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Bertolt Brecht: Mutter Courage und ihre Kinder 1

Page 20

by Bertolt Brecht


  Hardened by books and an active life

  Great in name, goods, troops

  Made to raise your voice in

  Westminster.

  MORTIMER:

  Would you warm your soup on Etna?

  You have mistook. He who sets himself

  To pluck a cock, to eat it, or because

  Its crowing jarred, to such a man the urge may come

  At last, his hunger sated, out of love of skinning

  To take the hide from the tiger. Have you

  Thought of this?

  ARCHBISHOP:

  Let Westminster be rased to the ground

  This peasant shall no longer plague us.

  MORTIMER:

  My lords, for your relief, this I propose:

  We demand his exile, signed and sealed.

  ARCHBISHOP hastily:

  You speak to it in Parliament. In England’s

  Name we thank you, Earl Mortimer.

  That you have sacrificed your learned studies

  To England’s weal.

  Exeunt archbishop and peers.

  MORTIMER solus:

  Because some bonnets scrape the mud

  Before a hound

  These men will thrust our island

  Underground.

  London

  Mortimer, Archbishop, Lancaster, the two lords.

  LANCASTER:

  The King of England shows the Earl of Cornwall

  His catapults.

  ARCHBISHOP:

  It is to us he shows them.

  LANCASTER:

  Are you afraid, Archbishop?

  MORTIMER:

  Ah, this betrays our baseness, Lancaster.

  Were the ancients present at this play

  He’d long been out the bosom of the king

  This butcher’s son and hanged on a cur-gibbet

  Swollen with venom, toothless.

  LANCASTER after a catapult shot:

  Well-aimed, Edward. That shot gives us

  Pause for thought. The catapults

  Are Edward’s long arms. He’ll reach

  You in your Scottish castles, Winchester

  With his catapults.

  Enter Queen Anne.

  MORTIMER:

  Whither walks your majesty so fast?

  ANNE:

  Deep into the forest, gentle Mortimer

  To live in grief and baleful discontent

  For now my lord the king regards me not

  But dotes on Gaveston.

  He hangs about his neck and when I come

  He frowns as who should say, ‘Go whither thou wilt

  Seeing I have Gaveston.’

  MORTIMER:

  My lady, you are widowed by

  A butcher’s son.

  ARCHBISHOP:

  How Mortimer consoles my lady!

  LANCASTER:

  She is devoted to this wicked Edward.

  It is a piteous lot. God save her.

  ANNE:

  Oh Mortimer, can there be greater bitterness

  Than this: the French king’s sister is a widow

  Yet no widow; since her husband lives

  More wretched than a widow; it were better

  For the earth to cover her, her steps are shadowed

  By abuse, wife and yet no wife:

  For her bed is cold.

  MORTIMER:

  Madame, too much weeping spoils the skin.

  Widowed nights are ageing. Rank feelings

  Tire the body. My lady, gratify yourself

  Elsewhere. Raw meat

  In general needs moistening.

  ANNE aside:

  O base Edward, how you shame me

  That I dare not strike him in the face

  But must stand silent, naked

  When he falls on me in his lust.

  Aloud:

  You wrong me in my sorrow, Mortimer.

  MORTIMER:

  Lady Anne, return to court.

  Leave these matters to the Peers; before the new moon

  This butcher’s son shall ship to Ireland.

  ARCHBISHOP:

  My lady, for us this Gaveston’s

  A thorn in the eye. We’ll pluck him out.

  ANNE:

  But do not lift your sword against your king.

  Edward is so far from us. Ah, my love

  Betrays me. How could I take me to the forest, lords

  If you should fall upon King Edward?

  In distant lanes I’d hear him threatened

  And straight return, to be beside him in

  His danger.

  LANCASTER:

  Blood will be shed e’er Gaveston goes hence.

  ANNE:

  Then let him stay. Rather than my lord

  Be threatened I will drag out my life

  And let him have his Gaveston.

  LANCASTER:

  Patience, my lady.

  MORTIMER:

  My lords, escort we the queen back

  To Westminster.

  ANNE:

  For my sake

  Forebear to levy arms against the King.

  Exeunt omnes.

  Enter Gaveston.

  GAVESTON:

  The mighty Earl of Lancaster, the Archbishop

  Of Winchester and with them the Queen

  And some few carrion from old London

  Are plotting something against

  Certain people.

  London

  GAVESTON alone in his house, writes his will:

  Through misunderstanding, on an ordinary Thursday

  And from no desire for slaughter

  Many a man’s been wiped out, painfully.

  And so I write, not knowing

  What it was in me, or was not

  Made this Edward, who is King now

  Never leave my side. For my mother

  Found nothing in me that was other than

  Most commonplace, not goitre, not white skin –

  And so I write, since I know nothing

  Save, dull-witted as I am, this:

  That nothing helps the life of one whom all wish dead

  And so there’s naught can save me in this London

  Which I shall never leave again

  Except feet first

  My will.

  I Daniel Gaveston, in my seven and twentieth year

  A butcher’s son, dispatch’d by favourable

  Circumstance, blotted out by too much luck, leave

  My clothes and boots to those are with me

  At the end:

  To the foolish wives of St James’s street

  The Abbey of Coventry, to the good

  Ale-drinking folk of England my narrow grave

  To good King Edward, my friend

  God’s mercy.

  For it grieves me much I have not simply

  Turned to dust.

  9 MAY 1311: BECAUSE KING EDWARD REFUSES TO SIGN THE BANISHMENT OF HIS FAVOURITE GAVESTON A WAR BREAKS OUT WHICH LASTS FOR THIRTEEN YEARS.

  Westminster

  Mortimer, Lancaster, Archbishop, peers sign the document in turn.

  MORTIMER:

  This parchment seals his banishment.

  Enter the Queen and Gaveston, who sits beside the King’s throne, Kent, then Edward.

  EDWARD:

  What, are you moved that Gaveston sits there?

  It is our pleasure: we will have it so.

  LANCASTER:

  Your grace does well to place him at your side

  For nowhere else the new earl is so safe.

  ARCHBISHOP:

  Quam male conveniunt!

  LANCASTER:

  A kingly lion fawns on crawling ants.

  FIRST LORD:

  How this fellow sprawls upon his chair!

  SECOND LORD:

  A sight for London’s citizens to feast their eyes:

  King Edward with his two wives.

  Parliament is opened to the people.

  KEN
T:

  Speak, Roger Mortimer.

  MORTIMER:

  After Paris had eaten bread and salt

  In Menelaus’ house, Menelaus’ wife – so

  Ancient chronicles relate –

  Slept with him and he took her

  In his hammock sailing home to Troy.

  Troy laughed. To Troy it seemed laughable.

  And to Greece it seemed but just this willing piece of flesh

  Helen by name, should be returned

  Since she was a whore, to her Greek husband.

  Only Lord Paris, naturally, made trouble, said

  It was her time of month. Meanwhile came ships.

  Greek. Ships that multiplied

  Like flies. One morning Greeks broke into

  Paris’ house to haul the Greek whore

  Out. From his window

  Paris roared this was his house

  This his castle and the Trojans, judging

  Him not wrong, applauded, sniggering.

  The Greeks still lay fishing on their drooping

  Sails until, in an ale-house

  On the water-front, someone bloodied

  Another’s nose, pretending

  It was for Helen’s sake.

  Before they knew it in the days that followed

  Many hands grasped many throats.

  From broken ships men speared other men

  Like fishes as they drowned. By the moon’s first quarter

  Many were missing from their tents and in the houses

  Many were found headless. The crabs

  Were very fat those years in the river

  Scamander, but went uneaten. Spying

  The wind’s direction early

  Fretting only if the fish that night would nibble

  By midnight, of confusion or design, they all

  Were dead.

  About ten o’clock still to be seen

  With the faces of men

  About eleven

  Forgetting mother tongues, Trojan

  Lost sight of Troy and Greek of Greece.

  Many felt their men’s mouths changing

  Into tiger’s jaws. At midday plunged their teeth

  In their neighbour’s tender flesh

  Who roared pain.

  Yet had there been on the embattled walls

  One who knew

  To call them by name, by kind

  Many had stopped short. It had been better

  Had they disappeared still fighting

  On their quickly rotting ships

  Sinking beneath their feet, before nightfall

  Unnamed.

  They killed each other with more horror.

  And so this war went on ten years

  And was called the Trojan and was

  Ended by a horse.

  Were understanding for the most part not

  Unhuman, human ears not stopped –

  What matter if this Helen was a whore

  Or the grandmother of a sturdy line –

  Troy would stand now, four times greater

  Than our London, Hector had not

  Died with bloody genitals, weak Priam’s

  Ancient head had not been spewed upon

  By dogs, all this nation had not

  Perished in the high noon of its manhood.

  Quod erat demonstrandum. To be sure

  We would not then have had the Iliad.

  He sits. Pause.

  Edward weeps.

  ANNE:

  What’s the matter? Do you want water, husband?

  KENT:

  The king’s unwell. End the sitting.

  Parliament is closed.

  EDWARD:

  What do you see? Look not on me. God grant

  Mortimer, thy lips have not lied.

  Trouble not yourselves for me. If it appears

  That I am out of sorts, then look away. ’Tis but

  My cheek gone pale, blood frozen in my brain –

  Not more.

  Lay hands on that traitor Mortimer.

  LANCASTER:

  Take this Gaveston from out our sight, my lord.

  MORTIMER:

  Read here

  What we in Parliament have written

  For your intent.

  ANNE to Edward:

  My lord, come to your senses.

  ’Tis Thursday. ’Tis London.

  MORTIMER:

  Subscribe:

  ‘The banishment of Daniel Gaveston, son

  Of a meat peddler in the City of London

  Banished a year or more ago by the English

  Parliament, unlawfully returned and today

  Banished for a second time by the English

  Parliament.’ My lord! Subscribe!

  LANCASTER:

  Will’t please you to subscribe, my lord?

  ARCHBISHOP:

  My lord, will’t please you to subscribe?

  GAVESTON:

  You did not think, my lord, matters would go so fast.

  KENT:

  Brother Edward, throw off Gaveston.

  MORTIMER:

  ‘Tis Thursday. ’Tis London. Subscribe.

  Lancaster, Archbishop, Lords place a table before the King.

  EDWARD:

  Never, never, never.

  Ere Gaveston be taken from me

  I’ll leave this isle.

  He tears up the paper.

  ARCHBISHOP:

  Now is England rent …

  LANCASTER:

  Much blood shall flow in England now

  King Edward.

  MORTIMER sings:

  Maids of England in your widow’s weeds mourn

  For your lovers lost at Bannocksbourn

  Cry aheave and aho.

  The King of England bids the drums to roll

  That no one may hear your mournful dole

  With a rom rom below.

  EDWARD:

  Will you not sing on? Do you look

  Upon your king as on some kine to slaughter?

  Can a people live so?

  Come, Gaveston. I am still here

  And have a foot to crush these vipers’ heads.

  Exit with Gaveston.

  MORTIMER:

  This is war.

  LANCASTER:

  Not all the devils in the deep nor angels overhead

  Shall halt the English army till this butcher’s son is dead.

  THE BATTLE OF KILLING WORTH (15 AND 16 AUGUST 1320). BATTLEFIELD AT KILLING WORTH

  About seven o’clock in the evening.

  LANCASTER:

  See! The tattered ensign of Saint George

  Which swept from the Irish to the Dead Sea.

  To arms!

  Enter Kent.

  KENT:

  My lords, of love to this our native land

  I come to join with you and leave the King.

  My brother since, by his sinful passion

  For this Gaveston, he destroys the realm.

  ARCHBISHOP:

  Thy hand, Kent!

  LANCASTER:

  March!

  Drums.

  None be so hardy as to touch the King.

  ARCHBISHOP:

  A hundred shillings for the head of Gaveston.

  They march out.

  About eight in the evening.

  Marching troops, Edward, Gaveston.

  FIRST SOLDIER:

  Sire, come, the battle.

  EDWARD:

  Say on, Gaveston.

  GAVESTON:

  Many men on London say this war

  Will never end.

  EDWARD:

  Our eye is greatly moved to see thee, Gaveston

  At this hour, trusting in us, weaponless

  Without defensive steel or leather, bare skinned

  Standing before us in accustomed

  Irish weeds.

  SECOND SOLDIER:

  Let’s march, my lord! The battle.

  EDWARD:

  As thi
s triangle flight of storks in the sky

  Though moving yet seems still, still stays

  In us thy image untouched by time.

  GAVESTON:

  My lord, this simple sum a fisherman performs

  Before his rest, numbering nets and fish

  Counting up the shillings

  By his reckoning, will stay

  With me for ever while I walk beneath the sun:

  That many are more than one and that

  This one lives many days but not all days.

  Therefore do not stake your heart all on one.

  That your heart should not be lost.

  THIRD SOLDIER:

  Sire, to battle.

  EDWARD:

  Thy beauteous hair.

  Eight in the evening.

  GAVESTON:

  With these beating drums, bog gulping

  Catapults and horses, my mother’s-son’s head

  Whirls. Don’t pant! Are all

  Now drowned and done for and is there but noise

  Hanging now between earth and heaven? Nor will I

  Run any more. For there are only minutes left and

  I’ll not move a finger but just

  Lay me down on the ground here, that I

  Endure not until the end of time.

  And when tomorrow morning King Edward

  Rides by, calling, to torment me: ‘Daniel

  Where art thou?’ I’ll not be here. And now

  Untie your shoes, Gav, and sit waiting

  Here.

  Enter Lancaster, Mortimer, Archbishop, lords, soldiers.

  LANCASTER:

  Upon him, soldiers.

  The lords laugh.

  Welcome, Lord Chamberlain!

  FIRST LORD:

  Welcome is the good Earl of Cornwall!

  ARCHBISHOP:

  Welcome, Lord Abbot!

  LANCASTER:

  Run you about to cool your villain’s blood

  Lord Abbot?

  ARCHBISHOP:

  Most noble Lords, his trial I think

  Is short. His sentence: As Daniel Gaveston

  Son of a meat-peddler in the City of London

  Was King Edward’s whore, suborning him

  To luxury and other crimes

  Since double banishment could not restrain him

  He shall hang upon a tree. Hang him!

  JAMES:

  My lords, he will not budge. He’s gone as stiff

  As a frozen cod-fish. This is the tree.

  Two hempen ropes. He’s fleshy.

  MORTIMER aside:

  This man, alive, were worth half Scotland

  And a man like me had given all

  The army for this watery cod-fish. But

  Tree, rope and neck are there and blood is cheap.

  Now that the catapults, men clinging to them

  Have pounded ceaselessly, herds of horses

  With men up, startled by drums

  Rushed each other, dustclouds and nightfall

  Veiled all ways out of the battle

  Now the catapults have laboured, drums drummed

  Manned troops of horse

 

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