by Henrik Ibsen
to that poor Holy One
sweating blood to atone,
your dear Christ hurt with thorns,
the saviour of your dance.
Dance on, dance to the end,
dance yourselves deaf and blind!
EINAR: You’re good at breathing fire,
a real hot-gospeller;
that fear-and-trembling school
has taught you very well!
BRAND: Einar, I leave the new
fashions in faith to you.
I’ve not come here to preach
for any sect or church.
Not as a formal Christian
even, but as my own man,
I tell you this: I know
the nature of the flaw
that has so thinned and drained
the spirit of our land.
EINAR [smiling]:
We’re not the kind to drink
deep of life’s cup, you think?
BRAND: No. If only you would,
high-stepping meek-and-mild!
Sin if you dare, but have the grace,
at least, to be fulfilled in vice.
At least live up to what you claim;
don’t water your good wine with shame!
Among our people I observe
such littleness and loss of nerve.
A little show of holiness
strictly reserved for Sunday use;
little charity, but much talk
of simple, plain, God-fearing folk.
A middling this, a middling that,
never humble, never great.
Above the worst, beneath the best,
each virtue vicious to the rest.
EINAR: Bravo, Brand! Have your say,
just as you will. I’ll play
‘Amen’ in the right place:
I’m quite ready to please.
I’m wholly unperturbed;
my God is still my God.
BRAND: Indeed He’s yours! You’ve even
been favoured by heaven
with that vision of Him –
it brought you some small fame –
the picture that you did
of your old, pampered God:
white-haired, moist-eyed with age,
his comic turns of rage
send children off to bed
giggling and half-afraid.
EINAR [angry]:
This is …
BRAND: ‘No joke’, you’d say?
Do you want sympathy?
You trim off life from faith,
haver from birth to death,
self-seekers who refuse
man’s true way-of-the-Cross,
which is: wholly to be
the all-enduring ‘I’.
My God is the great god of storm,
absolute arbiter of doom,
imperious in His love!
He is the voice that Moses heard,
He is the pillar of the cloud,
He is the hand that stayed the sun
for Joshua in Gibeon.
Your God can hardly move;
he’s weak of mind and heart,
easy to push about.
But mine is young: a Hercules,3
not fourscore of infirmities.
Though you may smile and preen,
Einar; though you bow down
to your own brazenness,
I shall heal this disease
that withers heart and brain,
and make you all new men!
EINAR: [shakes his head]:
You’ll blow the old lamps out
before new lamps are lit;
abandon the known word
for speech as yet unheard.
BRAND: Why must you misconstrue
so much? I seek for nothing new.
I know my mission: to uphold
truths long forgotten by the world;
eternal truths. I have not come
to preach dogmatics or proclaim
the right of some exclusive sect
to rule through pain of interdict.
For every church and creed
is something that this world has made;
and everything that’s made must end.
I speak of what endures,
of what is lost and found
eternally. Faith did not climb
slowly from the primeval slime,
nor burst from the volcanic fires.
It is incarnate through recourse
of spirit to our spirit’s source.
Though hucksters in and out of church
make tawdry everything they touch,
hawking the relics of their trade,
their bits of dogma, parts
of broken creeds and hearts,
that spirit shines amid the void,
amid the travesties
of things that are, the truth that is.
And truth-begotten, God’s true heir,
the new Adam …
EINAR: We should part here,
I think. It’s for the best.
BRAND: Here are two paths: the west
for you; for me the north.
Different ways, yet both
end at the fjord. Farewell,
butterflies!
[Turning as he starts the descent]
Learn to tell
true from false. Don’t forget
life’s the real work of art!
EINAR: [waving him away]:
Though you may shake my world
my God stands firm!
BRAND: He’s old,
Einar; don’t worry Him.
Leave me to bury Him!
He goes down the path. EINAR walks silently across and looks down after BRAND. AGNES stands for a moment as if lost in thought; then she starts, looks about her uneasily.
AGNES: It’s all so gloomy. Where’s the sun?
EINAR: Behind that cloud, there. Things will soon
look bright again.
AGNES: And there’s a fierce
wind out of nowhere. It’s like ice.
EINAR: Some freak gust hurtling through the pass,
I’d say. It’s much too cold for us
to linger here. Come on!
AGNES: How black
and forbidding that great south peak
seems now. It wasn’t always so,
surely?
EINAR: You’ve let Brand frighten you
with his dour face and talk of doom.
Look here, I’ll race you! You’ll get warm!
AGNES: I can’t. I’m tired.
EINAR: To tell the truth,
love, so am I. This downhill path
is tricky too. But we’ll be safe
on terra firma soon enough.
And, Agnes, now the sun’s come back
the world no longer looks so bleak.
What a picture! Such harmony
of sky with sea and sea with sky;
deep azure lit by silver streaks,
suffused with golden lights and darks,
out to the far horizon’s edge,
the boundless main! And, look, that smudge
of smoke – the steamer coming in,
the very ship we go to join.
By early evening we shall be
clear of this place, well out to sea.
We’ll dance on deck and sing; our games
will make Brand giddy if he comes.
AGNES: [without looking at him and in a hushed voice]:
Tell me, are we awake,
Einar? When that man spoke
he burned! It seemed each feature
changed! He grew in stature!
She goes down the path. EINAR follows.
SCENE 2
A path along the mountain wall with a wild valley on the right-hand side. Above and behind the mountain one can see glimpses of great heights with
peaks and snow. BRAND appears high up on the path, starts to descend, stops midway on a rock which juts out, and looks down into the valley.
BRAND: Now I see where I am:
strangely close to home.
Everything I recall
from childhood here still
but smaller now and much
shabbier; and the church
looks in need of repair.
The cliffs loom; the glacier
juts and hangs: it is an
ice wall concealing the sun.
And for all their rough gleam
the fjord waters look grim
and menacing. A small
boat pitches in a squall.
Down there’s the timber wharf
and nearby – iron-red roof,
red-flaking walls – the house
to which I would refuse
the name ‘home’ if I could;
the place where I endured
harsh kinship, an alien
life that was called mine.
Solitude and desire
magnified what was there.
As though in recompense
to my own soul, a sense
of greatness visited me,
made even a poverty-
stricken smallholding shine,
a visionary demesne.
All that has faded. Now
there is nothing to show
what my child-soul once made
out of such solitude.
Returning, I am shorn
of all strength: Samson
in the harlot’s lap.4
[Looks again down into the abyss.]
It seems they have woken up.
Men, women, children come
from the cottages, climb
slowly among the outcrops
of rock, the lowest slopes;
now lost from sight and now
seen again, on the brow
by the church. Slaves to both
day labour and the sloth
of their own souls; their need
crawls and is not heard
in the courts of heaven;
and their prayers are craven:
‘Give us bread! give us bread!’
So they still eat their God.
Nothing else matters
to them: tossed on storm waters
of the age, the merest flotsam,
or rotting in a foul calm.
BRAND is about to go; a stone is thrown from above and rolls down the slope just missing him. GERD, a fifteen-year-old girl, runs along the ridge with stones in her apron.
GERD: Hey! Now he’s really wild!
BRAND: Who’s there? Ah – stupid child!
GERD: Look, he’s not a bit hurt,
though I’m sure he was hit.
[Throws more stones and cries out.]
Oh … he’s back … swooping down …
his claws … I’m all torn!
BRAND: Tell me, in God’s name, what …
GERD: Stay there and keep quiet
if you want to be safe.
It’s all right, he’s flown off.
BRAND: Who has flown off?
GERD: You
didn’t see the hawk?
BRAND: No.
GERD: Not that great ugly thing
with some sort of red ring
round his eye?
BRAND: I did not.
GERD: And with his crest all flat
against his head?
BRAND: No. Which
way are you going?
GERD: To church.
BRAND: But the church is down there.
GERD: [looking at him with a scornful smile and pointing downwards]:
Not that one. That’s a poor
tumbledown little place.
BRAND: You know a better?
GERD: Yes,
yes, yes! Follow me up
these mountains, to the top.
That’s where my own church is,
in the heart of the ice.
BRAND: Ah, now I understand.
I’d forgotten that legend
of the Ice Church: a great cleft
in the rock, where the drift-
ing snow and ice have built
the roof of a huge vault.
The church floor is a lake
frozen as hard as rock,
so all the stories say.
GERD: Well, they’re true!
BRAND: Stay away
from there. It’s sure to fall.
A gust of wind, a call,
or a gunshot, could bring
the end of everything.
GERD [not listening]:
I’ll show you where a herd
of dead reindeer appeared
out of the glacier last
spring, when it thawed.
BRAND: You must
never go there. I’ve told
you why.
GERD [pointing downwards]:
That musty old
church of yours! Stay away
from it. I’ve told you why.
BRAND: God bless you. Go in peace.
GERD: Oh, do come! Hear the ice
sing mass, and the wind make
sermons over the rock.
Oh, how you’ll burn and freeze!
It’s safe from the hawk’s eyes.
He settles on Black Peak
just like a weathercock.
BRAND [aside]:
Her spirit struggles to be heard;
flawed music from a broken reed.
God in His judgement sometimes draws
evil to good. Not from these thraws.
GERD: O the hawk, O the whirr
of his wings! Help me, sir!
I must hide. In my church
it’s safe. Hey! hey! can’t catch
me! O but he’s angry. Now
what shall I do? I’ll throw
things. Ugh! keep off me, keep
off me with those great sharp
claws! Strike me, I’ll strike you!
She runs off up the mountain.
BRAND: So that’s churchgoing too;
those howls are hymns of praise.
But is she worse than those
who seek God in the valley?
And is her church less holy?
Who sees? And who is blind?
Who wanders? Who is found?
Feckless, with his garlands on,
dances till he plunges down
into the terrible abyss.
Dullness mutters ‘thus and thus’,
his catechism’s sleepy rote,
and treads the old, deep-trodden rut.
Madness wanders from itself,
half shadowing the other half;
immortal longings gone astray,
confusing darkness with the day.
My way is clear, now. Heaven calls.
I know my task. When those three trolls
are dead, mankind shall breathe again,
freed from old pestilence and pain.
Arm, arm, my soul! Take up your sword!
Fight now for every child of God!
He descends into the populated valley.
Act Two
SCENE 1
Down by the fjord with sheer mountains rising on three sides. The old dilapidated church stands on a small knoll nearby. A storm is gathering. The PEASANTS, men, women and children, are gathered in groups, some on the shore, some on the slopes. The MAYOR is sitting in the midst of them on a stone; a SCRIVENER is helping him; grain and other provisions are being distributed. EINAR and AGNES are standing surrounded by a group of people, farther towards the background. A few boats are lying off the shore. BRAND appears on the slope by the church without being noticed by the crowd.
A MAN [bursting through the crowd]:
Let me pa
st! Let me past!
A WOMAN: Hey you, we was first!
MAN [pushing her aside]:
Get out of the way, or …
See to me first, mayor!
MAYOR: Give me time, give me time …
MAN: I must have my share;
I’ve bairns back at home,
starving, all four, five …
MAYOR: [jokingly]:
You don’t sound too sure.
MAN: One was barely alive
when I left.
MAYOR: Here, hold on,
have I got your name down?
[Leafs through his papers.]
H’m … h’m … you’re in luck.
Twenty-nine … in the sack.
[To the SCRIVENER]
Whoa there, whoa there,
that’s enough, that’s his lot.
Nils Snemyr?
SNEMYR: I’m here.
MAYOR: Your ration’s been cut.
Well, you’ve one less to feed.
SNEMYR: My wife, ay, she’s dead;
passed on yesterday.
MAYOR: It’s an ill wind they say …
she’ll need no more porridge.
[To SNEMYR, who is leaving]
Forget about marriage;
just give it a rest.
SCRIVENER: Hee, hee!
MAYOR: What’s the joke?
SCRIVENER: Just hearing you talk,
Mr Mayor, it’s a treat.
MAYOR: Hold your jaw shut!
I don’t find this funny.
But ‘laugh or you’ll cry’,
it’s the only way.
EINAR [coming out of the crowd with AGNES]:
They’ve had my last crust,
and all my money.
Never mind, I can pawn
my watch, or my stick
and my haversack.
I’ll rake up the fare
for the boat, never fear!
MAYOR: My word, you arrived
not a moment too soon.
These folk are half-starved.
And they’re plump and thriving
compared to the starving!
[Catches sight of BRAND and points upwards.]
Bravo! Welcome, friend!
You’ve heard, too, no doubt,
of our deluge and drought.
We’ll be glad to receive
any gift you can give,
in cash or in kind.
I tell you this parish is
chewing on air.
‘We need miracles, mayor!’
A fat lot of help,
five loaves and three fishes!5
They’d go at one gulp!
BRAND: Feed the five thousand in the name
of Mammon and you’d famish them.
MAYOR: Spare us your homilies.
Fine words fill no bellies.
EINAR: Brand, Brand, use your eyes!
Look, famine and disease
all around us. They’re
dying by the score.
BRAND: Yes, I can recognize
all the dread signs.
I know the lord who reigns
here, and his tyrannies.
