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.60

  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 let’s 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!61

  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.—62

  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.

  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!—

  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——