PEER GYNT (Illustrated Edition). Henrik Ibsen

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">       don’t be cross, be happy —

      Åse

      Silence!

       Could I, if I would, be happy,

       with a pig like you for son?

       Think how bitter I must find it,

       I, a poor defenceless widow,

       ever to be put to shame!

      [Weeping again.]

      How much have we now remaining

       from your grandsire’s days of glory?

       Where are now the sacks of coin

       left behind by Rasmus Gynt?

       Ah, your father lent them wings,—

       lavished them abroad like sand,

       buying land in every parish,

       driving round in gilded chariots.

       Where is all the wealth he wasted

       at the famous winter-banquet,

       when each guest sent glass and bottle

       shivering ’gainst the wall behind him?

      Peer

      Where’s the snow of yester-year?

      Åse

      Silence, boy, before your mother!

       See the farmhouse! Every second

       window-pane is stopped with clouts.

       Hedges, fences, all are down,

       beasts exposed to wind and weather,

       fields and meadows lying fallow,

       every month a new distraint —

      Peer

      Come now, stop this old-wife’s talk!

       Many a time has luck seemed dropping,

       and sprung up as high as ever!

      Åse

      Salt-strewn is the soil it grew from.

       Lord, but you’re a rare one, you,—

       just as pert and jaunty still,

       just as bold as when the pastor,

       newly come from Copenhagen,

       bade you tell your Christian name,

       and declared that such a headpiece

       many a prince down there might envy;

       till the cob your father gave him,

       with a sledge to boot, in thanks

       for his pleasant, friendly talk.—

       Ah, but things went bravely then!

       Provost, captain, all the rest,

       dropped in daily, ate and drank,

       swilling, till they well-nigh burst.

       But ’tis need that tests one’s neighbour.

       Still it grew and empty here

       from the day that “Gold-bag Jon”

       started with his pack, a pedlar.

      [Dries her eyes with her apron.]

      Ah, you’re big and strong enough,

       you should be a staff and pillar

       for your mother’s frail old age,—

       you should keep the farm-work going,

       guard the remnants of your gear;—

      [Crying again.]

      oh, God help me, small’s the profit

       you have been to me, you scamp!

       Lounging by the hearth at home,

       grubbing in the charcoal embers;

       or, round all the country, frightening

       girls away from merry-makings —

       shaming me in all directions,

       fighting with the worst rapscallions —

      Peer [turning away from her]

      Let me be.

      Åse [following him]

      Can you deny

       that you were the foremost brawler

       in the mighty battle royal

       fought the other day at Lunde,

       when you raged like mongrels mad?

       Who was it but you that broke

       Blacksmith Aslak’s arm for him,—

       or at any rate that wrenched one

       of his fingers out of joint?

      Peer

      Who has filled you with such prate?

      ÅSE [hotly]

      Cottar Kari heard the yells!

      Peer [rubbing his elbow]

      Maybe, but ’twas I that howled.

      Åse

      You?

      Peer

      Yes, mother,— I got beaten.

      Åse

      What d’you say?

      Peer

      He’s limber, he is.

      Åse

      Who?

      Peer

      Why Aslak, to be sure.

      Åse

      Shame — and shame; I spit upon you!

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