THE COLLECTED POEMS OF HENRIK IBSEN Translated by John ...

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but just a hint of question was implied,
as though he thought “Might we have met, I wonder?”
And that same thought the artist found so pressing
he stopped the man, though hesitantly too,
and asked him: “Is it Brand that I’m addressing?”
And he replied: “Yes. — Einar, is that you!”
They were two friends whose bonding school created,
who stood, once, close as brothers and as dear,
who had not met again since separated
until their meeting as half-strangers here.
The school and now — a distance so far-reaching!
Each one had made his way in life meanwhile;
each striven towards God in his own style, —
one with the painter’s palette, one by preaching.
But Einar was the first to find a voice
for all the memories in his soul there sleeping.
He seized his friend’s hand like some prey for keeping
unshared by any man on earth, for choice.
And then he spoke, his joy at fever heat,
about the bond he had, that summer, knotted, —
about his hopes, — not doubting he had plotted
the nearest course to friendship’s heart and seat.
But Brand stood silent. Then he loosed, though gently,
the hand held tightly in his friend’s warm grip.
A faint expression played about his lip;
he struggled with himself there, evidently.
He answered, half embarrassed, partly musing:
“It’s good to know one’s honoured one’s pursuit.
You are a painter now, of good repute; —
all roads are right, — if they’re of one’s own choosing.
“Two kinds of road require, though, will’s selection;
one like the navigable water-ways; —
the passage smooth, a ball-room romp, perfection;
the other one’s the road you have to blaze.
One, open wide for you and thousands yonder;
the latter, you must boldly force with steel.
On that you dare, and no man else, to wander,
until the world perceives the goal is real.
“Two kinds of call, too, rouse up man’s resources;
one lures him on through impulse and desire; —
and then there’s spirit-baptism that forces
its way deep in his breast with tongue of fire.
Whereby he speaks the language of no nation,
whereby it’s his, the triumph and acclaim; —
and if you’ve known the grace of such a flame, —
then I’ll accept that painting’s your vocation.