I must say, viewed from here
now that the moon’s so bright,
it’s exceedingly shabby.
The weathercock and the spire,
they’re in a dreadful state!
And the roof and the walls,
ugly beyond belief,
a mere hotchpotch of styles.
Is that moss on the roof?
BRAND: And if the populace
cried out, as with one voice,
‘Leave the old church alone!’,
what would you do then?
MAYOR: I’ll show you what I’d do.
I know a trick or two
for rousing the nation.
I’ll canvass, agitate,
start a petition.
If that doesn’t succeed
in whipping up the crowd,
I’ll tear the place apart
myself; and I’ll be brisk
about it, even if
I have to set my wife
and daughters to the task
of demolition.
BRAND: Well, mayor, you’ve changed your tune,
slightly, since we began!
MAYOR: A liberal education
rids one of prejudice.
Good heavens, how time flies!
I must be on my way,
I must indeed. Goodbye,
Pastor, goodbye.
[Takes his hat.]
I’m
hot in pursuit of crime.
BRAND: What crime?
MAYOR: Early today
right on the parish bounds,
a gypsy tribe – such fiends
they are! I took the lot.
What do you think of that?
They’re all snugly tied up
and under lock and key.
Well, not all. Two or three
managed to escape.
BRAND: And this is the season
of peace and goodwill!
MAYOR: All the more reason
to clap them in gaol;
they bring trouble and strife.
And yet, they’ve cause enough.
In an odd sort of way
they belong to the parish;
to you, even; though ‘Perish
the thought,’ I hear you say.
Look here, do you like
riddles? Here’s a joke.
Decipher this rune:
Not of your kith nor kin
but of your origin.
Why were we born?
BRAND: Where is the answer?
MAYOR: Not too hard,
surely? You must have heard
many and many a time,
about that lad who came
from yonder, from the West;
as clever as a priest
or four priests put together.
This lad loved your mother.
She’d property of her own,
a few acres of stone,
wouldn’t be wooed nor wed,
not she. Showed him the door,
she did. And that put paid
to his hopes. He went half
out of his mind with grief,
half out of his mind.
But there it is. In the end
he took another lass,
a gypsy she was,
and fathered a whole brood
out of her gypsy blood.
Those imps of sin and shame,
they’re his, some of them.
Oh yes, we pay the fine
for his fine goings-on.
Why, one of his brats
even gets clothed and fed
out of the parish rates!
BRAND: Of course …
MAYOR: That troll-wench, Gerd.
BRAND: Now I begin to see …
MAYOR: A right riddle-me-ree.
Who’d believe it? A lad
goes silly in the head
because of your mother,
how many years ago?
Now here you are. And I’ve
to waste all Christmas Eve
chasing his sons and daughters
for miles across the snow
in this foul weather.
BRAND: But whips and fetters …!
MAYOR: Pastor, don’t waste your time.
They’re sunk in sin and crime.
Shove them behind bars.
Let charity go shares
with Satan in this world.
Keep Old Nick from the cold.
BRAND: Surely you had a plan
to house the destitute?
MAYOR: My plan has been withdrawn
in favour of your own.
BRAND: If you had my support …
MAYOR [smiling]:
Well, you have changed your tune!
[Pats his shoulder.]
What’s done can’t be undone.
Life has its rewards.
And now I must be off.
Merry Christmas. Regards
to your good lady wife!
Exit.
BRAND [a brooding silence; then]:
Atonement without end,
guilt with guilt intertwined,
deadly contagion
of sin breeding with sin;
deed issuing from deed
hideously inbred.
Right ceasing to be right
even as one stares at it!
[Goes to the window and looks out for a long while.]
The innocent must atone.
Therefore God took my son.
And the hurt soul of Gerd
pays for my mother’s greed.
And it was Gerd’s voice
that drove me to my choice.
Each generation
of us hunted down
by that just God, who is
terrible to praise.
The sacrificial will
is what redeems man’s soul!
Even in those darkest days
when grief and dread possessed
me; and I saw that our child slept
too deeply ever to be kissed
awake; even then my prayers
never ceased. Even then,
amid all that pain,
I was held, still and rapt,
as though by some serene
music, steadily drawing near,
carried upon the air.
But was I then restored?
Did I speak with God?
Did He, then, turn His gaze
on this grief-stricken house?
The ‘efficacy of prayer’ –
what does that mean:
that prayer is a talisman
fingered by rich and poor,
a superstitious fear
that goes justly unheard,
an indiscriminate
battering at the gate
of the silent Word?
O Agnes, it’s so dark!
AGNES opens the door and enters with the lighted candles in festive holders; a clear radiance suffuses the room.
AGNES: The Christmas candles, look!
BRAND: Ah! How the candles gleam!
AGNES: Have I been long?
BRAND: No, no.
AGNES: It’s like ice in this room.
You must be frozen, too.
BRAND: No.
AGNES: Why are you too proud
to show me that you need
comfort? Why, my dear?
She puts wood in the stove.
BRAND: Too proud?
He walks up and down.
AGNES [softly to herself as she decorates the room]:
The candles here,
so. He sat in his chair
and laughed, and tried to touch,
and said it was the sun.
The sun! He was such
a happy little boy.
[Moves a candlestick slightly.]
And a whole year has gone;
and the candle shines clear
over the place where he lies.
And he can see us
if he chooses to come
and gaze in, quietly,
at the still candle-flame.
But now the window blurs
with breath-mist, like tears.
She wipes the window.
BRAND [slowly, following her with his eyes]:
When will the sea of grief
subside and let her rest?
AGNES [to herself]:
How clear it is; as if
this room had opened out;
as if the earth were not
iron-hard and icy cold
but soft, warm as a nest
where our sleeping child
can lie snug and secure.
BRAND: What are you doing there?
AGNES: Why, a dream; it was
a dream.
BRAND: Snares are laid
cruelly, in dreams, Agnes.
Close the shutters.
AGNES: Brand,
I beg you, don’t be hard.
BRAND: Close them.
AGNES: There. It’s done.
[Pulls the shutters to.]
My dreams will never offend
God, of that I’m sure.
He’ll not grudge me a mere
blessing in desolation.
BRAND: Grudge? Of course He’ll not grudge!
He’s a lenient judge
if you bow down to Him
and if you grease His palm,
practise idolatry
a little, on the sly.
AGNES [bursting into tears]:
How much … oh how much more
will you make me endure?
BRAND: I have said: if you give
less than everything,
you may as well fling
your gift into the sea.
AGNES: All that I had, I gave.
There’s nothing left of me.
BRAND: I have said: there’s no end
to what God can demand
of us.
AGNES: I’m destitute,
so I’ve nothing to fear.
BRAND: Every sinful desire,
each longing, each regret …
AGNES: You’ve forgotten my heart’s root!
Sacrifice that as well!
Rip that out! Rip it out!
BRAND: And if you grieve at all,
if you begrudge your loss,
then God will refuse
everything you have given.
AGNES [shuddering]:
Is this your way to heaven?
It’s hard and desolate.
BRAND: Steep, narrow and straight;
and the will is able!
AGNES: But Mercy’s path …?
BRAND: Is hewn
from sacrificial stone.
AGNES [staring in front of her, shaken]:
Now I know what the Bible
means; now I can fathom,
as never before, those grim
words.
BRAND: Which words?
AGNES: ‘He who sees
Jehovah’s face, dies.’
BRAND [throwing his arms around her and pressing her close]:
Hide your eyes!
AGNES: Hide me!
BRAND [letting her go]:
No.
AGNES: You are in torment too.
BRAND: I love you.
AGNES: Your love is hard.
BRAND: Too hard?
AGNES: Don’t ask me that.
I follow where you lead.
BRAND: You think I drew you out
of Einar’s trivial dance
unthinkingly, or by chance?
Or that for nothing
I broke every plaything?
Or that for less than all
I bound you to obey
the unconditional
demand for sacrifice?
Woe befall us, I say,
if ever that were so!
Agnes, you were called
by God to be my wife.
And I dare to demand
your all, even your life.
AGNES: I am yours; I am bound.
Ask of me what you will,
but don’t, don’t go away.
BRAND: My dear one, I must.
I must find rest and peace.
And soon I shall build
my great church.
AGNES: My little
church crumbled to dust.
BRAND: The heart’s idolatry
must be so destroyed!
[Embraces her as if in agony.]
Peace be with you, for then
peace is with me and mine.
AGNES: May I move the shutter aside,
just a little? Let me, Brand, let me.
BRAND [in the doorway]:
No.
He goes into his room.
AGNES: Shut out, everything shut
away. Where is my hope of Heaven?
I cannot seek oblivion;
or touch his hand and weep;
or rend my body to escape
from breathing this fierce air.
There’s no release from fear,
the solitude that we call God.
[Listens at BRAND’s door.]
His voice moves on; so loud
he cannot hear, and never will.
High above grief the lords of Yule
bring tidings to another world
than mine. Even the Holy Child
has turned away. He smiles on those
with the most cause to sing His praise,
fortune’s good children, who enjoy
His love like any longed-for toy.
[Approaches the window cautiously.]
But if I disobeyed
Brand, if I opened wide
the shutters, all this light,
flooding the darkness, might
comfort my little son
out there under the stone.
Tonight the child is freed,
for this is the Child’s feast.
But what if Brand knows best?
What if I now do wrong?
O little one, take wing!
This house of ours is sealed
against you, my own child.
Your father turned the lock
against you. Love, go back,
go back to Heaven and play.
I dare not disobey
Brand. Say that you saw
your father’s sorrow –
how can you understand,
my darling? Let’s pretend
it was his grief that made
this wreath out of leaves,
so pretty! Tell them, ‘He grieves.’
[Listens, considers and shakes her head.]
No! You are locked outside,
my dear, by stronger powers
than doors or shutter bars.
Fierce spiritual flame
is needed to consume
their strength, make the vaults crack
open, the barriers break,
and the great prison door
swing loose upon the air.
I must purge the whole world
with my own sacrifice, child,
before I see you again.
And I shall become stone
myself, struggling to fill
the bottomless pit
of Brand’s Absolute.
There’s still a little time,
though; time for festival;
and though it’s far removed
from Christmas as it was,
I’ll be glad of what is,
give thanks for what I have –
the treasures that I saved
&
nbsp; from the wreck of my life’s good,
all of them, all of them!
She kneels down by the chest of drawers, opens a drawer and takes out various things. At the same moment BRAND opens the door and is about to speak to her but when he sees what she is doing he stops and remains standing there. AGNES does not see him.
BRAND [softly]:
This hovering over the grave,
this playing in the garden of the dead!
AGNES: Here are the robe and shawl
he wore to his christening;
and here’s a bundle full
of baby things. Dear heaven,
every pretty thing
he was ever given!
Oh, and I dressed him
in these mittens and scarf,
and this little coat,
to keep him warm and safe
when he went out
in spring for the first time.
And the things I prepared
all ready for the road,
that journey of his life
which was never begun.
And when I took them off
him, and put them away,
I felt so utterly
weary and full of pain.
BRAND [clenching his hands in pain]:
O God, spare me this!
How can I condemn
these last idolatries
of hers? She clings to them.
AGNES: Tear stains, here and here …
like pearls on a holy
relic. I see the halo
of inescapable choice
shine now, terribly clear.
This robe of sacrifice
was his and is mine.
I am a rich woman.
There is a sharp knock on the house door. AGNES turns round with a cry and, in doing so, sees BRAND. The door is flung open, and a GYPSY WOMAN, in ragged clothes, comes in with a child in her arms.
GYPSY WOMAN: Share them with me, you rich lady!
AGNES: But you are richer than I.
GYPSY WOMAN: Mouthfuls of pretty words.
Rich folk, you’re all the same.
Show us some good deeds!
BRAND: Tell me, why have you come?
GYPSY WOMAN: Tell you? Not I! Talk to a pastor?
I’d as lief walk the storm again
as hear your ranting about sin,
and how us curs’d folk have no rest here.
I’d as lief run until I die
or leave my bones out on the skerry
as look you in the eye, you black
priest full of hell-fire talk!
BRAND [softly]:
That voice, that face … the woman
stands there like an omen,
like a visitor from the dead.
AGNES: Rest, rest. If you are cold,
come to the fire. If the child
is hungry, he shall be fed.
GYPSY WOMAN: Can’t stay, lady; can’t rest.
House and home, they’re for the likes
of you, not for us gypsies’ sakes.
Folk long since turned us out-o’-door
for a bit lodging on the moor
or in the woods, as best we can,
bedded on rock and the rough whin.
We come and go, and we go fast,
wi’ lawyer-men, just like dogs,
howling and snapping at our legs.