by Henrik Ibsen
AGNES: I tremble
when you say that.
BRAND: Be strong.
[Looking along the road]
At last!
A MESSENGER [coming through the garden gate]:
She’ll not live long …
BRAND: What message do you bring?
MESSENGER: A right old jumble.
She sat up and screeched,
‘I want the priest fetched;
my son, mind! Tell him, “half”.’
BRAND [shrinking back]:
Half? No!
MESSENGER: Half, I swear,
as true as I stand here.
BRAND: You misheard. She said, ‘all’.
MESSENGER: Look, man, I’m not deaf.
I know what I heard.
‘Half’ is what she said.
BRAND: You’d swear that, at the Day
of Judgement?
He clutches the MESSENGER’s arm.
MESSENGER: On my soul.
BRAND [firmly]:
Then take her my reply:
‘No bread, no wine,
no comfort, none.’
MESSENGER [looking uncertainly at him]:
Perhaps your hearing’s bad.
She’s dying, your own mother …
BRAND: I don’t make different laws,
one for my own kin, the other
for strangers. My mother knows
that ‘all or nothing’
is absolute. One piece
struck from the Golden Calf
is an idol, no less
than the beast itself.
MESSENGER: Well, if she’s still breathing
by the time I get back,
I’ll tell her, ‘Your son
sends his best wishes –
fifty lashes!’
I shan’t relish the work,
I tell you plain.
How can you treat her so?
God Himself is less hard.
That’s a comfort anyhow!
Exit.
BRAND: This stinking comfort blown
from their own carrion;
the stench of deathly fear
tainting the world’s air!
Even their so-called faith
they keep to bargain with,
to bribe their senile judge,
a sop to soothe his rage.
Out in the road, the MESSENGER has met a SECOND MESSENGER; both return.
BRAND: Another message?
FIRST MESSENGER: Yes.
BRAND: What does she say?
SECOND MESSENGER: She says,
‘Nine-tenths.’
BRAND: She’s not said ‘all’?
SECOND MESSENGER: She’s not.
BRAND: Go back, then; tell
her, ‘No wine, no bread,
no comfort.’
SECOND MESSENGER: Hasn’t she paid
enough? More than enough?
FIRST MESSENGER: That woman gave you life.
BRAND [clenching his hands]:
What would you have me do?
Deal kindly with what’s mine
and deal harshly with you?
SECOND MESSENGER: Her need, her dread, are terrible
to see. Give her some sign.
BRAND [to the FIRST MESSENGER]:
No sacraments can be brought
to an unclean table:
tell her what I have said.
The MESSENGERS leave.
AGNES [clinging to him]:
Brand, sometimes you seem
like some grim scourge of God,
like God’s own sword of flame.
I flinch from the sight.
BRAND [sorrowfully]:
But, Agnes, the world’s sword
has already drawn blood
from me; many times it has cut
me to the heart.
AGNES: Your own demands go deep;
they’re not easy to bear.
How many measure up
to such morality?
Pitifully few, I fear.
BRAND: This entire age is devoid
of grace or merit;
it’s ruled by creeping pride,
dull frivolity,
meanness of spirit.
Say to the ‘man-of-the-hour’,
whether of peace or war,
‘Enough; be satisfied
with the true victory,
with the triumph of good;
let your own name go down
to dust; let silence reign.’
Would he agree?
Or tell some eager poet
with his sweet cage-birds of song,
tell him to live unsung.
He’d fly at your throat.
Rich men who set such store
by largesse to the poor
bargain on gratitude
posthumously accrued.
But selfless charity,
now there’s a rarity!
The mighty and the meek,
the strong man and the sick,
are all alike in this
loathing of sacrifice,
this craving to possess,
this thraldom to the world.
In dread of the abyss
they struggle to keep hold,
clinging to root and branch
until the avalanche.
AGNES: Yet still you thunder ‘all
or nothing’ as they fall.
BRAND: Lose all if you would gain
all. Out of the depths men
scale even the precipice
of their own fall from grace.
[Silent for a moment]
Everything that I speak
is spoken in agony.
I’m like a castaway
crying in vain among
the spars of a great wreck.
I could bite out my tongue
that must rage and chastise
and with its prophecies
strike terror where I crave
the touch of human love.
Watch over our child,
Agnes. In a radiant dream
his spirit lies so calm,
like water that is stilled,
like a mountain tarn
silent under the sun.
Sometimes his mother’s face
hovers over that hushed place,
is received, is given back,
as beautifully as a bird
hovers, and hovering, is mirror’d
in the depths of the lake.
AGNES [pale]:
No matter where you aim
your thoughts, they fly to him.
BRAND: O Agnes, guard him well,
in quietness.
AGNES: I will.
Only … a few more
words …
BRAND: Words to inspire!
AGNES: All the strength you can give.
BRAND [embracing her]:
The innocent shall live.
AGNES [looking up radiantly]:
The innocent! You see, even
God dare not destroy
such a gift from Heaven!
She goes into the house.
BRAND [gazing silently; then]:
Does she think God has qualms? –
the God who chose Abraham’s
beloved child, the boy
Isaac, as the altar stone
of his father’s faith!7
[Shakes off his thoughts.]
No! I’ve made my sacrifice.
The great cause is forgone,
and I’ve stifled the voice
that could rouse the whole earth
to His redeeming wrath:
‘You sleepers, wake!’ I’ve come
down from that high dream.
[Looks down the road.]
This torment of delay!
Why no repentance, why?
<
br /> Why is she not prepared,
even in this last pain,
to be rid of her sin,
to tear its claggy root
out of her heart?
The MAYOR appears on the road, walking in the direction of the pastor’s house.
BRAND: A message! Yes, the word
at last! Ugh, no. The mayor,
look at him, tasting the air,
strutting and jolly,
his hands in his pockets,
his arms like brackets
around his belly.
MAYOR [through the garden gate]:
Good day, reverend!
How are you, friend?
I fear I’ve come
at a difficult time.
Your mother, I believe,
not much longer to live?
Very distressing!
Death comes to us all.
As I was passing
I thought, ‘Why not call?
Very much better
to tackle the matter
head-on.’ It’s well known
you’re at daggers drawn.
BRAND: At daggers drawn?
MAYOR: That’s what they say.
Her treasure’s under lock and key.
BRAND: The reckoning’s overdue;
that at least is true.
MAYOR: As soon as the old girl
(God rest her soul)
lies in Mother Earth,
just think what you’ll be worth!
From now on, pastor,
the world’s your oyster.
Believe me, I know.
BRAND: That means ‘Be off with you!’
MAYOR: Best thing for all concerned.
I’m sure you understand.
We’re happy as we are,
we liege-folk of the shore.
Your spiritual fire,
utterly wasted here!
BRAND: A man’s own native soil
sustains him; he best thrives
where he first plants his foot.
If he’s cast out, his soul
withers; nothing he strives
for blossoms or bears fruit.
MAYOR: A man must do what’s best
in the national interest.
BRAND: How can you ever truly
know what our nation needs,
if you bury your heads
deep in this darkling valley?
Go, purify your sight
in the clear air of the height!
MAYOR: That sounds like city talk,
pastor. We’re humble folk.
BRAND: These boundaries you draw
between ‘high’ and ‘low’!
This never-ending wail,
‘We are small, we are small, we are small!’
MAYOR: For everything there is a time
and a due season, says the psalm.
This lowly parish, sir, has cast
its mite into the treasure-chest
of weighty cause and doughty deed,
a tribute to our Viking blood!
Those sagas, those heroic lays
of good King Bele’s8 golden days
and those great brothers, Ulf and Thor,9
and many a hundred heroes more!
Some say it’s not polite to boast,
some say, ‘Forget what’s dead and past’;
but I, for one, am very proud
of what our great forefathers did.
Few have done better, I’ll be bound,
to aid the progress of mankind!
BRAND: But you even betray
your own battle-cry,
your ‘patriots’ pledge’,
your ‘noblesse oblige’!
What do you care
for that ‘goodly fere’,
King Bele’s men?
You’ve ploughed them in!
MAYOR: But you’re wrong, you’re wrong!
Why don’t you come along
to our next ‘wassail’
in the parish hall?
The schoolmaster, magistrate,
myself, all the elite
of the neighbourhood,
pounding the festal board
and drinking hot toddy!
King Bele lives, laddy!
At such times I feel stirred
by the power of the word,
by heroic verse.
I’m partial to a bit
of rhyming; and that goes,
I’d say, for most of us
round here. Enough’s enough,
though. Art isn’t life,
as I hope you’ll agree. But,
say, between seven and ten
of an evening, when work’s
over and folk can relax,
we dally with the muse,
and pipe a lyric strain,
we play at hunt-the-rhyme,
and bathe in the sublime.
Now, just between ourselves,
pastor, there’s something odd
in your whole attitude.
You don’t do things by halves.
We do. You want to fight,
turn every wrong to right
at one fell swoop, it seems.
These, I think, are your aims?
Correct me, if they’re not.
BRAND: Something of the sort.
MAYOR: Keep your lofty ideals
for your intellectuals
in the big city.
We’re tillers of the soil,
we’re toilers of the sea.
BRAND: Then justify that toil!
Into the ocean cast
each vainglorious boast;
and deep in the earth hide
every platitude.
MAYOR: Surely great nations thrive
on memories!
BRAND: If you have
nothing but memories
you keep vigil in vain
at an empty cairn.
MAYOR: It’s plain you’re much too good
for this neighbourhood.
Look, leave it to me –
I’ll soon restore morale
among our ‘sons of toil’.
That I can guarantee.
It’s not too much to claim
that my mayoral term
has won deserved applause
for grit and enterprise.
The birth-rate has increased
thanks to my zeal and zest.
What wonders men perform,
under their own steam!
A new road or a bridge,
real marvels of the age!
BRAND: Between the life of earth
and the living faith
you’ve built nothing at all.
MAYOR: My road up to the fell!
BRAND: Between vision and deed
I see no new road;
but I have seen God’s hand
writing His words of flame:
‘The place where you are come
is your abiding place.’
Here I take my stand.
MAYOR: Well, stay if you must.
But stick to your last;
castigate crime and vice,
God knows, there’s need enough,
wickedness is rife.
But we don’t want fuss.
And please remember this:
six whole days a week
are devoted to work.
One day for sober thought
is more than adequate.
And don’t expect the Lord
God to walk on the fjord,
either!
BRAND: To make use
of such practical advice
I would have to change
souls, or my soul’s range
of vision. Souls are called
by God, not by the world.
And I shall set free
by my soul’s victory
the people whom you led,
lulled and betrayed,
starved, and constrained
in your poverty of mind.
MAYOR: So we’re to fight it out?
You’ll be the first to fall.
Mark my words, you will!
BRAND: Victorious in defeat.
You’ll never understand …
MAYOR: And can you wonder? Friend,
don’t turn your back on life!
Don’t hazard every good
that this world has bestowed
with such generous hands –
your mother’s gold, her bonds,
your child and your good wife.
BRAND: And if I must renounce
such an inheritance?
And if I must, what then?
MAYOR: It doesn’t make sense!
You haven’t a chance!
Think on, think on!
BRAND: Here’s where I stake my claim;
here, in my own home;
and if I shrink from the call
I lose my own soul.
MAYOR: But a man on his own
can’t hope to win.
BRAND: The best are on my side.
MAYOR [smiling]:
I’ve thousands on parade!
Exit.
BRAND [gazing after him]:
There goes a stalwart democrat,
filled with the democratic urge,
the civic sentiments at heart;
but what a scourge!
No avalanche or hurricane
has done the damage he has done
with a good conscience all these years.
How many smiles he’s turned to tears!
What gifts, what ardours, have recoiled
to darkness, all their music stilled.
What impulses of joy or wrath
he cheerfully deprives of breath.
How many hearts has he destroyed,
without the slightest trace of blood!
[The DOCTOR appears at the garden gate. BRAND suddenly notices him and cries out in anguish.]
Doctor! Is there some word?
DOCTOR: We must leave her to God …
I’m sorry, my boy …
BRAND: But surely, before she died,
surely she must have said …
DOCTOR: ‘I repent, I repent!’
Is that what you want?
She gave nothing away.
BRAND [gazing in silence before he speaks]:
Then she’s lost for ever?
DOCTOR: God may be less severe.
She whispered, at the end,
‘He is kinder than Brand.’
BRAND [sinking down, as if in pain, on the bench]:
In the final agony
of guilt, on the brink of death
itself, the same old lie.
He hides his face in his hands.
DOCTOR [coming nearer, looking at him and shaking his head]:
You live by the old law,
do you not? Here and now,
‘An eye for an eye, a tooth
for a tooth’.10 But I believe
that each generation
has its own life to live
in its own fashion.
Ours has the wit to laugh
at every ‘old wife’
with her rag-bag of ghouls,
changelings, damned souls,
and dead bodies that rise.
Our first commandment is:
‘Be humane, be humane!’
