[_Leans with his arms on the bulwark, and gazes
towards the land._]
Look at Hallingskarv[109] in his winter furs;—
He’s ruffling it, old one, in the evening glow.
The Jokel,[109] his brother, stands behind him askew;
He’s got his green ice-mantle still on his back.
The Folgefånn,[109] now, she is mighty fine,—
Lying there like a maiden in spotless white.
Don’t you be madcaps, old boys that you are!
Stand where you stand; you’re but granite knobs.
THE CAPTAIN.
[_Shouts forward._]
Two hands to the wheel, and the lantern aloft!
PEER.
It’s blowing up stiff——
THE CAPTAIN.
——for a gale to-night.
PEER.
Can one see the Rondë Hills from the sea?
THE CAPTAIN.
No, how should you? They lie at the back of the snowfields.
PEER.
Or Blåhö?[110]
THE CAPTAIN.
No; but from up in the rigging,
You’ve a glimpse, in clear weather, of Galdhöpiggen.[110]
PEER.
Where does Hårteig[110] lie?
THE CAPTAIN.
[_Pointing._]
About over there.
PEER.
I thought so.
THE CAPTAIN.
You know where you are, it appears.
PEER.
When I left the country, I sailed by here;
And the dregs, says the proverb, hang in to the last.
[_Spits, and gazes at the coast._
In there, where the screes and the clefts lie blue,—
Where the valleys, like trenches, gloom narrow and black,—
And underneath, skirting the open fiords,—
It’s in places like these human beings abide.
[_Looks at the Captain._
They build far apart in this country.
THE CAPTAIN.
Ay;
Few are the dwellings and far between.
PEER.
Shall we get in by day-break?
THE CAPTAIN.
Thereabouts;
If we don’t have too dirty a night altogether.
PEER.
It grows thick in the west.
THE CAPTAIN.
It does so.
PEER.
Stop a bit!
You might put me in mind when we make up accounts—
I’m inclined, as the phrase goes, to do a good turn
To the crew——
THE CAPTAIN.
I thank you.
PEER.
It won’t be much
I have dug for gold, and lost what I found;—
We are quite at loggerheads, Fate and I.
You know what I’ve got in safe keeping on board—
That’s all I have left;—the rest’s gone to the devil.
THE CAPTAIN.
It’s more than enough, though, to make you of weight
Among people at home here.
PEER.
I’ve no relations.
There’s no one awaiting the rich old curmudgeon.—
Well; that saves you, at least, any scenes on the pier!
THE CAPTAIN.
Here comes the storm.
PEER.
Well, remember then—
If any of your crew are in real need,
I won’t look too closely after the money——
THE CAPTAIN.
That’s kind. They are most of them ill enough off;
They have all got their wives and their children at home.
With their wages alone they can scarce make ends meet;
But if they come home with some cash to the good,
It will be a return not forgot in a hurry.
PEER.
What do you say? Have they wives and children?
Are they married?
THE CAPTAIN.
Married? Ay, every man of them.
But the one that is worst off of all is the cook;
Black famine is ever at home in his house.
PEER.
Married? They’ve folks that await them at home?
Folks to be glad when they come? Eh?
THE CAPTAIN.
Of course,
In poor people’s fashion.
PEER.
And come they one evening,
What then?
THE CAPTAIN.
Why, I daresay the goodwife will fetch
Something good for a treat——
PEER.
And a light in the sconce?
THE CAPTAIN.
Ay, ay, may be two; and a dram to their supper.
PEER.
And there they sit snug! There’s a fire on the hearth!
They’ve their children about them! The room’s full of chatter;
Not one hears another right out to an end,
For the joy that is on them——!
THE CAPTAIN.
It’s likely enough.
So it’s really kind, as you promised just now,
To help eke things out.
PEER.
[_Thumping the bulwark._]
I’ll be damned if I do.
Do you think I am mad? Would you have me fork out
For the sake of a parcel of other folks’ brats?
I’ve slaved much too sorely in earning my cash
There’s nobody waiting for old Peer Gynt.
THE CAPTAIN.
Well well; as you please then; your money’s your own.
PEER.
Right! Mine it is, and no one else’s.
We’ll reckon as soon as your anchor is down!
Take my fare, in the cabin, from Panama here.
Then brandy all round to the crew. Nothing more.
If I give a doit more, slap my jaw for me, Captain.
THE CAPTAIN.
I owe you a quittance, and not a thrashing;—
But excuse me, the wind’s blowing up to a gale.
[_He goes forward. It has fallen dark; lights are lit in
the cabin. The sea increases. Fog and thick clouds._
PEER.
To have a whole bevy of youngsters at home;—
Still to dwell in their minds as a coming delight;—
To have others’ thoughts follow you still on your path!—
There’s never a soul gives a thought to me.—
Lights in the sconces! I’ll put out those lights.
I will hit upon something!—I’ll make them all drunk;—
Not one of the devils shall go sober ashore.
They shall all come home drunk to their children and wives!
They shall curse; bang the table till it rings again,—
They shall scare those that wait for them out of their wits!
The goodwife shall scream and rush forth from the house,—
Clutch her children along! All their joy gone to ruin!
[_The ship gives a heavy lurch; he staggers and keeps
his balance with difficulty._
Why, that was a buffet and no mistake.
The sea’s hard at labour, as though it were paid for it;—
It’s still itself here on the coasts of the north;—
A cross-sea, as wry and wrong-headed as ever——
[_Listens._
Why, what can those screams be?
THE LOOK-OUT.
[_Forward._]
A wreck a-lee!
THE CAPTAIN.
[_On the main deck, shouts._]
Starboard your helm! Bring her up to the wind!
THE MATE.
Are there men on the wreck?
THE LOOK-OUT.
I can just see three!
PEER.
Quick: lower the stern boat——
THE CAPTAIN.
She’d fill ere she floated.
[_Goes forward._
PEER.
Who can think of that now?
[_To some of the crew._
If you’re men, to the rescue!
What the devil, if you should get a bit of a ducking.
THE BOATSWAIN.
It’s out of the question in such a sea.
PEER.
They are screaming again! There’s a lull in the wind.—
Cook, will you risk it? Quick! I will pay——
THE COOK.
No, not if you offered me twenty pounds-sterling[111]——
PEER.
You hounds! You chicken-hearts! Can you forget
These are men that have goodwives and children at home?
There they’re sitting and waiting——
THE BOATSWAIN.
Well, patience is wholesome.
THE CAPTAIN.
Bear away from that sea!
THE MATE.
There the wreck capsized!
PEER.
All is silent of a sudden——!
THE BOATSWAIN.
Were they married, as you think,
There are three new-baked widows even now in the world.
[_The storm increases. PEER GYNT moves away aft._
PEER.
There is no faith left among men any more,—
No Christianity,—well may they say it and write it;—
Their good deeds are few and their prayers are still fewer,
And they pay no respect to the Powers above them.—
In a storm like to-night’s, he’s a terror, the Lord is.
These beasts should be careful, and think, what’s the truth,
That it’s dangerous playing with elephants;—
And yet they must openly brave his displeasure!
_I_ am no whit to blame; for the sacrifice
I can prove I stood ready, my money in hand.
But how does it profit me?—What says the proverb?
A conscience at ease is a pillow of down.
Oh ay, that is all very well on dry land,
But I’m blest if it matters a snuff on board ship,
When a decent man’s out on the seas with such riff-raff.
At sea one can never be one’s self;
One must go with the others from deck to keel;
If for boatswain and cook the hour of vengeance should strike,
I shall no doubt be swept to the deuce with the rest;—
One’s personal welfare is clean set aside;—
One counts but as a sausage in slaughtering-time.—
My mistake is this: I have been too meek;
And I’ve had no thanks for it after all.
Were I younger, I think I would shift the saddle,
And try how it answered to lord it awhile.
There is time enough yet! They shall know in the parish
That Peer has come sailing aloft o’er the seas!
I’ll get back the farmstead by fair means or foul;—
I will build it anew; it shall shine like a palace.
But none shall be suffered to enter the hall!
They shall stand at the gateway, all twirling their caps;—
They shall beg and beseech—_that_ they freely may do;
But none gets so much as a farthing of mine.
If _I’ve_ had to howl ’neath the lashes of fate,
Trust me to find folks I can lash in my turn——
THE STRANGE PASSENGER.
[_Stands in the darkness at PEER GYNT’S side, and
salutes him in friendly fashion._]
Good evening!
PEER.
Good evening! What——? Who are you?
THE PASSENGER.
Your fellow-passenger, at your service.
PEER.
Indeed? I thought I was the only one.
THE PASSENGER.
A mistaken impression, which now is set right.
PEER.
But it’s singular that, for the first time to-night,
I should see you——
THE PASSENGER.
I never come out in the day-time.
PEER.
Perhaps you are ill? You’re as white as a sheet——
THE PASSENGER.
No, thank you—my health is uncommonly good.
PEER.
What a raging storm!
THE PASSENGER.
Ay, a blessëd one, man!
PEER.
A blessëd one?
THE PASSENGER.
Sea’s running high as houses
Ah, one can feel one’s mouth watering!
Just think of the wrecks that to-night will be shattered;—
And think, too, what corpses will drive ashore!
PEER.
Lord save us!
THE PASSENGER.
Have ever you seen a man strangled,
Or hanged,—or drowned?
PEER.
This is going too far——!
THE PASSENGER.
The corpses all laugh. But their laughter is forced;
And the most part are found to have bitten their tongues.
PEER.
Hold off from me——!
THE PASSENGER.
Only one question, pray!
If we, for example, should strike on a rock,
And sink in the darkness——
PEER.
You think there is danger?
THE PASSENGER.
I really don’t know what I ought to say.
But suppose, now, I float and you go to the bottom——
PEER.
Oh, rubbish——
THE PASSENGER.
It’s just a hypothesis.
But when one is placed with one foot in the grave,
One grows softhearted and open-handed——
PEER.
[_Puts his hand in his pocket._]
Ho, money?
THE PASSENGER.
No, no; but perhaps you would kindly
Make me a gift of your much-esteemed carcass——?
PEER.
This is _too_ much!
THE PASSENGER.
No more than your body, you know!
To help my researches in science——
PEER.
Begone!
THE PASSENGER.
But think, my dear sir—the advantage is yours!
I’ll have you laid open and brought to the light.
What I specially seek is the centre of dreams,—
And with critical care I’ll look into your seams——
PEER.
Away with you!
THE PASSENGER.
Why, my dear sir—a drowned corpse——!
PEER.
Blasphemer! You’re goading the rage of the storm!
I call it too bad! Here it’s raining and blowing,
A terrible sea on, and all sorts of signs
Of something that’s likely to shorten our days;—
And you carry on so as to make it come quicker.
THE PASSENGER.
You’re in no mood, I see, to negotiate further;
But time, you know, brings with it many a change——
[_Nods in a friendly fashion._
We’ll meet when you’re sinking, if not before;
Perhaps I may then find you more in the humour.
[_Goes into the cabin._
PEER.
Unpleasant companions these scientists are!
With their freethinking ways——
[_To the BOATSWAIN, who is passing._
Hark, a word with you, friend!
That passenger? What crazy creature is he?
THE BOATSWAIN.
I know of no passenger here but yourself.
PEER.
No others? This thing’s getting worse and worse.
[_To the SHIP’S BOY, who comes out of the cabin._
Who went down the companion just now?
THE BOY.
The ship’s dog, sir!
[_Passes on._
THE LOOK-OUT.
[_Shouts._]
Land close ahead!
PEER.
Where’s my box? Where’s my trunk?
All the baggage on deck!
THE BOATSWAIN.
We have more to attend to!
PEER.
It was nonsense, captain! ’Twas only my joke;—
As sure as I’m here I will help the cook——
THE CAPTAIN.
The jib’s blown away!
THE MATE.
And there went the foresail!
THE BOATSWAIN.
[_Shrieks from forward._]
Breakers under the bow!
THE CAPTAIN.
She will go to shivers!
[_The ship strikes. Noise and confusion._
SCENE SECOND.
_Close under the land, among sunken rocks and surf. The ship
sinks. The jolly-boat, with two men in her, is seen for a
moment through the scud. A sea strikes her; she fills and
upsets. A shriek is heard; then all is silent for a while.
Shortly afterwards the boat appears floating bottom
upwards._
_PEER GYNT comes to the surface near the boat._
PEER.
Help! Help! A boat! Help! I’ll be drowned!
Save me, oh Lord—as saith the text!
[_Clutches hold of the boat’s keel._
THE COOK.
[_Comes up on the other side._]
Oh, Lord God—for my children’s sake,
Have mercy! Let me reach the land!
[_Seizes hold of the keel._
PEER.
Let go!
THE COOK.
Let go!
PEER.
I’ll strike!
THE COOK.
So’ll I!
PEER.
I’ll crush you down with kicks and blows!
Let go your hold! She won’t float two!
THE COOK.
I know it! Yield!
PEER.
Yield you!
THE COOK.
Oh yes!
[_They fight; one of the Cook’s hands is disabled; he
clings on with the other._
PEER.
Off with that hand!
THE COOK.
Oh, kind sir—spare!
Think of my little ones at home
PEER.
I need my life far more than you,
For I am lone and childless still.
THE COOK.
Let go! You’ve lived, and I am young!
PEER.
Quick; haste you; sink;—you drag us down.
THE COOK.
Have mercy! Yield in heaven’s name!
There’s none to miss and mourn for you—
[_His hand slips; he screams._
I’m drowning!
PEER.
[_Seizing him._]
By this wisp of hair
I’ll hold you; say your Lord’s Prayer, quick!
THE COOK.
I can’t remember; all turns black——
PEER.
Come, the essentials in a word——!
THE COOK.
Give us this day——!
PEER.
Skip that part, Cook;
You’ll get all _you_ need, safe enough.
THE COOK.
Give us this day——
PEER.
The same old song!
’Tis plain you were a cook in life——
[_The COOK slips from his grasp._
THE COOK.
[_Sinking._]
Give us this day our——
[_Disappears._
PEER.
Amen, lad!
To the last gasp you were yourself.—
[_Draws himself up on to the bottom of the boat._
So long as there is life there’s hope——
THE STRANGE PASSENGER.
[_Catches hold of the boat._]
Good morning!
PEER.
Hoy!
THE PASSENGER.
I heard you shout.—
It’s pleasant finding you again.
Well? So my prophecy came true!
PEER.
Let go! Let go! ’Twill scarce float _one_!
THE PASSENGER.
I’m striking out with my left leg.
I’ll float, if only with their tips
My fingers rest upon this ledge.
But apropos: your body——
PEER.
Hush!
THE PASSENGER.
The rest, of course, is done for, clean——
PEER.
No more!
THE PASSENGER.
Exactly as you please.
[_Silence._
PEER.
Well?
THE PASSENGER.
I am silent.
PEER.
Satan’s tricks!—
What now?
THE PASSENGER.
I’m waiting.
PEER.
[_Tearing his hair._]
I’ll go mad!—
What are you?
THE PASSENGER.
[_Nods._]
Friendly.
PEER.
What else! Speak!
THE PASSENGER.
What think you? Do you know none other
That’s like me?
PEER.
Do I know the devil——?
THE PASSENGER.
[_In a low voice._]
Is it _his_ way to light a lantern
For life’s night-pilgrimage through fear?
PEER.
Ah, come! When once the thing’s cleared up,
You’d seem a messenger of light?
THE PASSENGER.
Friend,—have you _once_ in each half-year
Felt all the earnestness of dread?[112]
PEER.
Why, one’s afraid when danger threatens;—
But all your words have double meanings.[113]
THE PASSENGER.
Ay, have you gained but _once_ in life
The victory that is given in dread?
PEER.
[_Looks at him._]
Came you to ope for me a door,
’Twas stupid not to come before.
What sort of sense is there in choosing
Your time when seas gape to devour one?
THE PASSENGER.
Were, then, the victory more likely
Beside your hearthstone, snug and quiet?
PEER.
Perhaps not; but your talk was quizzical.
How could you fancy it awakening?
THE PASSENGER.
Where I come from, there smiles are prized
As highly as pathetic style.
PEER.
All has its time; what fits the taxman,[114]
So says the text, would damn the bishop.
THE PASSENGER.
The host whose dust inurned has slumbered
Treads not on week-days the cothurnus.
PEER.
Avaunt thee, bugbear! Man, begone!
I will not die! I must ashore!
THE PASSENGER.
Oh, as for that, be reassured;—
One dies not midmost of Act Five.
[_Glides away._
PEER.
Ah, there he let it out at last;—
He was a sorry moralist.
SCENE THIRD.
_Churchyard in a high lying mountain parish._
_A funeral is going on. By the grave, the PRIEST and a gathering
of people. The last verse of the psalm is being sung. PEER
GYNT passes by on the road._
PEER.
[_At the gate._]
Here’s a countryman going the way of all flesh.
God be thanked that it isn’t me.
[_Enters the churchyard._
THE PRIEST.
[_Speaking beside the grave._]
Now, when the soul has gone to meet its doom,
And here the dust lies, like an empty pod,—
Now, my dear friends, we’ll speak a word or two
About this dead man’s pilgrimage on earth.
He was not wealthy, neither was he wise,
His voice was weak, his bearing was unmanly,
He spoke his mind abashed and faltering,
He scarce was master at his own fireside;
He sidled into church, as though appealing
For leave, like other men, to take his place.
It was from Gudbrandsdale, you know, he came.
When here he settled he was but a lad;—
And you remember how, to the very last,
He kept his right hand hidden in his pocket.
That right hand in the pocket was the feature
That chiefly stamped his image on the mind,—
And therewithal his writhing, his abashed
Shrinking from notice wheresoe’er he went.
But, though he still pursued a path aloof,
And ever seemed a stranger in our midst,
You all know what he strove so hard to hide,—
The hand he muffled had four fingers only.—
I well remember, many years ago,
One morning; there were sessions held at Lundë.
’Twas war-time, and the talk in every mouth
Turned on the country’s sufferings and its fate.
I stood there watching. At the table sat
The Captain, ’twixt the Bailiff[115] and the sergeants;
Lad after lad was measured up and down,
Passed, and enrolled, and taken for a soldier.
The room was full, and from the green outside,
Where thronged the young folks, loud the laughter rang.
A name was called, and forth another stepped,
One pale as snow upon the glacier’s edge.
They bade the youth advance; he reached the table;
We saw his right hand swaddled in a clout;—
He gasped, he swallowed, battling after words,—
But, though the Captain urged him, found no voice.
Ah yes, at last! Then with his cheek aflame,
His tongue now failing him, now stammering fast
He mumbled something of a scythe that slipped
By chance, and shore his finger to the skin.
Straightway a silence fell upon the room.
Men bandied meaning glances; they made mouths;
They stoned the boy with looks of silent scorn.
He felt the hail-storm, but he saw it not.
Then up the Captain stood, the grey old man;
He spat, and pointed forth, and thundered “Go!”
And the lad went. On both sides men fell back,
Till through their midst he had to run the gauntlet.
He reached the door; from there he took to flight;—
Up, up he went,—through wood and over hillside,
Up through the stone-screes, rough, precipitous.
He had his home up there among the mountains.—
It was some six months later he came here,
With mother, and betrothed, and little child.
He leased some ground upon the high hill-side,
There where the waste lands trend away towards Lomb.
He married the first moment that he could;
He built a house; he broke the stubborn soil;
He throve, as many a cultivated patch
Bore witness, bravely clad in waving gold.
At church he kept his right hand in his pocket,—
But sure I am at home his fingers nine
Toiled every whit as hard as others’ ten.—
One spring the torrent washed it all away.
Their lives were spared. Ruined and stripped of all,
He set to work to make another clearing;
And, ere the autumn, smoke again arose
From a new, better-sheltered, mountain farm-house.
Sheltered? From torrent—not from avalanche;
Two years, and all beneath the snow lay buried.
But still the avalanche could not daunt his spirit.
He dug, and raked, and carted—cleared the ground—
And the next winter, ere the snow-blasts came,
A third time was his little homestead reared.
Three sons he had, three bright and stirring boys;
They must to school, and school was far away;—
And they must clamber, where the hill-track failed,
By narrow ledges past the headlong scree.
What did he do? The eldest had to manage
As best he might, and, where the path was worst,
His father bound a rope round him to stay him;—
The others on his back and arms he bore.
Thus he toiled, year by year, till they were men.
Now might he well have looked for some return.
In the New World, three prosperous gentlemen
Their school-going and their father have forgotten.
He was short-sighted. Out beyond the circle
Of those most near to him he nothing saw.
To him seemed meaningless as cymbals’ tinkling
Those words that to the heart should ring like steel.
His race, his fatherland, all things high and shining,
Stood ever, to his vision, veiled in mist.
But he was humble, humble, was this man;
And since that sessions-day his doom oppressed him,
As surely as his cheeks were flushed with shame,
And his four fingers hidden in his pocket.—
Offender ’gainst his country’s laws? Ay, true!
But there is one thing that the law outshineth
Sure as the snow-white tent of Glittertind[116]
Has clouds, like higher rows of peaks, above it.
No patriot was he. Both for church and state
A fruitless tree. But there, on the upland ridge,
In the small circle where he saw his calling,
_There_ he was great, because he was himself.
His inborn note rang true unto the end.
His days were as a lute with muted strings.
And therefore, peace be with thee, silent warrior,
That fought the peasant’s little fight, and fell!
It is not ours to search the heart and reins;—
That is no task for dust, but for its ruler;—
Yet dare I freely, firmly, speak my hope:
He scarce stands crippled now before his God!
[_The gathering disperses. PEER GYNT remains behind,
alone._
PEER.
Now _that_ is what I call Christianity!
Nothing to seize on one’s mind unpleasantly.—
And the topic—immovably being oneself,—
That the pastor’s homily turned upon,—
Is full, in its essence, of edification.
[_Looks down upon the grave._
Was it he, I wonder, that hacked through his knuckle
That day I was out hewing logs in the forest?
Who knows? If I weren’t standing here with my staff
By the side of the grave of this kinsman in spirit,
I could almost believe it was I that slept,
And heard in a vision my panegyric.—
It’s a seemly and Christianlike custom indeed
This casting a so-called memorial glance
In charity over the life that is ended.
I shouldn’t at all mind accepting my verdict
At the hands of this excellent parish priest.
Ah well, I dare say I have some time left
Ere the gravedigger comes to invite me to stay with him;—
And as Scripture has it: What’s best is best,—
And: Enough for the day is the evil thereof,—[117]
And further: Discount not thy funeral.—
Ah, the Church, after all, is the true consoler.
I’ve hitherto scarcely appreciated it;—
But now I feel clearly how blessëd it is
To be well assured upon sound authority:
Even as thou sowest thou shalt one day reap.—
One must be oneself; for oneself and one’s own
One must do one’s best, both in great and in small things.
If the luck goes against you, at least you’ve the honour
Of a life carried through in accordance with principle.—
Now homewards! Though narrow and steep the path,
Though fate to the find may be never so biting—
Still old Peer Gynt will pursue his own way,
And remain what he is: poor, but virtuous ever.
[_Goes out._
SCENE FOURTH.
_A hill-side seamed by the dry bed of a torrent. A ruined mill
house beside the stream. The ground is torn up, and the
whole place waste. Further up the hill, a large
farm-house._
_An auction is going on in front of the farm-house. There is a
great gathering of people, who are drinking, with much
noise. PEER GYNT is sitting on a rubbish-heap beside the
mill._
PEER.
Forward and back, and it’s just as far;
Out and in, and it’s just as strait.—
Time wears away and the river gnaws on.
Go roundabout, the Boyg said;—and here one must.
A MAN DRESSED IN MOURNING.
Now there is only rubbish left over.
_[Catches sight of PEER GYNT._
Are there strangers here too? God be with you, good friend!
PEER.
Well met! You have lively times here to-day.
Is’t a christening junket or wedding feast?
THE MAN IN MOURNING.
I’d rather call it a house-warming treat;—
The bride is laid in a wormy bed.
PEER.
And the worms are squabbling for rags and clouts.
THE MAN IN MOURNING.
That’s the end of the ditty; it’s over and done.
PEER.
All the ditties end just alike;
And they’re all old together; I knew ’em as a boy.
A LAD OF TWENTY.
[_With a casting-ladle._]
Just look what a rare thing I’ve been buying!
In this Peer Gynt cast his silver buttons.
ANOTHER.
Look at mine, though! The money-bag[118] bought for a halfpenny.
A THIRD.
No more, eh? Twopence for the pedlar’s pack!
PEER.
Peer Gynt? Who was he?
THE MAN IN MOURNING.
All I know is this:
He was kinsman to Death and to Aslak the Smith.
A MAN IN GREY.