Begriffenfeldt.
Outside? No, there you are strangely mistaken!
It's here, sir, that one is oneself with a vengeance;
Oneself, and nothing whatever besides.
We go, full sail, as our very selves.
Each one shuts himself up in the barrel of self,
In the self-fermentation he dives to the bottom,—
With the self-bung he seals it hermetically,
And seasons the staves in the well of self.
No one has tears for the other's woes;
No one has mind for the other's ideas.
We're our very selves, both in thought and tone,
Ourselves to the spring-board's uttermost verge,—
And so, if a Kaiser's to fill the Throne,
It is clear that you are the very man.
Peer.
O would that the devil!
Begriffenfeldt.
Come, don't be cast down;
Almost all things in nature are new at the first.
"Oneself";—come, here you shall see an example;
I'll choose you at random the first man that comes [To a gloomy figure.
Good-day, Huhu? Well, my boy, wandering round
For ever with misery's impress upon you?
Huhu.[1]
Can I help it, when the people,
Race[2] by race, dies untranslated.[3]
[To Peer Gynt.
You're a stranger; will you listen?
