Complete Works of Henrik Ibsen (95 page)

BRAND.
War such as we wage does not cease,
Howe’er the vanquish’d cry “No more!”

THE MAYOR.
Why, what should be the end of war
But reasonable terms of peace?
To kick at pricks is not my way,
I’m made of common human clay;
When at your breast the lance you feel
It is but reason to give place; —
With but a switch to parry steel,
‘Tis just to make a volte-face;
Left of your cause the sole defender,
It is the wisest to surrender.

BRAND.
Two things are noticeable here.
First, that you call me strong.
Of men I have the larger part.

THE MAYOR.
That’s clear.

BRAND.
Now, possibly: but when shall rise
The great dread day of sacrifice,
Who will have more supporters then?

THE MAYOR.
Of sacrifice? Why, goodness me,
That’s just the day we never see!
At least, the sacrifice no worse is
Than drafts upon good people’s purses;
The age is too humane to bring
Any more costly offering.
And what’s most vexing is, that I
Myself have all along been noted
Of those who the Humane promoted
And hinder’d sacrifice thereby.
So that it may be fairly said,
I’ve put the axe to my own head,
Or, at the least, laid rods in store
To baffle all I’ve struggled for.

BRAND.
You may be right. But, furthermore,
I hardly know how you can dare
Surrender your own cause as lost.
Be rods, or be they not, the cost,
Man’s work is what he’s fashion’d for,
And Paradise, for him, lies there.
‘Twixt him and it though oceans swell,
And close at hand lie Satan’s quarter,
May he for that cry “Toil, farewell —
The way to hell’s distinctly shorter!”?

THE MAYOR.
To that I answer: Yes and No.
Some final haven man must win; —
If all our toil brings nothing in,
Who on a barren quest will go?
The fact stands thus: we want reward
For every labour, light or hard;
And if in arms we miss the prize, —
We gain our point by compromise.

BRAND.
But black will never turn to white!

THE MAYOR.
Respected friend, the gain is slight
Of saying: “White as yonder brae,”
When the mob’s shouting: “Black as snow!”

BRAND.
You join them, possibly?

THE MAYOR.
Why, no —
I rather shout, not black, but gray,
The time’s humane; asks apt compliance,
Not blunt and absolute defiance.
We stand on democratic ground,
Where what the people thinks is right;
Shall o n e against the mass propound
His special views on black and white?
In short, you, having a majority,
Arc best entitled to authority.
So I submit, as they submitted,
With you my humble lot I cast,
And may I by no soul be twitted
For not contending to the last!
Folks now consider, I perceive,
Petty and poor all I achieve;
They say there’s something of more worth
Than richer harvests wrung from earth;
They are not willing as they were,
The necessary mite to spare;
And the best cause, if will’s not in it, —
There’s very little hope to win it.
Believe me, ‘tis no easy thing
To drop one’s plans for roads and bridges,
For tapping meres and draining ridges,
And more besides that was in swing.
But, good Lord, what’s a man to say?
If he can’t win, he must give way;
Patiently trust that Time’s his friend,
And to the blast astutely bend.
Now,-the folks’ favour I’ve foregone
In just the way it first was won;
Ay, ay,-and by another track
I’ll get my old possession back.

BRAND.
So all your cunning, all your art,
Aim’d but to win the people’s heart?

THE MAYOR.
God help me, no! The common good
And profit of this neighbourhood
Has been my single, sole desire.
But, I admit, there did conspire
The worker’s hope of worthy hire
For day’s work honestly pursued.
The fact stands thus: a resolute
And able man, with sense to boot,
Demands to see his labour’s fruit,
And not to drudge and sweat and groan
To profit an Idea alone.
With the best will I can’t afford
To throw my interests overboard,
And give my brains without reward.
I’ve a large household to supply,
A wife, and of grown girls a store,
Who must be first provided for; —
Belly that’s empty, throat that’s dry,
The idea scarce will satisfy
Where mouths so many must be fill’d.
And any man who should demur,
For him I have but one reply, —
Iie’s an unworthy householder.

BRAND.
And now your object is — ?

THE MAYOR.
To build.

BRAND.
To build?

THE MAYOR.
Why, yes,-the common state
To better, and my own to boot.
First I will build up the repute
I stood in till a recent date: —
The elections soon will be on foot: —
So I must set some scheme afloat,
Some booming enterprise promote;
Thus I regain my lost authority,
And check the wane of my majority.
Now, I’ve reflected, to compete
With wind and tide wins no man’s praises;
The folk want “lifting,” as the phrase is,
A work for which I’m all unmeet;
I can but set them on their feet;
Which can’t be done unless they please, —
And here all are my enemies!
Whence I’ve resolved since such the case is,
After ripe thought, to find a basis
For making war with poverty

BRAND.
You would uproot it?

THE MAYOR.
No, not I!
It is a necessary ill
In every state: we must endure it;
Yet may we, with a little skill,
In certain forms confine, secure it,
If only we begin in time.
He who would grow a bed of crime,
Let him with poverty manure it:
I’ll set a dam to this manure!

BRAND.
How?

THE MAYOR.
Do you take me? I can cure
A want, of long and bitter proof,
By building, for the Town’s behoof,
A Pest-house for the afflicted Poor.
Pest-house I call a thing projected
To rid us of the crime-infected.
And, I reflected, to the Pest-house
Might well be added an Arrest-house,
The cause with its effect confined
The selfsame bars and bolts behind,
And nothing but a wall between.
And, while my hand is in, I mean
In the same block to build withal
A wing for balls and ballotings,
Social and business gatherings,
With platform and Assembly-Hall;
In short, a half-political,
Half-social, smart and festive Guest-house.

BRAND.
Sorely required; this most of all;
But yet there’s o n e thing needed more.

THE MAYOR.
You mean a Mad-house? Yes, indeed;
A very peremptory need;
That was my own idea before.
But now, by friendly counsel wrought,
I’ve utterly renounced the thought;
For who’s to furnish the supplies
For such a giant enterprise?
To put a Mad-house up would come,
Believe me, to a pretty sum,
H all whom need and merit fitted,
Should be within its walls admitted.
We must not build for our caprice,
But note Time’s current as it glides; —
The world moves on with giant strides,
Last year abundance, famine this;
You see to what a monstrous girth
The folks’ necessities have swell’d,
Talents for everything on earth,
Headlong by seven-league boots propell’d,
Are swarming madly to the birth.
Thus it would be too dear a jest
To build posterity a nest
And let self, wife, and children go;
This tooth, I say, we can’t afford:
Out with it, therefore, by the Lord!

BRAND.
And then, there’s the great Hall, you know,
For any madder than the rest.

THE MAYOR.
[Delighted.]
Yes, it would mostly be to spare!
Why, Brand, you’ve hit the nail-head there!
If fortunate our project’s fate is,
We get to boot-a Mad-house gratis;
Here, shelter’d by the selfsame roof,
And by the selfsame flag defended,
All the essential strands are blended
That tinge and tone our social woof.
Here in one haven disembogues
The flood of Paupers and of Rogues;
With Lunatics who roajn’d at large,
Subject to no man’s check or charge;
Here too our Freedom’s highest reach,
The election-strife, the storm of speech;
And here our Council-Hall, for framing
Measures to meet each public pest;
And here our Feast-Hall, for proclaiming
How well we’ll guard the Past’s bequest.
You see, then, if our project stand,
The Cragsman has at his command
All he in reason can demand, —
The right to live as he thinks best.
God knows, how slender our resources,
But once our enterprise in force is,
I trust we may be with impunity
Styled a well-organised community.

BRAND.
But then the means — ?

THE MAYOR.
Ay, there’s the knot,
As in all other things, in this.
Hardly to contributions wrought
Is Will, and if your help I miss,
I furl my flag without a thought:
But with your eloquent alliance
I’ll bid all obstacles defiance,
And when all’s done, your kind compliance,
Believe me, shall not be forgot.

BRAND.
In short, you’d b u y me.

THE MAYOR.
For my aim
I should prefer another name:
I seek, with general good in view.
That gulf of difference to cross
Which you from me and me from you
Has sever’d, to our common loss.

BRAND.
In an ill-omen’d hour you came ——

THE MAYOR.
Unfortunately yes, I own it :
Your recent loss,-I might have known it,
But your brave bearing re-assured me,
And need of public credit lured me.

BRAND.
In grievous or in gladsome season
I render help where need is plain;
But, for another weighty reason,
This time your mission is in vain.

THE MAYOR.
And which, pray — ?

BRAND.
I am building too.

THE MAYOR.
You building? You adopt my view?

BRAND.
Not altogether.
[Pointing out of the window.]
Do you see?

THE MAYOR.
Yonder?

BRAND.
Yes.

THE MAYOR.
That great ugly stall?
Why, that’s the Parsonage granary.

BRAND.
No, not that;-but the ugly, small —

THE MAYOR.
The Church?

BRAND.
I mean to build it great.

THE MAYOR.
That, by the devil! you shall not!
No man shall alter it one jot!
My plan ‘twould utterly frustrate.
Mine’s urgent, only waits the word,
By yours I’m absolutely floor’d;
Two weapons can’t at once be wielded,
Yield therefore — !

BRAND.
I have never yielded.

THE MAYOR.
You must, man, here. Build my Arrest-house,
My Pest-house and my festive Guest-house,
Build all, the Mad-house comprehending,
And who’ll ask, where the Church wants mending?
And why condemn it now to fall?
‘Twas well enough a while ago.

BRAND.
Possibly; n o w it is too small.

THE MAYOR.
I never saw it full, I know.

BRAND.
Even a single soul is scanted,
And has not room therein to soar.

THE MAYOR.
[Shaking his head in amazement.]
(Which single soul but proves the more
How sorely my Asylum’s wanted.)
[Changing his tone.]
Let the Church be, is my advice.
One may regard it, in some wise,
As a rich heirloom of our age;
In fact, a noble heritage,
Which we not lightly may remove.
Nay, if my building project crashes,
I, like a Phoenix from the ashes,
Will live again in public love,
As one chivalrously intent
To save our ancient monument!
Here stood a heathen fane of old, —
‘Twas in King Belii’s reign, no doubt;
Then, later heroes more devout
Founded the Church with looted gold.
All-sacred in its antique dress,
Grand in its simple stateliness,
Till our own days it tower’d sublime ——

BRAND.
But all these glories of old time
Lie long since buried deep in mould,
Of all surviving sign bereft.

THE MAYOR.
Just so! They arc so very old
That not a trace of them is left.
But in my late grandfather’s day
A wall-hole still defied decay!

BRAND.
A wall-hole?

THE MAYOR.
Fit to hold a tun!

BRAND.
But the wall’s self?

THE MAYOR.
Oh, that was gone.
In plain terms then, I am compell’d
To say, your scheme is out of court: —
A barbarous and unparallel’d
Horrible sacrilege, in short.
And then the money,-do you dream
These folks are so profuse in spending,
That they’ll contrive new cost by lending
Existence to a half-hatch’d scheme?
When with a little deftness they
May so far patch the crumbling wall
That in o u r time it will not fall?
But just go out!-the field survey, —
You’ll find, I’m winner after all.

BRAND.
From no man will I wring a jot
To give my God house-harbourage:
With my own goods it shall be wrought;
In that one work my heritage
To the last penny shall be spent. —
Now, Mayor, are you still confident
That you can shake me from my thought?