Bertolt Brecht: Mutter Courage und ihre Kinder 4

by Bertolt Brecht

  THE CUSTOMER: Ten cents apiece. That makes ten crowns for a box of a hundred. But between cousins I’ll let you have it for eight, the price of your iron. Is it a deal?

  SVENDSON: The tobacconist was a good friend of mine. How did he die?

  THE CUSTOMER: Peacefully, my friend, very peacefully. Quietly and peacefully. A peace-loving man. He suddenly sent for me. And then a Higher Power sent for him. It all happened very quickly. He barely had time to say: Brother, don’t let the tobacco dry out, and then he was gone. He’d hung a wreath on the door to welcome me. I laid it on his coffin. He wipes a tear from his eye. As he does so, a revolver falls out of his sleeve. He puts it back hastily. He has departed this cruel world. A world where everyone distrusts everyone else. A world of violence, where the streets aren’t safe any more. I always carry a weapon nowadays. Unloaded, just as a deterrent. How about the cigars?

  SVENDSON: I can’t afford cigars. If I could buy anything, I’d buy myself a pair of shoes.

  THE CUSTOMER: I haven’t got any shoes. I have cigars. And I need the iron.

  SVENDSON: What do you need so much iron for?

  THE CUSTOMER: Oh, iron always comes in handy. Again his stomach rumbles loudly.

  SVENDSON: Maybe you’d better buy some food instead?

  THE CUSTOMER: All in good time. All in good time. I’ve got to go now, it looks like rain, and my suit is made out of synthetic wool, my own invention, it won’t stand up under rain. Would you be interested in a bolt of this excellent material?

  SVENDSON: All right, I’ll take the Austrillos. My business isn’t doing very well. He takes the box.

  THE CUSTOMER laughs scornfully and picks up his eight iron bars: Good day, Mr Svendson.

  SVENDSON picks up the phone, voluptuously puffing on an Austrillo: Is that you, Dansen? What do you say about the recent events? – Yes, that’s what I say. I don’t say anything. – Oh, you’re not sticking your neck out? Right, I’m not sticking my neck out either. – Oh, you’re still doing business with him? Right, I’m still doing business with him too. – So you’re not worried? Fine, I’m not worried either.

  The stage grows dark.

  3

  The calendar in the iron store reads February 1939. Svendson sits smoking an Austrillo. A lady and a gentleman come in.

  THE GENTLEMAN: My dear Mr Svendson, Mrs Gall and I would like a word with you if you can spare the time.

  SVENDSON: Rest assured, Mr Britt, that I always have time for my best customer.

  The lady and the gentleman sit down.

  THE GENTLEMAN: We wished to speak to you about the dreadful assault on Mrs Czech.

  SVENDSON: An assault on Mrs Czech?

  THE GENTLEMAN: Last night our neighbour Mrs Czech was assaulted, robbed, and murdered by Whatsisname. He was armed to the teeth.

  SVENDSON: What, Mrs Czech murdered? How can that be?

  THE GENTLEMAN: How indeed? We’re quite beside ourselves, we just don’t understand. Mrs Gall was a special friend of hers. Last night Mrs Gall heard loud cries for help coming from her house. She rushed straight over to my place and we sat there for hours discussing what we could do. Then we went to the poor woman’s house and found her engaged in a violent argument with that Whatsisname. He was asking for something that supposedly belonged to a relative of his, and we advised her to let him have it if he promised to leave her in peace. She consented and he promised. But later in the night it seems he came back and murdered the poor woman.

  THE LADY: Of course we’d never have left if we hadn’t trusted him to keep his promise.

  THE GENTLEMAN: Now we’ve decided to form an organisation of all our neighbours to make sure such a thing never happens again. We’ve come to ask if you wish to join our law-enforcement organisation and add your name to our membership list. He hands him the list.

  SVENDSON takes it hesitantly. Uneasily: But you see, I’ve only got a small iron business. I can’t get mixed up in the quarrels of the big corporations. Some of my customers might take it amiss if I were to join this kind of organisation.

  THE LADY: I see. You wish to sell your iron no matter what happens, to no matter whom?

  SVENDSON: Not at all. How can you say such a thing? My conscience, it seems to me, is as sensitive as yours. But I’m just not the warlike type, don’t you see. My business has nothing to do with it. Let’s be a little more relaxed about all this. To the gentleman: Do you smoke?

  THE GENTLEMAN looks at the cigars: Austrillos!

  THE LADY: I’d appreciate it if the gentlemen didn’t smoke.

  SVENDSON annoyed, puts away the box and his own cigar: I beg your pardon.

  THE GENTLEMAN: You were speaking of your conscience, Mr Svendson.

  SVENDSON: Was I? Yes, of course. I can assure you that I abhor all violence. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since these dreadful things started happening. To tell you the truth, madame, it’s only on account of my nerves that I’ve been smoking so much.

  THE LADY: Then you have no basic objection to the idea of an organisation to combat violence?

  SVENDSON: Basic or not, my motives are of the purest.

  THE GENTLEMAN: We wouldn’t think of questioning the purity of your motives. It’s obvious that if you sell your iron to Whatsisname it’s not because you approve of his conduct.

  SVENDSON: Of course not. I abominate it.

  THE GENTLEMAN: And you don’t consider yourself related to him, as he is said to claim?

  SVENDSON: Certainly not.

  THE GENTLEMAN: You only sell because he pays and you’ll only sell as long as he pays.

  SVENDSON: That’s right.

  THE GENTLEMAN: And you think Whatsisname wouldn’t need your iron any more if you were to join our peace league that would guarantee your security and everyone else’s?

  SVENDSON: Of course he needs my iron. I honestly don’t know what he does with it …

  THE LADY amiably: He makes machine-guns!

  SVENDSON ignoring her information: As I’ve said, I don’t know, but he’d probably have to buy it even then. Only, as I said before, it might make him angry, and, you see, I just happen to be the peaceful kind. To be perfectly frank, I’m expecting him now, and I’d rather he didn’t find you in my shop. He’s uncommonly sensitive and quick to take offence. So you’d be doing me a big favour if …

  The customer comes in with a package under his arm.

  THE CUSTOMER: How much is your iron?

  SVENDSON: A crown a bar.

  THE CUSTOMER: Ah, I see we have company. Friends of yours, Svendson?

  SVENDSON: Hm. Yes. No. In a way. A business call.

  THE GENTLEMAN: We’ve been talking about Mrs Czech, the lady you murdered, sir.

  THE CUSTOMER: Me?

  THE LADY: Yes.

  THE CUSTOMER: Lies! Calumny! Slander!

  THE GENTLEMAN: What, you deny that you murdered Mrs Czech?

  THE CUSTOMER: Of course I deny it. Mrs Czech was recommended to me by some close relatives of mine who were lodgers in her house. She asked me for protection. When my relatives got down on their knees and begged me, I gave in, and yesterday I started protecting her. It was her last great joy on earth. A few minutes later she died peacefully of old age in my arms. That’s the truth, and that’s what you and certain other people choose to represent as murder! What’s more, it was because of you that Mrs Czech came to me! You let her down and you’ll let all your friends down. That ought to give you pause, Mr Svendson.

  THE LADY: So you just took care of Mrs Czech?

  THE CUSTOMER: Why would I have wanted to hurt her? His stomach rumbles.

  THE GENTLEMAN: And you really mean to deny that you threaten everyone who lives anywhere near you?

  THE CUSTOMER: Of course I deny it! I’ve come here to buy sixteen bars of iron, Mr Svendson. But I find an atmosphere of hostility. Obviously you can’t be expected to sell iron to anyone who threatens you. So let me ask you a question; think carefully before you answer: Do you feel threatened by me?


  SVENDSON: Me? How can you ask? How many bars did you say? Oh yes, sixteen. Do I feel threatened by you? Whatever put that into your head? Do you really want an answer?

  THE GENTLEMAN, THE LADY and THE CUSTOMER: Yes.

  SVENDSON counting out the bars: In that case I’ll tell you: No.

  I don’t feel threatened.

  The lady and the gentleman leave in indignation.

  THE CUSTOMER while Svendson wipes off the bars with the membership list: Splendid. There’s a man who still has the courage of his convictions. We must be related in some way, Svendson. Even if you deny it. People deny a lot of things. By the way, since we’re both so passionately devoted to peace, couldn’t we make a little pact entitling you to attack anyone you please with iron bars except me, and me to attack anyone but you?

  SVENDSON in a choked voice: I wouldn’t like to do that. My biggest customer …

  THE CUSTOMER: But I need more iron, Svendson. People are plotting against me. They’re planning to attack me. They all want to attack me. Because they can’t bear to see how well I’m getting along. His stomach rumbles again. They accuse me of killing that woman! Lies! Lies! Lies! And do you know what I found in her house afterwards? An iron bar! She was going to attack me! You’re right to keep out of these disgusting quarrels. You’re an iron dealer, not a politician, Svendson. You sell your iron to anyone who can pay. And I buy from you because I like you and because I see that you have to make a living. Because you’re not against me and don’t let my enemies incite you against me – that’s why I buy your iron. Why else would I buy it? You’ve no reason to make an enemy of me! Weren’t you saying something about shoes? Here, I’ve brought you some shoes. He takes out a pair of large yellow shoes. Just what you need, Svendson. I can let you have them cheap. Do you know how much they cost me?

  SVENDSON feebly: How much?

  THE CUSTOMER: Nothing. See. And you get the benefit, Svendson. Oh yes, you and I are going to be great friends, especially when we’ve come to a perfect agreement about the price of iron. And we will, Svendson, we will. Give me a hand with these bars, Svendson.

  Svendson helps him to pick up the bars. He takes six under each arm, loads the rest on his back, and thus heavily laden hobbles out.

  SVENDSON: Good day.

  THE CUSTOMER turning with difficulty in the doorway.

  Smiling: See you soon.

  4

  The calendar in the iron store now reads 19??. Svendson is strolling around, smoking an Austrillo and wearing Mrs Czech’s shoes. Suddenly the sound of guns is heard. Very much upset, Svendson tries in vain to telephone. The telephone is dead. He turns on the radio. The radio is dead. He looks out the window and sees the glow of flames.

  SVENDSON: War!

  He hurries to the blackboard showing the price of iron, rubs out the figure 3 with a sponge and in feverish haste writes in a 4. The customer comes in with all sorts of things under his coat. His face is chalky-white.

  SVENDSON listening: Do you know where that gunfire is coming from?

  THE CUSTOMER: It’s coming from my rumbling stomach. I’m on my way to get some food. But for that I need more iron. He throws open his coat, uncovering two machine-guns at the ready.

  SVENDSON: Help! Help!

  THE CUSTOMER: How much is your iron?

  SVENDSON stammers: Nothing.

  The Trial of Lucullus

  A radio play

  1940 version

  Collaborator: MARGARETE STEFFIN

  Translator: H.R. HAYS

  Characters:

  LUCULLUS, a Roman general

  THE COURT CRIER

  THE JUDGE OF THE DEAD

  Jury of the Dead: THE TEACHER, THE COURTESAN, THE BAKER, THE FISHWIFE, THE FARMER

  Figures on the Frieze: THE KING, THE QUEEN, TWO GIRLS WITH A TABLET, TWO SLAVES WITH A GOLDEN GOD, TWO LEGIONARIES, LUCULLUS’S COOK, THE CHERRY-TREE BEARER

  THE HOLLOW VOICE

  AN OLD WOMAN

  THE THREEFOLD VOICE

  TWO SHADOWS

  THE HERALD

  THE CROWD: TWO GIRLS, TWO MERCHANTS, TWO WOMEN, TWO PLEBEIANS, A DRIVER

  CHORUS OF SOLDIERS

  CHORUS OF SLAVES

  CHILDREN’S CHORUS

  Bracketed numbers show where passages were subsequently added in Versuche 11, 1951 (English translation in Bertolt Brecht: Plays Volume 1, Methuen, 1960) or else included in the ‘Notes to the Opera’ in those publications. Such passages and changed scenes are separately listed as ‘New passages included in the 1951 radio play’ (pp. 383–90).

  1

  THE FUNERAL PROCESSION

  Noise of a great crowd.

  THE HERALD:

  Hark, the great Lucullus is dead!

  The general who conquered the East

  Who overthrew seven kings

  Who filled our city of Rome with riches.

  Behind his catafalque

  Borne by soldiers

  Walk the most distinguished men of mighty Rome

  With covered faces, beside it

  Walks his philosopher, his advocate, and before it

  Slaves drag a tremendous frieze

  Setting forth his deeds and destined to be his tombstone.

  Once more

  The entire people pays its respects to an amazing lifetime

  Of victory and conquest

  And they remember his former triumphal processions.

  SONG OF THE SOLDIERS CARRYING THE CATAFALQUE:

  Hold it steady, hold it shoulder-high.

  See that it does not waver in front of thousands of eyes

  For now the Lord of the Eastern Earth

  Betakes himself to the shadows. Take care, do not stumble.

  That flesh and metal you bear

  Has ruled the world. (1)

  SLAVES DRAGGING THE FRIEZE:

  Careful, do not stumble!

  You who haul the frieze with the scene of triumph

  Ay, though the sweat runs down to your eyelids

  Still keep your hands to the stone! Think, if you drop it

  It might crumble to dust.

  THE CROWD

  A GIRL:

  See the red plume! No, the big one.

  ANOTHER GIRL:

  He squints.

  FIRST MERCHANT:

  All the senators.

  SECOND MERCHANT:

  All the tailors too.

  FIRST MERCHANT:

  Why no, this man has pushed on even to India.

  SECOND MERCHANT:

  But he was finished long ago

  I’m sorry to say.

  FIRST MERCHANT:

  Greater than Pompey

  Rome would have been lost without him.

  Enormous victories.

  SECOND MERCHANT:

  Mostly luck.

  FIRST WOMAN:

  My Reus

  Perished in Asia.

  All this fuss won’t bring him back to me.

  FIRST MERCHANT:

  Thanks to this man

  Many a man made a fortune.

  SECOND WOMAN:

  My brother’s boy too never came home again.

  FIRST MERCHANT:

  Everyone knows what Rome reaped, thanks to him

  In fame alone.

  FIRST WOMAN:

  Without their lies

  Nobody would walk into the trap.

  FIRST MERCHANT:

  Heroism, alas

  Is dying out.

  FIRST PLEBEIAN:

  When

  Will they spare us this twaddle about fame?

  SECOND PLEBEIAN:

  Three legions in Cappadocia

  Not one left to tell the tale.

  A DRIVER:

  Can

  I get through here?

  SECOND WOMAN:

  No, it’s closed off.

  FIRST PLEBEIAN:

  When we bury our generals

  Oxcarts must have patience.

  SECOND WOMAN:

  They dragged
my Pulcher before the judge:

  Taxes due.

  FIRST MERCHANT:

  We can say

  Except for him Asia would not be ours today.

  FIRST WOMAN:

  Has tunnyfish jumped in price again?

  SECOND WOMAN:

  Cheese too.

  The noise of the crowd increases.

  THE HERALD:

  Now

  They pass through the arch of triumph

  Which the city has built for her great son.

  The women hold their children high. The mounted men

  Press back the ranks of the spectators.

  The street behind the procession lies deserted.

  For the last time

  The great Lucullus has passed through it.

  The noise of the crowd and the sound of marching fade.

  2

  SUDDEN SILENCE AND RETURN TO NORMALITY

  THE HERALD:

  The procession has disappeared. Now

  The street is full again. From the obstructed side-alleys

  The carters drive out with their oxcarts. The crowd

  Returns to its business, chattering. Busy Rome

  Goes back to work.

  3

  IN THE SCHOOLBOOKS

  CHILDREN’S CHORUS:

  In the schoolbooks

  Are written the names of great generals.

  Whoever wants to emulate them

  Learns their battles by heart

  Studies their wonderful lives.

  To emulate them

  To rise above the crowd

  Is our task. Our city

  Is eager to write our names some day

  On the tablets of immortality. (2)

  4

  THE BURIAL

  THE HERALD:

  Outside, on the Appian Way

  Stands a little structure, built ten years before

  Meant to shelter the great man

  In death.

  Before it, the crowd of slaves that drags the triumphal frieze

  Turns in.

  Then the little rotunda with the boxtree hedge receives it.

  A HOLLOW VOICE:

  Halt, soldiers!

  THE HERALD:

  Comes a voice

  From the other side of the wall

  Giving orders from now on.

  THE HOLLOW VOICE:

  Tilt the bier! No one is carried

  Behind this wall. Behind this wall