Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 4).djvu/173



O'er all the world.

But how, friend?

By the might of gold! That plan is not at all a new one; It's been the soul of my career. Even as a boy, I swept in dreams Far o'er the ocean on a cloud. I soared with train and golden scabbard,— And flopped down on all-fours again. But still my goal, my friends, stood fast.— There is a text, or else a saying, Somewhere, I don't remember where, That if you gained the whole wide world, But lost yourself, your gain were but A garland on a cloven skull. That is the text—or something like it; And that remark is sober truth.

But what then is the Gyntish Self?

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.

I understand now where you're aiming!

Thinker sublime!