Chapter IV: Part 4

There, too, my ethics won the day.
I saw the traffic was a wrong one
For people of a certain age.
One may drop off before one dreams of it.
And then there were the thousand pitfalls
Laid by the philanthropic camp;
Besides, of course, the hostile cruisers,
And all the wind-and-weather risks.
All this together won the day.
I thought: Now, Peter,[74] reef your sails:
See to it you amend your faults!
So in the South I bought some land,
And kept the last meat-importation,
Which chanced to be a superfine one.
They throve so, grew so fat and sleek,
That ’twas a joy to me, and them too.
Yes, without boasting, I may say
I acted as a father to them,—
And found my profit in so doing.
I built them schools, too, so that virtue
Might uniformly be maintained at
A certain general _niveau_,[74]
And kept strict watch that never its
Thermometer should sink below it.
Now, furthermore, from all this business
I’ve beat a definite retreat;—
I’ve sold the whole plantation, and
It’s tale of live-stock, hide and hair.
At parting, too, I served around,
To big and little, gratis grog,[74]
So men and women all got drunk,
And widows got their snuff as well.
So that is why I trust,—provided
The saying is not idle breath:
Whoso does not do ill, does good,—
My former errors are forgotten,
And I, much more than most, can hold
My misdeeds balanced by my virtues.

VON EBERKOPF.
[_Clinking glasses with him._]

How strengthening it is to hear
A principle thus acted out,
Freed from the night of theory,
Unshaken by the outward ferment!

PEER.
[_Who has been drinking freely during the preceding
passages._]

We Northland men know how to carry
Our battle through! The key to the art
Of life’s affairs is simply this:
To keep one’s ear close shut against
The ingress of one dangerous viper.

MR. COTTON.

What sort of viper, pray, dear friend?

PEER.

A little one that slyly wiles you
To tempt the irretrievable.
[_Drinking again._
The essence of the art of daring,
The art of bravery in act,
Is this: To stand with choice-free foot
Amid the treacherous snares of life,—
To know for sure that other days
Remain beyond the day of battle,—
To know that ever in the rear
A bridge for your retreat stands open.
This theory has borne me on,
Has given my whole career its colour;
And this same theory I inherit,
A race-gift, from my childhood’s home.

MONSIEUR BALLON.

You are Norwegian?

PEER.

Yes, by birth;
But cosmopolitan in spirit.
For fortune such as I’ve enjoyed
I have to thank America.
My amply-furnished library
I owe to Germany’s later schools.
From France, again, I get my waistcoats,
My manners, and my spice of wit,—
From England an industrious hand,
And keen sense for my own advantage.
The Jew has taught me how to wait.
Some taste for _dolce far niente_[75]
I have received from Italy,—
And one time, in a perilous pass,
To eke the measure of my days,
I had recourse to Swedish steel.

TRUMPETERSTRÅLE.
[_Lifting up his glass._]

Ay, Swedish steel——?

VON EBERKOPF.

The weapon’s wielder
Demands our homage first of all!

[_They clink glasses and drink with him. The wine begins
to go to his head._

MR. COTTON.

All this is very good indeed;—
But, sir,[75] I’m curious to know
What with your gold you think of doing.

PEER.
[_Smiling._]

H’m; doing? Eh?

ALL FOUR.
[_Coming closer._]

Yes, let us hear!

PEER.

Well, first of all, I want to travel.
You see, that’s why I shipped you four,
To keep me company, at Gibraltar.
I needed such a dancing-choir
Of friends around my gold-calf-altar——

VON EBERKOPF.

Most witty!

MR. COTTON.

Well, but no one hoists
His sails for nothing but the sailing.
Beyond all doubt, you have a goal;
And that is——?

PEER.

To be Emperor.[76]

ALL FOUR.

What?

PEER.
[_Nodding._]

Emperor!

THE FOUR.

Where?

PEER.

O’er all the world.

MONSIEUR BALLON.

But how, friend——?

PEER.

By the might of gold!
That plan is not at all a new one;
It’s been the soul of my career.
Even as a boy, I swept in dreams
Far o’er the ocean on a cloud.
I soared with train and golden scabbard,—
And flopped down on all-fours again.
But still my goal, my friends, stood fast.—
There is a text, or else a saying,
Somewhere, I don’t remember where,
That if you gained the whole wide world,
But lost _yourself_, your gain were but
A garland on a cloven skull.
That is the text—or something like it;
And that remark is sober truth.

VON EBERKOPF.

But what then is the Gyntish Self?

PEER.

The world behind my forehead’s arch,
In force of which I’m no one else
Than I, no more than God’s the Devil.

TRUMPETERSTRÅLE.

I understand now where you’re aiming!

MONSIEUR BALLON.

Thinker sublime!

VON EBERKOPF.

Exalted poet!

PEER.
[_More and more elevated._]

The Gyntish Self—it is the host
Of wishes, appetites, desires,—
The Gyntish Self, it is the sea
Of fancies, exigencies, claims,
All that, in short, makes _my_ breast heave,
And whereby I, as I, exist.
But as our Lord requires the clay
To constitute him God o’ the world,
So I, too, stand in need of gold,
If I as Emperor would figure.

MONSIEUR BALLON.

You have the gold, though?

PEER.

Not enough.
Ay, maybe for a nine-days’ flourish,
As Emperor _à la_[77] Lippe-Detmold.
But I must be myself _en bloc_,[77]
Must be the Gynt of all the planet,
Sir Gynt[77] throughout, from top to bottom!

MONSIEUR BALLON.
[_Enraptured._]

Possess the earth’s most exquisite beauty!

VON EBERKOPF.

All century-old Johannisberger!

TRUMPETERSTRÅLE.

And all the blades of Charles the Twelfth!

MR. COTTON.

But first a profitable opening
For business——

PEER.

That’s already found;
Our anchoring here supplied me with it.
To-night we set off, northward ho!
The papers I received on board
Have brought me tidings of importance——.
[_Rises with uplifted glass._
It seems that Fortune ceaselessly
Aids him who has the pluck to seize it——

THE GUESTS.

Well? Tell us——!

PEER.

Greece is in revolt.

ALL FOUR.
[_Springing up._]

What! Greece——?

PEER.

The Greeks have risen in Hellas.

THE FOUR.

Hurrah!

PEER.

And Turkey’s in a fix!
[_Empties his glass._

MONSIEUR BALLON.

To Hellas! Glory’s gate stands open!
I’ll help them with the sword of France!

VON EBERKOPF.

And I with war-whoops—from a distance.

MR. COTTON.

And I as well—by taking contracts!

TRUMPETERSTRÅLE.

Lead on! I’ll find again in Bender
The world-renowned spur-strap-buckles![78]

MONSIEUR BALLON.
[_Falling on PEER GYNT’S neck._]

Forgive me, friend, that I at first
Misjudged you quite!

VON EBERKOPF.
[_Pressing his hands._]

I, stupid hound,
Took you for next door to a scoundrel!

MR COTTON.

Too strong that; only for a fool——

TRUMPETERSTRÅLE.
[_Trying to kiss him._]

I, Uncle, for a specimen
Of Yankee riff-raff’s meanest spawn——!
Forgive me——!

VON EBERKOPF.

We’ve been in the dark——

PEER.

What stuff is this?

VON EBERKOPF.

We now see gathered
In glory all the Gyntish host
Of wishes, appetites, and desires——!

MONSIEUR BALLON.
[_Admiringly._]

So this is being Monsieur[79] Gynt!

VON EBERKOPF.
[_In the same tone._]

This I call being Gynt with honour!

PEER.

But tell me——?

MONSIEUR BALLON.

Don’t you understand?

PEER.

May I be hanged if I begin to!

MONSIEUR BALLON.

What? Are you not upon your way
To join the Greeks, with ship and money——?

PEER.
[_Contemptuously._]

No, many thanks! I side with strength,
And lend my money to the Turks.

MONSIEUR BALLON.

Impossible!

VON EBERKOPF.

Witty, but a jest!

PEER.
[_After a short silence, leaning on a chair and
assuming a dignified mien._]

Come, gentlemen, I think it best
We part before the last remains
Of friendship melt away like smoke.
Who nothing owns will lightly risk it.
When in the world one scarce commands
The strip of earth one’s shadow covers,
One’s born to serve as food for powder.
But when a man stands safely landed,
As I do, then his stake is greater.
Go you to Hellas. I will put you
Ashore, and arm you gratis too.
The more you eke the flames of strife,
The better will it serve my purpose.
Strike home for freedom and for right!
Fight! storm! make hell hot for the Turks;—
And gloriously end your days
Upon the Janissaries lances.—
But _I_—excuse me——
[_Slaps his pocket._
I have cash,
And am myself, Sir Peter Gynt.[80]

[_Puts up his sunshade, and goes into the grove, where
the hammocks are partly visible._]

TRUMPETERSTRÅLE.

The swinish cur!

MONSIEUR BALLON.

No taste for glory——!

MR. COTTON.

Oh, glory’s neither here nor there;
But think of the enormous profits
We’d reap if Greece should free herself.

MONSIEUR BALLON.

I saw myself a conqueror,
By lovely Grecian maids encircled.

TRUMPETERSTRÅLE.

Grasped in my Swedish hands, I saw
The great, heroic spur-strap-buckles!

VON EBERKOPF.

I my gigantic Fatherland’s
Culture saw spread o’er earth and sea——!

MR. COTTON.

The worst’s the loss in solid cash.
God dam![81] I scarce can keep from weeping!
I saw me owner of Olympus.
If to its fame the mountain answers,
There must be veins of copper in it,
That could be opened up again.
And furthermore, that stream Castalia,[82]
Which people talk so much about,
With fall on fall, at lowest reckoning,
Must mean a thousand horse-power good——

TRUMPETERSTRÅLE.

Still I will go! My Swedish sword
Is worth far more than Yankee gold!

MR. COTTON.

Perhaps; but, jammed into the ranks,
Amid the press we’d all be drowned;
And then where would the profit be?

MONSIEUR BALLON.

Accurst! So near to fortune’s summit,
And now stopped short beside its grave!

MR. COTTON.
[_Shakes his fist towards the yacht._]

That long black chest holds coffered up
The nabob’s golden nigger-sweat——!

VON EBERKOPF.

A royal notion! Quick! Away!
It’s all up with his empire now!
Hurrah!

MONSIEUR BALLON.

What would you?

VON EBERKOPF.

Seize the power!
The crew can easily be bought.
On board then. I annex the yacht!

MR. COTTON.

You—what——?

VON EBERKOPF.

I grab the whole concern!
[_Goes down to the jolly-boat._

MR. COTTON.

Why then self-interest commands me
To grab my share.
[_Goes after him._

TRUMPETERSTRÅLE.

What scoundrelism!

MONSIEUR BALLON.

A scurvy business—but—_enfin_![83]
[_Follows the others._

TRUMPETERSTRÅLE.

I’ll have to follow, I suppose,—
But I protest to all the world——![84]
[_Follows._

SCENE SECOND.

_Another part of the coast. Moonlight with drifting clouds. The
yacht is seen far out, under full steam._

_PEER GYNT comes running along the beach; now pinching his arms,
now gazing out to sea._

PEER.

A nightmare!—Delusion!—I’ll soon be awake!
She’s standing to sea! And at furious speed!—
Mere delusion! I’m sleeping! I’m dizzy and drunk!
[_Clenches his hands._
It’s not possible I should be going to die!
[_Tearing his hair._
A dream! I’m determined it shall be a dream!
Oh, horror! It’s only too real, worse luck!
My brute-beasts of friends——! Do but hear me, oh Lord!
Since though art so wise and so righteous——! Oh judge——!
[_With upstretched arms._
It is _I_, Peter[85] Gynt! Oh, our Lord, give but heed!
Hold thy hand o’er me, Father; or else I must perish!
Make them back the machine! Make them lower the gig!
Stop the robbers! Make something go wrong with the rigging!
Hear me! Let other folks’ business lie over!
The world can take care of itself for the time!—
I’m blessed if he hears me! He’s deaf as his wont is!
Here’s a nice thing! A God that is bankrupt of help!
[_Beckons upwards._
Hist; I’ve abandoned the nigger-plantation!
And missionaries I’ve exported to Asia!
Surely one good turn should be worth another!
Oh, help me on board——!

[_A jet of fire shoots into the air from the yacht,
followed by thick clouds of smoke; a hollow report
is heard. PEER GYNT utters a shriek, and sinks down
on the sands. Gradually the smoke clears away; the
ship has disappeared._

PEER.
[_Softly, with a pale face._]

That’s the sword of wrath!
In a crack to the bottom, every soul, man and mouse!
Oh, for ever blest be the lucky chance——
[_With emotion._
A chance? No, no, it was more than a chance.
I was to be rescued and they to perish.
Oh, thanks and praise for that thou hast kept me,
Hast cared for me, spite of all my sins!—
[_Draws a deep breath._
What a marvellous feeling of safety and peace
It gives one to know oneself specially shielded!
But the desert! What about food and drink?
Oh, something I’m sure to find. _He’ll_ see to that.
There’s no cause for alarm;—
[_Loud and insinuatingly._
_He_ would never allow
A poor little sparrow like me to perish!
Be but lowly of spirit. And give him time.
Leave it all in the Lord’s hands; and don’t be cast down.—
[_With a start of terror._
Can that be a lion that growled in the reeds——?
[_His teeth chattering._
No, it wasn’t a lion.
[_Mustering up courage._
A lion, forsooth!
Those beasts, they’ll take care to keep out of the way.
They know it’s no joke to fall foul of their betters.
They have instinct to guide them;—they feel, what’s a fact,
That it’s dangerous playing with elephants.—
But all the same——. I must find a tree.
There’s a grove of acacias and palms over there;
If I once can climb up, I’ll be sheltered and safe,—
Most of all if I knew but a psalm or two.
[_Clambers up._
Morning and evening are not alike;
That text has been oft enough weighed and pondered.
[_Seats himself comfortably._
How blissful to feel so uplifted in spirit!
To think nobly is more than to know oneself rich.
Only trust in him. He knows well what share
Of the chalice of need I can bear to drain.
He takes fatherly thought for my personal weal;—
[_Casts a glance over the sea, and whispers with a sigh_:
But economical—no, that he isn’t!

SCENE THIRD.

_Night. An encampment of Moroccan troops on the edge of the
desert. Watch-fires, with SOLDIERS resting by them._

A SLAVE.
[_Enters, tearing his hair._]

Gone is the Emperor’s milk-white charger!

ANOTHER SLAVE.
[_Enters, rending his garments._]

The Emperor’s sacred robes are stolen!

AN OFFICER.
[_Enters._]

A hundred stripes upon the foot-soles
For all who fail to catch the robber!

[_The troopers mount their horses, and gallop away in
every direction._

SCENE FOURTH.

_Daybreak. The grove of acacias and palms._

_PEER GYNT in his tree with a broken branch in his hand, trying
to beat off a swarm of monkeys._

PEER.

Confound it! A most disagreeable night.
[_Laying about him._
Are you there again? This is most accursëd!
Now they’re throwing fruit. No, it’s something else.
A loathsome beast is your Barbary ape!
The Scripture says: Thou shalt watch and fight.
But I’m blest if I can; I am heavy and tired,
[_Is again attacked; impatiently_:
I must put a stopper upon this nuisance!
I must see and get hold of one of these scamps,
Get him hung and skinned, and then dress myself up,
As best I may, in his shaggy hide,
That the others may take me for one of themselves.—
What are we mortals? Motes, no more;
And it’s wisest to follow the fashion a bit.—
Again a rabble! They throng and swarm.
Off with you! Shoo! They go on as though crazy.
If only I had a false tail to put on now,—
Only something to make me a bit like a beast.—
What now? There’s a pattering over my head——!
[_Looks up._
It’s the grandfather ape,—with his fists full of filth——!

[_Huddles together apprehensively, and keeps still for a
while. The ape makes a motion; PEER GYNT begins
coaxing and wheedling him, as he might a dog._

Ay,—are you there, my good old Bus!
He’s a good beast, he is! He will listen to reason!
He wouldn’t throw;—I should think not, indeed!
It is me! Pip-pip! We are first-rate friends!
Ai-ai! Don’t you hear, I can talk your language?
Bus and I, we are kinsfolk, you see;—
Bus shall have sugar to-morrow——! The beast!
The whole cargo on top of me! Ugh, how disgusting!—
Or perhaps it was food! ’Twas in taste—indefinable;
And taste’s for the most part a matter of habit.
What thinker is it who somewhere says:
You must spit and trust to the force of habit?—
Now here come the small-fry!
[_Hits and slashes around him._
It’s really too bad
That man, who by rights is the lord of creation,
Should find himself forced to——! O murder! murder!
The old one was bad, but the youngsters are worse!

SCENE FIFTH.

_Early morning. A stony region, with a view out over the desert.
On one side a cleft in the hill, and a cave._

_A THIEF and a RECEIVER hidden in the cleft, with the Emperor’s
horse and robes. The horse, richly caparisoned, is tied to
a stone. Horsemen are seen afar off._

THE THIEF.

The tongues of the lances
All flickering and flashing,—
See, see!

THE RECEIVER.

Already my head seems
To roll on the sand-plain!
Woe, woe!

THE THIEF.
[_Folds his arms over his breast._]

My father he thieved;
So his son must be thieving.

THE RECEIVER.

My father received;
Still his son is receiving.[86]

THE THIEF.

Thy lot shalt thou bear still;
Thyself shalt thou be still.

THE RECEIVER.
[_Listening._]

Steps in the brushwood!
Flee, flee! But where?

THE THIEF.

The cavern is deep,
And the Prophet great!

[_They make off, leaving the booty behind them. The
horsemen gradually disappear in the distance._

PEER GYNT.
[_Enters, cutting a reed whistle._]

What a delectable morning-tide!—
The dung-beetle’s rolling his ball in the dust;
The snail creeps out of his dwelling-house.
The morning; ay, it has gold in its mouth.—
It’s a wonderful power, when you think of it,
That Nature has given to the light of day.
One feels so secure, and so much more courageous,—
One would gladly, at need, take a bull by the horns.—
What a stillness all round! Ah, the joys of Nature,—
Strange enough I should never have prized them before.
Why go and imprison oneself in a city,
For no end but just to be bored by the mob.—
Just look how the lizards are whisking about,
Snapping, and thinking of nothing at all.
What innocence ev’n in the life of the beasts!
Each fulfils the Creator’s behest unimpeachably,
Preserving its own special stamp undefaced;
Is itself, is itself, both in sport and in strife,
Itself, as it was at his primal: Be!
[_Puts on his eye-glasses._
A toad. In the middle of a sandstone block.
Petrifaction all around him. His head alone peering.
There he’s sitting and gazing as though through a window
At the world, and is—to himself enough.—
[_Reflectively._
Enough? To himself——? Where is it that’s written?
I’ve read it, in youth, in some so-called classic.
In the family prayer-book? Or Solomon’s Proverbs?
Alas, I notice that, year by year,
My memory for dates and for places is fading.
[_Seats himself in the shade._
Here’s a cool spot to rest and to stretch out one’s feet.
Why, look, here are ferns growing—edible roots.
[_Eats a little._
’Twould be fitter food for an animal;—
But the text says: Bridle the natural man!
Furthermore it is written: The proud shall be humbled,
And whoso abaseth himself, exalted.
[_Uneasily._
Exalted? Yes, that’s what will happen with me;—
No other result can so much as be thought of.
Fate will assist me away from this place,
And arrange matters so that I get a fresh start.
This is only a trial; deliverance will follow,—
If only the Lord lets me keep my health.

[_Dismisses his misgivings, lights a cigar, stretches
himself, and gazes out over the desert._

What an enormous, limitless waste!—
Far in the distance an ostrich is striding.—
What can one fancy was really God’s
Meaning in all of this voidness and deadness?
This desert, bereft of all sources of life;
This burnt-up cinder, that profits no one;
This patch of the world, that for ever lies fallow;
This corpse, that never, since earth’s creation,
Has brought its Maker so much as thanks,—
Why was it created?—How spendthrift is Nature!—
Is that sea in the east there, that dazzling expanse
All gleaming? It can’t be; ’tis but a mirage.
The sea’s to the west; it lies piled up behind me,
Dammed out from the desert by a sloping ridge.
[_A thought flashes through his mind._
Dammed out? Then I could——? The ridge is narrow.
Dammed out? It wants but a gap, a canal,—
Like a flood of life would the waters rush
In through the channel, and fill the desert![87]
Soon would the whole of yon red-hot grave
Spread forth, a breezy and rippling sea.
The oases would rise in the midst, like islands;
Atlas would tower in green cliffs on the north;
Sailing-ships would, like stray birds on the wing,
Skim to the south, on the caravans’ track.
Life-giving breezes would scatter the choking
Vapours, and dew would distil from the clouds.
People would build themselves town on town,
And grass would grow green round the swaying palm-trees.
The southland, behind the Sahara’s wall,
Would make a new seaboard for civilisation.
Steam would set Timbuctoo’s factories spinning;
Bornu would be colonised apace;
The naturalist would pass safely through Habes
In his railway-car to the Upper Nile.
In the midst of my sea, on a fat oasis,
I will replant the Norwegian race;
The Dalesman’s blood is next door to royal;
Arabic crossing will do the rest.
Skirting a bay, on a shelving strand,
I’ll build the chief city, Peeropolis.
The world is decrepit! Now comes the turn
Of Gyntiana, my virgin land!
[_Springs up._
Had I but capital, soon ’twould be done.—
A gold key to open the gate of the sea!
A crusade against Death! The close-fisted old churl
Shall open the sack he lies brooding upon.
Men rave about freedom in every land;—
Like the ass in the ark, I will send forth a cry
O’er the world, and will baptize to liberty
The beautiful, thrall-bounden coasts that shall be.
I must on! To find capital, eastward or west!
My kingdom—well, half of it, say—for a horse!
[_The horse in the cleft neighs._
A horse! Ay, and robes!—Jewels too,—and a sword!
[_Goes closer._
It can’t be! It is though——! But how? I have read,
I don’t quite know where, that the will can move mountains;—
But how about moving a horse as well——?
Pooh! Here stands the horse, that’s a matter of fact;—
For the rest, why, _ab esse ad posse_, et cetera.
[_Puts on the dress and looks down at it._
Sir Peter—a Turk, too, from top to toe!
Well, one never knows what may happen to one.—
Gee-up, now, Granë, my trusty steed!
[_Mounts the horse._
Gold-slipper stirrups beneath my feet!—
You may know the great by their riding-gear!

[_Gallops off into the desert._

SCENE SIXTH.

_The tent of an Arab chief, standing alone on an oasis._

_PEER GYNT, in his eastern dress, resting on cushions. He is
drinking coffee, and smoking a long pipe. ANITRA, and a
bevy of GIRLS, dancing and singing before him._

CHORUS OF GIRLS.

The Prophet is come!
The Prophet, the Lord, the All-Knowing One,
To us, to us is he come,
O’er the sand-ocean riding!
The Prophet, the Lord, the Unerring One,
To us, to us is he come,
O’er the sand-ocean sailing!
Wake the flute and the drum!
The Prophet, the Prophet is come!

ANITRA.

His courser is white as the milk is
That streams in the rivers of Paradise.
Bend every knee! Bow every head!
His eyes are as bright-gleaming, mild-beaming stars.
Yet none earth-born endureth
The rays of those stars in their blinding splendour!
Through the desert he came.
Gold and pearl-drops sprang forth on his breast.
Where he rode there was light.
Behind him was darkness;
Behind him raged drought and the simoom.
He, the glorious one, came!
Through the desert he came,
Like a mortal apparelled.
Kaaba, Kaaba stands void;—
He himself hath proclaimed it!

THE CHORUS OF GIRLS.

Wake the flute and the drum!
The Prophet, the Prophet is come!

[_They continue the dance, to soft music._

PEER.

I have read it in print—and the saying is true—
That no one’s a prophet in his native land.—
This position is very much more to my mind
Than, my life over there ’mong the Charleston merchants.
There was something hollow in the whole affair,
Something foreign at the bottom, something dubious behind it;—
I was never at home in their company,
Nor felt myself really one of the guild.
What tempted me into that galley at all?
To grub and grub in the bins of trade—
As I think it all over, I can’t understand it;—
It _happened_ so; that’s the whole affair.—
To be oneself on a basis of gold
Is no better than founding one’s house on the sand.
For your watch, and your ring, and the rest of your trappings,
The good people fawn on you, grovelling to earth;
They lift their hats to your jewelled breast-pin;
But your ring and your breast-pin are not your Person.—[88]
A prophet; ay, that is a clearer position.
At least one knows on what footing one stands.
If you make a success, it’s yourself that receives
The ovation, and not your pounds-sterling and shillings.[89]
One is what one is, and no nonsense about it;
One owes nothing to chance or to accident,
And needs neither licence nor patent to lean on.—
A prophet; ay, that is the thing for me.
And I slipped so utterly unawares into it,—
Just by coming galloping over the desert,
And meeting these children of nature _en route_.
The Prophet had come to them; so much was clear.
It was really not my intent to deceive——;
There’s a difference ’twixt lies and oracular answers;
And then I can always withdraw again.
I’m in no way bound; it’s a simple matter—;
The whole thing is private, so to speak;
I can go as I came; there’s my horse ready saddled;
I am master, in short, of the situation.

ANITRA.
[_Approaching the tent-door._]

Prophet and Master!

PEER.

What would my slave?

ANITRA.

The sons of the desert await at thy tent-door;
They pray for the light of thy countenance——

PEER.

Stop!
Say in the distance I’d have them assemble;
Say from the distance I hear all their prayers.
Add that I suffer no menfolk in here!
Men, my child, are a worthless crew,—
Inveterate rascals you well may call them!
Anitra, you can’t think how shamelessly
They have swind——I mean they have sinned, my child!—[90]
Well, enough now of that; you may dance for me, damsels!
The Prophet would banish the memories that gall him.

THE GIRLS.
[_Dancing._]

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

PEER.
[_His eyes following ANITRA during the dance._]

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

ANITRA.
[_Approaching_]

Thy handmaiden hears!

PEER.

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

ANITRA.

Impossible, Lord!

PEER.

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

ANITRA.

But I haven’t a soul.

PEER.

Then of course you must get one!

ANITRA.

How, Lord?

PEER.

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

ANITRA.

The Prophet is gracious——

PEER.

You hesitate? Speak!

ANITRA.

But I’d rather——

PEER.

Say on; don’t waste time about it!

ANITRA.

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

PEER.

What, child?

ANITRA.
[_Pointing to his turban._]

That lovely opal!

PEER.
[_Enchanted, handing her the jewel._]

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

SCENE SEVENTH.

_A moonlight night. The palm-grove outside ANITRA’S tent._

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

PEER GYNT.
[_Plays and sings._]

I double-locked my Paradise,
And took its key with me.
The north-wind bore me seaward ho!
While lovely women all forlorn
Wept on the ocean strand.
Still southward, southward clove my keel
The salt sea-currents through.
Where palms were swaying proud and fair,
A garland round the ocean-bight,
I set my ship afire.

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

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

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

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

ANITRA.
[_From the tent._]

Master, call’st thou in the night?

PEER.

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

ANITRA.

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

PEER.

What, then, was’t?

ANITRA.

Oh, spare me!

PEER.

Speak.

ANITRA.

Oh, I blush to——

PEER.
[_Approaching._]

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

ANITRA.
[_Horrified._]

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

PEER.

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

ANITRA.

Master, jest like honey floweth
From thy lips.

PEER.

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

ANITRA.
[_Lies down at his feet._]

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

PEER.

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

ANITRA.

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

PEER.

Wisdom in extremes is folly;
Coward blossoms into tyrant;
Truth, when carried to excess,
Ends in wisdom written backwards.
Ay, my daughter, I’m forsworn
As a dog if there are not
Folk with o’erfed souls on earth
Who shall scarce attain to clearness.
Once I met with such a fellow,
Of the flock the very flower;
And even he mistook his goal,
Losing sense in blatant sound.—
See the waste round this oasis.
Were I but to swing my turban,
I could force the ocean-flood
To fill up the whole concern.
But I were a blockhead, truly
Seas and lands to go creating.
Know you what it is to live?

ANITRA.

Teach me!

PEER.

It is to be wafted
Dry-shod down the stream of time,
Wholly, solely as oneself.
Only in full manhood can I
Be the man I am, dear child!
Aged eagle moults his plumage,
Aged fogey lags declining,
Aged dame has ne’er a tooth left,
Aged churl gets withered hands,—
One and all get withered souls.
Youth! Ah Youth! I mean to reign,
As a sultan, whole and fiery,—
Not on Gyntiana’s shores,
Under trellised vines and palm-leaves,—
But 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,
_There_ my being’s Caliphate?
All your longings shall be mine.
I’m an _autocrat_ in passion!
You shall live for me alone.
I’ll be he who shall enthrall
You like gold and precious stones.
Should we part, then life is over,—
That is, _your_ life, _nota bene_!
Every inch and fibre of you,
Will-less, without yea or nay,
I must know filled full of me.
Midnight beauties of your tresses,
All that’s lovely to be named,
Shall, like Babylonian gardens,
Tempt your Sultan to his tryst.
After all, I don’t complain, then,
Of your empty forehead-vault.
With a soul, one’s oft absorbed in
Contemplation of oneself.
Listen, while we’re on the subject,—
If you like it, faith, you shall
Have a ring about your ankle:—
’Twill be best for both of us.
_I_ will be your soul by proxy;
For the rest—why, _status quo_.
[_ANITRA snores._
What! She sleeps! Then has it glided
Bootless past her, all I’ve said?—
No; it marks my influence o’er her
That she floats away in dreams
On my love-talk as it flows.
[_Rises, and lays trinkets in her lap._
Here are jewels! Here are more!
Sleep, Anitra! Dream of Peer——.
Sleep! In sleeping, you the crown have
Placed upon your Emperor’s brow!
Victory on his Person’s basis
Has Peer Gynt this night achieved.

SCENE EIGHTH.

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

_PEER GYNT comes galloping across the desert, on his white
horse, with ANITRA before him on his saddle-bow._

ANITRA.

Let be, or I’ll bite you!

PEER.

You little rogue!

ANITRA.

What would you?

PEER.

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

ANITRA.

For shame! An old prophet like you!

PEER.

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

ANITRA.

Let me go! I want to go home!

PEER.

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

ANITRA.

Yes, but are you a prophet?

PEER.

Your Emperor I am!
[_Tries to kiss her._
Why just see now how coy the wee woodpecker is!

ANITRA.

Give me that ring that you have on your finger.

PEER.

Take, sweet Anitra, the whole of the trash!

ANITRA.

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

PEER.

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

ANITRA.

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

PEER.

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

ANITRA.

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

PEER.

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

ANITRA.

What joy when the Prophet steps forth in the dance!

PEER.

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

ANITRA.

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

PEER.

_Eh bien!_[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 GYNT is stripping off his Turkish costume, soberly and
thoughtfully, bit by bit. Last of all, he takes his little
travelling-cap out of his coat pocket, puts it on, and
stands once more in European dress._

PEER.
[_Throwing the turban far away from him._]

There lies the Turk, then, and here stand I!—
These heathenish doings are no sort of good.
It’s lucky ’twas only a matter of clothes,
And not, as the saying goes, bred in the bone.—
What tempted me into that galley at all?
It’s best, in the long run, to live as a Christian,
To put away peacock-like ostentation,
To base all one’s dealings on law and morality,
To be ever oneself, and to earn at the last a
Speech at one’s grave-side, and wreaths on one’s coffin.
[_Walks a few steps._
The hussy;—she was on the very verge
Of turning my head clean topsy-turvy.
May I be a troll if I understand
What it was that dazed and bemused me so.
Well; it’s well that’s done: had the joke been carried
But one step on, I’d have looked absurd.—
I have erred;——but at least it’s a consolation
That my error was due to the false situation.
It wasn’t my personal self that fell.
’Twas in fact this prophetical way of life,
So utterly lacking the salt of activity,
That took its revenge in these qualms of bad taste.
It’s a sorry business this prophetising!
One’s office compels one to walk in a mist;
In playing the prophet, you throw up the game[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, _that_ is the thing for me!
Legends I read e’en in childhood’s days,
And since then I’ve kept up that branch of learning.—
I will follow the path of the human race!
Like a feather I’ll float on the stream of history
Make it all live again, as in a dream,—
See the heroes battling for truth and right,
As an onlooker only, in safety ensconced,—
See thinkers perish and martyrs bleed,
See empires founded and vanish away,—
See world-epochs grow from their trifling seeds;
In short, I will skim off the cream of history.—
I must try to get hold of a volume of Becker,
And travel as far as I can by chronology.—
It’s true—my grounding’s by no means thorough,
And history’s wheels within wheels are deceptive;—
But pooh; the wilder the starting-point,
The result will oft be the more original.—
How exalting it is, now, to choose a goal,
And drive straight for it, like flint and steel!
[_With quiet emotion._
To break off all round one, on every side,
The bonds that bind one to home and friends,—
To blow into atoms one’s hoarded wealth,—
To bid one’s love and its joys good night,—
All simply to find the arcana of truth,—
[_Wiping a tear from his eye._
That is the test of the true man of science!—
I feel myself happy beyond all measure.
Now I have fathomed my destiny’s riddle.
Now ’tis but persevering through thick and thin!
It’s excusable, sure, if I hold up my head,
And feel my worth, as the man, Peer Gynt,
Also called Human-life’s Emperor.—
I will own the sum-total of bygone days;
I’ll nevermore tread in the paths of the living.
The present is not worth so much as a shoe-sole;
All faithless and marrowless the doings of men;
Their soul has no wings and their deeds no
weight;——
[_Shrugs his shoulders._
And women,—ah, they are a worthless crew!
[_Goes off._

SCENE TENTH.

_A summer day. Far up in the North. A hut in the forest. The
door, with a large wooden bar, stands open. Reindeer-horns
over it. A flock of goats by the wall of the hut._

_A MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN, fair-haired and comely, sits spinning
outside in the sunshine._

THE WOMAN.
[_Glances down the path and sings._]

Maybe both the winter and spring will pass by,
And the next summer too, and the whole of the year;—
But thou wilt come one day, that know I full well;
And I will await thee, as I promised of old.[97]
[_Calls the goats, spins, and sings again._
God strengthen thee, whereso thou goest in the world!
God gladden thee, if at his footstool thou stand!
Here will I await thee till thou comest again;
And if thou wait up yonder, then there we’ll meet, my friend!

SCENE ELEVENTH.

_In Egypt. Daybreak. MEMNON’S STATUE amid the sands._

_PEER GYNT enters on foot, and looks around him for a while._

PEER GYNT.

Here I might fittingly start on my wanderings.—
So now, for a change, I’ve become an Egyptian;
But Egyptian on the basis of the Gyntish I.
To Assyria next I will bend my steps.
To begin right back at the world’s creation
Would lead to nought but bewilderment.
I will go round about[98] all the Bible history;
Its secular traces I’ll always be coming on;
And to look, as the saying goes, into its seams,
Lies entirely outside both my plan and my powers.
[_Sits upon a stone._
Now I will rest me, and patiently wait
Till the statue has sung its habitual dawn-song.
When breakfast is over, I’ll climb up the pyramid;
If I’ve time, I’ll look through its interior afterwards.
Then I’ll go round the head of the Red Sea by land;
Perhaps I may hit on King Potiphar’s grave.—
Next I’ll turn Asiatic. In Babylon I’ll seek for
The far-renowned harlots and hanging gardens,—
That’s to say, the chief traces of civilisation.
Then at one bound to the ramparts of Troy.
From Troy there’s a fareway by sea direct
Across to the glorious ancient Athens;—
There on the spot will I, stone by stone,
Survey the Pass that Leonidas guarded.
I will get up the works of the better philosophers,
Find the prison where Socrates suffered, a martyr——;
Oh no, by-the-bye—there’s a war there at present——!
Well, my studies in Hellas must e’en be postponed.
[_Looks at his watch._
It’s really too bad, such an age as it takes
For the sun to rise. I am pressed for time.
Well then, from Troy—it was there I left off——
[_Rises and listens._
What is that strange sort of murmur that’s rushing——?
[_Sunrise._

MEMNON’S STATUE.
[_Sings._]

From the demigod’s ashes there soar, youth-renewing,
Birds ever singing.
Zeus the Omniscient
Shaped them contending.
Owls of wisdom,
My birds, where do they slumber?
Thou must die if thou rede not
The song’s enigma!

PEER.

How strange now,—I really fancied there came
From the statue a sound. Music, this, of the Past.
I heard the stone-accents now rising, now sinking.—
I will register it, for the learned to ponder.
[_Notes in his pocket-book_
“The statue did sing. I heard the sound plainly,
But didn’t quite follow the text of the song.
The whole thing, of course, was hallucination.—
Nothing else of importance observed to-day.”
[_Proceeds on his way._

SCENE TWELFTH.

_Near the village of Gizeh. The great SPHINX carved out of the
rock. In the distance the spires and minarets of Cairo._

_PEER GYNT enters; he examines the SPHINX attentively, now
through his eyeglass, now through his hollowed hand._

PEER GYNT.

Now, where in the world have I met before
Something half forgotten that’s like this hobgoblin?
For met it I have, in the north or the south.
Was it a person? And, if so, who?
That Memnon, it afterwards crossed my mind,
Was like the Old Man of the Dovrë, so called,
Just as he sat there, stiff and stark,
Planted on end on the stumps of pillars.—
But this most curious mongrel here,
This changeling, a lion and woman in one,—
Does he come to me, too, from a fairy-tale,
Or from a remembrance of something real?
From a fairy-tale? Ho, I remember the fellow!
Why, of course it’s the Boyg, that I smote on the skull,—
That is, I dreamt it,—I lay in fever.—
[_Going closer._
The self-same eyes, and the self-same lips;—
Not quite so lumpish; a little more cunning;
But the same, for the rest, in all essentials.—
Ay, so that’s it, Boyg; so you’re like a lion
When one sees you from behind and meets you in the day-time!
Are you still good at riddling? Come, let us try.
Now we shall see if you answer as last time!
[_Calls out towards the SPHINX._
Hei, Boyg, who are you?

A VOICE.
[_Behind the SPHINX._]

Ach, Sphinx, wer bist du?

PEER.

What! Echo answers in German! How strange!

THE VOICE.

Wer bist du?

PEER.

It speaks it quite fluently too!
That observation is new, and my own.
[_Notes in his book._
“Echo in German. Dialect, Berlin.”

[_BEGRIFFENFELDT comes out from behind the SPHINX._

BEGRIFFENFELDT.

A man!

PEER.

Oh, then it was _he_ that was chattering.
[_Notes again._
“Arrived in the sequel at other results.”

BEGRIFFENFELDT.
[_With all sorts of restless antics._]

Excuse me, mein Herr[99]——! Eine Lebensfrage——![99]
What brings you to this place precisely to-day?

PEER.

A visit. I’m greeting a friend of my youth.

BEGRIFFENFELDT.

What? The Sphinx——?

PEER.
[_Nods._]

Yes, I knew him in days gone by.

BEGRIFFENFELDT.

Famos![100]—And that after such a night!
My temples are hammering as though they would burst!
You know him, man! Answer! Say on! Can you tell
What he is?

PEER.

What he is? Yes, that’s easy enough.
He’s _himself_.

BEGRIFFENFELDT.
[_With a bound._]

Ha, the riddle of life lightened forth
In a flash to my vision!—It’s certain he is
Himself?

PEER.

Yes, he says so, at any rate.

BEGRIFFENFELDT.

Himself! Revolution! thine hour is at hand!
[_Takes off his hat._
Your name, pray, mein Herr?[100]

PEER.

I was christened Peer Gynt.

BEGRIFFENFELDT.
[_In rapt admiration._]

Peer Gynt! Allegoric! I might have foreseen it.—
Peer Gynt? That must clearly imply: The Unknown,—
The Comer whose coming was augured to me——

PEER.

What, really? And now you are here to meet——

BEGRIFFENFELDT.

Peer Gynt! Profound! Enigmatic! Incisive!
Each word, as it were, an abysmal lesson!
What are you?

PEER.
[_Modestly._]

I’ve always endeavoured to be
Myself. For the rest, here’s my passport, you see.

BEGRIFFENFELDT.

Again that mysterious word at the bottom.
[_Seizes him by the wrist._
To Cairo! The Interpreters’ Kaiser is found!

PEER.

Kaiser?

BEGRIFFENFELDT.

Come on!

PEER.

Am I really known——?

BEGRIFFENFELDT.
[_Dragging him away._]

The Interpreters’ Kaiser—on the basis of Self!

SCENE THIRTEENTH.

_In Cairo. A large courtyard, surrounded by high walls and
buildings. Barred windows; iron cages._

_THREE KEEPERS in the courtyard. A FOURTH comes in._

THE NEWCOMER.

Schafmann, say, where’s the director gone?

A KEEPER.

He drove out this morning some time before dawn.

THE FIRST.

I think something must have occurred to annoy him;
For last night——

ANOTHER.

Hush, be quiet; he’s there at the door!

[_BEGRIFFENFELDT leads PEER GYNT in, locks the gate, and
puts the key in his pocket._

PEER.
[_To himself._]

Indeed an exceedingly gifted man;
Almost all that he says is beyond comprehension.
[_Looks around._
So this is the Club of the Savants, eh?

BEGRIFFENFELDT.

Here you will find them, every man jack of them;—
The group of Interpreters threescore and ten;[101]
Of late it has grown by a hundred and sixty——
[_Shouts to the KEEPERS._
Mikkel, Schlingelberg, Schafmann, Fuchs,—
Into the cages with you at once!

THE KEEPERS.

We!

BEGRIFFENFELDT.

Who else, pray? Get in, get in!
When the world twirls around, we must twirl with it too.
[_Forces them into a cage._
He’s arrived this morning, the mighty Peer;—
The rest you can guess,—I need say no more.

[_Locks the cage door, and throws the key into a well._

PEER.

But, my dear Herr Doctor and Director, pray——?

BEGRIFFENFELDT.

Neither one nor the other! I was before——
Herr Peer, are you secret? I must ease my heart——

PEER.
[_With increasing uneasiness._]

What is it?

BEGRIFFENFELDT.

Promise you will not tremble.

PEER.

I will do my best, but——

BEGRIFFENFELDT.
[_Draws him into a corner, and whispers._]

The Absolute Reason
Departed this life at eleven last night.

PEER.

God help me——!

BEGRIFFENFELDT.

Why, yes, it’s extremely deplorable.
And as I’m placed, you see, it is doubly unpleasant;
For this institution has passed up to now
For what’s called a madhouse.

PEER.

A madhouse, ha!

BEGRIFFENFELDT.

Not _now_, understand!

PEER.
[_Softly, pale with fear._]

Now I see what the place is!
And the man is mad;—and there’s none that knows it!
[_Tries to steal away._

BEGRIFFENFELDT.
[_Following him._]