Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 4).djvu/174



Exalted poet!

[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.

You have the gold, though?

Not enough. Ay, maybe for a nine-days' flourish, As Emperor à la Lippe-Detmold. But I must be myself en bloc,[1] Must be the Gynt of all the planet, Sir Gynt[1] throughout, from top to bottom!

[Enraptured.]

Possess the earth's most exquisite beauty!

All century-old Johannisberger!