Complete Works of Henrik Ibsen (99 page)

All with wreaths and banners hung;
Children practising their song;
So the Manse they surge and throng, —
Festal greetings they would bring me; —
Yonder gleams my name in gold! —
Give me light, O God, or fling me
Fathom-deep beneath this mould!
In an hour begins the Feast.
Every thought and every tongue
Will be ringing with “the priest,”
All their thoughts I can discern;
All their words I feel them burn;
All their praise, on elf-wings sped,
Rives me like an icy blast!
Oh, to be enfolded fast
In oblivion, hide my head
In a wild beast’s hole at last!

THE MAYOR.
[Enters in full uniform, radiant with satisfaction, and greets him.]
Here is the great day come at last,
The Sabbath to the toiling six;
Now we can strike our sail, and fix
Our Sunday pennon to the mast,
Glide softly with the gliding flood
And find that all is very good.
Bravo!-great, noble man, whose fame
Will soon be far and wide related.
Bravo!-I’m moved, yet all the same
Most inexpressibly elated!
But you appear

BRAND.
I’m suffocated.

THE MAYOR.
Pooh, a mere momentary whim!
Preach you now, till it roars again! —
Fill the folks’ bushel to the brim.
Not one his wonder can contain,
The resonance is so full and plain.

BRAND.
Indeed?

THE MAYOR.
The Dean himself is warm
In admirition and delight.
And then, what elegance of form,
And what a grandeur, what a height
In every part —

BRAND.
You’ve noted this?

THE MAYOR.
What noted?

BRAND.
It seems great to you?

THE ALAYOR.
Why, it not only seems, but i s,
No matter what the point of view.

BRAND.
It is great? Really? That is true — ?

THE MAYOR.
Great?-yes, God bless me,-and to spare —
For folks so far to North. Elsewhere
They’ve higher standards, I’m aware?
But among us who captive dwell
Amid drear wastes and barren mounds,
On the scant verge of fjord and fell,
Its greatness ‘mazes and confounds.

BRAND.
Yes, that is so, and all we do
Is,-change an old lie for a new.

THE MAYOR.
What?

BRAND.
We have lured their hearts away
From the time-honour’d gloom and mould
To soaring spire and open day.
“How venerable!” they cried of old.
“Now vast!” in chorus now they roar —
“The like was never seen before!”

THE MAYOR.
My worthy friend, I needs must hold
His breeding scarcely qiiantum suff.
For whom it is not great enough.

BRAND.
But clear it shall be unto all
That, as it stands, the Church is small.
To keep that hidden were to lie.

THE MAYOR.
Nay, listen,-let such whimsies fly!
What can it profit to dispraise
What you yourself have toil’d to raise?
You’ve satisfied their utmost dream;
It seems to them more rich and rare
Than aught they e’er saw anywhere: —
Let it continue so to seem!
Why should we vex their silly sight
With proffers of the flaming link,
When they’re indifferent to light?
The question’s only what they think.
It does not signify a jot
Though the Church were a pigeon-cot,
If in the faith they’re rooted fast,
That it is infinitely vast.

BRAND.
In every matter the same thought.

TITE MAYOR.
To-day, moreover, we hold fete:
The whole assembly is our guest;
It is a point of etiquette
That everything should look its best;
And for your own sake, most of all,
It were judicious to keep clear
Of that sore fact-that it is small.

BRAND.
How so?

THE MAYOR.
Well, listen, you shall hear.
Firstly, the headmen of the town
Are giving you a piece of plate,
Whose graved inscription is frustrate
If the work’s size is whittled down;
And then the Ode, composed express,
And my inaugural address, —
You leave them helpless in the lurch,
Docking the greatness of the Church.
You see then, you must yield your doubt,
And boldly face the matter out.

BRAND.
I see, what oft has stung my eye,
A lying triumph crown the lie.

THE MAYOR.
But, in God’s name, my worthy friend,
Where do these strong expressions tend?
However, waiving points of taste,
Hear now my second reason,-gold,
As that was silver; for, behold,
You, like a chosen son, are graced
With favour in the royal sight;
In short,-you have been named a Knight!
This very day you’ll walk elate,
Cross upon breast, a titled man.

BRAND.
Another, heavier cross’s weight
I bear; take that from me who can.

THE MAYOR.
What’s this? You do not seem to shake
With agitation at such prize?
You mystery of mysteries!
But pray consider, for God’s sake —

BRAND.
[Stamping.]
This is mere babble of vain speech: —
Nothing I learn and nothing teach;
You have not grasp’d the smallest shred
Of the true sense of what I said.
I meant not greatness men compute,
And measure by the inch and foot,
But that which, viewless, darts and streams,
Pierces the soul with frosts and fires,
That beckons to impassion’d dreams,
And like the starlit heaven inspires —
That-leave me! I am worn, oppress’d; —
Convince, teach, edify the rest.
[Goes up towards the Church.]

THE MAYOR.
[To himself.]
In such a labyrinth who can stray
And find an issue? Greatness lay
In something that is “viewless,” “streams,”
“Not inchwise measured,” “lifts to dreams,”
And “starlit heaven?” It went so, surely?
Has he been lunching prematurely?
[Goes.]

BRAND.
[Comes down over the open ground.]
So desolate on the upland drear
I never stood as I stand here;
My impotent questionings evoke
Echoes that cackle and that croak.
[Looks towards the MAYOR.]
For him, I would my heel might bruise
His head! Each time I make emprise
To loose him from the bond of lies,
With shameless wantonness he spews
His rotten soul before my eyes! —
O Agnes, why Avast thou so frail?
Would that this hollow game were done,
Where none give in, and none prevail; —
Yes, hopeless he that fights alone!

THE DEAN.
[Coming up.]
O, my beloved! O, my sheep — !
Nay, I beg pardon,-would have said
My reverend brother!-cannot keep
My predication from my head;
I got it yesterday by rote,
The taste still lingers in my throat.
Enough of that.-To you I offer
My thanks, whose energy began,
Whose firmness carried through, the plan,
Despite the babbler and the scoffer;
Fell’d that which was about to fall,
And worthily restored it all!

BRAND.
Far from that yet.

THE DEAN.
How say you, friend?
Is Consecration not the end?

BRAND.
A House new-builded asks, as well,
A cleansed Soul, therein to dwell.

THE DEAN.
All that will come without our stir.
So gay, so elegant a roof
Will be an adequate reproof
To every unwash’d worshipper.
And that delightful sounding-board,
That doubles every pious word,
Will render without fail our flocks
Fivescore per cent. more orthodox.
Results so notable as these
The first-rate Nationalities
Themselves, ‘tis said, can hardly better. —
For this your Country is your debtor,
Yours only; let me then express
These heartfelt, brotherly thanks of mine,
To be re-echoed, as I guess,
In winged words across the wine,
By many a fiery young divine,
When at the festal board we crown
This the great day of your renown. —
But, my dear Brand, you look so faint — ?

BRAND.
My heart and hope have long been spent.

THE DEAN.
No wonder;-with so grave a care,
And all unaided and unfriended.
But now the worst of it is ended,
And all gives promise of a splendid
Day for our function. Don’t despair!
All will go well! Reflect! A throng
Has gather’d, many thousand strong,
From far-off parishes,-and who
Can vie in eloquence with you?
See where your reverend brethren stand,
To welcome you with heart and hand;
While all these lowly bosoms beat
With ardour for you, first to last!
And then, the work, so ably plann’d,
The decoration, so complete, —
The general theme-How great! How vast!
-And the unparallel’d repast!
Into the kitchen I was looking
Just now, and saw the calf a-cooking.
Nay, Brand, a pretty beast, I vow!
You must have had some trouble, now,
In these hard times, before you found
So fine a bit of flesh to cater,
With meat at half a crown a pound!
But that can be deferr’d till later.
I’m on another errand bound.

BRAND.
Speak freely; slash, stab, rive and rend!

TILE DEAN.
I have a milder way, my friend.
But briefly: for our duties press.
One little matter, I confess,
I’d have you from to-day set right;
A task that cannot but be light.
Nay, I imagine you can guess
Half what I’m hinting at, at least?
I mean, your duties as a priest.
Hitherto you have been a loose
Observer still, of Wont and Use;
But Use and Wont, if not the best
Of things, are yet the needfulest.
Well, well, I will not be severe;
You’re young, and but a novice here,
Town-bred, and scarcely understand
What country usages demand.
But no w, n ow it is urgent, friend,
The lack of judgment to amend.
You hitherto have too much heeded
What this man and what that man needed,
That error (in your private car)
Is grievous. Weigh them in the block;
Use the same comb for all the flock;
You won’t repent it, never fear.

BRAND.
Be more explicit.

THE DEAN.
The thing’s clear.
You for the Parish’s behoof
Have built a Church. That is the woof
That robes the spirit of Law and Peace;
For to the State, religion is
The power that lifts and purifies,
The stronghold where its safety lies,
The universal moral measure.
You see, the State is scant of treasure,
And wants full value for its pence.
“Good Christians” means “good citizens.”
Do you suppose it pays its pelf
To be for God and Man a tool,
And bring annoyance on itself?
No, faith, the State is not a fool;
And all our course would run amiss,
Did not the State, by strictest rule,
Look only to the life that is.
But the State’s object, my good friend,
Through its officials must be gain’d,
In this case through its priests —

BRAND.
Each word
Is wisdom! Speak!

THE DEAN.
I’m near the end.
This Church, you see, you have conferr’d
Upon the State, for its sole profit;
And, therefore. all the uses of it
Must to the State’s advantage tend.
This is the meaning, note it well,
Of our forthcoming celebration,
This shall be meant by chiming bell,
And this by Gift-deed’s recitation.
A promise thus the Gift implies,
Whose force I’d have you scrutinise

BRAND.
By God, I never meant it so!

THE DEAN.
Yes; but it’s now too late, you know

BRAND.
Too late? Too late! That will be seen!

THE DEAN.
Be sensible! I can’t keep grave!
What is the tragedy therein?
You are not ask’d to promise sin?
Souls do not grow more hard to save
Because the Country profits too;
With due discretion and despatch
Two masters’ bidding you may do;
You were not made a priest, to snatch
Peter’s or Harry’s single soul
Out of the torments of the lake;
But that the Parish as a whole
Might of the shower of grace partake;
And, the whole Parish saved, it’s clear,
You save every Parishioner.
The State is (what you hardly dream)
Exactly half republican:
Liberty held in strictest ban,
Equality in high esteem.
Yet is Equality never won
But by destroying More and Less, —
And it is that you have not done!
Nay, you have striven to express
And emphasise unlikenesses
That slumber’d hitherto unknown.
Men, mere Church-members till of late,
To Personalities are grown.
That does no service to the State;
And thus it is, each Parish rate
Each offering to the common good,
Is from unwilling niggards bled;
The Church no longer is the hood
That fits alike on every head.

BRAND.
O, vistas infinite unfold!

THE DEAN.
Don’t be cast down; no gain in that;
Though I must own I shudder at
The dire confusion I behold.
But while there’s .:fe, there’s hope, and you
Arc by this gift baptized anew
To obligations yet more great
Of serving, by your Church, the State.
Men need a rule in all they do;
Or reckless forces, breaking loose,
Like colts undaunted by the curb,
Spurn gates and fences, and disturb
The thousand landmarks of old Use.
Each order’d mode of life proclaims
One Law, that goes by many names.
The Artist calls it School, and I’m
Mistaken if I have not heard
Our soldiers call it keeping time.
Ah yes, friend, that’s the very word!
That’s what the State desires at last!
Double-quick time gets on too fast,
And goose-step lags too far behind;
All men to step alike, and beat
The selfsame music with their feet,
That is the method to its mind!