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._]