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.