Peer Gynt and Brand

by Henrik Ibsen

  on through the wild sea-wave,

  she sat, so rapt and still,

  wholly without fear,

  with the spindrift glistening

  upon her brow and hair,

  gazing and listening,

  yes, listening with her eyes

  to secret harmonies!

  [Approaches her.]

  Tell me, what do you stare

  at, so intently there?

  The fjord winding its way

  down to the great sea?

  AGNES [without turning round]:

  Not the fjord; not this earth

  even; for both

  are veiled from my sight.

  Something more great

  I glimpse, a world

  beautiful to behold,

  outlined against the sun.

  How all things shine!

  Rivers and seas, white peaks,

  a glittering wilderness,

  with great palm-trees

  that sway in the wind,

  shadows on bright sand.

  It is a world that wakes

  yet waits for life. A voice

  cries through the emptiness:

  ‘Creator and creature

  of your own nature,

  Adam, come forth

  to life or death!’

  BRAND [rapturously]:

  Tell me … tell me … do you see more?

  AGNES [putting her hand on her breast]:

  I feel within me, here

  in my heart and my soul,

  the things that I foretell;

  all births, all destinies.

  Everything that is

  awaits its hour,

  and the time is near.

  Already, from above,

  He gazes down

  with infinite love;

  and already the crown

  of infinite sorrow

  pierces His brow.

  And a voice cries

  through the dawn-wilderness:

  ‘Creator and creature

  of your own nature,

  Adam, come forth

  to life or death!’

  BRAND: The new Adam, yes!

  We in him, he in us.

  Truth at the heart’s core,

  our rightful sphere,

  our destiny, the abode

  of our selfhood-in-God.

  There the old vulture

  of self-will shall be no more.

  I’ll let this world

  go, self-enthralled,

  let it go its way …

  But if the enemy

  strikes at my work,

  then I strike back!

  I pledge myself to that

  truth of the inmost word,

  everyman’s right

  rightly understood,

  to be what in truth I am.

  [Thinks in silence a while.]

  But how should that be?

  The curse of heredity,

  hereditary guilt,

  the aboriginal fault,

  stakes its own claim.

  [Stops and looks into the distance.]

  Who is this who comes

  so slowly; who climbs

  with such anguish; who bends,

  so, her head; who stands

  gasping for breath; who drags

  her body in its rags

  as if it were a hoard

  of precious, secret greed;

  who looks like a crow or

  hawk nailed to a barn door?

  Why is it I feel,

  suddenly, a chill

  of childish fear,

  insidious like hoar frost

  here in my breast

  as she comes near?

  Dear God …

  BRAND’s MOTHER comes up the slope, stops half visible against the hill, shades her eyes with her hand and looks around.

  BRAND’S MOTHER: They said I’d find

  him hereabouts. Brand,

  son Brand, you there,

  then? Ugh, this glare

  burns out your eyes.

  That you, son?

  BRAND:     Yes.

  MOTHER: Let’s see. Can’t hardly tell

  priest from carl

  I’m that mazed. Ay, it’s you.

  BRAND: Mother, at your house

  I never saw sunrise

  from summer’s end till the return

  of the first cuckoo.

  MOTHER [laughing quietly]:

  Ay, you grow a thick skin

  there: like an icicle-man

  over the waterfall.

  Do what you like,

  skin gets that thick,

  ’twill guard your soul.

  BRAND: Mother, I can’t stay

  any longer.

  MOTHER:   Ay, ay,

  like when you were a lad,

  always up and about,

  I’ll grant you that.

  And you made off

  soon enough!

  BRAND: You made sure that I did.

  MOTHER: Always had it in mind

  to see you book-learn’d,

  fit for a parson.

  It stood to reason;

  still does.

  [Looks more closely at him.]

      H’m, but you’ve grown

  some sinew and brawn

  on you, no mistake.

  You mind you take care,

  son. Don’t risk your neck!

  BRAND: Is that all you can say?

  MOTHER: Say more if you know more,

  all nice and scholarly.

  That madness on the fjord,

  d’you think I’ve not heard?

  It’s all they talk about

  back there, you and that boat.

  What happens if you drown,

  eh? I’m robbed by my own

  son, that’s what. Ay a thief,

  that’s what you’d be! My life

  you’re fooling with. I gave

  you it, didn’t I? I’ve

  got first claim on what’s mine.

  You’re not just flesh and blood.

  You’re roof-beam, corner-post,

  the nails, the wood,

  every plank, every joist

  I’ve spliced into a house

  for nobody but us.

  You’re the last of our line.

  Stick fast, then; don’t give

  half-an-inch while you live,

  not half-an-inch, d’you hear?

  I’ve named you my heir,

  I have that. Never fret,

  you’ll inherit the lot.

  BRAND: So that’s what makes you crawl

  bent double. All that coin,

  it’s weighing you down.

  MOTHER [shrinking away from him]:

  Eh, what? What? Keep away!

  Help! Daylight robbery!

  [Calmer]

  Stay there. I’ve half a mind

  to tan your hide, you brat!

  I’ve said, you’ll get it all.

  Every day, bit by bit,

  I crawl nearer the grave.

  And then it’s yours. Believe

  me, everything I’ve earned.

  You’ll never need to beg.

  But carry it on me?

  I’m not mad! It’s at home,

  all snug in wad and bag.

  Keep off, you varmint,

  do as you’re bidden,

  wait till I’m gone!

  As God’s my judge I shan’t

  bury it in the midden

  or under the hearth-stone

  or under the floor;

  shan’t cram it in crevices

  or such-like places.

  It’s yours, that I swear!

  BRAND: On condition, no doubt.

  You’d better spell it out!

  MOTHER: Get wed; get your own brood,

  lad; that’s the sole task

  I set you now; I ask

  no other reward.

  Keep my treasure safe,<
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  eh? Guard it with your life.

  Don’t give nor divide.

  Save everything; hide

  everything you save,

  like in the troll-king’s cave.

  BRAND [after a short pause]:

  Ever since I was a boy

  I’ve had to defy

  you. I was never your child.

  MOTHER: Agh, then be obstinate,

  be sure you don’t thaw!

  It’s little enough I care

  For your love, or your hate.

  I’m used to the cold,

  can live without fire,

  just so long as I know

  that you’ll breed and hoard.

  Give me your word.

  BRAND [moving a step closer]:

  But what if I’ve a mind

  to scatter it on the wind,

  all that treasure of yours?

  MOTHER [reeling back in horror]:

  No, curse you! All those years

  raking it together

  while I grew old and my flesh

  withered to ash.

  BRAND: Ash on the wind, Mother.

  MOTHER: You’d scatter my soul

  on the wind!

  BRAND:    Shall

  I scatter it, all the same?

  Supposing I come

  and stand by your bed

  the first night that you’re dead

  and lying cold and quiet

  with the psalm-book pressed

  against your stone-cold heart;

  suppose that I’m there,

  not ‘mourning the deceased’,

  but rummaging for treasure,

  ferreting around

  for what bits I can find …

  MOTHER [approaching, tense]:

  Where d’you get such ideas?

  BRAND: You truly wish to know?

  MOTHER:         Yes.

  BRAND: Then I’ll tell you a story.

  It’s here in my memory,

  burned deep, the scar

  of an early fear.

  It was one autumn;

  it was one evening; a room

  candle-lit, shadowy.

  There my father lay.

  I’d sneaked in; I stayed,

  bewildered, afraid,

  like a little owl,

  crouched there, very still,

  wondering why he slept

  on and on, why he gripped

  his old psalm-book,

  why his hands were claw-like

  and yet so paper-thin.

  And then … and then …

  Mother, I can still hear

  those footsteps at the door;

  and again the door hinge

  creaks open and that strange-

  faced woman creeps in.

  I mustn’t be seen!

  Into the shadows, hide!

  She goes to the bedside.

  Now she begins to feel

  between the bed and the wall,

  pushing aside his head.

  Something’s there. Yes, tied;

  flat oilcloth bound with twine.

  It won’t come undone.

  She tears at it with her nails, bites

  and gnaws through the tough knots,

  stares, throws it down, gropes again.

  A pocket-book and some coin.

  She mutters between her teeth,

  ‘How much was it all worth,

  then? How much? How much?’

  Like stripping the corpse, the search

  proceeds. Her shadow swoops; it looks

  like a swooping hawk’s.

  She tears open a purse

  as a hawk rips a mouse.

  When there’s no place left

  she’s a woman bereft,

  whispering in disbelief,

  ‘Was that all, was that all?’;

  flees like a hunted thief.

  So ends my tale.

  MOTHER: It was what I was owed.

  God knows I’d paid.

  BRAND: You paid twice over then.

  It cost you your son.

  MOTHER: You pay for what you get,

  with brain and heart

  if need be. I did,

  a lot more than most.

  Something was sacrificed,

  something; I can’t recall

  what it was I had,

  but it was good. I believe

  people called it love.

  Such things aren’t practical.

  But it was hard at first

  to turn from my own choice,

  to heed my father’s voice:

  ‘Forget that pauper-lad,

  take the old man instead,

  he’ll feather your nest!’

  So I did as he said;

  and, for all that, I was cheated.

  Oh but I’ve sweated

  and I’ve made my pile.

  With pain and with graft

  I’ve made well-nigh double

  what that old fool left.

  But it’s been bitter-hard.

  BRAND: Hard indeed, Mother. Harder still

  for your poor pawned soul.

  MOTHER: I’ve taken care of that.

  You’ll get the estate,

  I’ll get the last rites.

  I call that fair profits

  for honest dealing.

  My worldly goods

  in exchange for priest’s words

  of comfort and healing.

  I made you a priest.

  I claim my interest.

  BRAND: In the world’s looking-glass

  you don’t see what is,

  you see some other sight.

  And there are many more

  in these parts who stare

  into that same mirror

  of vanity and error.

  Sparing their child a thought

  now and then, they think,

  ‘That child has me to thank

  for his place in the world’,

  casting upon the child

  the shoddy, second-hand

  sentiments of their kind.

  And they put all their faith

  in a kind of living death.

  Not knowing how to live,

  they stupidly believe

  eternity’s the sum

  of endless earthly time.

  MOTHER: Can’t you leave folk alone?

  I’ll swear you’ve never known

  the half I’ve suffered!

  Take what you’re offered.

  BRAND: That won’t cancel the debt.

  MOTHER: What are you on about?

  There’s no debt.

  BRAND:      So you say.

  But supposing there were,

  would not justice require

  that each claim should be met

  in full, and by me?

  MOTHER: Is that what the law says?

  BRAND: Your pen-and-parchment laws!

  Mother, the Holy Spirit

  utters its own decrees,

  summons us to atone

  for what others have done.

  How blindly you have sinned!

  Open your eyes;

  begin to understand.

  [His MOTHER appears confused.]

  Don’t be afraid.

  Your great debt shall be paid.

  God’s image, that you’ve marred,

  shall shine again, purified;

  resurrected by my will;

  transfigured in my soul.

  Go to your grave in peace.

  I shall pay the price.

  MOTHER: Let’s see now; does that mean

  every last little sin?

  BRAND: The debt. Only the debt.

  I can rid you of that.

  I am able to erase

  the effect, but not the cause.

  I cannot annul

  that sin which engendered all;

  I cannot assuage or share

  that guilt by which you are.
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  That bears a penalty

  which you alone must pay.

  MOTHER [uneasy]:

  You’re making my head spin,

  just like too much sun.

  Bad thoughts sprout in my head

  like henbane or bindweed.

  I’ve had enough. I’m going

  back where I belong.

  Under the glacier,

  there I’ll feel easier.

  BRAND: Then go, Mother, go back;

  hobble into the dark.

  I’ll stay here, close at hand.

  If you long for me, send

  for me; I shall come.

  MOTHER: You’ll come. Ay, to condemn!

  BRAND: As your son, as your priest,

  I’ll shield you from the blast

  of judgement and dread,

  melt the ice from your blood.

  I’ll sing you to sleep

  with hymns of sure hope.

  MOTHER: You’d swear that on the Good

  Book, and all?

  BRAND:    When I’m sent

  word that you repent,

  I shall come, as I said.

  Like you, Mother, I make

  one condition: give back

  all that you have gained. Go

  naked to the grave.

  MOTHER:      Oh no,

  son, no! Tell me to starve

  and thirst. Tell me I must,

  I will. Don’t make me give

  away what I love the most.

  BRAND: Everything you’re worth,

  or abide His wrath!

  MOTHER: Everything? I can’t, son, I

  can’t! Not every penny!

  BRAND: I see you’ll not atone

  till, like Job, all alone,

  covered in earth and ash,

  you cry, ‘Let the day perish

  wherein this carcass came

  forth out of the womb!’

  MOTHER [wringing her hands]:

  I can’t bear it; I’m

  going, while I still can; home

  to cradle my sweet gold

  as if it was my child

  and weep for it, like

  a mother will

  for her bairn that’s sick.

  Why does God leave a soul

  stuck like this in the flesh

  where your heart’s dearest wish

  makes your soul die?

  Stay by me, pastor,

  in my last hour

  and help me out.

  But until then

  let me hold on

  to the things I’ve got.

  Exit.

  BRAND [gazing after her]:

  Yes, your pastor will stay.

  And you will send for him.

  And he shall come to warm

  your withered hand in his,

  and let you die in peace.

  [Goes down the slope towards AGNES.]

  My life was like this sun at dawn.

  But now the sun is going down.

  At daybreak I could hear the song

  of battle; and my heart was strong.

  AGNES [turning round and looking up at him with shining eyes]:

  The dawn was pale compared to this

  full radiance. It was fantasies

  and games and pretty lies and art

  and everything that truth is not.

  The dawn was a false paradise.

  Truth must rejoice at such a loss.

  BRAND: But how I dreamed! Such dreams I had,