The collected works of Henrik Ibsen, Vol. 04 (of 11)Ibsen, Henrik
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The collected works of Henrik Ibsen, Vol. 04 (of 11)
Ibsen, Henrik
Ibsen, Henrik, 1828-1906 -- Translations into English; Norwegian drama -- Translations into English
And one grips something else,—or else nothing at all.
[_He has come near to the hut; he catches sight of it
and starts._
This hut? On the heath——! Ha!
[_Rubs his eyes._
It seems exactly
As though I had known this same building before.—
The reindeer-horns jutting above the gable!—
A mermaid, shaped like a fish from the navel!—
Lies! there’s no mermaid! But nails—and planks,—
Bars too, to shut out hobgoblin thoughts!—
SOLVEIG.
[_Singing in the hut._]
Now all is ready for Whitsun Eve.
Dearest boy of mine, far away,
Comest thou soon?
Is thy burden heavy,
Take time, take time;—
I will await thee;
I promised of old.[126]
PEER.
[_Rises, quiet and deadly pale._]
One that’s remembered,—and one that’s forgot.
One that has squandered,—and one that has saved.—
Oh, earnest!—and never can the game be played o’er!
Oh, dread![127]—here was my Kaiserdom!
[_Hurries off-along the wood path._
SCENE SIXTH.
_Night. A heath, with fir-trees. A forest fire has been raging;
charred tree-trunks are seen stretching for miles. White
mists here and there clinging to the earth._
_PEER GYNT comes running over the heath._
PEER.
Ashes, fog-scuds, dust wind-driven,—
Here’s enough for building with!
Stench and rottenness within it;
All a whited sepulchre.
Figments, dreams, and still-born knowledge
Lay the pyramid’s foundation;
O’er them shall the work mount upwards,
With its step on step of falsehood.
Earnest shunned, repentance dreaded,
Flaunt at the apex like a scutcheon,
Fill the trump of judgment with their
“Petrus Gyntus Cæsar fecit!”
[_Listens._
What is this, like children’s weeping?
Weeping, but half-way to song.—
Thread-balls[128] at my feet are rolling!—
[_Kicking at them._
Off with you! You block my path!
THE THREAD-BALLS.
[_On the ground._]
We are thoughts;
Thou shouldst have thought us;—
Feet to run on
Thou shouldst have given us!
PEER.
[_Going round about._]
I have given life to _one_;—
’Twas a bungled, crook-legged thing!
THE THREAD-BALLS.
We should have soared up
Like clangorous voices,——
And here we must trundle
As grey-yarn thread-balls.
PEER.
[_Stumbling._]
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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