Brand

Three years later. A little garden by the Parsonage. A great precipice above, a stone wall round. The fjord, narrow and pent in, appears in the background. The house-door opens upon the garden. Afternoon.

Brand is standing on the steps outside the house. Agnes is sitting on the step at his feet.

Agnes.

My dearest husband, still your eye

Over the fjord roves anxiously—

Brand.

I wait a summons.

Agnes.

With brows bent!

Brand.

My Mother’s summons. This three years

I’ve waited between hopes and fears

The summons that was never sent.

To-day ’twas told me, past a doubt,

That her life’s span is almost out.

Agnes.

[Softly and tenderly.]

Brand, without summons you should go?

Brand.

[Shakes his head.]

Till she of her offence repent

I have no comfort to bestow.

Agnes.

She is your mother.

Brand.

It were sin

To worship idols in my kin.

Agnes.

Brand, you are stern!

Brand.

To you?

Agnes.

Oh no

Brand.

I warn’d you that the way was steep.

Agnes.

[Smiling.]

It was not true; you did not keep

Your word.

Brand.

Yes, here the ice-wind rives;

Your cheek has lost its youthful glow,

Your tender heart is touch’d with snow.

Our home is built where nothing thrives,

Amid a barren waste of stone.

Agnes.

It lies the safer, then! So prone

Beetles yon jutting mountain-wall,

That, when the leafy spring is near,

The brimming avalanche vaults sheer

Over our heads, and we lie clear

As in the hollow of a fall.

Brand.

The sun we never see at all.

Agnes.

Oh, yet he dances warm and bright

Atop yon mountain that we face.

Brand.

For three weeks, true,—at summer’s height,—

But never struggles to its base!

Agnes.

[Looks fixedly at him, rises and says:]

Brand, there’s one thought at which you shrink.

Brand.

No, you!

Agnes.

No, you!

Brand.

Within you bear

A secret terror.

Agnes.

Which you share!

Brand.

You reel as from a dizzy brink!

Out with it! speak it out!

Agnes.

’Tis true

I’ve trembled, whiles——

[Hesitates

Brand.

Trembled! At what!

Agnes.

For Alf.

Brand.

For Alf?

Agnes.

And so have you!

Brand.

At times. But no, God takes him not!

God’s merciful! My child shall grow

To be a strong man yet, I know.

Where is he now?

Agnes.

He’s sleeping.

Brand.

[Looks in through the door.]

See;

Of pain and grief he dreams not, he;

The little hand is plump and round——

Agnes.

Yet pale.

Brand.

But that will pass.

Agnes.

How deep,

Restful and quickening is his sleep.

Brand.

God bless thee; in thy sleep grow sound!

[Shuts the door.]

To all my labours you and he

Have brought light and tranquillity;

Each irksome task, each mournful care,

’Twas easy, in your midst, to bear;

You near, I never felt dismay,

Grew braver by his baby-play.

A martyrdom I held my Call,

But something has transform’d it all,—

Success still follows my footfall.

Agnes.

Yes, Brand; but you deserve success.

Oh, you have battled, in storm and stress;—

Toil’d on through woe and weariness;—

But tears of blood you wept, apart——

Brand.

And yet it seem’d so light a thing;

With you, love stole upon my heart

Like a glad sunny day in Spring.

In me Love never had been lit;

No parents’ hand had kindled it,

Rather they quench’d the fitful flashes

That gleam’d at moments in the ashes.

It was as though the tender Soul

That mute and darkling in me slept,

Had, closely garner’d, all been kept

To be my sweet Wife’s aureole.

Agnes.

Not mine alone: but whosoe’er

In our great Household has a share,

Each sorrowing son, each needy brother,

Each weeping child, each mourning mother,

Of quickening nurture have their part,

At the rich banquet of thy heart.

Brand.

Only through you two. By your hand

That heavenly bridge of love was spann’d;

No single soul can all contain

Except it first have yearn’d for one.

I had to long and yearn in vain,

So my heart harden’d into stone.

Agnes.

And yet—your love is merciless;

You chasten whom you would caress.

Brand.

You, Agnes?

Agnes.

Me? O nay, dear, nay!

On me a lightsome load you lay.

But many falter at the call

To offer Nothing or else all.

Brand.

What the world calls by that name “Love,”

I know not and I reck not of.

God’s love I recognise alone,

Which melts not at the piteous plaint,

Which is not moved by dying groan,

And its caress is chastisement.

What answer’d through the olive-trees

God, when the Son in anguish lay,

Praying, “O take this cup away!”

Did He then take it? Nay, child, nay:

He made him drink it to the lees.

Agnes.

By such a measure meted, all

The souls of earth are forfeited.

Brand.

None knows on whom the doom shall fall;

But God in flaming speech hath said:

“Be faithful through the hour of strife:

Haggling wins not the crown of life!”

Anguish’d repentance scales not heaven,

The martyr’s doom you must fulfil.

That you lack’d strength may be forgiven,—

But never that you wanted will.

Agnes.

Yes, it shall be as you have said;

O lift me to those heights you tread;

To your high heaven lead me forth,

My spirit is strong, my flesh is frail;

Oft, anguish-struck, I faint, I fail,—

My clogg’d foot drags upon the earth.

Brand.

See, child; of all men God makes one

Demand: No coward compromise!

Whose work’s half done or falsely done,

Condemn’d with God his whole word lies.

We must give sanction to this teaching

By living it and not by preaching.

Agnes.

[Throws herself on his neck.]

Lead where you will; I follow you!

Brand.

No precipice is too steep for two.

Enter the Doctor; he has come down the road, and stops outside the garden fence.

The Doctor.

Ha! loving doves at their caresses

In these dark craggy wildernesses?

Agnes.

My dear old Doctor, here at last!

Come in, come in!

[Runs down and opens the garden gate.

The Doctor.

Ho, not so fast!

We’ve first to settle an old score.—

What! Tie yourself to this wild moor,

Where piercing winds of winter tear

Like ice, soul, body to the core——

Brand.

Not soul.

The Doctor.

Not? Well, I must admit,

That seems about the truth of it.

Your hasty compact has an air

Of standing firm, unmoved, erect,

Though otherwise, one might expect,

By ancient usage, soon to fade

That which so suddenly was made.

Agnes.

A sunbeam’s kiss, a bell’s note, may

Awaken for a summer’s day.

The Doctor.

A patient waits for me. Farewell.

Brand.

My mother?

The Doctor.

Yes. You also go?

Brand.

Not now.

The Doctor.

Have been, I daresay?

Brand.

No.

The Doctor.

Priest, you are hard. Through mist and snow

I’ve trudged across the desolate fell,

Well knowing that she is of those

Who pay like paupers.

Brand.

May God bless

Your skill and your unweariedness!

Ease, if you can, her bitter throes.

The Doctor.

Bless my goodwill! I tarried not

A moment when I heard her state.

Brand.

You she has summon’d: I’m forgot,—

And sick at heart, I wait, I wait.

The Doctor.

Come without summons!

Brand.

Till she calls,

I have no place within those walls.

The Doctor.

[To Agnes.]

You hapless blossom, laid within

The pitiless grasp of such a lord!

Brand.

I am not pitiless.

Agnes.

He had pour’d

His blood, to wash her soul from sin.

Brand.

Unask’d, upon myself I took

The clearance of her debit-book.

The Doctor.

Clear off your own!

Brand.

One man may get

Hundreds acquitted, in God’s eyes.

The Doctor.

Ay; not a Beggar though, who lies

Himself o’er head and ears in debt.

Brand.

Beggar or rich,—with all my soul

I will;—and that one thing’s the whole

The Doctor.

Yes, in your ledger, truly, Will

Has enough entries and to spare:

But, priest, your Love-account is still

A virgin-chapter, blank and bare.

[Goes.

Brand.

[Follows him awhile with his eyes.]

Never did word so sorely prove

The smirch of lies, as this word Love:

With devilish craft, where will is frail,

Men lay Love over, as a veil,

And cunningly conceal thereby

That all their life is coquetry.

Whose path’s the steep and perilous slope,

Let him but love,—and he may shirk it;

If he prefer Sin’s easy circuit,

Let him but love,—he still may hope;

If God he seeks, but fears the fray,

Let him but love,—’tis straight his prey;

If with wide-open eyes he err,

Let him but love,—there’s safety there!

Agnes.

Yes, it is false: yet still I fall

Questioning: Is it, after all?

Brand.

One point’s omitted: First the Will

Law’s thirst for righteousness must still.

You must first will! Not only things

Attainable, in more or less,

Nor only where the action brings

Some hardship and some weariness;

No, you must will with flashing eyes

Your way through all earth’s agonies.

It is not martyrdom to toss

In anguish on the deadly cross:

But to have will’d to perish so,

To will it through each bodily throe,

To will it with still-tortured mind,

This, only this, redeems mankind.

Agnes.

[Clinging closely to him.]

If at the terrible call I cower,

Speak, strong-soul’d husband, in that hour!

Brand.

If Will has conquer’d in that strife,

Then comes at length the hour of Love;

Then it descends like a white dove,

Bearing the olive-leaf of life:

But in this nerveless, slothful state,

The true, the sovereign Love is—Hate!

[In horror.]

Hate! Hate! O Titan’s toil, to will

That one brief easy syllable!

[Goes hurriedly into the house.

Agnes.

[Looking through the open door.]

He kneels beside his little son,

And heaves as if with bursts of tears;

He clutches close the bed, like one

That knows no refuge from his fears.—

O what a wealth of tender ruth

Lies hidden in this breast of steel!

Alf he dares love: the baby-heel

Has not yet felt Earth’s serpent-tooth.

[Cries out in terror.]

Ha! he leaps up with ashy brow!

Wringing his hands! what sees he now.

Brand.

[Coming out.]

A summons came?

Agnes.

No summons, no.

Brand.

[Looking back into the house.]

His parch’d skin burns in fever-glow;

His temples throb, his pulses race——!

Oh fear not, Agnes!

Agnes.

God of grace——

Brand.

Nay, have no fear——

[Calls out over the road.]

The summons, see.

A Man.

[Through the garden-gate.]

You must come now, priest!

Brand.

Instantly!

What message?

The Man.

A mysterious one.

Sitting in bed she forward bent,

And said: “Get the priest here: begone!

My half-goods for the sacrament.”

Brand.

[Starts back.]

Her half-goods! No! Say no!

The Man.

[Shakes his head.]

My word

Would then not utter what I heard.

Brand.

Half! Half! It was the whole she meant!

The Man.

Maybe; but she spoke loud and high;

And I don’t easily forget.

Brand.

[Seizes his arm.]

Before God’s Judgment, will you yet

Dare to attest she spoke it?

The Man.

Ay.

Brand.

[Firmly.]

Go, tell her, this reply was sent:

“Nor priest shall come, nor sacrament.”

The Man.

[Looking at him doubtfully.]

You surely have not understood

It is your Mother that appeals.

Brand.

I know no law that sternlier deals

With strangers than with kindred blood.

The Man.

A hard word, that.

Brand.

She knows the call,—

To offer Nothing, or else all.

The Man.

Priest!

Brand.

Dock the gold-calf as she will,

Say, it remains an idol still.

The Man.

The scourge you send her I will lay

As gently on her as I may.

She has this comfort left her, too:

God is not quite so hard as you!

[Goes.

Brand.

Yes, with that comfort’s carrion-breath

The world still sickens unto death;

Prompt, in its need, with shriek and song

To lubricate the Judge’s tongue.

Of course! The reasonable plan!

For from of old they know their man;—

Since all his works the assurance breathe:

“Yon gray-beard may be haggled with!”

[The Man has met another man on the road; they come back together.

Brand.

A second message!

First Man.

Yes.

Brand.

[To the Second Man.]

Consent!

Second Man.

Nine-tenths of it is now the word.

Brand.

Not all?

Second Man.

Not all.

Brand.

As you have heard:—

Nor priest shall come, nor sacrament.

Second Man.

She begg’d it, bitterly distress’d——

First Man.

Priest, once she bore you on her breast.

Brand.

[Clenching his hands.]

I may not by two measures weigh

My kinsman and my enemy.

Second Man.

Sore is her state and dire her need;

Come, or else send her a God-speed.

Brand.

[To First Man.]

Go; tell her still: God’s wine and bread

Must on a spotless board be spread.

[The Men go.

Agnes.

I tremble Brand. You seem a Sword

Swung flaming by a wrathful Lord!

Brand.

[With tears in his voice.]

Does not the world face me no less

With swordless sheath upon its thigh?

Am I not torn and baffled by

Its dull defiant stubbornness?

Agnes.

A hard condition you demand.

Brand.

Dare you impose a lighter?

Agnes.

Lay

That stern demand on whom you may,

And see who, tested so, will stand.

Brand.

Nay, you have reason for that fear.

So base, distorted, barren, sere,

The aspiring soul in men is grown.

’Tis thought a marvel,—by bequest

To give away one’s wealth unknown.

And be anonymously bless’d.

The hero, bid him blot his name,

Content him with the service wrought,

Kings, Kaisers, bid him do the same—

And see how many fields are fought!

The poet, bid him unbeholden

Loose his bright fledglings from the cage,

So that none dream he gave that golden

Plumage, and he that vocal rage;

Try the green bough, or try the bare,

Sacrifice is not anywhere.

Earth has enslaved all earthly things;—

Over Life’s precipices cast,

Each to its mouldering branches clings,

And, if they crumble, clutches fast

With tooth and nail to straws and bast

Agnes.

And, while they helpless, hopeless fall,

You cry: Give nothing or give all!

Brand.

He who would conquer still must fight,

Rise, fallen to the highest height.

[A brief silence: his voice changes.]

And yet, when with that stern demand

Before some living soul I stand,

I seem like one that floats afar

Storm-shatter’d on a broken spar.

With solitary anguish wrung

I’ve bitten this chastising tongue,

And thirsted, as I aim’d the blow,

To clasp the bosom of my foe.

Go, Agnes, watch the sleeping boy.

And sing him into dreams of joy.

An infant’s soul is like the sleep

Of still clear tarns in summer-light.

A mother over it may sweep

And hover, like the bird, whose flight

Is mirror’d in the deepest deep.

Agnes.

What does it mean, Brand? Wheresoe’er

You aim your thought-shafts—they fly there!

Brand.

Oh, nothing. Softly watch the child.

Agnes.

Give me a watchword.

Brand.

Stern?

Agnes.

No, mild.

Brand.

[Clasping her.]

The blameless shall not taste the grave.

Agnes.

[Looking brightly up at him.]

Then one is ours God may not crave!

[Goes into the house.

Brand.

[Looking fixedly before him.]

But if he might? What “Isaac’s Fear”

Once ventured, He may venture here.

[Shakes off the thought.]

No, no, my sacrifice is made,

The calling of my life gainsaid—

Like the Lord’s thunder to go forth

And rouse the sleepers of the earth.

Sacrifice! Liar! there was none!

I miss’d it when my Dream was done,

When Agnes woke me—and follow’d free

To labour in the gloom with me.

[Looks along the road.]

Why tarries still the dying call,

Her word, that she will offer all,

That she has won that which uproots

Sin’s deepest fibres, rankest shoots!

See there——! No, it is but the Mayor,

Well-meaning, brisk, and debonnaire,

Both hands in pockets, round, remiss,

A bracketed parenthesis.

Enter Mayor.

The Mayor.

[Through the garden gate.]

Good-day! Our meetings are but rare,

Perhaps my time is chosen amiss——

Brand.

[Pointing to house.]

Come in.

The Mayor.

Thanks; here I’m quite content.

Should my proposal meet assent,

I’m very sure the upshot of it

Would issue in our common profit.

Brand.

Name your desire.

The Mayor.

Your mother’s state,

I understand, is desperate.

I’m sorry.

Brand.

That I do not doubt.

The Mayor.

I’m very sorry.

Brand.

Pray, speak out.

The Mayor.

She’s old, however. Welladay,

We are all bound the selfsame way—

And, as I just drove by, occurr’d

The thought that, after all, “to leap

Is just as easy as to creep”:

Moreover, many have averr’d,

That she and you have been imbrued

For years in a domestic feud——

Brand.

Domestic feud?

The Mayor.

She’s out and out

Close-fisted, so they say, you know.

You think it goes too far, no doubt.

A man’s own claims he can’t forego.

She keeps exclusive occupation

Of all that was bequeath’d to you.

Brand.

Exclusive occupation, true.

The Mayor.

A ready cause of irritation

In families. Surmising thence

That you await with resignation

The moment of her going hence,

I hope I may without offence

Speak out, although I quite admit

The time I’ve chosen is unfit.

Brand.

Or now or later, nought I care.

The Mayor.

Well, to the point then, fair and square.

When once your mother’s dead and blest,

In the earth’s bosom laid to rest,

You’re rich!

Brand.

You think so?

The Mayor.

Think? Nay, man,

That’s sure. She’s land in every port,

Far as a telescope can scan.

You’re rich!

Brand.

’Spite the Succession Court?

The Mayor.

[Smiling.]

What of it? That cuts matters short

When many fight for pelf and debt.

Here no man’s interest suffers let.

Brand.

And what if some day, all the same,

Came a coheir to debt and pelf

Crying: “I’m he!” and urged his claim?

The Mayor.

He’d have to be the devil himself!

Just look to me! None else has here

The smallest right to interfere.

I know my business: lean on me!

Well, then; you’ll now be well-to-do,

Rich even; you’ll no longer brook

Life in this God-forsaken nook;

The whole land’s open now to you.

Brand.

Mayor, is not what you want to say,

Pithily put, just: “Go away”?

The Mayor.

Pretty much that. All parties’ good

Were so best answered. If you would

But eye attentively the herd

To whom you minister God’s word,

You’d find you’re no more of a piece

With them than foxes are with geese.

Pray, understand me! You have gifts,

Good where the social field is wide,

But dangerous for folk whose pride

Is to be Lords of rocky rifts

And Freemen of the ravine-side.

Brand.

To a man’s feet his native haunt

Is as unto the tree the root.

If there his labour fill no want

His deeds are doomed, his music mute.

The Mayor.

Success means just: Self-adaptation

To the requirements of the nation.

Brand.

Which from the heights you best o’erlook,

Not from the crag-encompass’d nook.

The Mayor.

That talk is fit for citizens,

Not for poor peasants of the glens.

Brand.

O, still your limitation vain

Between the mountain and the plain!

World-citizens you’d be of right,

While every civic claim you slight;

And think, like dastards, to go free

By whining: “We’re a small folk, we!”

The Mayor.

All has its time, each time its need,

Each age its proper work to do;

We also flung our mite into

The world’s great treasure of bold deed.

True, that’s long since; but, after all,

The mite was not so very small.

Now the land’s dwindled and decay’d,

But our renown still lives in story.

The days of our reported glory

Were when the great King Belë sway’d.

Many a tale is still related

About the brothers Wulf and Thor,

And gallant fellows by the score,

Went harrying to the British shore,

And plunder’d till their heart was sated.

The Southrons shriek’d with quivering lip,

“Lord, help us from these fierce men’s grip,”

And these “fierce men,” beyond all doubt,

Had from our harbours sallied out.

And how these rovers wreak’d their ire,

And dealt out death with sword and fire!

Nay, legend names a lion-hearted

Hero that took the cross; in verity,

It is not mentioned that he started——

Brand.

He left behind a large posterity,

This promise-maker?

The Mayor.

Yes, indeed;

But how came you to——?

Brand.

O, I read

His features clearly in the breed

Of promise-heroes of to-day,

Who take the Cross in just his way.

The Mayor.

Yes, his descendants still remain.

But we were on King Belë’s reign!

So first abroad we battled. Then,

Visited our own countrymen

And kinsmen, with the axe and fire;

Trampled their harvests gaily down,

Scorch’d mansion-wall and village spire,

And wove ourselves the hero’s crown.—

Over the blood thus set a-flowing

There’s been perhaps excessive crowing;

But, after what I’ve said, I may,

I think, without a touch of vanity,

Point backward to the stir we made

In the great Age long since decay’d,

And hold that we indeed have paid

Our little mite of Fire and Fray

Towards the Progress of Humanity.

Brand.

Yet do you not, in fact, eschew

The phrase, “Nobility’s a trust,”—

And drive hoe, plough, and harrow through

King Belë’s patrimonial dust?

The Mayor.

By no means. Only go and mark

Our parish on its gaudy-nights,

Where I with Constable and Clerk,

And Judge, preside as leading lights;

You’ll warrant, when the punch goes round,

King Belë’s memory is sound.

With toasts and clinking cups and song,

In speeches short and speeches long,

We drink his health and sound his fame.

I myself often feel inclined

The spinnings of my brain to wind

In flowery woof about his name,

And edify the local mind.

A little poetry pleases me,

And all our folks, in their degree;

But—moderation everywhere!

In life it never must have share,—

Except at night, when folks have leisure,

Between the hours of seven and ten,

When baths of elevating pleasure

May fit the mood of weary men.

Here’s where we differ, you and we,

That you desire with main and might

At the same time to plough and fight.

Your scheme, as far as I can see,

Is: Life and Faith in unity,—

God’s warfare and potato-dressing

Inseparably coalescing,

As coal, salt, sulphur, fusing fast,

Evolve just gunpowder at last.

Brand.

Somewhat so.

The Mayor.

Here you’ll scheme in vain!

Out in the great world that may stand;—

Go thither with your big demand,

And let us plough our moors and main.

Brand.

Plough first your brag of old renown

Into the main, and plough it down!

The pigmy is not more the man

For being of Goliath’s clan.

The Mayor.

Great memories bear the seed of growth.

Brand.

Yes, memories that to life are bound;

But you, of memory’s empty mound,

Have made a stalking-horse for sloth.

The Mayor.

I said at first, and still I say:—

To leave us were the wisest way.

Your work here cannot come to good,

Nor your ideas be understood.

The little flights to purer air,

The lifting-up which, now and then,

Is doubtless well for working men,

Shall be my unremitting care.

Many agreeable facts declare

My ceaseless energy as mayor,—

Through me the population’s grown

Double, nay, almost three to one,

Since for the district I have bred

Ever new ways of getting fed.

With stubborn nature still at strife

We’ve steam’d ahead: our forward march

Here hew’d a road, there flung an arch—

To lead from——

Brand.

Not from Faith to Life.

The Mayor.

To lead from fjordside to the hill.

Brand.

But not from Doctrine unto Will.

The Mayor.

First of all, get a passage clear

From men to men, from place to place.

There were no two opinions here

On that, until you show’d your face.

Now you’ve made all confusion, dashing

Aurora-flames with lantern light;

With such cross-luminaries flashing,

Who can distinguish wrong from right,

Tell what will mar, and what will mend?

All diverse things you mix and blend,

And into hostile camps divide

Those who should triumph side by side.

Brand.

Here, notwithstanding, I abide.

Man chooses not his labour’s sphere.

Who knows and follows out his call,

Has seen God’s writing on the wall,

In words of fire, “Your place is here!”

The Mayor.

Stay, then, but keep within your borders;

You’re free to purge the folk of crimes,

Vices, and other rifle disorders;

God knows, it’s needed oftentimes!

But don’t make every working-day

A Sabbath, and your flag display,

As if the Almighty were on board

Of every skiff that skims the fjord.

Brand.

To use your counsel, I must change

My soul and all her vision’s range;

But we are called, ourselves to be,

Our own cause bear to victory;

And I will bear it, till the land

Is all illumined where I stand!

The people, your bureaucrat-crew

Have lull’d asleep, shall wake anew;

Too long you’ve cramp’d and caged apart

These remnants of the Mountain heart;

Out of your niggard hunger-cure

They pass dejected, dull, demure:

Their best, their bravest blood you tap,

Scoop out their marrow and their sap,

Pound into splinters every soul,

That should have stood a welded whole;—

But you may live to hear the roar

Of revolution thunder: War!

The Mayor.

War?

Brand.

War!

The Mayor.

Be sure, if you should call

To arms, you’ll be the first to fall.

Brand.

The day will come when we shall know

That triumph’s height is Overthrow.

The Mayor.

Consider, Brand, you have to choose!

Don’t stake your fortune on one card.

Brand.

I do, however!

The Mayor.

If you lose,

Your life’s irreparably marr’d.

All this world’s bounties you possess,

You, a rich Mother’s only heir,

With wife and child to be your care,—

It was a kindly hand, confess,

That dealt your terms of happiness!

Brand.

And what if I should, all the same,

Reject these terms? and must?

The Mayor.

Your game

Is over, if you’ve once unfurl’d

In this last cranny of the world

The standard of your world-wide war.

Turn southward, to yon prosperous shore

Where a man dares lift up his head;

There you may perorate of right

And bid them bleed and bid them fight;

Our bloodshed is the sweat we pour

In daily wringing rocks for bread.

Brand.

Here I remain. My home is here!

And here the battle-flag I’ll rear.

The Mayor.

Think what you lose, if overthrown,

And, chiefly, think of what you quit!

Brand.

Myself I lose, if I submit.

The Mayor.

Hopeless is he that fights alone.

Brand.

The best are with me.

The Mayor.

[Smiling.]

That may be,

But they’re the most, who follow me.

[Goes.

Brand.

[Looking after him.]

A people’s champion, thorough-bred!

Active, with fair and open hand,

Honest of heart and sound of head,

But yet a scourge upon the land!

No avalanche, no winter-blast,

No flood, nor frost, nor famine-fast

Leaves half the ruin in its rear

That such a man does, year by year.

Life only by a plague is reft;

But he——! How many a thought is cleft,

How many an eager will made numb,

How many a valiant song struck dumb

By such a narrow soul as this!

What smiles on simple faces breaking,

What fires in lowly bosoms waking,

What pangs of joy and anger, seed

That might have ripened into deed,

Die by that bloodless blade of his!

[Suddenly, in anxiety.]

But O the summons! the summons—No!

It is the Doctor!

Enter Doctor.

[Hurries to meet him.]

Say! say! How——?

The Doctor.

She stands before her Maker now.

Brand.

Dead!—But repentant?

The Doctor.

Scarcely so;

She hugg’d Earth’s goods with all her heart

Till the Hour struck, and they must part.

Brand.

[Looking straight before him in deep emotion.]

Is here an erring soul undone?

The Doctor.

She will be mildly judged, maybe;—

And Law temper’d with equity,

Brand.

[In a low tone.]

What said she?

The Doctor.

Low she mutter’d: He

Is no hard dealer, like my son.

Brand.

[Sinking in anguish upon the bench.]

Guilt-wrung or dying, still that lie

That every soul is ruin’d by!

[Hides his face in his hands.

The Doctor.

[Goes towards him, looks at him, and shakes his head.]

You seek, a day that is no more,

In one and all things to restore.

You think, God’s venerable pact

With man is still a living fact;—

Each Age in its own way will walk;

Ours is not scared by nurses’ talk

Of hell-bound soul and burning brand;—

Humanity’s our first command!

Brand.

[Looking up.]

Humanity!—That sluggard phrase

Is the world’s watchword nowadays.

With this each bungler hides the fact

That he dare not and will not act;

With this each weakling masks the lie,

That he’ll risk all for victory;

With this each dastard dares to cloak

Vows faintly rued and lightly broke;

Your puny spirits will turn Man

Himself Humanitarian!

Was God “humane” when Jesus died?

Had your God then his counsel given,

Christ at the cross for grace had cried—

And the Redemption signified

A diplomatic note from Heaven.

[Hides his head, and sits in mute grief.

The Doctor.

[Softly.]

Rage, rage thy fill, thou soul storm-stress’d;—

Best were it for thee to find tears.

Agnes.

[Comes out on to the steps: pale and terrified she whispers to the Doctor.]

In! Follow me!

The Doctor.

You raise my fears!

What is it, child?

Agnes.

Into my breast

Creeps cold a serpent of affright——!

The Doctor.

What is it?

Agnes.

[Pulling him away.]

Come!—Great God of Might.

[They go into the house; Brand does not notice.

Brand.

[To himself.]

Impenitent alive,—and dead!

This is the finger of the Lord!

Now through my means shall be restored

The treasure she has forfeited;

Else tenfold woe upon my head!

[Rises.]

Henceforth as by my sonship bound,

Unflinching, on my native ground

I’ll battle, a soldier of the Cross,

For Spirit’s gain by Body’s loss.

Me with His purging fire the Lord

Hath arm’d, and with His riving Word:

Mine is that Will and that strong Trust

That crumbles mountains into dust!

The Doctor.

[Followed by Agnes comes hastily out, and cries.]

Order your house and haste away!

Brand.

Were there an earthquake I would stay!

The Doctor.

Then you have doom’d your child to death.

Brand.

[Wildly.]

The child! Alf! Alf! What phantom wraith

Of fear is this! My child!

[Is about to rush into the house.

The Doctor.

[Holding him back.]

Stay, stay.—

Here summer sunshine pierces not,

Here polar ice-blasts rive and rend,—

Here dank and stifling mists descend.

Another winter in this spot

Will shrivel the tender life away.

Go hence, you’ll save him! No delay!

To-morrow’s best.

Brand.

To-night,—to-day!

Now, ere another hour is out!

O yet he shall grow strong and stout;—

No blast from mountain or from shore

Shall chill his baby-bosom more.

Come, Agnes, lift him gently in sleep!

Away along the winding deep!

O Agnes, Agnes, death has spun

His web about our little son!

Agnes.

Foreboding trembled in my heart,—

And yet I only knew a part.

Brand.

[To the Doctor.]

But flight will save him? That is sure?

The Doctor.

The life a father day and night

Watches, all perils can endure.

Be all to him! and healthy, bright,

You soon shall see him, be secure!

Brand.

Thanks, thanks!

[To Agnes.]

In down enclose him well;

Chill sweeps the night-wind from the fell.

[Agnes goes in.

The Doctor silently watches Brand, who gazes fixedly through the door; then goes to him, and lays his hand on his shoulder.

The Doctor.

So tender to his own distress.

And to the world so merciless!

For them avails not more nor less!

Only Law’s absolute Nought or All,

But now—no sooner sees he fall

The dooming lot,—his valour’s flown;

—The sacrificial lamb’s his own!

Brand.

What mean you?

The Doctor.

In the dying ear

You thunder’d the decree of fear:

To perish, unless All she gave,

And went down naked to her grave!

And that cry rang again, again,

When need was direst among men!

You’re now the shipwreckt sailor, cleaving

To swamp’d boat through the storms of doom,

And from its upturned bottom heaving

To see your tracts on Wrath to Come,

To sea, to sea, the bulky tome

That struck your Brothers’ bosoms home;

Now you ask only wind and wave

To waft your infant from death’s reach.

Fly, only fly, by bay and beach,

Fly from your very mother’s grave,—

from the souls you’re sent to save;—

“The Parson does not mean to preach!”

Brand.

[Wildly clutching his head as if to gather his thoughts.]

Am I now blind? Or was I?

The Doctor.

Nay,

A father has no other way;

Don’t fancy that your act I blame;

I hold you greater, clipt and tame,

Than in your giant strength secure.—

Farewell! I’ve held you up a glass;

Use it and sigh: “Alas, alas,

Is this a Titan’s portraiture?”

[Goes.

Brand.

Gazing a while before him: then bursts out.]

Before—or now,—when did I stray?

Agnes comes out with a cloak over her shoulders and the child in her arms; Brand does not see her; she is about to speak, but stands petrified with terror at the look in his face. At the same moment A Man comes in hastily through the garden-gate. The sun is setting.

The Man.

Hark, priest, you have a foe!

Brand.

[Clenching his hand against his breast.]

Yes, here!

The Man.

Watch well the Mayor. The seed you sow

Sprang ever bravely into ear,

Till blighting slanders laid it low.

With meaning hints he has implied

That by-and-by this house would lack

A tenant, and you’d turn your back,

The day your wealthy mother died.

Brand.

And if it were so——

The Man.

Priest, I know you;

Know, why these poisonous tales are rife;

You stood against him still at strife;

He could not bend your purpose;—lo, you,

That’s what these slanders signified——

Brand.

[Hesitating.]

Suppose the case—that he spoke true?

The Man.

Then to us all you’ve basely lied.

Brand.

Have I——?

The Man.

How oft you’ve told us, you,

That God has call’d you to the strife,

That here you’ve made your home for life,

That here you’ll bear the battle through,

That none may shirk the call to serve,

That all must fight and never swerve,

You have the Call! How flames and flashes

In many a heart the fire you’ve fed!

Brand.

This people’s heart is hard and dead!

Their ear is deaf, their fire is ashes!

The Man.

O, you know better;—radiant day

To many a heart has found its way.

Brand.

In tenfold others all is night.

The Man.

You’re sent to be their beacon-light

But be the numbers as you choose,

Here is no need to closely scan;

For here I stand, one only Man,

And bid you: Leave us, if you can!

I have a soul I would not lose,

Like others; books I cannot use,

You bore me from the depths below,—

Try if you now can let me go!

You cannot,—I so closely grip,

My soul were lost if I should slip.

Farewell; I look to learn at last:

My priest by me—and God—stands fast.

[Goes.

Agnes.

[Timidly.]

Your lips are blanch’d, and white your cheek;

You seem to utter an inward shriek!

Brand.

Each strong word flung at yonder rock

Thrills back with tenfold echo’s shock.

Agnes.

[Advancing a step.]

I’m ready!

Brand.

Ready? Whereunto?

Agnes.

[Vehemently.]

For what a mother needs must do!

Gerd.

[Runs by outside and stops at the garden-gate; claps her hands and cries in wild joy.]

Have you heard? The priest’s flown off.—

Up from hillocks, out of howes,

Swarm the demons and the Drows,

Black and ugly, big and little—

Ugh, how fierce they cut and cuff—!

Half my eye away they whittle;

Half my soul they’ve carried off;

With the stump I’ll e’en make shift,

It will serve me well enough!

Brand.

Girl, your thoughts are all adrift;

See, I stand before you.

Gerd.

You?

Ay, but not the parson? Swift

From the peak my falcon flew,

Fiercely down the fells he hied him,

He was bitted and saddled too,

Through the nightfall blast he hiss’d,

And a man was set astride him,—

’Twas the parson, ’twas the priest!

Now the valley church is bare,

Lock and bar are bolted there;

Ugly-church’s day is past;

Mine shall get its due at last.

There the priest stands, tall and strong

Snowy surplice swathes his flank,

Woven of winter’s drip and dank,

If you’d see him, come along;

Parish-church is bare and blank;

My priest has so brave a song,

That the whole earth rings to hear it.

Brand.

Who has bidden thee, shattered spirit,

Lure me with this idol-lay?

Gerd.

[Coming into the garden.]

Idols, idols? What are they?

Oho! That is what you mean:

Giant or pigmy, large or lean,

Always gilded, always gay.

Idols! Look you where she stands!

See you ’neath her mantle stray

Baby-feet and baby-hands?

See you how those robes are gay,

That close-folded something keep

Like a little child asleep?

Back she shudders! Hides her son!

Idols?—Man, I show you one!

Agnes.

Have you tears, Brand? Can you pray?

Terror scorches mine away!

Brand.

Woe’s me, Agnes—I forbode

In her words the voice of God.

Gerd.

Hark; now all the bells are loud,

Clanging down the savage fells!

See, what moving masses crowd

Upwards to those bidding bells!

See the thousand trolls uprisen

From the ocean-caves, their prison;

See the thousand dwarfs up-leaping

From the graves where they were sleeping

With the priest’s seal on them set:

Grave and ocean cannot bind them,

Out they’re swarming, chill and wet;—

Troll-babes that but shammed to die,

Grinning roll the rocks behind them:

“Mother, father!” hark, they cry;

Goodman, Goodwife, make reply;

Then, as fathers among sons,

Move among their buried ones;

Women lay their risen dead

At their bosoms to be fed,

Strutted scarce with prouder front

When they bore them to the font.

Life begins! The parson’s fled!

Brand.

Get thee from me! Direr still

Grows the vision——

Gerd.

Hark, he’s mocking!

He that sits by yon way-border,

Where it rears to scale the hill,

All their names as they go flocking

In his book he writes in order;—

Ho! he’s wellnigh all the pack;

For the parish-church is bare,

Lock and bar are bolted there,—

And parson’s off on falcon-back!

[Leaps over the garden-fence and is lost in the moraine. Stillness.

Agnes.

[Approaches, and says in a low voice.]

Late we linger: let us go.

Brand.

[Looking fixedly at her.]

Shall our way be——

[Points first to the garden-gate, then to the house-door.]

So?—or so?

Agnes.

[Starts back shuddering.]

Brand, your child,—your child!

Brand.

[Following her.]

Say rather:

Was I priest ere I was father?

Agnes.

[Drawing further back.]

Though in thunder-crash it peal’d,

Unto that my lips are seal’d.

Brand.

[Following.]

You are Mother: it is due

That the last word come from you.

Agnes.

I am Wife: I shall fulfil

All that you have heart to will.

Brand.

[Trying to grasp her arm.]

Take the Cup of Choice from me!

Agnes.

[Retreating behind the tree.]

Mother then I should not be!

Brand.

There a Judgment is let fall!

Agnes.

[Vehemently.]

Have you any choice at all!

Brand.

Still the Judgment, gathering force!

Agnes.

Trust you wholly in God’s Call?

Brand.

Yes!

[Grasps her hand firmly.]

And now ’tis yours to give

Final sentence: Die or live!

Agnes.

Go where God has fix’d your course

[Pause.

Brand.

Late we linger: let us go.

Agnes.

[Voiceless.]

Shall our way be——?

Brand.

[Silent.]

Agnes.

[Pointing to the garden-gate.]

So?

Brand.

[Pointing to the house-door.]

Nay,—so!

Agnes.

[Raising the child aloft in her arms.]

God! The gift Thou canst require

I can lift it to thy sight!

Guide me through life’s martyr-fire!

[Goes in.

Brand.

[Gazes a while before him, bursts into tears, clasps his hands over his head, throws himself down on the steps and cries:]

Jesus, Jesus give me light!