Complete Works of Henrik Ibsen (96 page)

THE MAYOR.
[With, folded hands.]
I stand-as from the clouds dropp’d down!
Such things are even in a Town
Scarce heard of,-and yet here, for us,
Who long to the necessitous
Have closed our purses and our doors,
You loose this flood of gifts unbounded
That ripples, flashes, foams and pours-.
-No, Brand, I’m utterly dumbfounded!

BRAND.
In thought I long ago resign’d My wealth —

THE MAYOR.
Yes, whisper’d hints have flown
Pointing to something of the kind.
But I regarded them as wind.
How many men give all they own
Without a tangible return?
However, that’s your own concern. —
Go on! I’ll follow. You’re in feather,
You can act freely, work and sway. —
Brand, we will build the Church together!

BRAND.
What, you are willing to give way?

THE MAYOR.
Dear God’s my witness, that I am!
And shall be while my wits are sound!
When o n e would fatten, pamper, cram, —
Another milk and shear and flay, —
Where, think you, will the flock be found?
Death and destruction, I’m your man!
I’m fire and fury for the plan!
Thrill’d, agitated, nay, affected!
Providence prompted the design
That led me to your door to-night,
For sure, without the hint of mine
Your plan had scarcely been projected,
Or, at the least, scarce seen the light!
And thus the Church, conceived aright,
Will by m y means have been erected!

BRAND.
But, don’t forget, we must lay low
That towering relic of the past!

THE MAYOR.
[Looking out.]
Seen in the twofold glimmer cast
By the new moon and the fresh snow,
It seems a sort of-rubbish-heap.

BRAND.
What, Mayor!

THE MAYOR.
It is too old to keep!
I fail entirely to explain it,
Till now it never struck my eye, —
The weathercock stands all awry;
It would be monstrous to retain it.
And where are architecture, style,
Rightly regarded, in the pile?
What terms can give that arch its due?
An architect would call it vile ; —
And really I must share his view.
And then that roof with moss-tufts blowing, —
Bless me, they’re none of Bele’s growing.
No, we may overmuch assert
The reverence for ancient glories!
One fact, at least, there’s no o’erthrowing,
That this old rotten but no more is
But just a very heap of dirt!

BRAND.
But if the people’s voice should storm
At those who seek to lay it low — ?

THE MAYOR.
I
will it though they all cry No.
This Christmas with the least delay
I’ll put the thing in proper form,
And launch it smoothly on its way.
I’ll write, I’ll agitate, I’ll sway!
Ay, ay-you know the stuff I’m made of!
And if I cannot hire or hound
The foolish flock to help to end it,
With my own hands I’ll rive and rend it,
Timber by timber, to the ground.
Nay, though I had to call the aid of
My wife and all my girls as well,
Down it should come, by death and hell

BRAND.
This language has another sound
Than that which earlier from you fell.

THE MAYOR.
To be humane is to repress
All manner of One-sidedness.
And sure, if truth the poet utters,
Precisely what is to be sought
In thinking is “the winged thought,” —
That is to say-the thought that flutters.
Farewell.
[Taking his hat.]
I have to see the band.

BRAND.
The what?

THE MAYOR.
Just think, within our land
This morning two of us laid hand
On a foul-favour’d gipsy horde,
So I got help with rope and cord,
And now they’re in your neighbour’s ward
Next to the North, but-devil clip me! —
If just a couple didn’t slip me —

BRAND.
The bells arc ringing: Peace to Men.

THE MAYOR.
Why came this hell-brood hither, then?
Yet in a sense, they are, ‘tis true,
Kin to this parish, —
[Laughing.]
Nay to you
Hark to a riddle: read it right,
If you have power and appetite.
There be, who in effect derive
From her, by whom you are alive,
But owe their actual origin
To coming of another kin.

BRAND.
[Shaking his head.]
O God, so many riddles rise
Before our baffled, helpless eyes!

THE MAYOR.
But this one’s very lightly guess’d.
You must have often, heretofore.
Heard -tell one story or another
Of that poor fellow here by West
Whose head four parsons’ learning bore;
He went a-wooing to your Mother.

BRAND.
What then?

THE MAYOR.
Conceive,-a girl of gold!
She sent him to the right-about
Promptly, as might have been foretold.
And how d’ye think he took the flout?
Half mad with grief he wander’d out,
Mated at last another bride,
A gipsy,-and, before he died,
Enricled with issue this foul band
That sins and starves about the land.
Nay, on this parish he conferr’d
One bastard imp-as souvenir
Of his illustrious career.

BRAND.
Namely — ?

THE MAYOR.
The gipsy-urchin Gerd.

BRAND.
[In muffled tones.]
Ah-so!

THE MAYOR.
[Gaily.]
Confess, the riddle’s good!
His issue in effect derive
From her by whom you are alive;
For the first cause of all the brood
Was, that he loved and she withstood.

BRAND.
Advise me, Mayor; can you tell
Some means of giving them relief?

THE MAYOR.
Tut, clap them in a Bridewell cell.
They’re overhead in debt to hell;
To save them were to play the thief
With Satan, who will lose his trade
If earth restore not what he made.

BRAND.
You plann’d to build a house, to better
This naked misery and dearth

THE MAYOR.
That plan was, by its own begetter,
Slain in the moment of its birth.

BRAND.
If after all though-it were well

THE MAYOR.
[Smiling.]
This language has another sound
Than that which earlier from you fell.
[Clapping him on the shoulder.]
What’s buried, leave it in the ground!
Man must not dash his deed with doubt.
Farewell, farewell, I can’t remain,
I must be off and scour the fell,
To seek this nest of truants out.
A merry Yule! We’ll meet again!
My greetings to your wife. Farewell!
[Goes.]

BRAND.
[After a meditative silence.]
O expiation without end! —
So wildly mingle, strangely blend
The threads that human fortune spin, —
Sin tangled with the fruit of sin,
Pouring its own pollution in, —
That he who eyes their mazy flight
Sees foulest Wrong grow one with Right.
[Goo to the window, and after a long look out:]
My little child, lamb without stain,
Thou for thy mother’s deed wast slain;
A shatter’d spirit bore His voice
Whose throne the crested heavens sustain,
And bade me cast the (lie of choice.
And this distracted soul had birth
Because my mother’s slave to earth.
Thus the Lord, sowing fruit of crime,
Reaps retribution in His time,
And, reaching down from His high dome,
Strikes the third generation home.
[Starts back in horror from the window.]

Yes, God is above all things just,
And retribution is His goal;
Only by sacrifice the soul
Achieves redemption from the dust;
Hard truth, our age appall’d descries,
And, therefore, stubbornly denies.
[Walks up and down the room.]
To pray? Ah, pray-a word that slips
Easily over all men’s lips;
A coin by all men lightly paid.
What’s prayer? In storm and stress to shout
Unto the vague Unknown for aid.
Upon Christ’s shoulders beg a place,
And stretch both hands to Heaven for grace —
While knee-deep in the slough of doubt.
Ha! if there needed nothing more
I might like others dare to raise
My hand and batter at His door
Who still is “terrible in praise.” —
[Pauses and reflects.]

And yet in uttermost despair,
In shuddering sorrow’s deepest deep,
When Alf at last had sunk to sleep,
And all his mother’s kisses vain
Won not the lost smile back again —
What felt I-if it was not prayer?
Whence came that trance, that ecstasy,
That rushing music, like a blast,
That sang afar and hurried past,
Bore me aloft and set me free?
Was it the ecstasy of prayer?
Did I with God hold converse there?
My anguish-did it reach his ears?
Did he look down and see my tears?
I know not. Bared is now the door,
The darkness deeper than before,
And nowhere, nowhere any light!
Yes, She-who, darkling, yet hath sight —
[Calls in anguish.]
Light, Agnes-light, if light thou hast!
[Agnes opens the door and enters with the lighted Christmas candles; a bright glow falls over the room.]

BRAND.
Light!

AGNES.
See, the Yule light, Brand, at last!

BRAND.
[Softly.]
The Yule light! Ha!

AGNES.
[Putting them on the table.]
Have I been slow?

BRAND.
No, no.

AGNES.
Thou must be cold, Brand!

BRAND.
[Loudly.]
No.

AG NES.
[Smiling, fills the stove.]
How stern! It is thy pride of will,
That scorns the darkness and the chill.

BRAND.
[Walking up and down.]
H’in, Will!

AGNES.
[To herself, as she decks the room.]
Here must the candles stand.
Last year he stretch’d his tiny hand
After the glancing, dancing light:
He was so joyous and so bright;
He started from his little chair,
And ask’d me if a sun it were.
[Moves the candles a little.]
See! now the candle’s glow falls- there!
Now from his bed my boy can see
The window gleaming cheerily;
Now can he peer out of the gloom
Silently into our lit room —
But, ah! the glass is dim; stay, stay —
I’ll wipe the dew of tears away
And make it smile ——
[Dries the pane.]

BRAND.
[Softly as he watches her.]
When in this breast
Will the wild waters sink to rest?
To rest they must!

AGNES.
[To herself.]
How bright the glow,
It seems as though the sundering wall
Had sunk; the low room grown a hall,
The murky world of ice and snow
Sudden become a shelter’d nest,
Where cosily my child may rest.

BRAND.
What dost thou, Agnes?

AGNES.
[To herself.]
Peace, I pray!

BRAND.
[Nearer.]
Why didst thou ope the curtain?

AGNES.
Nay,
I dreamt, and knew not what I did!

BRAND.
Snares in that dream of thine lie hid;
Close it again.

AGNES.
[Pleading.]
Brand!

BRAND.
Close, I say!

AGNES.
Oh, be not harsh, it is not right.

BRAND.
Close, close!

AGNES.
[Drawing it.]
Now all is close and tight;
Yet in my heart I scarce can deem
God injured if, at sorest need,
In the brief respite of a dream
I tasted comfort.

BRAND.
No, indeed!
He is a feeling Judge and kind,
And will indulgently forbear,
If in thy service He should find
Some idol-worship here and there.

AGNES.
[Bursts into tears.]
Oh, say, w h e n will He cease to crave?
My wings are weak-I faint and fall

BRAND.
He gives to the devouring wave
Who in his giving gives not all.

AGNES.
I ha v e given all; I have no more!

BRAND.
[Shakes his head.]
Yet other gifts remain behind.

AGNES.
[Smiling.]
Ask: I’ve the courage of the poor!

BRAND.
Give!

AGNES.
Take! All, Brand, thou’lt nothing find!

BRAND.
Thy memories and thy moans thou hast,
Thy longings and thy sinful sighs —

AGNES.
[D e sp airing ly .]
I have my heart of agonies!
Tear, tear it from me!

BRAND.
Thou hast cast
Thy offerings in the yawning deep
For nothing, if thou count them losses

AGNES.
[Shudders.]
Narrow is thy Lord’s way, and steep.

BRAND.
That way Will cannot choose but keep.

AGNES.
Arid Mercy’s is ——