Peer Gynt and Brand
Page 6
on through the wild sea-wave,
she sat, so rapt and still,
wholly without fear,
with the spindrift glistening
upon her brow and hair,
gazing and listening,
yes, listening with her eyes
to secret harmonies!
[Approaches her.]
Tell me, what do you stare
at, so intently there?
The fjord winding its way
down to the great sea?
AGNES [without turning round]:
Not the fjord; not this earth
even; for both
are veiled from my sight.
Something more great
I glimpse, a world
beautiful to behold,
outlined against the sun.
How all things shine!
Rivers and seas, white peaks,
a glittering wilderness,
with great palm-trees
that sway in the wind,
shadows on bright sand.
It is a world that wakes
yet waits for life. A voice
cries through the emptiness:
‘Creator and creature
of your own nature,
Adam, come forth
to life or death!’
BRAND [rapturously]:
Tell me … tell me … do you see more?
AGNES [putting her hand on her breast]:
I feel within me, here
in my heart and my soul,
the things that I foretell;
all births, all destinies.
Everything that is
awaits its hour,
and the time is near.
Already, from above,
He gazes down
with infinite love;
and already the crown
of infinite sorrow
pierces His brow.
And a voice cries
through the dawn-wilderness:
‘Creator and creature
of your own nature,
Adam, come forth
to life or death!’
BRAND: The new Adam, yes!
We in him, he in us.
Truth at the heart’s core,
our rightful sphere,
our destiny, the abode
of our selfhood-in-God.
There the old vulture
of self-will shall be no more.
I’ll let this world
go, self-enthralled,
let it go its way …
But if the enemy
strikes at my work,
then I strike back!
I pledge myself to that
truth of the inmost word,
everyman’s right
rightly understood,
to be what in truth I am.
[Thinks in silence a while.]
But how should that be?
The curse of heredity,
hereditary guilt,
the aboriginal fault,
stakes its own claim.
[Stops and looks into the distance.]
Who is this who comes
so slowly; who climbs
with such anguish; who bends,
so, her head; who stands
gasping for breath; who drags
her body in its rags
as if it were a hoard
of precious, secret greed;
who looks like a crow or
hawk nailed to a barn door?
Why is it I feel,
suddenly, a chill
of childish fear,
insidious like hoar frost
here in my breast
as she comes near?
Dear God …
BRAND’s MOTHER comes up the slope, stops half visible against the hill, shades her eyes with her hand and looks around.
BRAND’S MOTHER: They said I’d find
him hereabouts. Brand,
son Brand, you there,
then? Ugh, this glare
burns out your eyes.
That you, son?
BRAND: Yes.
MOTHER: Let’s see. Can’t hardly tell
priest from carl
I’m that mazed. Ay, it’s you.
BRAND: Mother, at your house
I never saw sunrise
from summer’s end till the return
of the first cuckoo.
MOTHER [laughing quietly]:
Ay, you grow a thick skin
there: like an icicle-man
over the waterfall.
Do what you like,
skin gets that thick,
’twill guard your soul.
BRAND: Mother, I can’t stay
any longer.
MOTHER: Ay, ay,
like when you were a lad,
always up and about,
I’ll grant you that.
And you made off
soon enough!
BRAND: You made sure that I did.
MOTHER: Always had it in mind
to see you book-learn’d,
fit for a parson.
It stood to reason;
still does.
[Looks more closely at him.]
H’m, but you’ve grown
some sinew and brawn
on you, no mistake.
You mind you take care,
son. Don’t risk your neck!
BRAND: Is that all you can say?
MOTHER: Say more if you know more,
all nice and scholarly.
That madness on the fjord,
d’you think I’ve not heard?
It’s all they talk about
back there, you and that boat.
What happens if you drown,
eh? I’m robbed by my own
son, that’s what. Ay a thief,
that’s what you’d be! My life
you’re fooling with. I gave
you it, didn’t I? I’ve
got first claim on what’s mine.
You’re not just flesh and blood.
You’re roof-beam, corner-post,
the nails, the wood,
every plank, every joist
I’ve spliced into a house
for nobody but us.
You’re the last of our line.
Stick fast, then; don’t give
half-an-inch while you live,
not half-an-inch, d’you hear?
I’ve named you my heir,
I have that. Never fret,
you’ll inherit the lot.
BRAND: So that’s what makes you crawl
bent double. All that coin,
it’s weighing you down.
MOTHER [shrinking away from him]:
Eh, what? What? Keep away!
Help! Daylight robbery!
[Calmer]
Stay there. I’ve half a mind
to tan your hide, you brat!
I’ve said, you’ll get it all.
Every day, bit by bit,
I crawl nearer the grave.
And then it’s yours. Believe
me, everything I’ve earned.
You’ll never need to beg.
But carry it on me?
I’m not mad! It’s at home,
all snug in wad and bag.
Keep off, you varmint,
do as you’re bidden,
wait till I’m gone!
As God’s my judge I shan’t
bury it in the midden
or under the hearth-stone
or under the floor;
shan’t cram it in crevices
or such-like places.
It’s yours, that I swear!
BRAND: On condition, no doubt.
You’d better spell it out!
MOTHER: Get wed; get your own brood,
lad; that’s the sole task
I set you now; I ask
no other reward.
Keep my treasure safe,<
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eh? Guard it with your life.
Don’t give nor divide.
Save everything; hide
everything you save,
like in the troll-king’s cave.
BRAND [after a short pause]:
Ever since I was a boy
I’ve had to defy
you. I was never your child.
MOTHER: Agh, then be obstinate,
be sure you don’t thaw!
It’s little enough I care
For your love, or your hate.
I’m used to the cold,
can live without fire,
just so long as I know
that you’ll breed and hoard.
Give me your word.
BRAND [moving a step closer]:
But what if I’ve a mind
to scatter it on the wind,
all that treasure of yours?
MOTHER [reeling back in horror]:
No, curse you! All those years
raking it together
while I grew old and my flesh
withered to ash.
BRAND: Ash on the wind, Mother.
MOTHER: You’d scatter my soul
on the wind!
BRAND: Shall
I scatter it, all the same?
Supposing I come
and stand by your bed
the first night that you’re dead
and lying cold and quiet
with the psalm-book pressed
against your stone-cold heart;
suppose that I’m there,
not ‘mourning the deceased’,
but rummaging for treasure,
ferreting around
for what bits I can find …
MOTHER [approaching, tense]:
Where d’you get such ideas?
BRAND: You truly wish to know?
MOTHER: Yes.
BRAND: Then I’ll tell you a story.
It’s here in my memory,
burned deep, the scar
of an early fear.
It was one autumn;
it was one evening; a room
candle-lit, shadowy.
There my father lay.
I’d sneaked in; I stayed,
bewildered, afraid,
like a little owl,
crouched there, very still,
wondering why he slept
on and on, why he gripped
his old psalm-book,
why his hands were claw-like
and yet so paper-thin.
And then … and then …
Mother, I can still hear
those footsteps at the door;
and again the door hinge
creaks open and that strange-
faced woman creeps in.
I mustn’t be seen!
Into the shadows, hide!
She goes to the bedside.
Now she begins to feel
between the bed and the wall,
pushing aside his head.
Something’s there. Yes, tied;
flat oilcloth bound with twine.
It won’t come undone.
She tears at it with her nails, bites
and gnaws through the tough knots,
stares, throws it down, gropes again.
A pocket-book and some coin.
She mutters between her teeth,
‘How much was it all worth,
then? How much? How much?’
Like stripping the corpse, the search
proceeds. Her shadow swoops; it looks
like a swooping hawk’s.
She tears open a purse
as a hawk rips a mouse.
When there’s no place left
she’s a woman bereft,
whispering in disbelief,
‘Was that all, was that all?’;
flees like a hunted thief.
So ends my tale.
MOTHER: It was what I was owed.
God knows I’d paid.
BRAND: You paid twice over then.
It cost you your son.
MOTHER: You pay for what you get,
with brain and heart
if need be. I did,
a lot more than most.
Something was sacrificed,
something; I can’t recall
what it was I had,
but it was good. I believe
people called it love.
Such things aren’t practical.
But it was hard at first
to turn from my own choice,
to heed my father’s voice:
‘Forget that pauper-lad,
take the old man instead,
he’ll feather your nest!’
So I did as he said;
and, for all that, I was cheated.
Oh but I’ve sweated
and I’ve made my pile.
With pain and with graft
I’ve made well-nigh double
what that old fool left.
But it’s been bitter-hard.
BRAND: Hard indeed, Mother. Harder still
for your poor pawned soul.
MOTHER: I’ve taken care of that.
You’ll get the estate,
I’ll get the last rites.
I call that fair profits
for honest dealing.
My worldly goods
in exchange for priest’s words
of comfort and healing.
I made you a priest.
I claim my interest.
BRAND: In the world’s looking-glass
you don’t see what is,
you see some other sight.
And there are many more
in these parts who stare
into that same mirror
of vanity and error.
Sparing their child a thought
now and then, they think,
‘That child has me to thank
for his place in the world’,
casting upon the child
the shoddy, second-hand
sentiments of their kind.
And they put all their faith
in a kind of living death.
Not knowing how to live,
they stupidly believe
eternity’s the sum
of endless earthly time.
MOTHER: Can’t you leave folk alone?
I’ll swear you’ve never known
the half I’ve suffered!
Take what you’re offered.
BRAND: That won’t cancel the debt.
MOTHER: What are you on about?
There’s no debt.
BRAND: So you say.
But supposing there were,
would not justice require
that each claim should be met
in full, and by me?
MOTHER: Is that what the law says?
BRAND: Your pen-and-parchment laws!
Mother, the Holy Spirit
utters its own decrees,
summons us to atone
for what others have done.
How blindly you have sinned!
Open your eyes;
begin to understand.
[His MOTHER appears confused.]
Don’t be afraid.
Your great debt shall be paid.
God’s image, that you’ve marred,
shall shine again, purified;
resurrected by my will;
transfigured in my soul.
Go to your grave in peace.
I shall pay the price.
MOTHER: Let’s see now; does that mean
every last little sin?
BRAND: The debt. Only the debt.
I can rid you of that.
I am able to erase
the effect, but not the cause.
I cannot annul
that sin which engendered all;
I cannot assuage or share
that guilt by which you are.
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That bears a penalty
which you alone must pay.
MOTHER [uneasy]:
You’re making my head spin,
just like too much sun.
Bad thoughts sprout in my head
like henbane or bindweed.
I’ve had enough. I’m going
back where I belong.
Under the glacier,
there I’ll feel easier.
BRAND: Then go, Mother, go back;
hobble into the dark.
I’ll stay here, close at hand.
If you long for me, send
for me; I shall come.
MOTHER: You’ll come. Ay, to condemn!
BRAND: As your son, as your priest,
I’ll shield you from the blast
of judgement and dread,
melt the ice from your blood.
I’ll sing you to sleep
with hymns of sure hope.
MOTHER: You’d swear that on the Good
Book, and all?
BRAND: When I’m sent
word that you repent,
I shall come, as I said.
Like you, Mother, I make
one condition: give back
all that you have gained. Go
naked to the grave.
MOTHER: Oh no,
son, no! Tell me to starve
and thirst. Tell me I must,
I will. Don’t make me give
away what I love the most.
BRAND: Everything you’re worth,
or abide His wrath!
MOTHER: Everything? I can’t, son, I
can’t! Not every penny!
BRAND: I see you’ll not atone
till, like Job, all alone,
covered in earth and ash,
you cry, ‘Let the day perish
wherein this carcass came
forth out of the womb!’
MOTHER [wringing her hands]:
I can’t bear it; I’m
going, while I still can; home
to cradle my sweet gold
as if it was my child
and weep for it, like
a mother will
for her bairn that’s sick.
Why does God leave a soul
stuck like this in the flesh
where your heart’s dearest wish
makes your soul die?
Stay by me, pastor,
in my last hour
and help me out.
But until then
let me hold on
to the things I’ve got.
Exit.
BRAND [gazing after her]:
Yes, your pastor will stay.
And you will send for him.
And he shall come to warm
your withered hand in his,
and let you die in peace.
[Goes down the slope towards AGNES.]
My life was like this sun at dawn.
But now the sun is going down.
At daybreak I could hear the song
of battle; and my heart was strong.
AGNES [turning round and looking up at him with shining eyes]:
The dawn was pale compared to this
full radiance. It was fantasies
and games and pretty lies and art
and everything that truth is not.
The dawn was a false paradise.
Truth must rejoice at such a loss.
BRAND: But how I dreamed! Such dreams I had,