full well!Ay, even the Angora goat-milk cheeseIs scarcely half such dainty fare,Anitra, ah, as thou!

Anitra, thou’rt the palm-tree’s must;

That know I now full well!

Ay, even the Angora goat-milk cheese

Is scarcely half such dainty fare,

Anitra, ah, as thou!

[He hangs the lute over his shoulder, and comes forward.]

Stillness! Is the fair one listening?Has she heard my little song?Peeps she from behind the curtain,Veil and so forth cast aside?—Hush! A sound as though a corkFrom a bottle burst amain!Now once more! And yet again!Love-sighs can it be? or songs?—No, it is distinctly snoring.—Dulcet strain! Anitra sleepeth!Nightingale, thy warbling stay!Every sort of woe betide thee,If with gurgling trill thou darest—But, as says the text: Let be!Nightingale, thou art a singer;Ah, even such an one am I.He, like me, ensnares with musicTender, shrinking littlehearts.hearts.Balmy night is made for music;Music is our common sphere;In the act of singing, we areWe, Peer Gynt and nightingale.And the maiden’s very sleepingIs my passion’s crowning bliss;—For the lips protruded o’er theBeaker yet untasted quite——But she’s coming, I declare!After all, it’s best she should.

Stillness! Is the fair one listening?

Has she heard my little song?

Peeps she from behind the curtain,

Veil and so forth cast aside?—

Hush! A sound as though a cork

From a bottle burst amain!

Now once more! And yet again!

Love-sighs can it be? or songs?—

No, it is distinctly snoring.—

Dulcet strain! Anitra sleepeth!

Nightingale, thy warbling stay!

Every sort of woe betide thee,

If with gurgling trill thou darest—

But, as says the text: Let be!

Nightingale, thou art a singer;

Ah, even such an one am I.

He, like me, ensnares with music

Tender, shrinking littlehearts.hearts.

Balmy night is made for music;

Music is our common sphere;

In the act of singing, we are

We, Peer Gynt and nightingale.

And the maiden’s very sleeping

Is my passion’s crowning bliss;—

For the lips protruded o’er the

Beaker yet untasted quite——

But she’s coming, I declare!

After all, it’s best she should.

Anitra.[From the tent.]

Anitra.

[From the tent.]

Master, call’st thou in the night?

Peer.

Yes indeed, the Prophet calls.I was wakened by the catWith a furious hunting-hubbub——

Yes indeed, the Prophet calls.

I was wakened by the cat

With a furious hunting-hubbub——

Anitra.

Ah, not hunting-noises, Master;It was something much, much worse.

Ah, not hunting-noises, Master;

It was something much, much worse.

Peer.

What, then, was’t?

Anitra.

Oh, spare me!

Peer.

Speak.

Anitra.

Oh, I blush to——

Peer.[Approaching.]

Peer.

[Approaching.]

Was it, mayhap,That which filled me so completelyWhen I let you have my opal?

Was it, mayhap,

That which filled me so completely

When I let you have my opal?

Anitra.[Horrified.]

Anitra.

[Horrified.]

Liken thee, O earth’s great treasure,To a horrible old cat!

Liken thee, O earth’s great treasure,

To a horrible old cat!

Peer.

Child, from passion’s standpoint viewed,May a tom-cat and a prophetCome to very much the same.

Child, from passion’s standpoint viewed,

May a tom-cat and a prophet

Come to very much the same.

Anitra.

Master, jest like honey flowethFrom thy lips.

Master, jest like honey floweth

From thy lips.

Peer.

My little friend,You, like other maidens, judgeGreat men by their outsides only.I am full of jest at bottom,Most of all when we’re alone.I am forced by my positionTo assume a solemn mask.Duties of the day constrain me;All the reckonings and worryThat I have with one and all,Make me oft a cross-grained prophet;But it’s only from the tongue out.—Fudge, avaunt!En tête-à-têteI’m Peer—well, the man I am.Hei, away now with the prophet;Me, myself, you have me here![Seats himself under a tree, and draws her to him.Come, Anitra, we will rest usUnderneath the palm’s green fan-shade!I’ll lie whispering, you’ll lie smiling;Afterwards our rôles exchange we;Then shall your lips, fresh and balmy,To my smiling, passion whisper!

My little friend,

You, like other maidens, judge

Great men by their outsides only.

I am full of jest at bottom,

Most of all when we’re alone.

I am forced by my position

To assume a solemn mask.

Duties of the day constrain me;

All the reckonings and worry

That I have with one and all,

Make me oft a cross-grained prophet;

But it’s only from the tongue out.—

Fudge, avaunt!En tête-à-tête

I’m Peer—well, the man I am.

Hei, away now with the prophet;

Me, myself, you have me here!

[Seats himself under a tree, and draws her to him.

Come, Anitra, we will rest us

Underneath the palm’s green fan-shade!

I’ll lie whispering, you’ll lie smiling;

Afterwards our rôles exchange we;

Then shall your lips, fresh and balmy,

To my smiling, passion whisper!

Anitra.[Lies down at his feet.]

Anitra.

[Lies down at his feet.]

All thy words are sweet as singing,Though I understand but little.Master, tell me, can thy daughterCatch a soul by listening?

All thy words are sweet as singing,

Though I understand but little.

Master, tell me, can thy daughter

Catch a soul by listening?

Peer.

Soul, and spirit’s light and knowledge,All in good time you shall have them.When in east, on rosy streamersGolden types print: Here is day,—Then, my child, I’ll give you lessons;You’ll be well brought up, no fear.But, ’mid night’s delicious stillness,It were stupid if I should,With a threadbare wisdom’s remnants,Play the part of pedagogue.—And the soul, moreover, is not,Looked at properly, the main thing.It’s the heart that really matters.

Soul, and spirit’s light and knowledge,

All in good time you shall have them.

When in east, on rosy streamers

Golden types print: Here is day,—

Then, my child, I’ll give you lessons;

You’ll be well brought up, no fear.

But, ’mid night’s delicious stillness,

It were stupid if I should,

With a threadbare wisdom’s remnants,

Play the part of pedagogue.—

And the soul, moreover, is not,

Looked at properly, the main thing.

It’s the heart that really matters.

Anitra.

Speak, O Master! When thou speakest,I see gleams, as though of opals!

Speak, O Master! When thou speakest,

I see gleams, as though of opals!

Peer.

Wisdom in extremes is folly;Coward blossoms into tyrant;Truth, when carried to excess,Ends in wisdom written backwards.Ay, my daughter, I’m forswornAs a dog if there are notFolk with o’erfed souls on earthWho shall scarce attain to clearness.Once I met with such a fellow,Of the flock the very flower;And even he mistook his goal,Losing sense in blatant sound.—See the waste round this oasis.Were I but to swing my turban,I could force the ocean-floodTo fill up the whole concern.But I were a blockhead, trulySeas and lands to go creating.Know you what it is to live?

Wisdom in extremes is folly;

Coward blossoms into tyrant;

Truth, when carried to excess,

Ends in wisdom written backwards.

Ay, my daughter, I’m forsworn

As a dog if there are not

Folk with o’erfed souls on earth

Who shall scarce attain to clearness.

Once I met with such a fellow,

Of the flock the very flower;

And even he mistook his goal,

Losing sense in blatant sound.—

See the waste round this oasis.

Were I but to swing my turban,

I could force the ocean-flood

To fill up the whole concern.

But I were a blockhead, truly

Seas and lands to go creating.

Know you what it is to live?

Anitra.

Teach me!

Peer.

It is to be waftedDry-shod down the stream of time,Wholly, solely as oneself.Only in full manhood can IBe the man I am, dear child!Aged eagle moults his plumage,Aged fogey lags declining,Aged dame has ne’er a tooth left,Aged churl gets withered hands,—One and all get withered souls.Youth! Ah Youth! I mean to reign,As a sultan, whole and fiery,—Not on Gyntiana’s shores,Under trellised vines and palm-leaves,—But enthronëd[92]in the freshnessOf a woman’s virgin thoughts.—See you now, my little maiden,Why I’ve graciously bewitched you,—Why I have your heart selected,And established, so to speak,Theremy being’s Caliphate?All your longings shall be mine.I’m anautocratin passion!You shall live for me alone.I’ll be he who shall enthrallYou like gold and precious stones.Should we part, then life is over,—That is,yourlife,nota bene!Every inch and fibre of you,Will-less, without yea or nay,I must know filled full of me.Midnight beauties of your tresses,All that’s lovely to be named,Shall, like Babylonian gardens,Tempt your Sultan to his tryst.After all, I don’t complain, then,Of your empty forehead-vault.With a soul, one’s oft absorbed inContemplation of oneself.Listen, while we’re on the subject,—If you like it, faith, you shallHave a ring about your ankle:—’Twill be best for both of us.Iwill be your soul by proxy;For the rest—why,status quo.[Anitrasnores.What! She sleeps! Then has it glidedBootless past her, all I’ve said?—No; it marks my influence o’er herThat she floats away in dreamsOn my love-talk as it flows.[Rises, and lays trinkets in her lap.Here are jewels! Here are more!Sleep, Anitra! Dream of Peer——.Sleep! In sleeping, you the crown havePlaced upon your Emperor’s brow!Victory on his Person’s basisHas Peer Gynt this night achieved.

It is to be wafted

Dry-shod down the stream of time,

Wholly, solely as oneself.

Only in full manhood can I

Be the man I am, dear child!

Aged eagle moults his plumage,

Aged fogey lags declining,

Aged dame has ne’er a tooth left,

Aged churl gets withered hands,—

One and all get withered souls.

Youth! Ah Youth! I mean to reign,

As a sultan, whole and fiery,—

Not on Gyntiana’s shores,

Under trellised vines and palm-leaves,—

But enthronëd[92]in the freshness

Of a woman’s virgin thoughts.—

See you now, my little maiden,

Why I’ve graciously bewitched you,—

Why I have your heart selected,

And established, so to speak,

Theremy being’s Caliphate?

All your longings shall be mine.

I’m anautocratin passion!

You shall live for me alone.

I’ll be he who shall enthrall

You like gold and precious stones.

Should we part, then life is over,—

That is,yourlife,nota bene!

Every inch and fibre of you,

Will-less, without yea or nay,

I must know filled full of me.

Midnight beauties of your tresses,

All that’s lovely to be named,

Shall, like Babylonian gardens,

Tempt your Sultan to his tryst.

After all, I don’t complain, then,

Of your empty forehead-vault.

With a soul, one’s oft absorbed in

Contemplation of oneself.

Listen, while we’re on the subject,—

If you like it, faith, you shall

Have a ring about your ankle:—

’Twill be best for both of us.

Iwill be your soul by proxy;

For the rest—why,status quo.

[Anitrasnores.

What! She sleeps! Then has it glided

Bootless past her, all I’ve said?—

No; it marks my influence o’er her

That she floats away in dreams

On my love-talk as it flows.

[Rises, and lays trinkets in her lap.

Here are jewels! Here are more!

Sleep, Anitra! Dream of Peer——.

Sleep! In sleeping, you the crown have

Placed upon your Emperor’s brow!

Victory on his Person’s basis

Has Peer Gynt this night achieved.

A caravan route. The oasis is seen far off in the background.

Peer Gyntcomes galloping across the desert, on his white horse, withAnitrabefore him on his saddle-bow.

Anitra.

Let be, or I’ll bite you!

Peer.

You little rogue!

Anitra.

What would you?

Peer.

What would I? Play hawk and dove.Run away with you! Frolic and frisk a bit!

What would I? Play hawk and dove.

Run away with you! Frolic and frisk a bit!

Anitra.

For shame! An old prophet like you!

Peer.

Oh, stuff!The prophet’s not old at all, you goose!Do you think all this is a sign of age?

Oh, stuff!

The prophet’s not old at all, you goose!

Do you think all this is a sign of age?

Anitra.

Let me go! I want to go home!

Peer.

Coquette!What, home! To papa-in-law! That would be fine!We madcap birds that have flown from the cageMust never come into his sight again.Besides, my child, in the self-same placeIt’s wisest never to stay too long;For familiarity lessens respect;—Most of all when one comes as a prophet or such.One should show oneself glimpse-wise and pass like a dream.Faith, ’twas time that the visit should come to an end.They’re unstable of soul, are these sons of the desert;—Both incense and prayers dwindled off towards the end.

Coquette!

What, home! To papa-in-law! That would be fine!

We madcap birds that have flown from the cage

Must never come into his sight again.

Besides, my child, in the self-same place

It’s wisest never to stay too long;

For familiarity lessens respect;—

Most of all when one comes as a prophet or such.

One should show oneself glimpse-wise and pass like a dream.

Faith, ’twas time that the visit should come to an end.

They’re unstable of soul, are these sons of the desert;—

Both incense and prayers dwindled off towards the end.

Anitra.

Yes, but are you a prophet?

Peer.

Your Emperor Iam!am![Tries to kiss her.Why just see now how coy the wee woodpecker is!

Your Emperor Iam!am!

[Tries to kiss her.

Why just see now how coy the wee woodpecker is!

Anitra.

Give me that ring that you have on your finger.

Peer.

Take, sweet Anitra, the whole of the trash!

Anitra.

Thy words are as songs! Oh, how dulcet their sound!

Peer.

How blessëd to know oneself loved to thispitch!pitch!I’ll dismount! Like your slave, I will lead your palfrey![Hands her his riding-whip, and dismounts.There now, my rosebud, you exquisite flower!Here I’ll go trudging my way through the sand,Till a sunstroke o’ertakes me and finishes me.I’m young, Anitra; bear that in mind!You mustn’t be shocked at my escapades.Frolics and high-jinks are youth’s sole criterion!And so, if your intellect weren’t so dense,You would see at a glance, oh my fair oleander,—Your lover is frolicsome—ergo, he’s young!

How blessëd to know oneself loved to thispitch!pitch!

I’ll dismount! Like your slave, I will lead your palfrey!

[Hands her his riding-whip, and dismounts.

There now, my rosebud, you exquisite flower!

Here I’ll go trudging my way through the sand,

Till a sunstroke o’ertakes me and finishes me.

I’m young, Anitra; bear that in mind!

You mustn’t be shocked at my escapades.

Frolics and high-jinks are youth’s sole criterion!

And so, if your intellect weren’t so dense,

You would see at a glance, oh my fair oleander,—

Your lover is frolicsome—ergo, he’s young!

Anitra.

Yes, you are young. Have you any more rings?

Peer.

Am I not? There, grab! I can leap like a buck!Were there vine-leaves around, I would garland my brow.To be sure I am young! Hei, I’m going to dance![Dances and sings.I am a blissful game-cock!Peck me, my little pullet!Hop-sa-sa! Let me trip it;—I am a blissful game-cock!

Am I not? There, grab! I can leap like a buck!

Were there vine-leaves around, I would garland my brow.

To be sure I am young! Hei, I’m going to dance!

[Dances and sings.

I am a blissful game-cock!

Peck me, my little pullet!

Hop-sa-sa! Let me trip it;—

I am a blissful game-cock!

Anitra.

You are sweating, my prophet; I fear you will melt;—Hand me that heavy bag hung at your belt.

You are sweating, my prophet; I fear you will melt;—

Hand me that heavy bag hung at your belt.

Peer.

Tender solicitude! Bear the purse ever;—Heartsthatthatcan love are content without gold![Dances and sings again.Young Peer Gynt is the maddest wag;—He knows not what foot he shall stand upon.Pooh, says Peer;—pooh, never mind!Young Peer Gynt is the maddest wag!

Tender solicitude! Bear the purse ever;—

Heartsthatthatcan love are content without gold!

[Dances and sings again.

Young Peer Gynt is the maddest wag;—

He knows not what foot he shall stand upon.

Pooh, says Peer;—pooh, never mind!

Young Peer Gynt is the maddest wag!

Anitra.

What joy when the Prophet steps forth in the dance!

Peer.

Oh, bother the Prophet!—Suppose we change clothes!Heisa! Strip off!

Oh, bother the Prophet!—Suppose we change clothes!

Heisa! Strip off!

Anitra.

Your caftan were too long,Your girdle too wide, and your stockings too tight——

Your caftan were too long,

Your girdle too wide, and your stockings too tight——

Peer.

Eh bien![93][Kneels down.But vouchsafe me a vehement sorrow;—To a heart full of love, it is sweet to suffer!Listen; as soon as we’re home at my castle——

Eh bien![93]

[Kneels down.

But vouchsafe me a vehement sorrow;—

To a heart full of love, it is sweet to suffer!

Listen; as soon as we’re home at my castle——

Anitra.

In your Paradise;—have we far to ride?

Peer.

Oh, a thousand miles or——

Anitra.

Too far!

Peer.

Oh, listen;—You shall have the soul that I promised you once——

Oh, listen;—

You shall have the soul that I promised you once——

Anitra.

Oh, thank you; I’ll get on without the soul.But you asked for a sorrow——

Oh, thank you; I’ll get on without the soul.

But you asked for a sorrow——

Peer.[Rising.]

Peer.

[Rising.]

Ay, curse me, I did!A keen one, but short,—to last two or three days!

Ay, curse me, I did!

A keen one, but short,—to last two or three days!

Anitra.

Anitra obeyeth the Prophet!—Farewell!

[Gives him a smart cut across the fingers, and dashes off, at a tearing gallop, back across the desert.

Peer.[Stands for a long time thunderstruck.]

Peer.

[Stands for a long time thunderstruck.]

Well now, may I be——!

The same place, an hour later.

Peer Gyntis stripping off his Turkish costume, soberly and thoughtfully, bit by bit. Last of all, he takes his little travelling-cap out of his coat pocket, puts it on, and stands once more in European dress.

Peer.[Throwing the turban far away from him.]

Peer.

[Throwing the turban far away from him.]

There lies the Turk, then, and here stand I!—These heathenish doings are no sort of good.It’s lucky ’twas only a matter of clothes,And not, as the saying goes, bred in the bone.—What tempted me into that galley at all?It’s best, in the long run, to live as a Christian,To put away peacock-like ostentation,To base all one’s dealings on law and morality,To be ever oneself, and to earn at the last aSpeech at one’s grave-side, and wreaths on one’s coffin.[Walks a few steps.The hussy;—she was on the very vergeOf turning my head clean topsy-turvy.May I be a troll if I understandWhat it was that dazed and bemused me so.Well; it’s well that’s done: had the joke been carriedBut one step on, I’d have looked absurd.—I have erred;——but at least it’s a consolationThat my error was due to the false situation.It wasn’t my personal self that fell.’Twas in fact this prophetical way of life,So utterly lacking the salt of activity,That took its revenge in these qualms of bad taste.It’s a sorry business this prophetising!One’s office compels one to walk in a mist;In playing the prophet, you throw up the game[94]The moment you act like a rational being.[95]In so far I’ve done what the occasion demanded,In the mere fact of paying my court to that goose.But, nevertheless——[Bursts out laughing.H’m, to think of it now!To try to make time stop by jigging and dancing,And to cope with the current by capering and prancing!To thrum on the lute-strings, to fondle and sigh,And end, like a rooster,—by getting well plucked!Such conduct is truly prophetic frenzy.—Yes, plucked!—Phew! I’m plucked clean enough indeed.Well, well, I’ve a trifle still left in reserve;I’ve a little in America, a little in my pocket;So I won’t be quite driven to beg my bread.—And at bottom this middle condition is best.I’m no longer a slave to my coachman and horses;I haven’t to fret about postchaise or baggage;I am master, in short, of the situation.—What path should I choose? Many paths lie before me;And a wise man is known from a fool by his choice.My business life is a finished chapter;My love-sports, too, are a cast-off garment.I feel no desire to live back like a crab.“Forward or back, and it’s just as far;Out or in, and it’s just as strait,”—So I seem to have read in some luminous[96]work.—I’ll try something new, then; ennoble my course;Find a goal worth the labour and money it costs.Shall I write my life without dissimulation,—A book for guidance and imitation?Or, stay——! I have plenty of time at command;—What if, as a travelling scientist,I should study past ages and time’s voracity?Ay, sure enough,thatis the thing for me!Legends I read e’en in childhood’s days,And since then I’ve kept up that branch of learning.—I will follow the path of the human race!Like a feather I’ll float on the stream of historyMake it all live again, as in a dream,—See the heroes battling for truth and right,As an onlooker only, in safety ensconced,—See thinkers perish and martyrs bleed,See empires founded and vanish away,—See world-epochs grow from their trifling seeds;In short, I will skim off the cream of history.—I must try to get hold of a volume of Becker,And travel as far as I can by chronology.—It’s true—my grounding’s by no means thorough,And history’s wheels within wheels are deceptive;—But pooh; the wilder the starting-point,The result will oft be the more original.—How exalting it is, now, to choose a goal,And drive straight for it, like flint and steel![With quiet emotion.To break off all round one, on every side,The bonds that bind one to home and friends,—To blow into atoms one’s hoarded wealth,—To bid one’s love and its joys good night,—All simply to find the arcana of truth,—[Wiping a tear from his eye.That is the test of the true man of science!—I feel myself happy beyond all measure.Now I have fathomed my destiny’s riddle.Now ’tis but persevering through thick and thin!It’s excusable, sure, if I hold up my head,And feel my worth, as the man, Peer Gynt,Also called Human-life’s Emperor.—I will own the sum-total of bygone days;I’ll nevermore tread in the paths of the living.The present is not worth so much as a shoe-sole;All faithless and marrowless the doings of men;Their soul has no wings and their deeds noweight;——[Shrugs his shoulders.And women,—ah, they are a worthless crew![Goes off.

There lies the Turk, then, and here stand I!—

These heathenish doings are no sort of good.

It’s lucky ’twas only a matter of clothes,

And not, as the saying goes, bred in the bone.—

What tempted me into that galley at all?

It’s best, in the long run, to live as a Christian,

To put away peacock-like ostentation,

To base all one’s dealings on law and morality,

To be ever oneself, and to earn at the last a

Speech at one’s grave-side, and wreaths on one’s coffin.

[Walks a few steps.

The hussy;—she was on the very verge

Of turning my head clean topsy-turvy.

May I be a troll if I understand

What it was that dazed and bemused me so.

Well; it’s well that’s done: had the joke been carried

But one step on, I’d have looked absurd.—

I have erred;——but at least it’s a consolation

That my error was due to the false situation.

It wasn’t my personal self that fell.

’Twas in fact this prophetical way of life,

So utterly lacking the salt of activity,

That took its revenge in these qualms of bad taste.

It’s a sorry business this prophetising!

One’s office compels one to walk in a mist;

In playing the prophet, you throw up the game[94]

The moment you act like a rational being.[95]

In so far I’ve done what the occasion demanded,

In the mere fact of paying my court to that goose.

But, nevertheless——

[Bursts out laughing.

H’m, to think of it now!

To try to make time stop by jigging and dancing,

And to cope with the current by capering and prancing!

To thrum on the lute-strings, to fondle and sigh,

And end, like a rooster,—by getting well plucked!

Such conduct is truly prophetic frenzy.—

Yes, plucked!—Phew! I’m plucked clean enough indeed.

Well, well, I’ve a trifle still left in reserve;

I’ve a little in America, a little in my pocket;

So I won’t be quite driven to beg my bread.—

And at bottom this middle condition is best.

I’m no longer a slave to my coachman and horses;

I haven’t to fret about postchaise or baggage;

I am master, in short, of the situation.—

What path should I choose? Many paths lie before me;

And a wise man is known from a fool by his choice.

My business life is a finished chapter;

My love-sports, too, are a cast-off garment.

I feel no desire to live back like a crab.

“Forward or back, and it’s just as far;

Out or in, and it’s just as strait,”—

So I seem to have read in some luminous[96]work.—

I’ll try something new, then; ennoble my course;

Find a goal worth the labour and money it costs.

Shall I write my life without dissimulation,—

A book for guidance and imitation?

Or, stay——! I have plenty of time at command;—

What if, as a travelling scientist,

I should study past ages and time’s voracity?

Ay, sure enough,thatis the thing for me!

Legends I read e’en in childhood’s days,

And since then I’ve kept up that branch of learning.—

I will follow the path of the human race!

Like a feather I’ll float on the stream of history

Make it all live again, as in a dream,—

See the heroes battling for truth and right,

As an onlooker only, in safety ensconced,—

See thinkers perish and martyrs bleed,

See empires founded and vanish away,—

See world-epochs grow from their trifling seeds;

In short, I will skim off the cream of history.—

I must try to get hold of a volume of Becker,

And travel as far as I can by chronology.—

It’s true—my grounding’s by no means thorough,

And history’s wheels within wheels are deceptive;—

But pooh; the wilder the starting-point,

The result will oft be the more original.—

How exalting it is, now, to choose a goal,

And drive straight for it, like flint and steel!

[With quiet emotion.

To break off all round one, on every side,

The bonds that bind one to home and friends,—

To blow into atoms one’s hoarded wealth,—

To bid one’s love and its joys good night,—

All simply to find the arcana of truth,—

[Wiping a tear from his eye.

That is the test of the true man of science!—

I feel myself happy beyond all measure.

Now I have fathomed my destiny’s riddle.

Now ’tis but persevering through thick and thin!

It’s excusable, sure, if I hold up my head,

And feel my worth, as the man, Peer Gynt,

Also called Human-life’s Emperor.—

I will own the sum-total of bygone days;

I’ll nevermore tread in the paths of the living.

The present is not worth so much as a shoe-sole;

All faithless and marrowless the doings of men;

Their soul has no wings and their deeds no

weight;——

[Shrugs his shoulders.

And women,—ah, they are a worthless crew!

[Goes off.

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