ACT FIFTH.
A year and a half later. The new Church stands complete, and adorned for consecration. The river runs close beside it. A misty morning, early.
The Sexton is busy hanging garlands outside the Church; shortly after comes the Schoolmaster.
The Schoolmaster.
At work already?
The Sexton.
None too soon.
Lend me a hand; I must festoon
The path, to keep the march in trim.
The Schoolmaster.
Before the Manse I see ascending
Something that rears a rounded rim—
The Sexton.
Ay, surely, surely!
The Schoolmaster.
What is pending?
The Sexton.
Why, it is what they call a shield
With Parson’s name in a gold field.
The Schoolmaster.
To-day the valley’s in high feather.
From far and wide they’re flocking hither,
The fjord with sails is all agleam.
The Sexton.
Yes; they’ve awaken’d from their dream.
In the late Pastor’s day, no breast
With bitterness and strife was cumber’d,
Each slumber’d as his neighbour slumber’d,
—I’m not quite certain which is best.
The Schoolmaster.
Life, Sexton, life!
The Sexton.
Yet you and I
Pass this “life” unregarding by;
How comes it?
The Schoolmaster.
Why, before, the folk
Slumber’d, and nowise toil’d, as we did;
We fell asleep when they awoke,
Because we were no longer needed.
The Sexton.
But yet you said that life was best?
The Schoolmaster.
By Dean and deacon that’s profess’d.
And I too say so, like the rest,—
Provided, mind, the “life” in view
Is that of the great Residue.
But we two serve another law
Than that which holds the mass in awe;
Set by the State to guard and guide,—
Look, we must stand against the tide,
Cherish the Church and Education,
And keep aloof from agitation.
Briefly, in nothing take a side.
The Sexton.
But Parson’s in it, heart and soul.
The Schoolmaster.
And just in that forgets his rôle.
His own superiors, well I know,
Look with displeasure on his action,
And, dared they but offend his faction,
Had thrown him over long ago.
But he is fine; he smells a rat;
He’s got a recipe for that.
He builds the Church. Here you may glue
All eyes up, if you will but do.
What’s done none has a thought to spare for;
The doing of it’s all they care for.
So they who follow, and we who lead,
All equally are men of deed.
The Sexton.
Well, you have sat in the great Thing,
And ought to know the Land and Folk;
But one who travell’d through the glen
A little after we awoke
Said, we’d been sleeping folks till then,
But, having waked,—were promising.
The Schoolmaster.
Yes; we’re a promising folk, of course,—
And mighty promises we’re giving,—
So fast we stride, we’ll soon be living
Elucidations of their force.
The Sexton.
One thing I’ve ponder’d many a day;
You’ve studied,—what do folks intend
By that same “People’s Promise,” pray?
The Schoolmaster.
A People’s Promise, my good friend?
That were a long investigation;
But ’tis a thing that is pursued
By force of sheer anticipation;
A grand Idea they must make good
In future, be it understood.
The Sexton.
Thanks; I see that at any rate;
But there’s another point I’d fain
Beg of you briefly to explain.
The Schoolmaster.
Speak freely.
The Sexton.
Tell me, at what date
Comes, what is call’d the future?
The Schoolmaster.
Why,
It never does come!
The Sexton.
Never!
The Schoolmaster.
No,
And only follows Nature so.
For when it comes, you see, ’tis grown
The Present, and the Future’s flown.
The Sexton.
Why, yes, to that there’s no reply;
That logic one must needs accept.
But—when then is the promise kept?
The Schoolmaster.
A Promise is a future-dated
Pact, as I have already stated;
’Tis kept in Future.
The Sexton.
That is clear.
When will the Future, though, be here!
The Schoolmaster.
[Aside.]
You blessed Sexton!
[Aloud.]
Worthy friend,
Must I the argument recall?
The Future cannot come at all,
Because its coming is its end.
The Sexton
Thank you.
The Schoolmaster.
In all conceptions lies
Something that looks like artifice,
But yet is quite direct and plain,—
That is to say, for any brain
Able to reckon up to ten.
To make a promise means, at last,
To break it, spite of best intent;
Truth to one’s word has always pass’d
For hard; but you may just as well
Prove it purely impossible,—
If you’ve an eye for argument.—
There, let this Promise-question be!
Come tell me——!
The Sexton.
Hist!
The Schoolmaster.
What is it?
The Sexton.
Hark!
The Schoolmaster.
I hear the organ play!
The Sexton.
’Tis he.
The Schoolmaster.
The Pastor?
The Sexton.
Even so.
The Schoolmaster.
Save the mark
But he is out betimes!
The Sexton.
I guess
He stirr’d no pillow yesternight.
The Schoolmaster.
What do you say?
The Sexton.
All is not right.
He’s felt the pang of loneliness
Since first his widowhood began.
He hides his sorrow all he can;
But, whiles, it may not be controll’d;
His heart’s a jar that will not hold,
And overflows by base and brim;—
So then he plays. ’Tis like a wild
Weeping for buried wife and child.
The Schoolmaster.
It is as if they talk’d with him——
The Sexton.
As if one suffered, one consoled——
The Schoolmaster.
H’m—if one dared to be affected!
The Sexton.
Ah,—if one did not serve the State
The Schoolmaster.
Ah,—if one bore no leaden weight
Of forms that have to be respected
The Sexton.
Ah,—if one dared toss tape and seal
And ledger to the deuce for ever!
The Schoolmaster.
And leave off striving to be clever;
And, Sexton, if one dared to feel!
The Sexton.
No one is near,—let’s feel, my friend!
he Schoolmaster.
We cannot fitly condescend
To smirch ourselves in human slime.
Let no man, says the Parson, dare
To be two things at the same time;
And, with the best will, no one can
Be an official and a man;
Our part in all things is, to swear
By our great exemplar—the Mayor.
The Sexton.
Why just by him?
The Schoolmaster.
Do you recall
The fire that wreck’d his house, and yet
The deeds were rescued, one and all?
The Sexton.
It was an evening——
The Schoolmaster.
Wild and wet,
And like ten toiling men toiled he;
But indoors stood the Devil in glee
Guffawing, and his wife shriek’d out:
“O save your soul, sweet husband! See,
Satan will have you!” Then a shout
Rang backward through the surging vapours:
“My soul may go to hell for me;
Just lend a hand to save the papers!”
Look, that’s a Mayor—without, within!
From top to toe, from core to skin;
He’ll win his way, I’m certain, yonder,
Where his life’s toil shall have its price.
The Sexton.
And where may that be?
The Schoolmaster.
Where, I wonder,
But in the good Mayors’ Paradise.
The Sexton.
My learned friend!
The Schoolmaster.
What now?
The Sexton.
A token
Of our fermenting age I hear,
Methinks, in every word you’ve spoken;
For that it does ferment is clear.
Witness the reverence all refuse
To old-established Wont and Use.
The Schoolmaster.
What moulders, in the mould’s its doom,
What rots must nourish what is fresh;
Their vitals canker and consume,
Let them cough up the imposthume,
Or to the grave with their dead flesh!
There’s ferment, yes; past fear or hope,
That’s plain without a telescope.
The day our ancient Church lay low,
Everything with it seem’d to go
Wherein our life struck root and found
Its home-soil and its native-ground.
The Sexton.
Then on the throng a stillness came.
“Down with it! Down with it!” they cried
At first; but soon that clamour died,
And many felt their ears a-flame,
And stole shy glances of distrust.
When the ancestral House of Prayer
Was to be levell’d—then and there,—
By hands unhallow’d, in the dust.
The Schoolmaster.
But countless bonds, they fancied, knit
Them ever to the ghost of it,
So long as yonder Palace lack’d
The final seal of consecration;
And so in anguish’d expectation
They watch’d it growing into fact,
And blinked before the glorious End,
When the old tatter should descend
And the new colours flaunt the gale.
But ever as the spire upclomb
They grew more silent and more pale,
And now,—well, now the End is come.
The Sexton.
Look at the throng. Both young and old
Swarm hither.
The Schoolmaster.
And by thousands told.—
How still they are!
The Sexton.
And yet they moan,
Like sea fore-feeling tempest’s fret.
The Schoolmaster.
It is the People’s hearts that groan,
As if, with piercing doubts beset,
The great new age they did forebode,
Or were in solemn sessions met
To nominate another God.
Where, where’s the priest,—I stifle here.
Would heaven that I could disappear!
The Sexton.
I too, I too!
The Schoolmaster.
In hours like this
No man well knows how deep he is.
Each depth a deeper depth revealing,
We will, then will not, and then doubt——
The Sexton.
My friend!
The Schoolmaster.
My friend!
The Sexton.
H’m!
The Schoolmaster.
Speak it out!
The Sexton.
I think, in very truth, we’re feeling!
The Schoolmaster.
Feeling? Not I!
The Sexton.
Nor I, take warning!
A single witness I defy!
The Schoolmaster.
We’re men, not school-girls, you and I.
My youngsters wait for me. Good-morning.
[Goes.
The Sexton.
Just now I’d visions like a fool:
Now I’m again collected, cool,
And close as clasps! To work I’ll press!
Here’s no more scope for hand or tool,
And Satan’s couch is idleness.
[Goes out at the other side.
The organ, which during what precedes has been heard in an undertone, suddenly peals forth, and ends with a discordant shriek. Shortly afterwards Brand comes out.
Brand.
No, I vainly, vainly seek
To unlock the heart of sound;
All the song becomes a shriek.
Walls and arches, vault and ground,
Seem to stoop and crowd and throng,
Seem to clasp with iron force,
Seem to close around the song,
As the coffin round the corse!
Vain my effort, vain my suit,
All the organ’s music’s mute,
Fain a prayer I would have spoken,
But my lifted voice fell broken,—
Like the muffled moan it fell
Of a riven and rusted bell.
’Twas as if the Lord were seated
In the chancel, and beheld,
And in wrath, while I entreated,
All my piteous prayer repell’d!—
Great shall be the House of God;
In my confidence I swore it;
Fearless, smote and wreck’d and tore it,
Swept it level with the sod.
Now the finish’d work stands fast.
As the people throng before it,
Still they cry: “How vast! how vast!”
Is it they see true or I,
Who no vastness can descry?
Is it great? The thing I will’d,
Is it in this House fulfill’d?
Can the rushing fire of passion
That begot it, here be still’d?
Was the Temple of this fashion
That I dream’d should overspan
All the misery of Man?
Ah, had Agnes stay’d with me,
Not thus vainly had I striven!
Small things greatly she could see,
From doubt’s anguish set me free,
Clasp together Earth and Heaven
Like the green roof of the tree.
[He observes the preparations for the festival.]
All with wreaths and banners hung;
Children practising their song;
So the Manse they surge and throng,—
Festal greetings they would bring me;—
Yonder gleams my name in gold!—
Give me light, O God, or fling me
Fathom-deep beneath this mould!
In an hour begins the Feast
Every thought and every tongue
Will be ringing with “the priest”
All their thoughts I can discern;
All their words I feel them burn;
All their praise, on elf-wings sped,
Rives me like an icy blast!
Oh, to be enfolded fast
In oblivion, hide my head
In a wild beast’s hole at last!
The Mayor.
[Enters in full uniform, radiant with satisfaction, and greets him.]
Here is the great day come at last,
The Sabbath to the toiling six;
Now we can strike our sail, and fix
Our Sunday pennon to the mast,
Glide softly with the gliding flood
And find that all is very good.
Bravo!—great, noble man, whose fame
Will soon be far and wide related.
Bravo!—I’m moved, yet all the same
Most inexpressibly elated!
But you appear——?
Brand.
I’m suffocated.
The Mayor.
Pooh, a mere momentary whim!
Preach you now, till it roars again!—
Fill the folks’ bushel to the brim.
Not one his wonder can contain,
The resonance is so full and plain.
Brand.
Indeed?
The Mayor.
The Dean himself is warm
In admiration and delight.
And then, what elegance of form,
And what a grandeur, what a height
In every part——
Brand.
You’ve noted this?
The Mayor.
What noted?
Brand.
It seems great to you?
The Mayor.
Why, it not only seems, but is,
No matter what the point of view.
Brand.
It is great? Really? That is true—?
The Mayor.
Great?—yes, God bless me,—and to spare—
For folks so far to North. Elsewhere
They’ve higher standards, I’m aware.
But among us who captive dwell
Amid drear wastes and barren mounds,
On the scant verge of fjord and fell,
Its greatness ’mazes and confounds.
Brand.
Yes, that is so, and all we do
Is,—change an old lie for a new.
The Mayor.
What?
Brand.
We have lured their hearts away
From the time-honour’d gloom and mould
To soaring spire and open day.
“How venerable!” they cried of old.
“How vast!” in chorus now they roar—
“The like was never seen before!”
The Mayor.
My worthy friend, I needs must hold
His breeding scarcely quantum suff.
For whom it is not great enough.
Brand.
But clear it shall be unto all
That, as it stands, the Church is small.
To keep that hidden were to lie.
The Mayor.
Nay, listen,—let such whimsies fly!
What can it profit to dispraise
What you yourself have toil’d to raise?
You’ve satisfied their utmost dream;
It seems to them more rich and rare
Than aught they e’er saw anywhere:—
Let it continue so to seem!
Why should we vex their silly sight
With proffers of the flaming link,
When they’re indifferent to light?
The question’s only what they think.
It does not signify a jot
Though the Church were a pigeon-cot,
If in the faith they’re rooted fast,
That it is infinitely vast.
Brand.
In every matter the same thought.
The Mayor.
To-day, moreover, we hold fête;
The whole assembly is our guest;
It is a point of etiquette
That everything should look its best;
And for your own sake, most of all,
It were judicious to keep clear
Of that sore fact—that it is small.
Brand.
How so?
The Mayor.
Well, listen, you shall hear.
Firstly, the headmen of the town
Are giving you a piece of plate,
Whose graved inscription is frustrate
If the work’s size is whittled down;
And then the Ode, composed express,
And my inaugural address,—
You leave them helpless in the lurch,
Docking the greatness of the Church.
You see then, you must yield your doubt,
And boldly face the matter out.
Brand.
I see, what oft has stung my eye,
A lying triumph crown the lie.
The Mayor.
But, in God’s name, my worthy friend,
Where do these strong expressions tend?
However, waiving points of taste,
Hear now my second reason,—gold,
As that was silver; for, behold,
You, like a chosen son, are graced
With favour in the royal sight;
In short,—you have been named a Knight!
This very day you’ll walk elate,
Cross upon breast, a titled man.
Brand.
Another, heavier cross’s weight
I bear; take that from me who can.
The Mayor.
What’s this? You do not seem to shake
With agitation at such prize?
You mystery of mysteries!
But pray consider, for God’s sake——
Brand.
[Stamping.]
This is mere babble of vain speech:—
Nothing I learn and nothing teach;
You have not grasp’d the smallest shred
Of the true sense of what I said.
I meant not greatness men compute,
And measure by the inch and foot,
But that which, viewless, darts and streams,
Pierces the soul with frosts and fires,
That beckons to impassion’d dreams,
And like the starlit heaven inspires—
That—leave me! I am worn, oppress’d;—
Convince, teach, edify the rest.
[Goes up towards the Church.
The Mayor.
[To himself.]
In such a labyrinth who can stray
And find an issue? Greatness lay
In something that is “viewless,” “streams,”
“Not inchwise measured,” “lifts to dreams,”
And “starlit heaven”? It went so, surely?
Has he been lunching prematurely?
[Goes.
Brand.
[Comes down over the open ground.]
So desolate on the upland drear
I never stood as I stand here;
My impotent questionings evoke
Echoes that cackle and that croak.
[Looks towards the Mayor.]
For him, I would my heel might bruise
His head! Each time I make emprise
To loose him from the bond of lies,
With shameless wantonness he spews
His rotten soul before my eyes!—
O Agnes, why wast thou so frail?
Would that this hollow game were done,
Where none give in, and none prevail;—
Yes, hopeless he that fights alone!
The Dean.
[Coming up.]
O, my beloved! O, my sheep—!
Nay, I beg pardon,—would have said
My reverend brother!—cannot keep
My predication from my head;
I got it yesterday by rote,
The taste still lingers in my throat.
Enough of that.—To you I offer
My thanks, whose energy began,
Whose firmness carried through, the plan,
Despite the babbler and the scoffer;
Fell’d that which was about to fall,
And worthily restored it all!
Brand.
Far from that yet.
The Dean.
How say you, friend?
Is Consecration not the end?
Brand.
A House new-builded asks, as well,
A cleansed Soul, therein to dwell.
The Dean.
All that will come without our stir.
So gay, so elegant a roof
Will be an adequate reproof
To every unwash’d worshipper.
And that delightful sounding-board,
That doubles every pious word,
Will render without fail our flocks
Fivescore per cent. more orthodox,
Results so notable as these
The first-rate Nationalities
Themselves, ’tis said, can hardly better.—
For this your Country is your debtor,
Yours only; let me then express
These heartfelt, brotherly thanks of mine,
To be re-echoed, as I guess,
In winged words across the wine,
By many a fiery young divine,
When at the festal board we crown
This the great day of your renown.—
But, my dear Brand, you look so faint—?
Brand.
My heart and hope have long been spent.
The Dean.
No wonder;—with so grave a care,
And all unaided and unfriended.
But now the worst of it is ended,
And all gives promise of a splendid
Day for our function. Don’t despair!
All will go well. Reflect! A throng
Has gather’d, many thousand strong,
From far-off parishes,—and who
Can vie in eloquence with you?
See where your reverend brethren stand,
To welcome you with heart and hand;
While all these lowly bosoms beat
With ardour for you, first to last!
And then, the work, so ably plann’d,
The decoration, so complete,—
The general theme—How great! How vast!
—And the unparallel’d repast!
Into the kitchen I was looking
Just now, and saw the calf a-cooking.
Nay, Brand, a pretty beast, I vow!
You must have had some trouble, now,
In these hard times, before you found
So fine a bit of flesh to cater,
With meat at half a crown a pound!
But that can be deferr’d till later.
I’m on another errand bound.
Brand.
Speak freely; slash, stab, rive and rend!
The Dean.
I have a milder way, my friend.
But briefly; for our duties press.
One little matter, I confess,
I’d have you from to-day set right;
A task that cannot but be light.
Nay, I imagine you can guess
Half what I’m hinting at, at least?
I mean, your duties as a priest.
Hitherto you have been a loose
Observer still, of Wont and Use;
But Use and Wont, if not the best
Of things, are yet the needfulest.
Well, well, I will not be severe;
You’re young, and but a novice here,
Town-bred, and scarcely understand
What country usages demand.
But now, now it is urgent, friend,
The lack of judgment to amend.
You hitherto have too much heeded
What this man and what that man needed;
That error (in your private ear)
Is grievous. Weigh them in the block;
Use the same comb for all the flock;
You won’t repent it, never fear.
Brand.
Be more explicit.
The Dean.
The thing’s clear.
You for the Parish’s behoof
Have built a Church. That is the woof
That robes the spirit of Law and Peace;
For to the State, religion is
The power that lifts and purifies,
The stronghold where its safety lies,
The universal moral measure.
You see, the State is scant of treasure,
And wants full value for its pence.
“Good Christians” means “good citizens.”
Do you suppose it pays its pelf
To be for God and Man a tool,
And bring annoyance on itself?
No, faith, the State is not a fool;
And all our course would run amiss,
Did not the State, by strictest rule,
Look only to the life that is.
But the State’s object, my good friend,
Through its officials must be gain’d,
In this case through its priests——
Brand.
Each word
Is wisdom! Speak!
The Dean.
I’m near the end.
This Church, you see, you have conferr’d
Upon the State, for its sole profit;
And, therefore, all the uses of it
Must to the State’s advantage tend.
This is the meaning, note it well,
Of our forthcoming celebration,
This shall be meant by chiming bell,
And this by Gift-deed’s recitation.
A promise thus the Gift implies,
Whose force I’d have you scrutinise——
Brand.
By God, I never meant it so!
The Dean.
Yes; but it’s now too late, you know——
Brand.
Too late? Too late! That will be seen!
The Dean.
Be sensible! I can’t keep grave!
What is the tragedy therein?
You are not ask’d to promise sin?
Souls do not grow more hard to save
Because the Country profits too;
With due discretion and despatch
Two masters’ bidding you may do;
You were not made a priest, to snatch
Peter or Harry’s single soul
Out of the torments of the lake;
But that the Parish as a whole
Might of the shower of grace partake;
And, the whole Parish saved, it’s clear,
You save every Parishioner.
The State is (what you hardly dream)
Exactly half republican:
Liberty held in strictest ban,
Equality in high esteem.
Yet is Equality never won
But by destroying More and Less,—
And it is that you have not done!
Nay, you have striven to express
And emphasise unlikenesses
That slumber’d hitherto unknown.
Men, mere Church-members till of late,
To Personalities are grown.
That does no service to the State;
And thus it is, each Parish rate,
Each offering to the common good,
Is from unwilling niggards bled;
The Church no longer is the hood
That fits alike on every head.
Brand.
O, vistas infinite unfold!
The Dean.
Don’t be cast down; no gain in that
Though I must own I shudder at
The dire confusion I behold.
But while there’s life there’s hope, and you
Are by this gift baptized anew
To obligations yet more great
Of serving, by your Church, the State.
Men need a rule in all they do;
Or reckless forces, breaking loose,
Like colts undaunted by the curb,
Spurn gates and fences, and disturb
The thousand landmarks of old Use.
Each order’d mode of life proclaims
One Law, that goes by many names.
The Artist calls it School, and I’m
Mistaken if I have not heard
Our soldiers call it keeping time.
Ah yes, friend, that’s the very word!
That’s what the State desires at last!
Double-quick time gets on too fast,
And goose-step lags too far behind;
All men to step alike, and beat
The selfsame music with their feet,
That is the method to its mind!
Brand.
Kennel the eagle;—and let loose
On empyrean flights the goose!
The Dean.
We, thank the Lord, are not as these;—
But if we must use allegory,
We’ll turn to Scripture, if you please.
For every case it has a story,
From Genesis to Revelation
It swarms with stimulating Fable;
I will but hint, in illustration,
At that projected Tower of Babel
How did the good folks prosper, pray?
And why? The answer’s clear as day;
Their ranks divided, sort by sort,
Each one his private language spoke,
They drew not in the common yoke,
Grew “Personalities,” in short.
That’s half the twofold core that lies
Embedded in this shell of fable;—
That all strength, sever’d, is unstable,
And death-doom’d who the world defies.
When God desires a man to fall
He makes him an Original;
The Romans had it, ’faith, that God
Made the man mad; but mad is odd,
And oddness singleness, you know;
Therefore who fights without a friend
Must look to suffer in the end
The fate that overtook the man
Whom David posted in the van.
Brand.
Yes, very likely: but what though?
In Death I see not Overthrow.
And is your faith quite firm and fast
That had those builders spoken still
One speech, and acted with one will,
They would have piled the pinnacle
Of Babel up to heaven at last?
The Dean.
To heaven? No, that is where it lies:
No man gets quite to Paradise.
There, see, we have the second core,
Embedded in this shell of fable;—
That every building is unstable
Which to the starry heaven would soar!
Brand.
Yet, Jacob’s ladder reach’d that goal.
Thither by longing soars the Soul.
The Dean.
In that way! Why, God bless me, yes
Further discussion’s needless there.
Heaven is the wage of faithfulness,
Of course, of moral life and prayer.
But life and faith hold such dissent,
They only thrive, when kept apart;
Six days for toiling hands are meant.
The seventh, for stirring of the heart;
If all the week we preach’d and pray’d,
The Sabbath had in vain been made.
God’s incense, rightly to be used,
Must not be lavishly diffused;
Worship, like Art, was not created
To be in perfume dissipated.
The Ideal you may safely sound
From pulpit’s holy vantage-ground;
But with your surplice lay it by,
When you emerge beneath the sky.
All things, as I have said, are based
On laws that strictly must be traced,
And my sole end in speaking is
To give this fact due emphasis.
Brand.
One thing I very clearly see:
No State Soul-case is fit for me.
The Mayor.
A perfect fit, I will engage,
My friend,—but on a loftier stage:—
You must go up——
Brand.
Is that an end
I reach by plunging in the mire?
The Dean.
Whoso him humbleth shall go higher!
Hooks will not catch, unless they bend.
Brand.
Man can’t be used, unless he perish!
The Dean.
Good God! How can you think I cherish
Any such purpose?
Brand.
Ay, indeed,
That’s the condition! First to bleed!
Your bloodless spirit to put on
Man must be first a skeleton!
The Dean.
I would not put the lancet through
A very kitten—far less you;
But yet I thought no harm were done
In leaving just ajar the door
That opens, where I went before.
Brand.
And do you know what you have sought?
This, that upon the State’s cock-cry
I that Ideal should deny
For which I until now have fought?
The Dean.
Deny, friend? Who makes such request?
Duty is all I bid you follow:
I ask you quietly to swallow
That which your people can’t digest.
Keep it intact, if you’re disposed,—
But yet hermetically closed;
At home, in God’s name, soar and swell,
Not as a public spectacle;
Trust me, the will that won’t be bent
Brings its unfailing punishment.
Brand.
Ay, fear of torment, hope of gain,
Are on thy brow the brand of Cain,
Which cries that thou by worldly art
Hast slain the Abel in thy heart!
The Dean.
[To himself.]
Upon my word he calls me “Thou”;
That is too much!—
[Aloud.]
I will not now
Prolong our strife, but, to conclude,
Would have it clearly understood,
That if you’d prosper, you must weigh
What land you live in, and what day.
For no man wins the fight with fortune,
But in alliance with his time.
Which of the men who paint and rhyme
Dare fail when social claims importune?
Look at our soldiers! Why, the gleam
Of sabres is become a dream!
And wherefore? Since a law commands:
Postpone thy own need to the Land’s!
Let each his own excrescence pare,
Neither uplift him, nor protrude,
But vanish in the multitude.
“Humane the age is,” says the Mayor:
And if humanely it be met
Will bring you fame and fortune yet.
But all your angles must be rounded,
Your gnarls and bosses scraped and pounded!
You must grow sleek as others do,
All singularities eschew,
If you would labour without let.
Brand.
Away! away!
The Dean.
I quite agree.
Men of your stamp must finally
Be summon’d to a higher seat;
But, in the greater as the less,
Only the regimental dress
Will make your happiness complete.
The corporal, staff in hand, must knock
The sense of Time into his flock;
For, to our mind, the best of all
Commanders is the corporal.
Just as the corporal leads his men
Into the church, battalion-wise,
So must the priest lead his, again,
By parishes to Paradise.
It’s all so easy!—Faith, you say,
Broad-based upon authority;
Which, being upon learning stay’d,
May be implicitly obey’d:
While rules and ritual leave no doubt
How faith ought to be acted out.
Wherefore, my brother,—pluck up cheer!
Employ the time for meditation;
Reflect upon your situation,
And don’t give way to futile fear!
I’ll see just now if I can pitch
My music to a higher note:
Though with an unaccustom’d throat,
A sounding-board’s so seldom here.
Farewell, farewell! I mean to preach
Of human nature’s sinful prime,
God’s image nigh obliterated.—
But now I’m thinking it is time
The inner mortal should be baited.
[Goes.
Brand
[Stands for a moment as if petrified in thought.]
All I have offer’d for my call,
God’s as I vainly held it,—all;
And now one trumpet-blast reveal’d
Before what idols I had kneel’d.
Not yet! not yet! I’m not their slave!
Yon churchyard has had blood to sup,
Light, life I’ve laid in yonder grave;—
My soul shall not be yielded up!
O horrible to stand alone,—
Amid a glimmering world of dead;
Horrible to receive a stone,
Howe’er I hunger after bread.—
How true, how deadly true, his strain,—
But yet how vacant and how vain.
Dim broods God’s dove of piercing eyes;
Alas, to me she never flies.—
O, had I but one faithful breast—
To give me strength, to give me rest.
Einar, pale, emaciated, dressed in black, comes along the road and stops on perceiving Brand.
Brand
[Cries out.]
You, Einar?
Einar.
By that name I’m known.
Brand.
I was just thirsting for a breast
That was not made of wood or stone!
Come, to my heart of hearts be press’d!
Einar.
My haven’s found, I am at rest.
Brand.
You bear a grudge for the event
Of our last meeting——
Einar.
In no wise;
I blame you not. You were but sent
To be the passive instrument
Wherewith God oped my erring eyes.
Brand
[starts back.]
What tongue is this?
Einar.
The tongue of peace—
The tongue they learn, who, timely torn
From Sleep of Sin, awake new-born.
Brand.
Marvellous! I had heard of this,—
That you in quite another way
Were walking——
Einar.
I was led astray
By pride, in my own strength secure.
The idols the world holds divine,
The talent I was told was mine,
My singer’s voice, were all malign
Seductions unto Satan’s lure.
But God (I praise Him) for me wrought,
Left not His erring sheep unsought,
He help’d me in my hour of need.
Brand.
Help’d you—in what way?
Einar.
Yes, indeed:—
I fell.
Brand.
Fell? How?
Einar.
To dissipation.
With gambling tastes He me imbued—
Brand.
And that was God’s solicitude?
Einar.
’Twas the first step to my salvation.
On that my health He undermined,
The talent from my fingers fled,
My love of revelry declined,
Then, to the hospital consign’d,
Long I lay sick, and round my bed
Flames seem’d to glare, and on each wall
Myriads of giant flies to crawl;—
Came out, and soon acquaintance made
With certain sisters, three in all,
Soldiers in God’s cause arm’d and paid.
And they, together with a priest,
Me from the yoke of Earth released
Pluck’d me from Sin that held me fast,
And made me the Lord’s child at last.
Brand.
Indeed?
Einar.
Divergent paths we follow;
One seeks the height, and one the hollow.
Brand.
But after?
Einar.
True; I turn’d me thence,
To preach for Total Abstinence;
But since that Work for the unwary
Is strewn with perilous temptation,
I chose another occupation,
And travel now as Missionary——
Brand.
Where?
Einar.
To the Caudate-nigger State.
But now, I think, we’ll separate;
My time is precious——
Brand.
Won’t you stay?
You see here’s festival to-day.
Einar.
Thanks, no; the swarthy Heathens wait.—
Farewell.
[Going.
Brand.
And does no memory stir,
Bidding you ask—?
Einar.
Of what?
Brand.
Of her
Who would have grieved at the abyss,
That parts another day from this.
Einar.
I guess your meaning; you refer
To that young female, whose allure
Held me in pleasure’s net secure,
Till Faith’s ablution made me pure.
—Yes, and how is it then with her?
Brand.
Next year I won her for my wife.
Einar.
That’s unimportant, I prefer
To leave these trivial facts unknown
What’s weighty I desire alone.
Brand.
God richly bless’d our common life
With joy and sorrow: The child pined——
Einar.
That’s unimportant——
Brand.
So it is;
He was but given to be resign’d;
Our eyes one day shall look on his.
But afterwards she also died;
Their graves bloom yonder side by side.
Einar.
That’s unimportant——
Brand.
That likewise?
Einar.
Such things are trifles in my eyes,
How did she die, I want to know?
Brand.
With Hope that yet a Dawn shall glow,
With all her heart’s rich treasure whole.
With Will that never lost control,
With thanks for all that life had lent
And life had taken away, she went.
Einar.
Trumpery figments every one.
Say what the faith she died in was.
Brand.
Unshaken.
Einar.
In what?
Brand.
In God.
Einar.
Alas
Only in Him? She is undone.
Brand.
What say you?
Einar.
Damn’d, to my regret.
Brand.
[Quietly.]
Go, scoundrel!
Einar.
You shall feel as well
The clutches of the Lord of hell;—
For both, eternal torments wait.
Brand.
You, wretch, dare sentence to the Fire!
Yourself late wallow’d in the mire——
Einar.
On me no spot is to be seen;
The tub of Faith hath wash’d me clean;
Each splash has vanish’d, scraped and scored
On Holiness’s washing-board;
In Vigilance’s mangle I
Have wrung my Adam’s-vesture dry;
And shine like snowy surplice fair,
Soap-lather’d with the suds of Prayer!
Brand.
Hold!
Einar.
Hold, yourself! Here’s sulphur fume,
I see the glints of Satan’s horn!
I am Salvation’s good wheat-corn,
And you the shovell’d chaff of Doom.
[Goes.
Brand.
[Looks a while after him; all at once his eyes flash and he breaks out.]
That, that is the man I need!
Now all bonds are burst that bound me;
Now my flag shall wave around me
Though none follow where I lead!
The Mayor.
[Comes hastily in.]
Pray, dear Pastor, hasten, do!
The procession-people stand
Waiting only the command—
Brand.
Let them come then!
The Mayor.
Wanting you!
Pray reflect, and hasten in!
All impatient to begin,
See, the whole mass throng and strain;
Like a torrent after storm
On the Manse they surge and swarm,
Shouting for the Priest. Again,
Hark you, for “the Priest” they shout,
Pray make haste! I much misdoubt,
They may scarcely prove humane!
Brand.
Never will I hide my face
In the crowd that you command;
Let them seek me: here I stand.
The Mayor.
Are you sane?
Brand.
The path you pace
Is too narrow for my tread.
The Mayor.
And ’twill still grow less and less
As the people push ahead.
Zounds! They spurn at rod and check!
Parsons, Dean, and Corporation
Jostled to the brimming beck—!
Quickly, friend, make application
Of the scourge of your persuasion!
Ha, too late, they smash the line;
The procession is a wreck!
The multitude stream in, and break in wild disorder through the procession to the church.
Voices.
Priest!
Others.
[Pointing up to the Church steps, where Brand stands.]
See yonder!
Others again.
Give the sign!
The Dean.
[Jostled in the throng.]
Mayor, Mayor, control them, pray!
The Mayor.
All my words are thrown away!
The Schoolmaster.
[To Brand.]
Speak to them, and cast a gleam
On their spirits’ troubled stream!
What you summon’d us to see,
Was it Feast or foolery?
Brand.
O, there stirs a current, then,
In these stagnant waters.—Men,
At the crossway stand ye: choose!
Wholly ye must will to lose
The old vesture of your lust,
Utterly anew be clad,
Ere our Temple from the dust
Rises, as it shall and must!
Officials.
He is raving!
Clergy.
He is mad!
Brand.
Yes, I was so, when I thought
Ye in some sense also wrought
For the God who hateth Lies!
When I dream’d that I could lure
To your hearts His Spirit pure
By a feat of compromise.
Small the Church was; logic thence
Palter’d to the inference:
Twice the size—that cannot fail;
Fivefold,—that must needs prevail!
O, I saw not that the call
Was for Nothing or else All.
Down that easy way I reel’d,
But to-day the Lord has spoken,
In this very hour has peal’d
Overhead the awful blast
Of His Judgment-trump at last,—
And I listen’d, in the wind
Of my anguish, baffled, broken,—
Even as David, having sinn’d—;
Now all hesitation dies.
Men! The Devil is compromise!
The Multitude.
[With growing excitement.]
Down with them that quench’d our light
Sapp’d the marrow of our might!
Brand.
In your souls the demon dwells
That has bound you with his spells.
You have put your powers at mart,
You have cleft yourselves in twain;
Discord therefore numbs your brain,
Petrifies your hollow heart.
To the Church to-day what drew you?
But the show, the show—nought else!—
Roll of organ, clash of bells,—
And to feel the tingle through you
Of a speaking-furnace dart,
As it lisps and lilts and prattles,
As it rolls and roars and rattles,
By the strictest rules of Art!
The Dean.
[To himself.]
The Mayor’s chatter, he must mean.
The Mayor.
[Likewise.]
That’s the twaddle of the Dean!
Brand.
Nothing but the altar-glow
Of the Festival you know.
Get you home then to your sloth,
Get you home to toil and stress,
Soul as well as body clothe
In its common work-day dress,—
And the Bible slumber sound
Till the next Saint’s day comes round.
O, it was not to this end
That the Offering-cup I drain’d!
I the Greater Church ordain’d,
That its shadow might descend,
Not alone on Faith and Creed
But on everything in life
That by God’s leave lives indeed;—
On our daily strain and strife,
Midnight weeping, evening rest,
Youth’s impetuous delight,
All that harbours of good right,
Mean or precious, in the breast.
Yonder foss’s hidden thunder,
And the beck that sparkles under,
And the bellow of wild weather,
And the murmurous ocean’s tongue
Should have melted, soul-possess’d,
With the organ’s roll together,
And the gather’d people’s song.
Sweep this lying Labour hence!
Mighty only in pretence!
Stricken inly with decay
On its consecration day,—
Symbol of your impotence.
All the germs of soul you aim
By divided toil to maim;
For the week’s six days ye drag
To the deepest deep God’s flag,
For one only of the seven,
Let it flutter forth to heaven!
Voices from the Throng.
Lead us, lead us! Tempest lowers!
Lead us, and the day is ours!
The Dean.
Do not hear him! Nought he knows
Of the Faith a Christian owes!
Brand.
Ay, thou nam’st the flaw whereby
Both the throng, and thou and I,
Are beset! To souls alone
Faith is possible,—show me one!
Show me one that his best treasure
Has not inly flung to waste
In his fumbling, or his haste!
First, the reeling plunge for pleasure
To the tabor’s juggling strain
Till the zest of pleasure’s slain;
Then, soul-ruins, charr’d and stark,
Turn to dance before the Ark!
When the cup’s last liquor slips
Through the brain-worn cripple’s lips,
Ho! ’tis time to pray and mend,
Sure of pardon in the end.
First God’s image you outwear,
Live the beast within you bare,
Then to Mercy cry your needs,
Seeking God—as invalids!
So, His Kingdom’s overthrown.
What should He with souls effete
Grovelling at His mercy-seat?
Said He not that then alone
When your lifeblood pulses tense,
Through all veins of soul and sense,
Ye His kingdom shall inherit?
Children ye must be to share it;
No man hobbles through its gate.
Come then, ye whose cheek is rife
With the bloom of childhood yet
To the greater Church of Life!
The Mayor.
Open it then!
The Multitude.
[Crying out as in anguish.]
No! Not this!
Brand.
It has neither mark nor bound,
But its floor the green earth is,
Mead and mountain, sea and sound;
And the overarching sky
Is its only canopy.
There shall all thy work be wrought
As an anthem for God’s ear,
There thy week-day toil be sought
With no sacrilege to fear.
There the World be like a tree
Folded in its shielding bark;
Faith and Action blended be.
There shall daily labour fuse
With right Teaching and right Use,
Daily drudgery be one
With star-flights beyond the sun,
One with Yule-tide revelry
And the Dance before the Ark.
[A stormy agitation passes over the multitude; some retire; most press close about Brand.
A Thousand Voices.
Light is kindled in the dark;—
Life and serving God’s the same!
The Dean.
Woe on us! He wins them—hark!
Mayor, sexton, beadle, clerk!
The Mayor.
[Aside.]
Do not scream so, o’ God’s name!
With a bull who wants a bout?
Let him roar his ravin out!
Brand.
[To the multitude.]
Hence—away! God is afar!
Cannot be where such men are!
Fair His kingdom is and free!
[Locks the church-door and takes the keys in his hand.]
Here I will be priest no more.
I revoke my gift;—from me
No man shall receive the key
Of the yet unopen’d door!
[Throws the keys into the river.]
Wilt thou in, thou slave of clay,—
Through the crypt-hole worm thy way;
Lithe thy back is, creep and ply;
From that charnel let thy sigh
Roam the earth with venom’d breath,
Like the flagging gasp of death!
The Mayor.
[Aside with relief.]
Ha, his hope of knighthood’s dim!
The Dean.
[Similarly.]
Well; no bishopric for him!
Brand.
Come thou, young man—fresh and free—
Let a life-breeze lighten thee
From this dim vault’s clinging dust.
Conquer with me! For thou must
One day waken, one day rise,
Nobly break with compromise;—
Up, and fly the evil days,
Fly the maze of middle ways,
Strike the foeman full and fair,
Battle to the death declare!
The Mayor.
Hold! I’ll read the Riot Act!
Brand.
Read! With you I break my pact.
The Multitude.
Show the way, and we will follow!
Brand.
Over frozen height and hollow,
Over all the land we’ll fare,
Loose each soul-destroying snare
That this people holds in fee,
Lift and lighten, and set free,
Blot the vestige of the beast,
Each a Man and each a Priest,
Stamp anew the outworn brand,
Make a Temple of the land.
[The multitude, including the Sexton and Schoolmaster, throng around him. Brand is lifted on to their shoulders.
Many Voices.
’Tis a great Time! Visions fair
Dazzle through the noontide glare.
[The great mass of the assemblage streams away up the valley; a few remain.
The Dean.
[To the departing crowd.]
O, ye blinded ones, what would you?
Lo! behind his seeming sooth
Satan scheming to delude you!
The Mayor.
Ho there! Turn! Folks born to track
Safe home-waters still and smooth!
Stop!—ye go to ruin and wrack!—
(Dogs! And not a word comes back!)
The Dean.
Think of household and of home!
Voices from the Multitude.
To a greater Home we come!
The Mayor.
Think of meadow-plot and field;
Think of teeming stall and fold!
Voices.
Heavenly dews did manna yield
When the chosen starved of old!
The Dean.
Hark! your women cry in chorus!
Voices.
[In the distance.]
Ours they are not if they quail!
The Dean.
“Father’s gone!” your children wail.
The whole Multitude.
Be against us, or be for us!
The Dean.
[Gazes a while with folded hands after them; then dejectedly.]
By his faithless flock deserted
Stands the old shepherd, heavy-hearted,
Plunder’d to the very skin!
The Mayor.
[Shaking his fist at Brand.]
His the scandal; his the sin!
But we’ll shortly win the fight!
The Dean.
[Almost breaking down.]
Win? Of all our people cheated?—
The Mayor.
Ay, but we are not defeated,
If I know my lambs aright!
[Follows them.
The Dean.
Whither will he, in heaven’s name?
As I live, he’s after them!
Ha, my drooping courage rises,
I will also do and dare,—
Make assaults and capture prizes!
Bring my steed;—that is, prepare
A safe, steady mountain mare!
[They go.
By the highest farms in the valley. The land rises in the background, and passes into great barren mountains. Rain.
Brand, followed by the multitude—men, women, and children,—comes up the slopes.
Brand.
Look onward! Triumph flies ahead!
Your homes are hidden in the deep,
And over it, from steep to steep,
The storm his cloudy tent has spread.
Forget the pit of sloth ye trod,
Fly free aloft, ye sons of God!
A Man.
Wait; my old father is dead beaten.
Another.
Since yesterday I’ve nothing eaten——
Several.
Ay, still our hunger, slake our thirst!
Brand.
On, on, across the mountain first!
Schoolmaster.
Which way?
Brand.
All ways alike are right
That reach the goal. This way pursue——
A Man.
Nay, it is steep, and ’twill be night
Ere we are well upon the height.
The Sexton.
And that way lies the Ice-church too.
Brand.
The steep way is the short way still.
A Woman.
My foot is sore!
Another.
My child is ill!
A Third.
Where shall I get a drop to drink?
The Schoolmaster.
Priest, feed the people;—see, they sink.
Many Voices.
A miracle! A miracle!
Brand.
O, the slave-stamp has branded deep;
The toil you shirk, the hire you crave.
Up, and shake off this deadly sleep,—
Or else, get back into the grave!
The Schoolmaster.
Ay, he is right; first face the foe;
The hire comes afterwards, you know.
Brand.
It shall, as sure as God looks forth
Over the breadth and depth of Earth!
Many Voices.
He’s prophesying! He’s prophesying!
Several.
Hark, priest, will it be warm, this fight?
Others.
And bloody? And will it last till night?
The Schoolmaster.
[Aside.]
I trust there is no risk of dying?
A Man.
Priest, must we really face the fire?
Another.
What is my portion of the hire?
A Woman.
You’re sure I shall not lose my son?
The Sexton.
By Tuesday will the field be won?
Brand.
[Looking round in bewilderment on the throng.]
What would you know? What’s your demand?
The Sexton.
Firstly, how long we shall make war.
Then, of our total loss therein.
And finally,—how much we win?
Brand.
This ye demand?
The Sexton.
Yes, ’faith; before
We did not rightly understand.
Brand.
[Deeply moved.]
Then ye shall understand it now!
The Multitude.
[Thronging closer.]
Speak! Speak!
Brand.
How long the war will last?
As long as life, till ye have cast
All ye possess before the Lord,
And slain the Spirit of Accord;
Until your stiff will bend and bow,
And every coward scruple fall
Before the bidding: Nought or All!
What you will lose? Your gods abhorr’d,
Your feasts to Mammon and the Lord,
The glittering bonds ye do not loathe,
And all the pillows of your sloth!
What you will gain? A will that’s whole,—
A soaring faith, a single soul,
The willingness to lose, that gave
Itself rejoicing to the grave;—
A crown of thorns on every brow;—
That is the wage you’re earning now!
The Multitude.
[With a furious cry.]
Betray’d! Betray’d! Deceived! Misled!
Brand.
I say but what I always said!
Several.
You promised us the victor’s prize;
And now it turns to sacrifice!
Brand.
I promised victory,—and to you
Victory shall indeed be due.
But every man who fights in front
Must perish in the battle’s brunt;
If that he dares not, let him lay
His arms down ere the battle-day
The flag’s predestined to surrender
That has a timorous defender;
And he that shudders at the cost,
Ere he is wounded, he is lost.
The Multitude.
He insolently bids us die
To serve unborn posterity!
Brand.
Through thorny steeps of sacrifice,
The way unto our Canaan lies.
Triumph through death! I call you all,
As Champions of God to fall!
The Sexton.
Well, we are in a pretty plight!
No mercy to expect below——
The Schoolmaster.
Nay, we have bade the dale good-night.
The Sexton.
And forward, forward, who will go?
Some.
To death with him!
The Schoolmaster.
’Twere pity, so!
We want a general, you know!
Women.
[Pointing in terror downwards.]
The Dean! The Dean!
The Schoolmaster.
[To the throng.]
Nay, never fear!
The Dean.
[Comes in, followed by some of those who remained behind.]
O my beloved! O my sheep!
To the old shepherd’s voice give ear!
The Schoolmaster.
[To the throng.]
A home no more we have below;
Better we follow up the steep!
The Dean.
That ye could grieve my heart so sore,
And pierce me with a wound so deep!
Brand.
Thou wast their soul’s scourge evermore!
The Dean.
Don’t heed him! He is stuffing you
With idle promises.
Several.
That’s true!
The Dean.
But we are gracious, and forgive
Where we true penitence perceive.
O, turn your eyes into your hearts
And mark the diabolic arts
With which he won you to his aid!
The Multitude.
Ay, sure enough; we were betray’d!
The Dean.
And then consider; what can ye,
A knot of scatter’d dalesmen, do?
Are high heroic deeds for you?
Can ye give bondsmen liberty?
You have your daily task; pursue it!
Whatever is beyond, eschew it!
What can your prowess brave or baulk?
Ye have your humble homes to keep.
What would you between eagle and hawk?
What would you between wolf and bear?
Ye fall but to the strongest’s share.
O my beloved! O my sheep!
The Multitude.
Ay, woe on us,—his words are true!
The Sexton.
And yet, when from the dale we drew,
Upon ourselves we locked the door;
We have no home there, as before.
The Schoolmaster.
No, he has open’d all our eyes,
Laid bare sins, sicknesses, and lies;
The sleepy people sleeps no more;
And deadly to our waking seems
The life that satisfied our dreams.
The Dean.
Ah, trust me, that will soon pass over.
All will return to the old state,
If you will just be still and wait.
These folks, I’ll wage, will soon recover
The wonted calm they have foregone.
Brand.
Choose, men and women!
Some.
Home!
Others.
Too late!
Too late! Along the height press on!
The Mayor.
[Enters in haste.]
O lucky chance I caught you up.
Women.
Ah, dear kind master, don’t be stern.
The Mayor.
Not now; provided you return!
A better day, a brighter season
Dawns for us! If you’ll hark to reason,
You’ll all be rich men ere you sup!
Several.
How so?
The Mayor.
There is a herring-horde
By millions swimming in the fjord!
The Multitude.
What does he say?
The Mayor.
Set all to rights!
Fly from these stormy uplands bare.
Till now the herrings swam elsewhere;
Now, friends, at last, our barren bights
Good fortune tardily requites.
Brand.
Between God’s summons choose, and his!
The Mayor.
Consult your own shrewd faculties!
The Dean.
A Miracle Divine is here!
A Providential Token clear!
How oft I dreamt that this befell!
I took it for a nightmare’s spell;
And now its meaning is revealed——
Brand.
Yourselves you ruin, if you yield!
Many.
A herring-horde!
The Mayor.
By millions told!
The Dean.
For wife and children, bread and gold!
The Mayor.
You see, then, this is not an hour
To waste your forces in a fray,
And against energies whose power
Strikes in the very Dean dismay.
Now ye have other ends in view
Than idly pining for the sky.
Heaven, trust me, can your arms defy,
And God’s not easy to subdue.
Don’t mix yourselves in others’ strife,
But gather in the proffer’d fruit,
That is a practical pursuit,
That does not call for blood and knife;
That asks no sacrifice of life,
And gives you its good things to boot!
Brand.
Just sacrifice is His demand,—
Flame-writ in Heaven by His hand!
The Dean.
Ah, if you feel a call that way,
Just come to me next Sunday, say,
And on my word I’ll——
The Mayor.
[Interrupting.]
Yes, yes, yes!
The Sexton.
[Aside to the Dean.]
Shall I be suffer’d keep my place?
The Schoolmaster.
[Similarly.]
Shall I be forced to leave my school?
The Dean.
[Aside to them.]
If these stiff necks you overrule
We will deal mildly with your case.
The Mayor.
Away—away with you! time flies!
The Sexton.
To boat, to boat, whoever’s wise!
Some.
Ay, but the priest?——
The Sexton.
O, leave the fool!
The Schoolmaster.
Here speaks the Lord as clearly, look,
As in an open printed book!
The Mayor.
Leave him; that’s law and justice too;
With babbling tales he flouted you.
Several.
He lied to us!
The Dean.
His creed’s accursed;
And think, he never got a First!
Some.
Never got what?
The Mayor.
A grain of sense.
The Sexton.
Nay, of that we have evidence!
The Dean.
Vainly his mother’s dying breath
For the last sacrament made suit!
The Mayor.
His child he almost did to death!
The Sexton.
His wife as well!
Women.
O heartless brute!
The Dean.
Bad spouse, bad father, and bad son,—
Worse Christian surely there is none!
Many Voices.
Our ancient Church he overthrew!
Others.
And shot the bolt upon the new!
Others again.
He wreck’d us in a roaring stream!
The Mayor.
He pilfer’d my Asylum-scheme!
Brand.
On every branded brow I see
This generation’s destiny.
The Whole Throng.
[Roaring.]
Hoo, never heed him! Stone and knife!
Send the fiend flying for his life!
[Brand is driven with stones out into the wild. His pursuers then return.
The Dean.
O my beloved! O my sheep!
Back to your homes and hearths once more;
Your eyes in true repentance steep,
And see what blessings are in store.
God in His mercy is so good,
He asketh not the guiltless blood;—
And our authorities as well
Are singularly placable;
Mayor, magistrate, and sheriff too,
Will not be over hard on you;
And for myself, that large humanity
That marks our modern Christianity
Is mine; your rulers will descend
And dwell with you, as friend with friend.
The Mayor.
But should abuses be detected,
They must, past question, be corrected.
When we’ve a little time to move,
I’ll have appointed a commission,
To seek how best we may improve
Your intellectual condition.
Some clergymen it should include
Such as the Dean and I think good,—
And furthermore, if you prefer,
The Sexton and the Schoolmaster,
With others of a humbler sort,—
You’ll all be satisfied, in short.
The Dean.
Yes, we’ll relieve your burdens all,
As ye this day have brought relief
To your old shepherd in his grief.
Let each find comfort in the thought
That here a miracle was wrought.
Farewell! Good fortune to your haul!
The Sexton.
Ah, there’s true charity, if you will!
The Schoolmaster.
So meek and unassuming still.
Women.
So kindly, and so nice!
Other Women.
And then
Such condescending gentlemen!
The Sexton.
They don’t demand the martyr’s throe.
The Schoolmaster.
The Lord’s Prayer is not all they know.
[The throng passes on downwards.
The Dean.
[To the Mayor.]
Ah, that has taken. It is plain
A great revulsion is in train;
For, by God’s blessed benefaction,
There is a thing men call Reaction.
The Mayor.
’Twas my achievement, to control
The infant riot ere it grew.
The Dean.
Ah, to the miracle most was due.
The Mayor.
What miracle?
The Dean.
The herring-shoal.
The Mayor.
[Whistling.]
That was, I need not say, a lie.
The Dean.
Really, a lie?
The Mayor.
I just let loose
At the first fancy that came by;
Is it a sin such means to use
In such a cause?
The Dean.
God bless me, no
Need is an adequate excuse.
The Mayor.
And then, to-morrow, when the glow
Of agitation’s dead, or dying,
What will it matter if the end
Was gain’d by telling truth, or lying?
The Dean.
I am no formalist, my friend.
[Looks up into the wild.]
But is’t not Brand that yonder drags
His slow course upward?
The Mayor.
Ay, you’re right!
A lonely warrior off to fight!
The Dean.
Nay, there’s another too—that lags
Far in the rear!
The Mayor.
Why;—that is Gerd;
The herdsman’s worthy of the herd.
The Dean.
[Facetiously.]
When he has still’d his losing whim,
This is the epitaph for him:
“Here lieth Brand; his tale’s a sad one;
One soul he saved,—and that a mad one!”
The Mayor.
[With his finger to his nose.]
But, on reflection, I have some
Misgivings that the folk’s decree
A little lack’d humanity.
The Dean.
[Shrugging his shoulders.]
Vox populi vox Dei. Come!
[They go.
High up among the mountains. A storm is rising and chasing the clouds heavily over the snow-slopes; black peaks and summits appear here and there, and are veiled again by the mist.
Brand comes, bleeding and broken, up the mountain.
Brand.
[Stops and looks backward.]
From the vale they follow’d thronging,
Never one has reached the height.
Through all bosoms thrill’d the longing
For a greater Day’s dawn-light;
Through all souls subduing strode
The alarum-call of God.
But the sacrifice they dread!
Will, the weakling, hides his head;—
One man died for them of yore,—
Cowardice is crime no more!
[Sinks down on a stone, and looks with
shrinking gaze around.]
Oft I shudder’d at their doom;
And I walk’d, with horror quivering,
As a little child walks shivering
Amid shrieking shapes that loom
In a dim and haunted room.
But I check’d my bosom’s quaking,
And bethought me, and consoled it:
Out of doors the day is breaking,
Not of night it is, this gloom,
But the shutters barr’d enfold it;
And I thought, the day inwelling,
Rich with summer’s golden bloom,
Shall anon prevail, expelling
All the darkness that is dwelling
In the dim and haunted room.
O how bitter my dismay!
Pitchy darkness on me broke,—
And, without, a nerveless folk
Sat forlorn by fjord and bay,
Dim traditions treasuring
While their sotted souls decay.
Even as, year by year, the king
Treasured up his Snefrid dead,
Loosed the linen shroud o’erspread
By her mute heart listening low,
Still upon hope’s fragments fed,
Thinking, “Now the roses red
In her pallid ashes blow!”
None, like him, arose, and gave
The grave’s debt unto the grave;
None among them wise to know:
“Dreaming cannot kindle dust,
Down into the earth it must,
Dust is only made to breed
Nurture for the new-sown seed.”
Night, black night,—and night again
Over children, women, men!
O could I with levin-flame
Save them from the straw-death’s shame!
[Leaps up.]
Gloomy visions I see sweep
Like the Wild Hunt through the night.
Lo, the Time is Tempest-dight,
Calls for heroes, death to dare,
Calls for naked steel to leap,
And for scabbards to hang bare;—
Kinsfolk, lo, to battle riding,
While their gentle brothers, hiding,
From the hat of darkness peep.
And yet more I do divine—
All the horror of their shame,—
Men that shriek and wives that whine,
Deaf to every cry and claim,
See them on their brows imprinting
“Poor folks sea-bound” for their name,
“Humble farthings of God’s minting!”
Pale they listen to the fray,—
Willing-weakness for their shield.—
Rainbow o’er the mead of May,
Flag, where fliest thou now afield?
Where’s that tricolor to-day,—
Which the wind of myriad song,
Beat and bellied from the mast
Till a zealot king at last
Split it into teeth and tongue?
But you used the tongue to brag;
And what boots the toothed flag
If the dragon dares not bite?
Would the folk had spared those cheers,
And the zealot king those shears!
Four-square flag of peace suffices,
When a stranded craft capsizes,
To give warning of her plight!
Direr visions, worse foreboding,
Glare upon me through the gloom!
Britain’s smoke-cloud sinks corroding
On the land in noisome fume;
Smirches all its tender bloom,
All its gracious verdure dashes,
Sweeping low with breath of bane,
Stealing sunlight from the plain,
Showering down like rain of ashes
On the city of God’s doom.—
Fouler featured men are grown;—
Dropping water’s humming drone
Echoes through the mine’s recesses:
Bustling, smug, a pigmy pack
Plucks its prey from ore’s embraces,
Walks with crooked soul and back,
Glares like dwarfs with greedy eyes
For the golden glittering lies;
Speechless souls with lips unsmiling,
Hearts that fall of brothers rends not,
Nor their own to fury frets,
Hammer-wielding, coining, filing;
Light’s last gleam forlornly flies;
For this bastard folk forgets
That the need of willing ends not
When the power of willing dies!
Direr visions, direr doom,
Glare upon me through the gloom.
Craft, the wolf, with howl and yell,
Bays at Wisdom, sun of earth;
Cries of ruin ring to North,
Call to arms by fjord and fell;
And the pigmy, quaking, grim,
Hisses: “What is that to him?”
Let the other nations glow,
Let the mighty meet the foe,
We can ill afford to bleed,—
We are weak, may fairly plead
From a giants’ war exemption,
Need not offer All as meed
For our fraction of Redemption.
Not for us the cup He drank,
Not for us the thorny wreath
In His temples drove its teeth,
Not for us the spear-shaft sank
In the Side whose life was still.
Not for us the burning thrill
Of the nails that clove and tore.
We, the weak, the least accounted,
Battle-summons may ignore!
Not for us the Cross He mounted!
Just the stirrup-slash’s stain,
Just the gash the cobbler scored
In the shoulder of the Lord,
Is our portion of His pain!
[Throws himself down in the snow and covers his face; presently he looks up.]
Was I dreaming! Dream I still?
Mist-enshrouded is the hill.
Were those visions but the vain
Phantoms of a fever’d brain?
Is the image clean outworn
Whereunto Man’s soul was born?
Is the Maker’s spirit fled——
[Listening.]
Ha, what song breaks overhead?
Invisible Choir.
[In the sough of the storm.]
Never shalt thou win His spirit;
Thou in mortal flesh wast born:
Spurn his bidding or revere it;
Equally thou art forlorn.
Brand.
[Repeats the words, and says softly.]
Woe’s me, woe; I well may fear it!
Stood He not, and saw me pray,
Sternly smote my prayer away?
All I loved He has demanded,
All the ways of light seal’d fast,
Made me battle single-handed,
And be overthrown at last!
The Choir.
[Louder, above him.]
Worm, thou mayst not win His spirit,—
For Death’s cup thou hast consumed;
Fear His Will, or do not fear it,
Equally thy work is doom’d.
Brand.
[Softly.]
Agnes, Alf, the gladsome life
When unrest and pain I knew not—
I exchanged for tears and strife,
In my own heart plunged the knife,—
But the fiend of evil slew not.
The Choir.
[Tender and alluring.]
Dreamer, thine is not His spirit,
Nought to Him thy gifts are worth;
Heaven thou never shalt inherit,
Earth-born creature, live for Earth!
Brand.
[Breaks into soft weeping.]
Alf and Agnes, come unto me!
Lone I sit upon this peak!
Keen the north wind pierces through me,
Phantoms seize me, chill ones, meek——!
He looks up; a glimmering space opens and clears in the mist; the Apparition of a Woman stands in it, brightly clad, with a cloak over its shoulders. It is Agnes.
The Phantom.
[Smiles, and spreads its arms towards him.]
See, again, Brand, I have found thee!
Brand.
[Starting up in bewilderment.]
Agnes! Agnes! What is this?
The Phantom.
Dearest, it is thy release
From the fever’d dreams that bound thee!
Brand.
Agnes! Agnes!
[He is hurrying towards her.
The Phantom.
[Screams.]
Cross not! Deep
Rolls between us the abyss,
Where the mountain-torrents sweep!
[Tenderly.]
Thou dost dream not, neither sleep,
Nor with phantoms wagest war;
Dear, by sickness thou wast wasted,—
Frenzy’s bitter cup hast tasted,
Dreamt, thy wife had fled afar.
Brand.
Oh, thou livest! Blessed be——!
The Phantom.
[Hastily.]
Peace! Of that no murmur now!
Follow fast, the moments press.
Brand.
Oh, but Alf!
The Phantom.
Alive, no less.
Brand.
Lives!
The Phantom.
And with unfaded brow!
All thy sorrows did but seem!
All thy battles were a dream,
Alf is with thy mother; she
Vigorous yet, and stalwart he;
Still the old Church stands entire;
Pluck it down if thou desire;—
And the dalesmen still drudge on
As they did in good days gone.
Brand.
“Good!”
The Phantom.
For days of peace they were.
Brand.
“Peace?”
The Phantom.
O haste thee, Brand, O fly!
Brand.
Woe, I dream!
The Phantom.
Thy dream’s gone by,
But thou needest sheltering care——
Brand.
I am strong.
The Phantom.
Ah me, not yet;
Still the fell dream lies in wait.
Once again from wife and child
It shall sweep thee, cloud-beguiled,
Once again thy soul obscure,—
If thou wilt not seek the cure.
Brand.
Oh, vouchsafe it!
The Phantom.
Thou availest,
Thou alone, that cure to reach.
Brand.
Name it then!
The Phantom.
The aged leech,
Who has conn’d so many a page,—
The unfathomably sage,
He discovered where thou ailest.
All the phantoms of thy strife,
Three words conjured them to life.
Them thou boldly must recall,
From thy memory efface them,
From thy conscience blot, erase them;
At their bidding, lo, thou burnest
In this maddening blast of bane;—
O forget them, if thou yearnest
To make white thy soul again!
Brand.
Say, what are they?
The Phantom.
Nought or all.
Brand.
[Reeling back.]
Is it so?
The Phantom.
So sure as I
Am alive, and thou wilt die.
Brand.
Woe on us! The sword once more
Swings above us, as before!
The Phantom.
Brand, be kind; my breast is warm;
Clasp me close in thy strong arm;—
Let us fly where summer’s sun——
Brand.
Never more that plague shall bind me.
The Phantom.
Ah, Brand, all is not yet won.
Brand.
[Shaking his head.]
I have flung that dream behind me.
Me no more that phantom-strife’s
Horror thrills;—but Life’s! but Life’s!
The Phantom.
Life’s?
Brand.
Come, Agnes, where I lead!
The Phantom.
Brand, what is it thou wilt do?
Brand.
What I must: the dream make true,—
Live the vision into deed.
The Phantom.
Ha, thou canst not! Think but whither
That road led thee.
Brand.
Thither! Thither!
The Phantom.
What thou dared’st, dream-beguiled,
Wilt thou, whole and waking, dare?
Brand.
Whole and waking.
The Phantom.
Lose the child?
Brand.
Lose it.
The Phantom.
Brand!
Brand.
I must.
The Phantom.
And tear
Me all bleeding from the snare?
With the rods of sacrifice
Scourge me to the death?
Brand.
I must.
The Phantom.
Quench the glow of sunny skies,
Turn all bright things into dust,
Never pluck life’s fruitage fair,
Never be upborne by song?
Ah, so many memories throng!
Brand.
Nought avails. Lose not thy prayer.
The Phantom.
Heed’st thou not thy martyr’s meed?
Baffled where thou sought’st to waken,
Stoned by all, by all forsaken?
Brand.
Not for recompense I bleed;
Not for trophies do I fight.
The Phantom.
For a race that walks entomb’d.
Brand.
One to many can give light.
The Phantom.
All their generation’s doom’d.
Brand.
Much availeth one will’s might.
The Phantom.
“One” with fiery sword of yore
Man of Paradise bereft!
At the gate a gulf he cleft;—
Over that thou mayst not soar!
Brand.
But the path of yearning’s left.
The Phantom.
[Vanishes in a thunder-clap; the mist fills the place where it stood; and a piercing scream is heard, as of one flying.]
Die! Earth cannot use thee more!
Brand.
[Stands a moment in bewilderment.]
Out into the mist it leapt,—
Plumy wings of falcon beating,
Down along the moorland swept.
For a finger it was treating,
That the hand might be its prize—!
Ha, the Spirit of Compromise!
Gerd.
[Comes with a rifle.]
Hast thou seen the falcon?
Brand.
Yea;
This time I have seen him.
Gerd.
Say,
Quick, which way thou saw’st him fly;
We will chase him, thou and I.
Brand.
Steel and bullet he defies;
Oftentimes you think he flies
Stricken by the mortal lead,—
But draw near to strike him dead,
Up he starts again, secure,
With the old cajoling lure.
Gerd.
See, the hunter’s gun I’ve got,
Steel and silver is the shot;
’Trow, my wits are less astray
Than they reckon!
Brand.
Have thy way.
[Going.
Gerd.
Priest, thou walkest lame afoot.
Brand.
I was hunted.
Gerd.
Red thy brow
As the blood of thy heart’s root!
Brand.
I was beaten.
Gerd.
Musical
Was thy voice of old, that now
Rattles like the leaves of Fall.
Brand.
I was——
Gerd.
What?
Brand.
By one and all
Spurn’d.
Gerd.
[Looking at him with great eyes.]
Aha,—I know thee now!
For the priest I took thee;—pest
Take the priest and all the rest!
The One, greatest Man art thou!
Brand.
So I madly dared to trust.
Gerd.
Let me look upon thy hands!
Brand.
On my hands?
Gerd.
They’re pierced and torn!
In thy hair the blood-dew stands,
Riven by the fanged thorn
In thy forehead fiercely thrust,
Thou the crucifix didst span!
In my childhood Father told me
’Twas another, long ago,
Far away, that suffer’d so;—
Now I see he only fool’d me;—
Thou art the Redeeming man!
Brand.
Get thee hence!
Gerd.
Shall I not fall
Low before thy feet and pray?
Brand.
Hence!
Gerd.
Thou gavest the blood away
That hath might to save us all!
Brand.
Oh, no saving plank I see,
In my own soul’s agony!
Gerd.
Take the rifle. Shoot them dead—
Brand.
[Shaking his head.]
Man must struggle till he falls.
Gerd.
Oh, not thou; thou art the head!
By the nails thy hands were gored;—
Thou art chosen; thou art Lord.
Brand.
I’m the meanest worm that crawls.
Gerd.
[Looks up; the clouds are lifting.]
Know’st thou where thou stand’st?
Brand.
[Gazing before him.]
Below
The first step of the ascent;
It is far, and I am faint.
Gerd.
[More fiercely.]
Say! Where art thou, dost thou know?
Brand.
Yes, now falls the misty shroud.
Gerd.
Yes, it falls: without a cloud
Svartetind impales the blue!
Brand.
[Looking up.]
Svartetind? The ice-church?
Gerd.
Yea!
Here thou camest churchward, too!
Brand.
Hence! a thousand miles away!—
How I long to fly afar,
Where the sunlight and the balm
And the holy hush of calm,
And Life’s summer-kingdoms are!
[Bursts into tears.]
Jesus, I have cried and pleaded,—
From thy bosom still outcast;
Thou hast pass’d me by unheeded
As a well-worn word is passed;
Of salvation’s vesture, stain’d
With the wine of tears unfeign’d,
Let me clasp one fold at last!
Gerd.
[Pale.]
What is this? Then weepest, thou,
Hot tears, till thy cheek is steaming,—
And the glacier’s death-shroud streaming
Silently from crag and crest,—
And my memory’s frozen tides
Melt to weeping in my breast,—
And the snowy surplice glides
Down the Ice-priest’s giant sides—
[Trembling.]
Man, why wept’st thou not till now?
Brand.
[Radiant, clear, and with an air of renewed youth.]
Through the Law an ice-track led,—
Then broke summer overhead!
Till to-day I strove alone
To be God’s pure tablet-stone;—
From to-day my life shall stream
Lambent, glowing, as a dream.
The ice-fetters break away,
I can weep,—and kneel,—and pray!
[Sinks upon his knees.
Gerd.
[Looks askance upwards, and then, softly and timidly.]
There he sits, the ugly sprite!
’Tis his shadow sweeps the land,
Where he flogs the mountain height
With his flapping vans in flight.
Now Redemption is at hand——
If the silver will but bite!
[Puts the rifle to her cheek and shoots. A hollow roar, as of distant thunder, is heard far up the precipice.
Brand.
[Starting up.]
Ha, what dost thou?
Gerd.
Down he slides!
I have hit him;—down he swings,—
Shrieking, till the echo rings;
Plumes in thousand from his sides
Flutter down the beetling brae;—
See how large he looms, how white—!
Ha, he’s rolling down this way!
Brand.
[Sinking down.]
Blood of children must be spilt
To atone the parent’s guilt!
Gerd.
Tenfold vaster at his fall
Grew the tent of Heaven above!
See him tumble; see him sprawl—!
Ah, I will not shudder more;
He is white, see, as a dove—!
[Shrieks in terror.]
Hu, the horrible thunder-roar!
[Throws herself down in the snow.
Brand.
[Crouches under the descending avalanche, and, looking up, speaks.]
God, I plunge into death’s night,—
Shall they wholly miss thy Light
Who unto man’s utmost might
Will’d—?
[The avalanche buries him; the whole valley is swallowed up.
A Voice.
[Calls through the crashing thunder.]
He is the God of Love.
THE END.