PEER GYNT PDF

Friday, May 24, 2019


Peer Gynt. Henrik Ibsen. Translated by William and Charles Archer. Illustrated by Arthur Rackham. This web edition published by [email protected] ÅSE, a peasant's widow. PEER GYNT, her son. TWO OLD WOMEN with corn- sacks. ASLAK, a smith. WEDDING–GUESTS. A MASTER–COOK, A FIDDLER, etc. PEER GYNT. Henrik Ibsen. Ibsen, Henrik () - Norwegian playwright and poet who is often called the father of modern drama. His works concentrated .


Peer Gynt Pdf

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Peer Gynt: a dramatic poem by Henrik Ibsen; editions; First published in ; Subjects: Drama, Peer Gynt (Fictitious character), Norwegian drama. Why yet another translation of Peer Gynt? This translation / adaptation of the play came about as the consequence of a chance remark by John Wright. Henrik Ibsen - Peer Gynt - Ebook download as PDF File .pdf) or read book online. French Text of the drama by Regis Boyer. Peer Gynt chronicles the journey of.

Bars I must fix me; bars that can shut out all the cantankerous little hobgoblins. Peer Gynt; think you staples and planks can shut out cantankerous hobgoblin-thoughts?

God prosper your labour. You must not reject me. You sent for me hither, and so you must take me. One message you sent me by little Helga; others came after in storm and in stillness. All that your mother told bore me a message, that brought forth others when dreams sank upon me.

Nights full of heaviness, blank, empty days, brought me the message that now I must come. It seemed as though life had been quenched down there; I could nor laugh nor weep from the depths of my heart. I knew not for sure how you might be minded; I knew but for sure what I should do and must do. I have loosed me from all of them. The worst was leaving my little sister; — but parting from father was worse, still worse; and worst to leave her at whose breast I was borne; — oh no, God forgive me, the worst I must call the sorrow of leaving them all, ay all!

Away, away then with nails and planks! No need now for bars against hobgoblin-thoughts. If you dare dwell with the hunter here, I know the hut will be blessed from ill. Let me look at you! Not too near! Only look at you! Oh, but you are bright and pure! Let me lift you!

Oh, but you are fine and light! I will not soil you. With outstretched arms I will hold you far out from me, lovely and warm one! Oh, who would have thought I could draw you to me — ah, but I have longed for you, daylong and nightlong.

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Be it mean or brave — here is all to my mind. One so lightly draws breath in the teeth of the wind. Down below it was airless; one felt as though choked; that was partly what drove me in fear from the dale. You are mine then! In the room let me see you! Go in! I must go to fetch fir-roots for fuel. Warm shall the fire be and bright shall it shine, you shall sit softly and never be a-cold.

He stands still for a while, then laughs aloud with joy and leaps into the air. Now I have found her and won her! Now the palace shall rise, deeply founded! I should think you might well know the pig by its skin! Why, where are your eyes? Just try if you dare! She there and I— we will take you by turns. Farewell, dear my lad, you can marry to-morrow!

By-the-bye, I forgot! You must rear your own youngster, you light-footed scamp! Little imp, will you go to your father?

What a head he has got on his shoulders, the dear! Peer and the Troll Witch. Right through? Hm, surely there should be one. But what? What is it? You can do it with a fiddle, but not with a bell. Now all that foulness is well out of sight. Thoughts will sneak stealthily in at my heel. And the three, they that danced on the heights! Will they too want to join us? With vixenish spite will they claim to be folded, like her, to my breast, to be tenderly lifted on outstretched arms?

One must put such things from one, and try to forget. Go in after this? So befouled and disgraced? Go in with that troll-rabble after me still? Speak, yet be silent; confess, yet conceal —?

The room is lighted by a wood fire on the open hearth. A cat is lying on a chair at the foot of the bed. The time drags so drearily on. So quickly! Who could have foreseen! The Lord give you gladness!

But how dare you show face in the valley? Peer [writhing, and walking towards the back of the room]. See there now! Are your hands and your feet a-cold, then? No, that accursed liquor, from that all the mischief came! Ay, ay; of that yarn enough now.

Enough of the whole affair. The Death of Aase. Are you thirsty? Can you stretch you? The bed is short. Ay, mind you? And then we played sledges when your father was far abroad. The coverlet served for sledge-apron, and the floor for an ice-bound fiord. Ah, but the best of all, though — mother, you mind that too?

To the castle west of the moon, and the castle east of the sun, to Soria—Moria Castle the road ran both high and low. A stick that we found in the closet, for a whip-shaft you made it serve. Ay, ay; you threw loose the reins, and kept turning round as we travelled, and asked me if I was cold.

God bless you, ugly old mother — you were ever a kindly soul —! Oh, nonsense! Let me sit at your bedside here. Will you stir yourself, Black-boy? Ay, ay; by the pace one knows it, when Grane begins to go! Ay, a heaped-up dish.

Come up with you, Grane, my trotter! In the castle the throng is great; they bustle and swarm to the gateway. Peer Gynt and his mother are here! What say you, Master Saint Peter? Shall mother not enter in? You may search a long time, I tell you, ere you find such an honest old soul. I have made up as many flim-flams as the devil at the pulpit-desk, and called my old mother a hen, too, because she would cackle and crow. But her you shall honour and reverence, and make her at home indeed; there comes not a soul to beat her from the parishes nowadays.

Saint Peter! For all of your days I thank you, for beatings and lullabies! Ah, then we are over the worst of the sorrow and need! A palm-grove. Under an awning, on ground covered with matting, a table spread for dinner.

Further back in the grove hammocks are slung. In the offing lies a steam-yacht, flying the Norwegian and American colours. A jolly-boat drawn up on the beach. It is towards sunset. Drink, gentlemen! If man is made for pleasure, let him take his fill then. Lost is lost, and gone is gone —. What may I hand you? A dash, a tinge of free soul-contemplation, and cosmopolitanisation, an outlook through the cloudy rifts by narrow prejudice unhemmed, a stamp of high illumination, an Ur—Natur, with lore of life, to crown the trilogy, united.

Ei was! That language is so stiff. Yes, gentlemen, completely clear the matter is. What should a man be? Himself, is my concise reply. He should regard himself and his.

Ay yes, indeed; in former days; but always I came off with honour. Yet one time I ran very near to being trapped against my will. You understand that certain circumstances made for their marrying us without delay. But, truth to tell, the whole affair was, first to last, distasteful to me. And when my father-in-law came out with delicately veiled demands that I should change my name and station, and undergo ennoblement, with much else that was most distasteful, not to say quite inacceptable — why then I gracefully withdrew, point-blank declined his ultimatum — and so renounced my youthful bride.

Yes, yes; there is a ruling Fate! Oh no, far otherwise I found it; for busy-bodies mixed themselves, with furious outcries, in the business. The juniors of the clan were worst; with seven of them I fought a duel. That time I never shall forget, though I came through it all in safety.

It cost me blood; but that same blood attests the value of my person, and points encouragingly towards the wise control of Fate aforesaid. Your outlook on the course of life exalts you to the rank of thinker. Whilst the mere commonplace empiric sees separately the scattered scenes, and to the last goes groping on, you in one glance can focus all things. One norm to all things you apply. You point each random rule of life, till one and all diverge like rays from one full-orbed philosophy. That way it goes more smoothly down.

One should not read to swallow all, but rather see what one has use for.

Peer Gynt (mountain road)

Dear friends, just think of my career in general. In what case came I to the West? A poor young fellow, empty-handed. I had to battle sore for bread; trust me, I often found it hard. But life, my friends, ah, life is dear, and, as the phrase goes, death is bitter.

Luck, you see, was kind to me; old Fate, too, was accommodating. I prospered; and, by versatility, I prospered better still and better. You think, no doubt, the business hovered on the outer verge of the allowable? Myself I felt the same thing keenly.

It struck me even as odious. Besides, I had begun to age, was getting on towards the fifties; — my hair was slowly growing grizzled; and, though my health was excellent, yet painfully the thought beset me: Who knows how soon the hour may strike, the jury-verdict be delivered that parts the sheep and goats asunder?

What could I do? To stop the trade with China was impossible. A plan I hit on — opened straightway a new trade with the self-same land. Why, of course. It prospered. Dauntlessly they toiled. For every idol that was sold they got a coolie well baptised, so that the effect was neutralised. The mission-field lay never fallow, for still the idol-propaganda the missionaries held in check.

There, too, my ethics won the day. I saw the traffic was a wrong one for people of a certain age. One may drop off before one dreams of it. And then there were the thousand pitfalls laid by the philanthropic camp; besides, of course, the hostile cruisers, and all the wind-and-weather risks.

All this together won the day. I thought: Now, Peter, reef your sails; see to it you amend your faults! So in the South I bought some land, and kept the last meat-importation, which chanced to be a superfine one. Yes, without boasting, I may say I acted as a father to them — and found my profit in so doing. I built them schools, too, so that virtue might uniformly be maintained at a certain general niveau, and kept strict watch that never its thermometer should sink below it.

At parting, too, I served around, to big and little, gratis grog, so men and women all got drunk, and widows got their snuff as well. So that is why I trust — provided the saying is not idle breath: Whoso does not do ill, does good — my former errors are forgotten, and I, much more than most, can hold my misdeeds balanced by my virtues.

How strengthening it is to hear a principle thus acted out, freed from the night of theory, unshaken by the outward ferment!

Peer [who has been drinking freely during the preceding passages]. We Northland men know how to carry our battle through! The essence of the art of daring, the art of bravery in act, is this: To stand with choice-free foot amid the treacherous snares of life — to know for sure that other days remain beyond the day of battle — to know that ever in the rear a bridge for your retreat stands open.

Yes, by birth; but cosmopolitan in spirit. From France, again, I get my waistcoats, my manners, and my spice of wit — from England an industrious hand, and keen sense for my own advantage. The Jew has taught me how to wait. Some taste for dolce far niente I have received from Italy — and one time, in a perilous pass, to eke the measure of my days, I had recourse to Swedish steel.

The wine begins to go to his head. Well, first of all, I want to travel. Well, but no one hoists his sails for nothing but the sailing. Beyond all doubt, you have a goal; and that is —? By the might of gold! I soared with train and golden scabbard — and flopped down on all-fours again. But still my goal, my friends, stood fast. That is the text — or something like it; and that remark is sober truth. 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.

Not enough. But I must be myself en bloc, must be the Gynt of all the planet, Sir Gynt throughout, from top to toe!

Henrik Ibsen - Peer Gynt

To-night we set off northward ho! The papers I received on board have brought me tidings of importance —! We now see gathered in glory all the Gyntish host of wishes, appetites, and desires —!

Peer [after a short silence, leaning on a chair and assuming a dignified mien]. Witty, Come, gentlemen, I think it best we part before the last remains of friendship melt away like smoke. Who nothing owns will lightly risk it.

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But when a man stands safely landed, as I do, then his stake is greater. Go you to Hellas. I will put you ashore, and arm you gratis too.

The more you eke the flames of strife, the better will it serve my purpose. Strike home for freedom and for right! God dam! I scarce can keep from weeping! I saw me owner of Olympus. If to its fame the mountain answers, there must be veins of copper in it, that could be opened up again. And furthermore, that stream Castalia, which people talk so much about, with fall on fall, at lowest reckoning, must mean a thousand horse-power good —!

Cotton [shakes his fist towards the yacht]. Moonlight with drifting clouds. The yacht is seen far out, under full steam. A nightmare! And at furious speed! A dream! Oh, horror! My brute-beasts of friends —! Do but hear me, oh Lord!

Since thou art so wise and so righteous —! Oh judge —! It is I, Peter Gynt! Oh, Lord, give but heed! Make them back the machine! Make them lower the gig! Stop the robbers! Make something go wrong with the rigging! Hear me! The world can take care of itself for the time!

A God that is bankrupt of help! Surely one good turn should be worth another! Oh, help me on board —! Gradually the smoke clears away; the ship has disappeared. In a crack to the bottom, every soul, man and mouse! A chance? No, no, it was more than chance. I was to be rescued and they to perish. Oh, thanks and praise for that thou hast kept me, hast cared for me, spite of all my sins!

What a marvellous feeling of safety and peace it gives one to know oneself specially shielded! But the desert! What about, food and drink? He would never allow a poor little sparrow like me to perish! Be but lowly of spirit.

And give him time. A lion, forsooth! I must find a tree. How blissful to feel so uplifted in spirit. To think nobly is more than to know oneself rich. Only trust in Him. He knows well what share of the chalice of need I can bear to drain. An encampment of Moroccan troops on the edge of the desert. Another Slave [enters, rending his garments]. Are you there again? This is most accursed! A loathsome beast is your Barbary ape! The Scripture says: Thou shalt watch and fight.

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.

They throng and swarm. Off with you! 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. Ay — are you there, my good old Bus! He will listen to reason! It is me! We are first-rate friends!

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! What thinker is it who somewhere says: You must spit and trust to the force of habit? O murder! A stony region, with a view out over the desert. On one side a cleft in the hill, and a cave. The horse, richly caparisoned, is tied to a stone. Horsemen are seen afar off. The Thief [folds his arms over his breast].

The horsemen gradually disappear in the distance.

Peer Gynt [enters, cutting a reed whistle]. What a delectable morning-tide! The morning; ay, it has gold in its mouth. One feels so secure, and so much more courageous — one would gladly, at need, take a bull by the horns.

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. A toad. In the middle of a sandstone block. Petrifaction all round him. His head alone peering. To himself —? In the family prayer-book? Alas, I notice that, year by year, my memory for dates and for places is fading. Why, look, here are ferns growing-edible roots. Bridle the natural man!

Furthermore it is written: The proud shall be humbled, and whoso abaseth himself, exalted. 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 lets me keep my health. What an enormous, limitless waste! Dammed out? Then I could —? The ridge is narrow. It wants but a gap, a canal — like a flood of life would the waters rush in through the channel, and fill the desert!

Soon would the whole of yon red-hot grave spread forth, a breezy and rippling sea. 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 world is decrepit! Now comes the turn of Gyntiana, my virgin land!

A crusade against Death! The close-fisted old churl shall open the sack he lies brooding upon. I must on!

To find capital, eastward or west! My kingdom — well, half of it, say — for a horse! It is though —! But how? Sir Peter — a Turk, too, from top to toe! Well, one never knows what may happen to one. He is drinking coffee, and smoking a long pipe. The Prophet is come! Wake the flute and the drum! The Prophet, the Prophet is come! 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! 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? 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.

At least one knows on what footing one stands. 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. 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.

Add that I suffer no menfolk in here! Men, my child, are a worthless crew — inveterate rascals you well may call them! The Prophet would banish the memories that gall him.

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! Legs as nimble as drumsticks flitting. But what is beauty? A mere convention — a coin made current by time and place.

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. But that is at bottom no drawback at all. I should rather call it a qualification — Anitra, come listen! Anitra's Dance. You are tempting, my daughter!

The Prophet is touched. Just leave me alone for that; — I shall look after your education. No soul? But pooh! Come here! I feel thee magnetic; for I am a man. And, as a much-esteemed author has phrased it: His beard and hair are clipped; he looks considerably younger. I double-locked my Paradise, and took its key with me. The north-wind bore me seaward ho! Still southward, southward clove my keel the salt sea-currents through.

Where palms were swaying proud and fair, a garland round the ocean-bight, I set my ship afire. I climbed aboard the desert ship, a ship on four stout legs. Ay, even the Angora goat-milk cheese is scarcely half such dainty fare, Anitra, ah, as thou!

Is the fair one listening? Has she heard my little song? Peeps she from behind the curtain, veil and so forth cast aside? A sound as though a cork from a bottle burst amain!

Now once more! And yet again! Love-sighs can it be? Anitra sleepeth! Nightingale, thy warbling stay! Every sort of woe betide thee, if with gurgling trill thou darest — but, as says the text: Let be! Nightingale, thou art a singer; ah, even such an one am I. He, like me, ensnares with music tender, shrinking little hearts. Balmy night is made for music; music is our common sphere; in the act of singing, we are we, Peer Gynt and nightingale. Yes indeed, the Prophet calls. My little friend, you, like other maidens, judge great men by their outsides only.

I am forced by my position to assume a solemn mask. Hei, away now with the prophet; me, myself, you have me here! All thy words are sweet as singing, though I understand but little. Master, tell me, can thy daughter catch a soul by listening? When in east, on rosy streamers golden types print: Wisdom in extremes is folly; coward blossoms into tyrant; truth, when carried to excess, ends in wisdom written backwards.

Once I met with such a fellow, of the flock the very flower; and even he mistook his goal, losing sense in blatant sound. Were I but to swing my turban, I could force the ocean-flood to fill up the whole concern. But I were a blockhead, truly, seas and lands to go creating. Know you what it is to live? It is to be wafted dry-shod down the stream of time, wholly, solely as oneself.

Only in full manhood can I be the man I am, dear child! Ah, youth! All your longings shall be mine. You shall live for me alone. Should we part, then life is over — that is, your life, nota bene!

Every inch and fibre of you, will-less, without yea or nay, I must know filled full of me. I will be your soul by proxy; for the rest — why, status quo.

She sleeps! Here are jewels! Here are more! Sleep, Anitra! Dream of Peer —. Oh, stuff! Do you think all this is a sign of age? What, home! To father-in-law! That would be fine!

We madcap birds that have flown from the cage must never come into his sight again. One should show oneself glimpse-wise, and pass like a dream. How blessed to know oneself loved to this pitch! Like your slave, I will lead your palfrey! There now, my rosebud, my exquisite flower! Am I not? There, grab! I can leap like a buck! Were there vine-leaves around, I would garland my brow. To be sure I am young! I am a blissful game-cock!

Peck me, my little pullet! Let me trip it; — I am a blissful game-cock! You are sweating, my prophet; I fear you will melt; — hand me that heavy bag hung at your belt. Young Peer Gynt is the maddest wag; — he knows not what foot he shall stand upon. Pooh, says Peer; — pooh, never mind! Young Peer Gynt is the maddest wag! But vouchsafe me a vehement sorrow — to a heart full of love, it is sweet to suffer! Peer [stands for a long time thunderstruck].

Last of all, he takes his little travelling-cap out of his coat-pocket, puts it on, and stands once more in European dress. Peer Gynt [throwing the turban far away from him]. There lies the Turk, then, and here stand I! The hussy; — she was on the very verge of turning my head clean topsy-turvy. May I be a troll if I understand what it was that dazed and bemused me so. Hm, to think of it now! To try to make time stop by jigging and dancing, and to cope with the current by capering and prancing!

To thrum on the lute-strings, to fondle and sigh, and end, like a rooster — by getting well plucked! Such conduct is truly prophetic frenzy. Many paths lie before me; and a wise man is known from a fool by his choice. My business life is a finished chapter; my love-sports, too, are a cast-off garment. I feel no desire to live back like a crab. Shall I write my life without dissimulation — a book for guidance and imitation? Or stay —!

Ay, sure enough; that is the thing for me! The present is not worth so much as a shoe-sole; all faithless and marrowless the doings of men; their soul has no wings and their deeds no weight;. Far up in the North. A hut in the forest. The door, with a large wooden bar, stands open. Reindeer-horns over it. A flock of goats by the wall of the hut. The Woman [glances down the path, and sings].

Maybe both the winter and spring will pass by, and the next summer too, and the whole of the year; — but thou wilt come one day, that know I full well; and I will await thee, as I promised of old.

God strengthen thee, whereso thou goest in the world! God gladden thee, if at his footstool thou stand! Here I might fittingly start on my wanderings. To Assyria next I will bend my steps.

Now I will rest me, and patiently wait till the statue has sung its habitual dawn-song. Then at one bound to the ramparts of Troy. Well then, my Hellenism must even stand over. I am pressed for time. Peer and the Statue of Memnon. Zeus the Omniscient shaped them contending Owls of wisdom, my birds, where do they slumber? How strange now — I really fancied there came from the statue a sound. Music, this, of the Past.

I heard the stone — accents now rising, now sinking. The whole thing, of course, was hallucination. In the distance the spires and minarets of Cairo. For met it I have, in the north or the south. Was it a person?

And, if so, who? That Memnon, it afterwards crossed my mind, was like the Old Men of the Dovre, so called, just as he sat there, stiff and stark, planted on end on the stumps of pillars. From a fairy-tale? Ho, I remember the fellow! The self-same eyes, and the self-same lips; — not quite so lumpish; a little more cunning; but the same, for the rest, in all essentials.

Are you still good at riddling? Come, let us try. Now we shall see if you answer as last time! Begriffenfeldt [with all sorts of restless antics]. Excuse me, mein Herr —!

Eine Lebensfrage —! What brings you to this place precisely to-day? My temples are hammering as though they would burst! You know him, man! Say on! Can you tell what he is? Ha, the riddle of life lightened forth in a flash to my vision! Peer Gynt! I might have foreseen it. That must clearly imply: Each word, as it were, an abysmal lesson! A large courtyard, surrounded by high walls and buildings.

Barred windows; iron cages. Neither one nor the other! I was before — Herr Peer, are you secret? Begriffenfeldt [draws him into a corner, and whispers]. When I said he was dead, I was talking stuff.

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I meant like an eel; — it was not like a fox. The persons one hitherto reckoned as mad, you see, became normal last night at eleven, accordant with Reason in its newest phase. Come forth all! The time that shall be is proclaimed! Reason is dead and gone; long live Peer Gynt! Good morning! Come forth, and hail the dawn of emancipation!

Egk in his postwar writing claims that this distorted humanity is a representation of the inhumanity of the Nazi officials. Due to the keen censorship of the time, Egk could not become the admirable composer of the Third Reich if there existed even the slightest hint of resistance against the Nazi system. The distorted humanity does not symbolize the inhumanity of the Nazi system, but evokes a stereotypical image of the Jews, according to the Nazi referential codes.

After the twenty years that pass between the two acts, the audience finds Peer to be a shipping magnate in a South American country. In this condensation, the philosophical complex- ity of the original is lost, and Peer appears to be only a greedy businessman during his journey abroad. Whereas in the play in these scenes Peer acquires the non-humane qualities of the trolls, in the operatic adaptation he acquires the stereotypical and unethical qualities of a Jew.

Before returning to his home country, in another divergence from the course of the action in the play, Peer appears in a tavern where he is seduced by a dancer. After acquiring this insight, Peer returns to his home country to reflect back on his deeds over the past twenty years.

Will win the war! The war is of an external nature. The microcosmic world of the play suggests that like Peer, the entire German nation is vulnerable to corrup- tion, if it loses its integrity and vigilance to the threat of the inferior types of human being. The signs are far too explicit in the opera to let its audience leave the opera house without grasping the clear message of the work.

Hitler was not wrong in embracing Egk as the new composer of his oppressive regime. What remains ambiguous is the reason behind the largely contradictory body of scholarship on this subject matter. His admirable career during the s up until his death in brought him the honorable title of Komponist des Wiederaufbaus composer of the reconstruction. From to he was appointed as the head of the Berlin Musikhochschule, and from became the conductor of the Bayerische Staatsoper the Bavarian State Opera.

He constantly tried to overshadow his sympathy towards the Nazi Party by emphasizing his post war career. As an example, his biography in the booklet published with the recording of Peer Gynt traces his career back only to He constantly revised his expli- citly anti-Semitic works, namely Die Zaubergeige, which was drastically changed in ; a keen eye can still trace anti-Semitic elements even in the revised version.

What is missing from most of the scholarly biographies of Egk is the period between the end of World War II and Michael Kater convincingly remarks how Egk could evade any sentence in his de- nazification court in , only after manipulating documents and resorting to nepotism 28— The booklet is unpaginated. Despite the popularity of the premiere of Die Dreigroschenoper The Threepenny Opera in or perhaps because of this popularity , the Nazi propagandists never failed an opportunity to situate the work as a perfect example of an un-German conspiracy.

Works Cited Egk, Werner. Die Zeit wartet nicht. Percha, Kempfenhausen: R. Schulz, Peer Gynt [Oper in 3 Akten]. Includes libretto trans. Mainz: B. Berkeley: U of Cali- fornia P, Ibsen, Henrik.

The Oxford Ibsen. James Walter McFarlane. London: Oxford UP, Peer Gynt. Rolf Fjelde. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, Jarman, Douglas. Kurt Weill: An Illustrated Biography.

Bloomington: Indiana UP, Kater, Michael H. Composers of the Nazi Era: Eight Portraits. New York: Oxford UP, Killer, Hermann.

Lane, Barbara Miller. Nazi Ideology Before A Documentation. Manchester UP, Levi, Erik. Providence: Berghahn, Livak, Leonid. The Jewish Persona in the European Imagination.

Palo Alto: Stanford UP, Mellinkoff, R. Meyer, Michael. The Politics of Music in the Third Reich. New York: Peter Lang, Three-headed Trolls are going out of fashion ; Two-headed, even, nowadays aren't common, And their heads usually are not up to much. Shall you go to Confirmation Very shortly? What a devil of a lad! Neither one nor the other! Peer [after a short silence, leaning on a chair and assuming a dignified mien].

Peer and the Statue of Memnon. He then enters the phase of self-exploration where he encounters the Troll King, a jour- ney which looks like the ordeals that former heroes underwent to prove their selfhood.