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!
