Ibsen Voyages - with Brian Johnston

STRÅMAND (His flock of children round him):
Consider Love the way the pear-tree grows.
In Spring it spreads its blossoms' scented snows.
But as the year progresses, these give way,
To budding leaves increasing day by day.
As juices fill the paternal trunk, it bears,
With the Lord's help, a plenitude of pears.

FALK: So many claims, each one a firm position;
Yet each embarked on a mistaken trek.
All miss the mark. Now hear my definition,
Which holds, however much you might object.
(Rises and takes up a hortatory pose)
"A plant there is, that grows in the far east
It's ancient home's the garden of the Sun"

FALK: Its home is a far valley famed in fable,
Thousands of miles beyond a desert sea;
Fill my cup, Lind! Thanks. Now then, follow me:
My 'Sermon on Love' trimmed for the tea-table.
(The guests gather closer)
It has its home in a legendary land -
(That country also is the home of Love).
Children of the Sun alone can understand
The tender plant and give the care it craves.
With Love, the same condition too obtains;
You need to have the Sun's blood in your veins
If Love's to flourish warmly in you, growing
From the green bud to glorious flowering.

MISS SKJAERE: But China's such a very ancient land,
And tea itself is old, we understand -

FALK: True, and commended when Methuselah
At school, was peering at his picture book.

MISS SKJAERE (Triumphantly):
Yet Love is young - as all of us here know.
Therefore, your simile's non-apropos.

FALK: No, Love is very old, way past its peak.
The authority for this conclusion we owe
To folklore from the Cape of Hope to Rio.
From northern Brevik down to southern Naples,
It's even claimed Love's one of the immortals.
I have no doubt that's somewhat magnifying.
But that it's very old there's no denying.

MISS SKJAERE: But Love is always Love through thick and thin.
Tea can be good or bad or anything.

MRS. STRÅMAND: Yes, tea is very variously rated

ANNA: The young green buds are thought the absolute best.

FALK (Meanwhile having descended from the veranda):
In each of us there's a Chinoiserie,
Treasuring a 'celestial kingdom' of its own;
Imprisoning hordes of eager buds within
A Chinese wall of crumbling modesty.
These tiny Chinese dolls with yearning visions,
Who sit and sigh in their exquisite prisons,
(Tulips in hand, faint hearts in palpitations)
Whose dreams range far - so far - to rich locations;
- For them are gathered the first buds to open.
Nothing but coarser crops will later ripen.
Thus, what descends to us are dust and stalks,
As inferior as hemp goods are from silks.
A crop that's gained by kicking at the tree.

FALK: Just like beef tea, one might say there's 'beef love'!
It marked men's foreheads - in old novels and plays.
Its hen-pecked modern counterparts survive,
Still masquering matrimonial bliss.
In short, the simile holds to the last detail.
So that we find, as old accounts reveal,
That tea can suffer, lose the fine bouquets,
Of the distinct aromas we inhale,
When it's transported to us over the seas.
Traversing hills, deserts and remote out backs
It pays its dues to Russians and Cossacks
Who stamp their seals upon it thus assuring
What finally reaches us is genuine.
Now! Does not Love arrive in the same way,
Through deserts of arid custom? What would be
The shocked outcries, warnings of Judgment Day,
For Love conveyed on seas of liberty?
"Oh God, it's lost morality's tart flavoring!
These aren't approved aromas we are savoring!"

STRÅMAND: And, God be thanked, in a well-conducted land,
Such tastes are still accounted contraband!

FALK: True! To gain free passage here at all
They must endure rules frigid as Siberia.
Untainted by the breath of free sea air,
Such goods must show authority's approval,
Stamped by church warden,organist and sexton,
Friends, kin, acquaintance and whoever's next on
The list of those who offer their endorsement
After the Love-god's passport grants consent.
Now for the last analogy to stand!
Note how our culture's laid its heavy hand
On that 'celestial kingdom' in the east:
The wall has crumbled and its strength is broken,
The last true mandarin hanged, the harvests taken
By profane invading hands. Its life now ceased,
The 'celestial kingdom' passes into fable;
A fairy tale of memories long since past.
Now sunk to gray-in-gray, our world's unable
To revive the green and fabulous realm we've lost.
That being so, what has become of Love?
I think I know, He's simply wandered off. (Lifts up his cup)
Why moan for what our times could not endure?
A tea -toast , then, to our defunct Love's honor!
(Drinks up; there is some agitation in the company)

FALK: (Approaching SVANHILD who comes to meet him)
There's an hour still left us, Svanhild, as we meet
In sight of God, beneath this night of stars.
See how they pierce this dark, green-leafed retreat,
Like gleaming fruit. They are seed the world-tree bears.
I've broken with convention's slavish bonds,
And suffered the last time its lashes' wounds;
I'll set out questing for the promised land.
Like Jacob' tribe, bearing my staff in hand:
While this faint-hearted generation, blind
To new frontiers beyond the desert sand,
In slavish labor builds a slavish thing:
A monument for the mummy of a king.
I'll pass through arid wastelands of today:
My destination's where the waves divide,
Where falsehoods menacing on every side
Are hurled to deep oblivion in the sea.
(Short silence; he gazes at her and takes her hand)
You're silent, Svanhild!

SVANHILD: Silent, yes and glad.
Oh let me dream, in silence let me dream.
You be my voice, for when I hear your words,
My thoughts break into song and burst like buds,
Like water lilies opening on the stream.

FALK: Let me hear one more time, in truth's clear tone,
That you incontrovertibly are mine.
Say it now Svanhild, say it - !

FALK: You songbird sent by God for me alone!

SVANHILD: Living in mother's house I found no home,
Retiring solitary within my mind,
Amid the stirrings of happiness, unwelcome,
I counted for little worth of any kind.
Then you appeared; for the first time I heard
My own thoughts echoed in another's words.
You gathered up my scattered reveries;
Young, brave, combating our time's cowardice.
I half drew back against your mind's keen glare,
Yet felt the strong attraction of its light;
As the sea is pulled towards the wooded shore,
Where rocks fling back the waves in constant fight.
Now I've seen to the bottom of your soul;
So now I'm yours to gather, free and whole.
You, love, are the bough bent over my heart's sea,
Giving its ebbs and flows their constancy.

FALK: And I give thanks to God who chose the way
Of pain for my love's baptism. I was
Ignorant of where my soul's true heaven lay,
Until knowing the jewel I was about to lose.
Yes, praise to him, who stamped a seal of sorrows
On my book of life, ennobling my love' course.
We'll seek our home through wilderness and forest,
Winning our victories in every contest.
Two heroes mounted on our Pegasus.

SVANHILD: (Pointing to the house) :
In there each room is filled with celebration;
The lamps are being lit for the young pair.
Speeches and songs resound for the occasion.
A distant onlooker would think that there
Rapture resides - among voices raised in cheer.
Poor child of this world's pleasures, sister dear!

SVANHILD: For didn't she apportion
Her soul's rich gifts to him and all her friends.
Scattering her wealth into a hundred hands,
That claim to owe her nothing in return.
None of them offer what her spirit must crave.
None of them give her any cause to live.
I see myself ten as times wealthier,
Holding the world's one and only treasure.
My heart was empty when you came among us
Bringing your thousand songs. You made me whole,
A breath of Spring who roused and urged me, joyous,
Through all the baffled pathways of my soul.
Therefore I thank God for that that time of pain,
Whose loneliness was a trial for your love.
I lay as buried, not to live again,
Till summoned by you from death to light above.

FALK: It's true. We are the most friendless in the world,
And yet the richest with the wealth we own.
Others' rejoicings we observe, exiled,
Standing out here in the still night alone.
Leave them their lamplight, their triumphant singing,
Their dancing lovers to each other clinging.
Look upward, Svanhild, up to the night sky
Whose thousand lamps shine far more steadfastly.

SVANHILD: Do you hear, my darling, how the cool evening breeze
Rouses the linden's leaves to harmonies?
FALK: The vault of heaven is glittering on our loves.

FALK: It's as if I've been God's long lost prodigal son,
Betraying him for the world's delusive gain.
He beckoned me home again with gentle hands;
Now I've returned, he lights the lamp and tends
Upon me, gently feasting the lost one;
Bestowing upon me his noblest mission.
This moment sees my long betrayal end;
I'll be a sentry in the band of light;
Our lives will be a hymn in which we blend
Our voices for the victory of love's right.

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