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Peer Gynt and Brand

Page 10

by Henrik Ibsen


  what will you say that is? A flake

  of snow, melting? No, no, it

  flows from your anguished heart.

  BRAND: Agnes, my own, my wife, let us both

  be steadfast, even unto death.

  Out there I was a chosen man

  indeed. I was God’s champion.

  While, in mid-fjord, the boat

  laboured, sea-drenched I fought.

  The tiller strained in my hand

  yet steadied as it strained.

  Eight souls froze at the oars

  like corpses on their biers.

  The mast groaned, cordage clashed, flung

  loose on the wind. Our seams were sprung.

  The canvas blew to shreds,

  whipped to leeward. The seabirds’

  cries were drowned. Through darkness I saw

  cliff-falls, cataracts of snow,

  crash down upon the rocks.

  And all this while, He who makes

  storm and calm held me to His will.

  Through sea-howl I heard Him call.

  AGNES: How easy it is to wage war

  on the elements, and to dare

  all. How hard it seems to wait

  as I must, so very quiet,

  while life ticks by; and be at home

  to all the visitings of time;

  and hear the ceaseless sparrow-

  flutterings of sorrow

  in the eaves of the heart’s house.

  I long to be of use

  in the great world. I dare not

  remember, cannot forget.

  Know me for what I am.

  BRAND: Agnes, for shame, for shame!

  How can you think to scorn

  your life’s work, its true crown:

  my helpmate and my wife?

  Listen, and I’ll reveal

  strange mercies wrought from grief.

  Sometimes, Agnes, my eyes fill

  with tears of gratitude.

  I think that I see God,

  so close. As never before

  I greet Him face to face,

  feel His fatherly care.

  Then I desire to cast

  myself on His breast,

  weeping in His embrace.

  AGNES: And may He always appear

  so to you, Brand. Fathers forgive.

  It is tyrants who rave.

  BRAND: O Agnes, you must ever fear

  to question Him. Never presume

  to turn your face away from Him.

  I am the servant of the Lord.

  I am the warrior with the sword

  of righteousness. Your gentle hands

  shall soothe and heal my wounds.

  Agnes, embrace your task!

  AGNES: Everything that you ask

  of me seems too heavy to bear.

  I’m so weary I can scarcely hear

  what you say. Thoughts ravel my mind

  without beginning or end.

  I gaze at my own life

  almost with disbelief.

  My dearest, let me grieve

  and I may learn to live

  and serve you, purged of sorrow

  at last … I don’t know.

  Brand, while you were away,

  I saw my little boy

  again, I saw him! He came

  smiling into my room.

  He looked, as once he did,

  bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked.

  He came towards my bed

  as though to be cradled and rocked

  in my arms. It made my blood run cold.

  BRAND: Agnes!

  AGNES:    I knew that he’d turned

  to ice, out there in the icy ground.

  BRAND: Believe me, Agnes, our child

  has been gathered to God,

  he is in Paradise.

  It is a corpse that lies

  out there under the snow.

  AGNES [shrinking away from him]:

  Why do you tear and prod

  at the wound, make the blood flow?

  The body and the soul

  go down into the soil

  together. Together they rise up

  out of our mortal sleep.

  I cannot discriminate

  like you; I cannot tell them apart.

  To me they are as one,

  soul, body … my son.

  BRAND: Many an old wound shall

  bleed to make you well.

  AGNES: Stay by me in my need,

  Brand; for I’ll not be led

  against my will. Please try

  to be gentle; speak gently.

  Your voice is like a storm

  when you drive a soul to choose

  its own poor martyrdom.

  Is there no gentler voice

  that says to pain, ‘Be still,’

  no song that greets the light,

  no gentleness at all?

  Your God, I see Him sit

  just like some grim seigneur

  in His stronghold. I fear

  to irritate His gaze

  with my weak woman’s cries.

  BRAND: It seems, then, you’d prefer

  the God you knew before.

  AGNES: Einar’s mild God? Never!

  Yet I feel as if I were drawn

  by a longing for clear, pure air

  where it’s drawing towards dawn.

  Your visions, your new realms,

  your calling, your iron will,

  everything looms, overwhelms,

  threatens me, like the cliff

  that would bury us if it fell

  or the fjord that cuts us off

  from the world. Brand! Brand! Such

  pain! And for what? Your little church

  that crouches under the rock

  like a mouse from a hawk?

  BRAND [struck]:

  Again, again, that thought,

  like a tremor of air. What

  makes you speak so? Why do you say

  the church is too small?

  AGNES [shaking her head sorrowfully]:

           How can I

  give reasons? How do I know?

  How do the winds blow,

  how does a scent travel

  on the air? Must I unravel

  everything that goes through my mind?

  It is enough that I understand.

  Call it instinct, if you will.

  Brand, your church is too small.

  BRAND: ‘The young shall see visions and the old

  dream dreams.’13 What mysteries unfold,

  my Agnes! Even she I met

  wandering on the mountain height

  in madness froze me with that call:

  ‘The church is hideous and small, small.’

  Whether she knew of what she spoke

  I cannot tell; but the womenfolk

  echo her, murmuring all the time,

  as though possessed of the same dream,

  visionary things, things yet unknown,

  strange intimations of new Zion.14

  Dear angel of my destiny,

  you bless and guide me on my way.

  The church is small, I see it now.

  It shall be built anew,

  and the Lord God shall enter in

  to His own temple once again.

  AGNES: From this time forward, let it seem

  as if a wide deserted sea

  lay blank between my grief and me.

  I shall decide upon a tomb

  and bury the dead hopes of life;

  and make each mirrored citadel

  vanish as in a fairy tale.

  I’ll be your consecrated wife.

  BRAND: Agnes, the road leads on.

  AGNES: You sound so cold and stern,

  even now.

  BRAND:   It is God

  who speaks, not I.

  AGNES:      You’ve said

  that He is merciful

  to those who
faint and fall,

  if they’ll but persevere.

  She turns to leave.

  BRAND: Agnes, must you go?

  AGNES [smiling]:

  It’s Christmas Eve, my dear,

  and I have things to do.

  Last Christmas you chided me

  a little for my extravagance:

  a lit candle in every sconce,

  and shining glass and greenery,

  the room alive with laughter’s song

  and all the gifts that love could bring.

  The candles shall be lit again;

  we’ll deck the tree; do what we can

  to keep our Christmas, and rejoice

  inwardly in the silent house.

  If God should stare into this room

  tonight, Brand, I need feel no shame.

  I’ve watched and prayed, wiped every trace

  of grief, each tear smudge, from my face,

  you see; all gone now! I would meet

  Him with a truly chastened heart.

  BRAND pulls her towards him in an embrace; then abruptly lets her go.

  BRAND: Go, light the candles. There, hush!

  AGNES [smiling sorrowfully]:

  And let the church be built all new

  and bright by the spring thaw.

  Let us make that our Christmas wish!

  Exit.

  BRAND [gazing after her]:

  Help me, O help me, God,

  to spare her more agony.

  It’s like watching her die

  in martyrdom’s slow flame.

  What else must I perform

  that Your law may be satisfied,

  lex talionis,15 Your hawk

  that will swoop down and take

  the heart out of her?

  Let me be the martyr,

  not her. Dear God! Haven’t I faith

  and strength, and will, enough for both?

  Let her devoted love suffice.

  Remit, O Lord, remit the sacrifice.

  There is a knock at the door. The MAYOR enters.

  MAYOR: Well, here I am, d’you see,

  come to eat humble pie!

  Sir, I’m a beaten man,

  beaten and trampled on!

  BRAND: You, mayor?

  MAYOR:      I’m not joking.

  I tried to send you packing.

  I admit, I said at the time,

  I said, there isn’t room

  for both of us. I was right,

  no shadow of a doubt,

  no doubt at all. Yet here

  I am with my white flag.

  My friend, I come to beg.

  There’s a new spirit abroad

  in the region, praise God;

  suddenly it’s everywhere,

  but not mine: yours,

  pastor. The war’s

  over. Stop the fight.

  Now, let’s shake hands on that!

  BRAND: Between the two of us

  the strife can never cease;

  for spiritual war

  is endless, must be waged

  however bruised and scourged

  and desolate we are.

  MAYOR: Don’t try to win a fight

  if it pays you to lose:

  I call that compromise.

  BRAND: Though you deride God’s law,

  nothing can make black white!

  MAYOR: My dear man, you can holler,

  ‘White as the driven snow,’

  till you’re blue in the face.

  If our wise populace

  prefers snow to be black,

  then black it is. Hard luck!

  BRAND: And what’s your favourite colour?

  MAYOR: Mine’s a nice in-between

  delicate shade of grey.

  I’ve told you, I’m humane.

  I meet people halfway.

  I don’t gallop head-on

  against opinion.

  I let the crowd decide,

  run with the multitude.

  You’re the crowd’s candidate,

  it seems; so here’s my vote.

  I’ve had to shelve my plans

  for new ditches and drains,

  for new jetties and roads,

  and Lord knows what besides.

  Still, if that’s the game,

  I’ll play it. ‘Bide your time,’

  I tell myself, ‘and smile.

  Hang on to fortune’s wheel

  like the grim death. Your turn

  always comes round again.’

  BRAND: There speaks the ‘public spirit’

  in essence, mayor. It

  seems, then, that greed, if shrewd,

  can pass as zeal-for-good.

  MAYOR: That’s not how it is at all!

  I’ve lived a life of real

  self-sacrificing labour,

  a man who’s served his neighbour

  more than he’s served himself.

  I spit on this world’s pelf.

  But surely, surely, it’s fair,

  isn’t it, minister,

  that honesty and good sense

  should gain some recompense?

  When all’s been said you can’t

  let your own kith and kin

  go hungry. I’ve got daughters.

  I must think of their futures.

  You know what that can mean.

  Chewing on the ideal

  won’t get you a square meal

  and it won’t pay the rent.

  He who says otherwise

  doesn’t know what life is!

  BRAND: What will you do now?

  MAYOR:          Build.

  BRAND: Did you say build?

  MAYOR:        I did.

  I’ll serve the nation’s need

  as I served it of old.

  I’ll dazzle people’s eyes

  with some great enterprise.

  I’ll be cock of the roost,

  I’ll strut upon my post.

  By God, you’ll hear me crow

  pro bono publico!16

  My new election cry

  is ‘Banish poverty!’

  BRAND: And how will you do that?

  MAYOR: I’ve given it some thought.

  Well, come on, use your wits!

  What am I planning? It’s

  my ‘hygienic edifice’,

  and cheap at the price!

  A workhouse and a gaol

  under the same roof;

  perfectly clean and safe

  and economical.

  Then, having made a start,

  I’ll add an extra wing

  built to accommodate

  wassail, that sort of thing,

  banquets and lantern-slide

  lectures, what you will:

  the Patriots’ Pledge hall.

  BRAND: There may be some need

  for the things you name –

  but there is one thing more,

  with a far higher claim.

  MAYOR: A madhouse, to be sure!

  But who would foot the bill?

  BRAND: Well, if you need to house

  your madmen, why not use

  the Patriots’ Pledge hall?

  It would be suitable.

  MAYOR [delighted]:

  The Patriots’ Pledge hall

  a madhouse all the time –

  O pastor, what a scheme!

  How could it ever fail?

  We’ll soon have crime and sin

  and madness all crammed in;

  then we’ll cram in the poor

  and lock and bolt the door.

  BRAND: You’ve come begging, you said.

  MAYOR: I think that puts the case

  fairly enough. Indeed,

  cash for a worthy cause

  seems very hard to find.

  A well-placed word or two

  from ‘t’People’s’ Pastor Brand

  would turn the tide. You know

  I shan’t
forget a friend.

  BRAND: I know I’m being bribed.

  MAYOR: Couldn’t it be described

  as the best way of healing

  old wounds, and that sad breach

  between us, from which each

  of us, I know, has suffered,

  since we’re both men of feeling.

  BRAND: Suffered, did you say?

  MAYOR: Of course, of course, the boy …

  I trust that you’ll accept

  condolences as offered.

  You seemed, though, so imbued

  with Christian fortitude

  I took it that the worst

  excess of grief had passed.

  I came because I’d hoped …

  BRAND: You’ve hoped and schemed in vain.

  I also plan to build.

  MAYOR: To steal my master plan –

  well, I must say, that’s bold!

  BRAND: You say so? Look out there –

  [Points out of the window.]

  no, there; what do you see?

  MAYOR: Not much, if you ask me!

  That old barn on the tilt?

  Look, I don’t understand …

  BRAND: The church. Mayor, I intend

  the church shall be rebuilt

  on a grander scale.

  MAYOR: I’m master builder here.

  Just leave things as they are,

  I’ll make it worth your while.

  Why pull the old place down?

  BRAND: I have said: it is small.

  MAYOR: Small? But I’ve never seen

  it more than half-full.

  BRAND: There’s no space, no air,

  for the spirit to soar!

  MAYOR [aside]:

  If he goes on like this,

  he’ll need the services

  of the madhouse himself.

  [Aloud]

  Pastor, take my advice,

  leave the church to the mice,

  I beg you, on behalf

  of the whole neighbourhood.

  I rise to the defence

  of our inheritance.

  An architectural gem

  destroyed for a mere whim?

  No, it can’t be allowed!

  BRAND: I’ll build God’s house with my

  own substance; dedicate

  every last farthing-bit

  out of my legacy.

  MAYOR: Well! I’m thunderstruck!

  I can’t believe our luck,

  I can’t, truly, I can’t!

  Riches without stint,

  a great gold, glittering stream –

  tell me it’s not a dream!

  BRAND: I made up my mind,

  long ago, to renounce

  that cursed inheritance.

  MAYOR: I’m with you heart and soul,

  I’m filled with purest zeal.

  How’s that for a surprise?

  Onward then! Hand in hand!

  Together, to the end.

  Here’s to our enterprise!

  I dare to think that fate

  has brought me here tonight.

  I even dare to think

  that you have me to thank

  and that your miracle

  is mine after all.

  BRAND: Destroy that ‘hallowed fane’

  out there? Why, it’s a shrine!

  MAYOR: H’m, that’s as may be.

 

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