ACT FOURTH.

Christmas Eve in the Manse. The room is dark. Garden-door in the background; a window on one side, a door on the other. Agnes, in mourning, stands at the window and gazes out into the darkness.

Agnes.
Still he comes not! Comes not yet!—
Oh, how hard, with gloom beset,—
Still to wait and still to cry,—
Winning never a reply,—
Fast they fall, the softly sifted
Snowflakes; in a shroud-like woof
They have swathed the old church roof——
[Listens.]
Hark! the garden-latch is lifted!
Steps! A man’s step, firm and fast!
[Hurries to the door and opens it.]
Is it thou? Come home! At last!
Brand comes in, snowy, in travelling dress, which he removes during what follows.
Agnes
[Throwing her arms about him.]
Oh, how long thou wast away!
Go not from me, go not from me;
All alone I cannot sway
The black clouds that overcome me;
What a night, what days have been
These two—and the night between!
Brand.
I am with thee, child, once more.
[He lights a single candle, which throws a pale radiance over the room.]
Thou art pale.
Agnes.
And worn and sad.
I have watch’d and long’d so sore;
And this little leafy bough—
Little, it was all I had,
Saved from summer until now
To bedeck our Christmas-tree,—
I have hung it there, Brand, see!
His the bush was, so we said;
Ah, ’twas his—it crown’d him dead!
[Bursts into tears.]
Look, from the snow it peers
Yonder, his—O God——
Brand.
His grave.
Agnes.
O that word!
Brand.
Have done with tears.
Agnes.
Yes—be patient—I’ll be brave!
But my soul is bleeding still,
And the wound is raw and new—
Sapp’d is all my strength of will.
Oh, but better shall ensue!
Once these days are overworn,
Thou shalt never see me mourn!
Brand.
Keep’st thou so God’s holy Night?
Agnes.
Ah! Too much thou must not crave!
Think—last year so sweet and bright,
This year carried from my sight;
Carried—carried——
Brand
[Loudly.]
To the grave.
Agnes.
[Shrieks.]
Name it not!
Brand.
With lungs that crack,
Named it must be, if thou shrink—
Named, till echo rolls it back,
Like a billow from the brink.
Agnes.
Ah! The word gives thee, too, pain.
How-so passionless thou boast thee!
On thy brow I see the stain
Of the agony it cost thee!
Brand.
On my brow the drops that lie
Are but sea-spray from the storm.
Agnes.
And that dewdrop in thine eye,
Has it fallen from the sky?
No, ah! no, it is too warm,
’Tis thy heart’s dew!
Brand.
Agnes, wife,
Let us bravely face the strife;
Stand together, never flinch,
Struggle onward, inch by inch.
Oh, I felt a man out there!
Surges o’er the reef were dashing;
Horror of the storm-lit air
Still’d the sea-gull; hail was thrashing
Down upon the boiling sea.
In my skiff, that mid-fjord quiver’d,
Mast and tackle creak’d and shiver’d,
Tatter’d sails blew far a-lee,
Scarce a shred of them remaining,
Every nail and stanchion straining!
From the beetling summits sunder’d.
Down the avalanches thunder’d;
Stiff and stark, with corpse-like faces
Sat the rowers in their places.
Then the soul in me wax’d high;
From the helm I ruled them all,
Knowing well that One thereby
Had baptized me to His call!
Agnes.
In the tempest to be strong,
Eager in the stress of fight,
That is easy, that is light;
Think of me, who, all day long,
Still must croon without relief
The low swallow-song of grief;
Think of me, who have no charm
For the tedious pain of life;
Me, who, far from war’s alarm,
Lack the fiery joys of strife:
Think, oh think, of me, who share not
Noble work, but brood and wait;
Me, who to remember dare not,
And who never can forget!
Brand.
Thou no noble life-work! Thou!
Never was it great as now.
Listen, Agnes; thou shalt know
What to me our loss has brought.
Oftentimes my light is low.
Dim my reason, dull my thought,
And there seems a kind of gladness
In immeasurable sadness.
Agnes—in such hours I see
God, as at no other, near;
Oh, so near, it seems to me
I could speak, and He would hear.
Like a lost child then I long
To be folded to his breast,
And be gather’d by His strong
Tender Father-arms to rest!
Agnes.
Brand, oh see Him so alway!
To thy supplication near—
God of love and not of fear!
Brand.
No; I may not bar his way,
Nor run counter to my Call;
I must see Him vast, sublime
As the heavens,—a pigmy Time
Needs a giant God withal!
Oh, but thou mayst see Him near,
See Him as a Father dear,
Bow Thy head upon His breast,
There, when thou art weary, rest,
Then return, with face aglow
From His presence, fair and free,
Bear His glory down to me
Worn with battle-thrust and throe!
See, my Agnes; so to share
Is the soul of wedded life:
His, the turmoil and the strife,
Hers the healing and the care;
This and this alone, the true
Wedlock, that makes one of two.
Since thou turnedst from the life
Of the world to be my wife,
Boldly cast thy lot with me,
This the work appointed thee
Mine the stir and stress of fight,
Battle in the burning sun,
Watching in the winter night;
But for thee, when all is done,
To my parching lips to hold
Love’s full wine-cup, and to fold
’Neath the breastplate’s iron stress
The soft robe of tenderness.
Surely that work is not light!
Agnes.
Every work that I have sought
Is too hard for my weak skill;
All the fibres of my will
Gather round a single thought.
Like a vision seems it still:
Let me have of tears my fill.
Help me so myself to see,—
What I am, and ought to be!
Brand,—last night, in stillest hush,
Open’d he my chamber door,
On his cheek a rosy flush,
And his little shirt he wore,—
Toddled so with childish tread
To the couch where I lay lonely,
“Mother!” call’d to me, and spread
Both his arms, and smiled, but only
As if praying: “Make me warm.”
Yea, I saw!—Oh, my heart bled——
Brand.
Agnes!
Agnes.
Ah, his little form
Was a-cold, Brand! Needs it must,
Pillow’d in the chilly dust.
Brand.
That which lies beneath the sod
Is the corse; the child’s with God.
Agnes.
[Shrinking from him.]
Oh, canst thou without remorse
Thus our bleeding anguish tear?
What thou sternly call’st the corse—
Ah, to me, my child is there!
Where is body, there is soul:
These apart I cannot keep,
Each is unto me the whole;
Alf beneath the snow asleep
Is my very Alf in Heaven!
Brand.
Many a raw wound must be riven
Ere thy deep disease give way.
Agnes.
Yet have patience with me, pray,
Let me follow, not be driven.
Give me thy strong hand and guide me
Oh, and gently, gently chide me!
Thou whose voice in thunder-tones
Vibrates in the hour of strife,
For the soul that still with groans
Fights a fight for very life,
Hast thou no soft, piteous lay,
To beguile its pangs away?
Ne’er a message to uplift,
Point me to the dawn-fired rift?
God, as thou wouldst have me view Him,
Is a monarch on His throne.
How dare I, then, turn unto Him
With my lowly mother’s moan?
Brand.
Wouldst thou rather, haply, turn
To the God thou knew’st before?
Agnes.
Never, never, nevermore!
And yet oftentimes I yearn
Towards the daybreak, towards the light,
Towards the sunshine warm and golden.
Oh, the ancient saw is right:
“Lightly lifted, hardly holden”
All too vast this realm of thine,
Too gigantic to be mine.
Thou, thy word, thy work, thy goal,
Will austere, and steadfast soul,
Overhead the beetling height,
And the barrier fjord below,
Grief and memory, toil and night,
All vast,—were the Church but so!
Brand.
[Starting.]
What! the Church? Again that thought?
Is it bred an instinct blind
In the air?
Agnes.
[Shaking her head sadly.]
Oh ask me not
To find reasons for my thought.
Instinct steals upon the sense
Like a perfume,—to and fro,
Blowing whither? Blowing whence?
I perceive it, that is all
And, unknowing, yet I know
That for me it is too small.
Brand.
Truth may be from dreams divined.
In a hundred hearts I find
Self-begotten this one word;
Even in hers, whose frantic call
From the mountain-side I heard:
“It is ugly, for ’tis small!”
So she said; and like the rest
Left her meaning half-express’dhalf-express’d.
Then of women came a score,
“Yes, it is too small,” they cried;
They would have it spread and soar,
Like a palace in its pride.
Agnes—ah! I see it clear;
Thou the woman art whom God
Gave me for His angel-guide.
Safe alike from doubt and fear
Through the darkness thou hast trod,
Keeping still the even way,
Where I blindly went astray.
Thee no glamour captivated—
Once thy finger show’d the fated
Region where my life-work waited,
Check’d me, as I sought sublime,
To the vault of heaven to climb,
Turn’d my soaring glance within,
And that kingdom bade me win.
Now, a second time, thy word
Penetrates my soul like day,
Guides me where I vainly err’d,
Glorifies my weary way.
Small the Church is? Be it so:
Then a greater Church shall grow.
Never, never did I wot
All God gave me, giving thee;
Now that cry of thine’s for me:
Leave me not! Oh leave me not!
Agnes.
All my sorrow I will quell,
I will dry the tears that well,
Seal in still sepulchral sleep
Memory’s lone castle-keep;
Lay oblivion like a sea
Open between it and me,
I will blot the joyous gleams
From my little world of dreams,
Live, thy wife, alone for thee!
Brand.
Steep the path is, high the goal.
Agnes.
Lead, nor sternly spur, my soul!
Brand.
In a greater name I call.
Agnes.
One of whom thou saidst that still
He accepts the steadfast will,
Though the flesh be weak withal!
[Going.
Brand.
Whither, Agnes?
Agnes.
[Smiles.]
Ah, to-day
Home must have its feast array
Thou my lavishness didst chide,
Mindest thou, last Christmastide?
All the chamber flash’d with lights,
From the Christmas-tree there hung
Toys and wreaths and quaint delights;
There was laughter, there was song.
Brand, for us this year also
Shall the Christmas-candles glow,
Here shall all be deck’d and dight
For the great, still Feast to-night!
Here, if haply God should peep,
He of meek and lowly mind
Shall His stricken children find,
Babes, that humbly understand,
To have felt their Father’s hand
Gives them not a right to weep.—
Seest thou now of tears a sign?
Brand.
[Presses her to him a moment.]
Child, make light: that work is thine.
Agnes.
[Smiles sadly.]
Thou thy greater Church shalt rear:
Oh—but end ere Spring is here!
[Goes.
Brand.
Willing in her torments still,
Willing at the martyr’s stake;
Flesh may flag and spirit break,
But unbroken isis her Will.
Lord, to her poor strength add Thine;—
Be the cruel task not mine
At Thy bidding to unchain
Angry vultures of the Law,
Swift to swoop with ravening maw
And her heart’s warm blood to drain!
I have strength to stand the strain.
Twofold agony let me bear,—
But be merciful to her!
A knock at the outer door. The Mayor enters.
The Mayor.
A beaten man, I seek your door.
Brand.
A beaten man?
The Mayor.
As such I stand
Before you. When I open’d war,
And sought to drive you from the land,
The end I augur’d, I confess,
For you, was not just—well—success.
Brand.
Indeed——?
The Mayor.
But though my cause I boast
The better, I’ll contend no more.
Brand.
And why?
The Mayor.
Because you have the most.
Brand.
Have I?
The Mayor.
Oh, that you can’t ignore:
Folks flock to you by sea and shore;
And in the whole of my confine
A spirit has of late been rife,
Which, God’s my witness, is not mine;
Whence to conclude is only due,
That it originates with you.
Here is my hand: we’ll end the strife!
Brand.
War such as we wage does not cease,
Howe’er the vanquished 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.”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 one against the mass propound
His special views on black and white?
In short, you, having a majority,
Are 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,—
He’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!