BOOKS.

TWO TR ANSLATIONS OF IBSEN'S " BRAND."t

IT seems a presumptuous thing for a writer who knows no Norwegian to review these two brilliant efforts at the trans- lation of Ibsen's Brand. And of course, as translations, we do not attempt to compare them or to assign to each its merit as a work of scholarship. But treating them as original poems,—and in many portions both of them might be originals, and originals of great power,—it is not uninteresting to compare them, and to compare the conceptions they convey of Ibsen's drift and meaning. For a purpose of this kind, Professor C. H. Herford's interesting and elaborate, if some- what too panegyrical, introduction, gives us great help, though he might, we think, have added a more effective criticism on this particular poem of Ibsen's, which seems to us a very noble fragment spoiled by the caricature and unnatural structure of the last act. It is clear, we suppose, that Ibsen meant to depict his hero's mind as quite thrown off its always very questionable balance by his griefs and con- flicts with the world, but equally clear that he did not take the trouble to invent any motive adequate for persuading a crowd of humble Norwegian peasants to follow him on a wild-goose chase into the mountains in search of miracles, or Heaven knows what, at the very moment when he had con- fessed that in building an elaborate church for the service of God, he had made a fatal mistake, and could find nothing better to do with it than to throw the keys into the river, and leave it a stately monument of his own incapacity. Brand's address to the people in that fifth act is the very last kind of eloquence that could ever have persuaded a homely and indus- trious people to follow him in his mad career. It is an ecstatic dissertation on the need for a more complete blending of reli- gion with common life ; whereas the preacher's action invites them to abandon all their common life, and roam the country with him, breaking the shackles of monotonous habit, and trampling on slothfulness and sin,—all which he is to effect by taking the very unpromising course of dragging them away from all their duties to indulge in dreams of a new heaven and a new earth. Whatever influ- ence Brand had acquired over them, it is clear enough that at the instant when he had confessed that his new church was a failure and ought not to be used, he would not have easily persuaded a great crowd to follow him into the regions of eternal snow by a loose rhetoric, fit only to fascinate the witless soul of the mad girl Gerd. Nor is this the only blot in the last ad. The picture of the Dean's ecclesiastical worldliness is far too violently overdrawn. A worldling of that type manages to deceive himself, and it is evident that Brand's Dean did not deceive himself at all, but was a self-confessed

• " Mentmore, the lordly pleasure house' which the Earl of Rosebery came into possession of on his marriage, is celebrated far and wide for its noble halls and beautiful gardens Lord Sosebery's is essentially a dairy-farm. . . . . The dairy is provocative of admiration, with its Elizabethan

architecture In the centre is a marble fountain. On the wooden shelves is a good deal of china chiefly in Dresden and other fine ware . . . . The orchard is under the jurisdiction of Mr. J Smith, who has fifty gardeners and labourers under his direction "—From "The Prime Minister as Farmer," Westmicstar Gazette, April 85th, 1894.

1' (1.) Brand, a Dramatic Poem in Pine Acts. By Henrik Ibsen. Translated in tie Original Metres, with an Introduction and Notes, by C. H. Herford, Litt.D., M.A., Professor of Eaglish Lanvnage and Literature in the University College of Web's, Aberystwyth. London: W. Heinemann. 1894.—{2.) Brand a Dramatic Poem by Henrik Ibsan. '1 rauslated into English Verse in the Original Metres by F. Edmund Garrett. Ix n Ion: T. Fisher Unwin.

impostor, who used religion only as the instrument of selfish gain. Brand's wild revolt would be a fine picture if it had not been associated with so much false drawing of the people whom he had taught and of the superiors against whom he was in rebellion. No wonder some of his earliest critics thought the play a mere satire. When Brand finds himself deserted by his people and alone with Gerd, the grandeur of the pic- ture returns, and the final scene is worthy of the opening ; but the early part of the fifth act is a blot on the general conception of the drama, and we are surprised that Pro- fessor Herford, who does not shrink from sharp criticism, should not have frankly recognised this. Ibsen, who, in his later works, has exchanged his nobler idealism for a rather repulsive realism, has managed in the earlier part of the fifth act to render both his idealism and his realism ineffective, by bringing them into false and even impossible relations. The people would have murmured, and would have been justified in murmuring, against Brand's madness in throwing the keys of the church he had just spent all his means in building, into the river, and would have begun to stone him in the valley, and not waited for cold and hunger and exhaustion to stimulate their wrath.

Of the two translations considered as original poems, it is difficult to say which is on the whole the better. Mr. Herford's improves as it goes on, and in some passages reaches a very high simplicity and grandeur. Mr. Garrett's never gives the effect of a translation at all. It is always free, vivid, and stamped with the effect of an original, but in one or two of the nobler passages we think that Mr. Herford surpasses him in pithiness and vigour. Taken together the two translations give us an admirable stereoscopic view of what we suppose to be the original.

The worst fault we have to find with Mr. Garrett is that in his dedication he compares reverentially the beautiful character of Ibsen's Agnes with that mawkish and didactic ideal of Charles Dickens, the Agnes of David Copperfield, who goes through the whole tale posturing with her finger meta- phorically raised to the sky, and "pointing upwards" for David Copperfield's benefit. Great as was Dickens's genius, that genius did not lie in any sort of idealism, except the idealism of caricature ;—his Agnes and his Esther and his little Nell, and his other attempts to paint ideals, are all disfigured by a distressing affectation and self-conscious- ness which sicken us with the excess of their namby-pamby goodiness. Ibsen's Agnes is a very different being. It is not easy to conceive a finer picture than that which Ibsen gives of Agnes's devotion to Brand's lofty idealism, her heroin determination to join him in the apparently hopeless attempt to pass the tempestuous fiord in order to carry spiritual succour to a man dying in despair at his own wild deeds,— her surrender of her beloved child's life to Brand's determina- tion not to leave the work in which he was engaged, and to which he believed that God had called him, though it cost him his son, and her surrender even of the little one's clothes after the child's death to the coarse gipsy mother who asked them for her half-starved boy. AU this is painted with a power in which there is not a sentimental or unreal note. Let us take an illustration. Brand, after his son's death, has been on some distant call, and describes to his wife after his return how his strength had grown in battling with the dangers of the fiord :— M.R. GARRET-r.

"Brand.

Agnes, helpmeet! let us bear Al! the brunt, unflinching stand,— Lay your strength and mine to- gether,

So win forward, hand in hand ! . . .

0, I was a man out there, Buffeting with wind and weather !

There we lay, in the mid-fiord : On the reef the breakers roared : Even the sea-mews, overcome, In the tempest's scowl were dumb : [craft : Hailstones flogged the little Seethed the waters, fore and aft: Mast and tackle creaked astrain : Torn to tatters, blew the sail Far ales on the white main : Groaned the boat at every nail : PROFESSOR HERFORD. "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 dash-

ing; 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 remain- ing,

Every nail and stanchion strain- ing!

From the beetling summits sundeed,

Down from slope and down from steep [deep : Plunged the avalanche to the Eight men, lying on their oars. Looked as each were grown a corse ! . . .

Then beside the helm I grew, Then, ah then my mandate knew—

Knew myself baptised indeed To this Call for which we bleed !

Mn. GARRET'T.

"The message ! Still no message brought !

Ah, here's the doctor !

[He hurries to meet him. Speak ! My mother ?— The Doctor.

Judge not. She stands before another. Brand.

Dead !—But repentant ?

The Doctor.

Not a thought.

She clung to worldly gear, whole-hearted, Till the hour struck, and they were parted.

Brand (looks before him, silently moved).

Is this a poor soul, cast away, A soul that long has been astray?

The Doctor.

She may have judgment, in God's sight, Not by the law, but by her light.

Brand (in a tow voice). What were her words ?

The Doctor.

She murmured once : God's hand is lighter than my son's !

Brand (sinks down on the bench in anguish).

In sin's and death's last agony The soul still strangled by that lie !

[Hides his face in his hands.

The Doctor (goes nearer, looks at him, and shakes his head). You would entirely reinstate An age that is now out of date. Down the avalanches thunder'd ; Stiff and stark, with corpse-like faces Sat the rowers in their places. Then the soul in me waxed high ; From the helm I ruled them all, Knowing well that One thereby Had baptised me to His call !

PROFESSOR HERFORD. "But 0 the summons ! the sum- mons !—No !

It is the Doctor !

[Hurries to meet him. Say ! say ! How— ?

The Doctor.

She stands before her Maker now. Brand, Dead ! But repentant ?

The Doctor.

Scarcely so ; She hugg'd Earth's goods with all her heart Till the Hour struck, and they must part.

Brand (looking straight before him in deep emotion).

Is here an erring soul un- done?

The Doctor.

She will be mildly judged, may be ;— And Law temper'd with equity.

Brand (in a low tone). What said she ?

The Doctor.

Low she mutter'd : He Is no hard dealer, like my son.

Brand (sinking in anguish upon the bench).

Guilt-wrung or dying, still that lie That every soul is ruin'd by ! [Hides his face in his hands.

The Doctor (goes towards him, looks at him, and shakes his head). You seek, a day that is no more, In one and all things to restore. Agnes. Agnes.

Easy to stand firm in strife— In the tempest to be strong,

Easy is a battling life : Eager in the stress of fight. Think of me, the lonely sitter That is easy, that is light ; 'Mid the still small sparrow- Think of me, who, all day long, twitter [deaden, Still must croon without relief Of the thoughts I cannot The low swallow-song of grief ; Through the hours that drag so Think of me, who have no leaden ! charm Think of me, shut out of sight For the tedious pain of life ; Of the struggle's beacon light : Me, who, far from war's alarm,

Think of me, who cann-t ask Lack the fiery joys of strife : Aught beyond my petty task ; Think, oh think, of me, who

Think of me, beside the ember share not Of a silent hearthstone set, Noble work, but brood and wait ; Where I dare not all remember Me, who to remember dare not, And I cannot all forget ! " And who never can forget ! "

(pp. 166-7.) (pp. 132-3.)

In the description of the storm, we find Professor Her_ ford's noble rendering the most effective ; in Agnes's reply, Mr. Garrett's. In this passage the two main characters of the poem are painted in their highest form, and we cannot admire too much the art of the translators in rendering so powerfully the eager, short breath with which the Norwegian poet seems to narrate both the battle with nature and "the still small sparrow-twitter" of the broken-hearted mother's wandering mind, as she tries to pass the leaden hours of her husband's absence. Very fine, too, is Brand's subsequent assertion :—

" Aye, the times for greatness call Just because they are so small ! "

Here, again, is a fine picture of Brand's anguish when he learns that he has lost his mother without any sign of her repentance

of her consuming avarice. He had refused to go to her unless she sent him word that she would sacrifice all her hardly scraped together wealth to show her penitence for giving up her heart to mere avaricious greed. She sends to say that she will give up as much as nine-tenths of it, if be will come and give her absolution, but he sternly refuses unless she gives all, and the next thing he hears is her death :-

You think, that covenant of God's With man still holds, whereas 'tis plain Each age its predecessor stales ; You can't scare ours with flam- ing rods And stolen souls in nursery tales; Its motto runs : Be first humane !

Brand (looks up). Humane ! That word's relaxing whine Is now the whole world's counter- sign !

It serves the weakling to conceal The abdication of his will ; With it the laggard cloaks the sin That dares not venture all to win; With it for sanction and for token The craven's word is lightly broken.

You puny souls will make of man A mere humanitarian !

Was God humane to Jesus Christ ?

Salvation had been cheaplier priced Had your God ruled : the Cruci- fied For mercy from the cross had cried, And our redemption had been given By diplomatic note from hea- ven!

[Hides his head, and sits in speechless sorrow.

The Doctor (softly).

Aye, spend your rage, you storm- tost deep ; 'There best if you emir(' learn to weep." (pp. 145-7.)

MR. GARRETT.

"The God of Law above us stands ; 'Tis stern repayment He de- mands: And only full self-sacrifice Can pay our liberation's price : But nowadays the craven herd Has well-nigh lied away the word.

[Walks for some time up and down the room. To pray ! Ah that's a word that slips Glibly off everybody's lips : Hackneyed by people to whose thinking Prayer means to cry, when skies are black, For mercy to a far-off Riddle— Whine for a place on Christ's bowed back, And stretch both hands to Him, while sinking In Doubt's soft quagmire to the middle . . .

If that were intercession's plan, Ha! I could dare, with any man, A knocking at God's gate to raise—

God's, who is terrible to praise ' ! " (pp. 202-3.) You think, God's venerable pact With man is still a living fact ;— Each Age in its own way will walk ; Ours is not scared by nurses' talk Of hell-bound soul and burning brand ;— Humanity 's our first command !

Brand (looking up). Humanity ! — That sluggard phrase Is the world's watchword nowadays. With this each bungler hides the fact That he dare not and will not act ; With this each weakling masks the lie, That he'll risk all for victory With this each dastard dares to cloak Vows faintly rued and lightly broke ; Your puny spirits will turn Man Himself Humanitarian Was God 'humane' when Jesus. died ?

Had YOUR God then his cour sel given, Christ at the cross for grace hal cried—

And the Redemption signified

A diplomatic note from Heaven!

[Hides his head, and sits in mute grief.

The Doctor (softly).

Rage, rage thy fill, thou soul storm-stress'd ;- Best were it for thee to find tears." (pp. 113-5.)

PROFESSOR HERFORD. "Yes, God is above all things just,

And retribution is His goal ; Only by sacrifice the soul Achieves redemption from the dust ;

Hard truth, our age a[pdepnailec.

ld descries, And, therefore, stubbornly [Walks up and down the room. Topray ? Ah, pray—a word that slips Easily over all men's lips ; A coin by all men lightly paid. What's prayer ? In storm and stress to shout Unto the vague Unknown for aid, Upon Christ's shoulders beg a place, And stretch both hands to Heaven for grace — While knee-deep in the slough of doubt.

Ha! if there needed nothing more I might like others dare to raise My hand and batter at His door Who still is 'terrible in praise.'" (p. 163.)

Nothing could be more dramatic, or in some respects more true, than the sentiment of this passage, but Brand would have made a much better fight against what he means when he says,—

" Humane ! that word's relaxing whine

Is now the whole world's countersign !"

if he had had a little more humanity in himself. Ibsen's fancy for exalting a kind of idealism which must either crush the heart out of man or be wholly drowned in a weak and sen- timental desire to please everybody, is at the root of his pessi- mism. He represents God in his moral exactions from man as being as pitiless as the laws of Nature, and man as almost always as worldly and hypocritical as the most pretentious Pharisee. For him there seems to be no divine benignity, no mediator between the thunders of Sinai and the hollow eye- service of men-pleasers. Here is Brand's picture of his own religion :— No wonder that at last he leads his people on a wild- goose chase for a miracle,—something like Edward Irving's - craving for the gift of ton gues,—and can come to the fitting

end of a dignified tragedy only by the dens ez machtind of an

opportune avalanche. The man dies in Brand when his wife dies. After that he is a were chaotic discord.

As we have said, a very fine poem is spoiled by the dreariness of the last act, which is not as a whole even dramatic. It is hardly possible to imagine a speech more entirely unsuited to in- spire even the momentary enthusiasm which carries off Brand's hearers after him to the mountains, than the speech in which he declares war with the authorities of Church and State, throws into the river the keys of the stately pile which he has just spent his whole means in building, and announces that the true Church should be something much larger than any- thing that can be built with hands. Here is the drift of it :—

Ms. Gaaarpr. PROFESSOR HERFORD.

"I would build our church a "I the Greater Church ordain'd

Palace, That its shadow might descend, With its mighty shadow thrown Not alone on Faith and Creed Not o'er faiths and creeds alone, But on eve, ything in life But o'er all that God has given That by God's leave lives in- Right to livebeneath His heaven. deed ;—

Toil of each returning morrow, On our daily strain and strife, Evening's rest, and night-time's Midnight weeping, evening rest, sorrow, [blood,— Youth's impetuous delight, The delight of fresh young All that harbours of good right, All man's heart has leave to Mean or precious, in the breast.

borrow Yonder foss's hidden thunder, From God's store of ill and good ! And the beck that sparkles For the stream that foams here- under, under, [thunder, And the bellow of wild weather, And the fall's deep-muffled And the murmurous ocean's Tones the breathing storm sets tongue, free, Should have melted, soul pos- Voices of the sounding sea, sess'd, All should merge, should find a With the organ's roll together, soul, And the gather'd people's song. Mingle with the organ-roll Sweep this lying Labour And the songs our peasants troll! hence !

Vile is here our work, and earthy; Mighty only in pretence !

Great in lies, if great at all ; Stricken inly with decay Of your feeble will 'tis worthy, On its consecration-day,- Ripe, in spirit, for its falL Symbol of your impotence.

Aspiration's call you shirk All the germs of soul you aim By dividing up your work : By divided toil to maim ; While the working week goes by, For the week's six days ye Flies God's flag but half-mast drag high : To the deepest deep God's flag,

Only one day out of seven For one only of the seven, Flies it free against the heaven !" Let it flutter forth to heaven !"

(pp. 279-80.) (pp. 231-2.)

That is a fine piece of vague rhetoric, but not a speech which would carry any crowd away to the bleak moun- tains in search of—they knew not what, because their leader himself knew not what. Except on Ibsen's assumption that Brand's brain was turned partly by grief and partly by loathing for the smug religion of his ecclesiastical superiors, there is no explaining of the fifth act. And even with that assumption, there is no possible explaining of the influence Brand gains over the crowd so as to induce them to share in his mad revolt. Brand seems to us a fine torso, badly completed by an inferior hand, if we did not know that the same hand which completed it sculptured the grander lines also. Ibsen's pessimism is, we suppose, the sign of some great flaw in him. He can only imagine the ideal as impossible, and the real he makes far meaner than even our average human life actually is. One sees in the picture of

Einar at the close of the play, how needlessly Ibsen exag- gerated the deformities of the weak, how fascinating he found the task of blackening even the poorer elements in human nature till his scorn for their poverty, and his vindic- tive anger at their meanness, was fully gratified.