Bertolt Brecht
Page 20
The official she spoke to wrote down her claim and promised to pursue the matter.
Before long, indeed, Zunto received a summons and, shaking in his shoes, presented himself at the dread building. To his astonishment he was not interrogated but simply informed that his claim would be borne in mind when the prisoner’s financial affairs were settled. Of course, the official intimated, this would not lead to much.
The old man was so glad to get off thus lightly that he humbly expressed his thanks. But his wife was not satisfied. To make good the loss it was not enough for her husband to forgo his evening beer and stitch late into the night. There were debts to the cloth merchant that had to be paid. She shouted in the kitchen and all over the courtyard that it was a disgrace to take a criminal into custody before he had paid his debts. If need be, she would go to the Holy Father himself in Rome to get her thirty-two scudi. ‘He doesn’t need a coat at the stake,’ she screamed.
She told her father confessor what had happened to them. He advised her to ask that at least the coat be returned to them. Taking this as an admission on the part of an ecclesiastical authority that she had a legitimate claim, she declared that she would not by any means be satisfied with the coat, which had certainly been worn already and, besides, had been made to measure. She must have the money. Since she became a trifle noisy in her vehemence, the priest threw her out. This brought her to her senses a bit and for some weeks she kept quiet. Nothing further was heard from the seat of the Inquisition about the case of the imprisoned heretic. But it was whispered everywhere that the interrogations were bringing monstrous iniquities to light. The old woman listened greedily to all this tattle. It tormented her to hear that the heretic’s case looked so black. He would never be released and never be able to pay his debts. She no longer slept at night and in August, when the heat played havoc with her nerves, she began to air her grievance with great volubility in the shops where she made her purchases and to the customers who came for fittings. She insinuated that the priests were committing a sin in dismissing so lightly the rightful claims of a small artisan. Taxes were oppressive and bread had just recently gone up again.
One morning an official called for her and took her to the seat of the Holy Office where she was urgently cautioned to cease her mischievous chatter. She was asked if she were not ashamed of herself, letting her tongue wag about very grave ecclesiastical proceedings for the sake of a few scudi. She was given to understand that there were all sorts of ways of dealing with people of her stamp.
That had an effect for a while, even though every time she thought of the phrase ‘for the sake of a few scudi’ coming from the mouth of an overfed friar her face flushed with anger. But in September it was said that the Grand Inquisitor in Rome had demanded the extradition of il Nolano. The matter was being debated in the Signoria.
The citizens heatedly discussed this request for extradition and, by and large, feelings were against it. The guilds would not tolerate Roman tribunals over them.
The old woman was beside herself. Were they really going to let the heretic go off to Rome without settling his debts? That was the last straw. She had barely heard the incredible news before, without even stopping to put on a better dress, she was on her way to the seat of the Holy Office.
This time she was received by a higher official and, strangely enough, he was far more accommodating than the former officials had been. He was almost as old as herself and listened quietly and attentively to her complaint. When she had finished he asked her, after a little pause, whether she would care to speak to Bruno.
She assented at once. A meeting was arranged for the following day.
That morning, in a tiny room with grated windows, a small slight man with a thin dark beard came towards her and asked her courteously what he could do for her.
She had seen him at the time when he had been measured and since then had kept his face clearly in her memory, but she did not now immediately recognize him. The excitements of the interrogations must have changed him.
She blurted out: ‘The coat. You haven’t paid for it.’
He looked at her in amazement for a few seconds. Then he recollected and asked her in a low voice: ‘What do I owe you?’
‘Thirty-two scudi,’ she said. ‘Surely you had the bill?’
He turned to the big fat official who was supervising the interview and asked him whether he knew how much money had been handed in to the Holy Office together with his belongings. The man did not know, but promised to find out.
‘How is your husband?’ asked the prisoner, turning again to the old woman, as though, the business having thus been set in train, normal relations had been established and this was now an ordinary visit.
And the old woman, disconcerted by the little man’s friendliness, mumbled that he was well and even added something about his rheumatism.
It was not until two days later that she went to the Holy Office building again, as it seemed only proper to allow the gentleman time to make his enquiries.
She was, in fact, given permission to speak to him once more. True, she had to wait over an hour in the tiny room with the grated windows, because he was being interrogated.
When he appeared, he seemed exhausted. As there was no chair, he leant against the wall a little. But he came to the point at once.
He told her in a very weak voice that unfortunately he was unable to pay for the coat. No money had been found amongst his belongings. Yet she need not give up all hope. He had been thinking it over and remembered that in the city of Frankfurt a man who had printed his books must still have some money laid by. If it was allowed, he would write to him. He would apply for permission the very next day. At today’s audience it had struck him that the prevailing atmosphere was not particularly favourable. So he had not liked to ask and risk spoiling everything.
The old woman watched him searchingly with her sharp eyes as he spoke. She knew the subterfuges and hollow promises of debtors. They didn’t give a damn for their obligations and when you cornered them they went on as though they were moving heaven and earth.
‘Why did you need a coat if you hadn’t the money to pay for it?’ she asked stubbornly.
The prisoner nodded to show that he was following her train of thought. He answered:
‘I’ve always earned money, with books and teaching, And I thought, I’m still earning money now. I had the idea that I needed a coat because I believed I should still be walking about outside.’
He said that without any bitterness, simply, it was plain, in order not to deny her an answer.
The old woman looked him up and down again wrathfully, but with the feeling that he was inaccessible, and, not uttering another word, she turned and hurried from the room.
‘Who would dream of sending money to a man on trial by the Inquisition?’ she exclaimed angrily to her husband as they lay in bed that night. His mind had now been set at rest about the ecclesiastical authorities’ attitude towards him, but he still disapproved of his wife’s tireless efforts to exact the money.
‘I dare say he’s got other things to think about now,’ he growled.
She said no more.
Nothing new happened about this sorry matter during the following months. At the beginning of January it was said that the Signoria was entertaining the idea of complying with the Pope’s wish and surrendering the heretic. And then the Zuntos received a fresh summons to the seat of the Holy Office.
No definite time had been stated and Signora Zunto went along one afternoon. Her arrival was inopportune. The prisoner was awaiting the visit of the Procurator of the Republic who had been invited by the Signoria to draw up an expert opinion on the question of extradition. She was received by the higher official who had earlier arranged her first interview with il Nolano, and the old man told her that the prisoner had wanted to talk to her, but that she should reflect whether this was the right moment, since the prisoner was about to attend an interview of the highest importance to him.
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br /> She said curtly, why not ask him?
An official went out and returned with the prisoner. The meeting took place in the presence of the higher official.
Before il Nolano – who smiled at her as he entered the door – could say anything, the old woman rapped:
‘Why do you go on like this if you want to walk about outside?’
For an instant the little man seemed bewildered. In the past three months he had answered a great many questions and hardly remembered the end of his last conversation with the tailor’s wife.
‘No money has come,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve written for it twice, but it hasn’t come. I was wondering whether you would take the coat back.’
‘I knew it would come to this all along,’ she said contemptuously. ‘And it’s made to measure and too small for most people.’
He looked at the old woman with distress.
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ he said and turned to the cleric. ‘Couldn’t all my belongings be sold and the money handed over to these people?’
‘That won’t be possible,’ broke in the official who had escorted him, the big fat one. ‘Signor Mocenigo has put in a claim for it. You lived at his expense for a long while.’
‘He invited me,’ replied the man from Nola wearily.
The old man raised his hand.
‘That’s really neither here nor there. I think the coat should be returned.’
‘What are we supposed to do with it?’ said the old woman obstinately.
The old man’s face grew slightly red. He said with deliberation:
‘My good woman, a little Christian forbearance would not be unbecoming to you. The accused is about to go to an interview which may mean life or death for him. You can hardly expect him to take overmuch interest in your coat.’
The old woman looked at him uncertainly. She suddenly recollected where she was. She was considering whether she should leave when she heard the prisoner behind her say in a quiet voice:
‘In my view she can expect just that.’
And, as she turned towards him, he added:
‘You must forgive all this. Don’t think for a moment that your loss is a matter of indifference to me. I shall draw up a petition about it.’
At a nod from the old man the big fat official had left the room. Now he came back, spread out his arms and said: ‘The coat was never handed in at all. Mocenigo must have held on to it.’
Bruno was plainly dismayed. Then he said firmly:
‘That’s not right. I shall sue him.’
The old man shook his head.
‘Better give your mind to the conversation you will be holding in a few minutes. I cannot allow this squabble over a few scudi to go on any longer.’
The old woman’s blood rushed to her head. While il Nolano was speaking she had kept quiet and stared sullenly into a corner of the room. But now she lost all patience again.
‘A few scudi!’ she shouted. ‘That’s a month’s earnings. It’s easy for you to show forbearance. It’s not your loss!’
At that moment a tall monk entered the door.
‘The Procurator has arrived,’ he said in an undertone and gazed with surprise at the frail old woman screaming.
The big fat man took il Nolano by the sleeve and led him out. The prisoner looked back over his shoulder at the woman until he was led over the threshold. His thin face was very pale.
Perturbed, the old woman went down the stone steps of the building. She did not know what to think. After all, the man was doing his best.
She did not go into the workshop when, a week later, the big fat man brought the coat. But she listened at the door and heard the official say: ‘The fact is that he busied himself with the coat throughout the last days. He petitioned twice, between interrogations and his interviews with the city authorities, and several times he asked for an interview with the Nuncio on the matter. He got his way. Mocenigo had to surrender the coat. Incidentally, he could have made good use of it now, for he is being extradited and will be going to Rome this very week.’
That was so. It was the end of January.
Lucullus’s Trophies
At the beginning of the year 63 B.C. Rome was full of unrest. In a series of protracted campaigns Pompey had conquered Asia for the Romans, and now they were filled with fear as they waited for the victor to return. Following his victory of course not only Asia but Rome too was his to do what he liked with.
On one of those days of tension, a short, thin man issued from a palace situated in the vast gardens along the Tiber and walked as far as the marble steps to meet a visitor. He was the former general Lucullus, and his visitor (who had come on foot) was the poet Lucretius.
In his time the old general had launched the Asiatic campaign, but thanks to a variety of intrigues Pompey had managed to ease him out of his command. Pompey knew that in many people’s eyes Lucullus was the real conqueror of Asia, and so the latter had every reason to view the victor’s arrival with alarm. He was not receiving all that many visits in those days.
The general greeted the poet warmly and led him into a small room where he could take some refreshment. The poet however ate nothing but a few figs. His health was poorly. His chest troubled him, he could not stand the spring mists.
At first the conversation contained no reference to political matters, not one word. There was some airing of philosophical questions.
Lucullus expressed reservations about the treatment of the gods in Lucretius’s didactic poem On the Nature of Things. He considered it was dangerous simply to write off religious feeling as superstition. Religious feeling and morality were the same. Renouncing the one meant renouncing the other. Such superstitious notions as are refutable are bound up with other notions whose value cannot be proved but which are none the less needed etc., etc.
Lucretius naturally differed and the old general tried to support his views by describing a dream which he had had during one of his Asiatic campaigns – in point of fact the last. ‘It was after the battle of Gasiura. Our position was pretty desperate. We had been counting on some quick victories. Triarus, my deputy at that time, had led his reserves into an ambush. I was forced to extricate him at once or all would have been lost. This at the very moment when the army was becoming dangerously infected with insubordination due to prolonged holdups over pay.
‘I was shockingly overworked, and one afternoon I nodded off over the map and had a dream which I will now recount to you.
‘We had established our camp by a big river, the Halys, which was in full spate, and I dreamed that I was sitting in my tent at night working on a plan which would definitely destroy my enemy Mithridates. The river was then impassable, and in my dream it split Mithridates’s army in two. If I went ahead and attacked the part on our side of the river it would get no help from the part on the other side.
‘Morning came. I paraded the army and saw that the proper sacrifices were carried out before my legions. Since I had had a word with the priests the omens proved exceptionally favourable. I made a great speech in which I referred to our unusually good opportunity to destroy the enemy, to the backing given us by the gods who had filled the river, to the splendidly propitious omens which proved that the gods were looking forward to the battle etc., etc. As I spoke a strange thing happened.
‘I was standing fairly high up and had a good view of the plain behind our ranks. Not all that far away I could see the smoke going up from Mithridates’s camp fires. In between the two armies lay fields; the corn in them was already quite tall. To one side, close by the river, was a farm that was about to get flooded. A peasant family was engaged in rescuing its household possessions from the low house.
‘Suddenly I saw the peasants waving in our direction. Some of my legionaries apparently heard them shouting and turned round. Four or five men began moving towards them, at first slowly and uncertainly, then breaking into a run.
‘But the peasants pointed in the opposite direction. I could see what they
meant. A wall of earth had been banked up to our right. The water had undermined it and it was threatening to collapse.
‘All this I saw as I went on speaking. It gave me an idea.
‘I thrust out my arm and pointed at the wall so that all eyes were turned towards it, raised my voice and said: “Soldiers, this is the hand of the gods! They have ordered the river to break down the enemy’s dyke. In the gods’ name, charge!”’
‘My dream of course was not entirely clear, but I distinctly remember that moment as I stood in the middle of the whole army and paused for effect while they watched the crumbling dyke.
‘It was very brief. Suddenly, with no transition, hundreds of soldiers began running towards the dyke.
‘Likewise four or five who had already hastened to the peasants’ assistance started shouting back to us as they helped the family drag the cattle from their stalls. All I could hear was “the dyke! the dyke!”
‘And now there were thousands running that way.
‘Those standing behind me ran past me till finally I was swept along too. It was a stream of men, rolling forward against a stream of water.
‘I called to the nearest bystanders – by-runners, more like – “On to glory!” “Right, on to the dyke!”, they enthusiastically yelled back as if they had not understood me. “How about the battle?” I yelled. “Later!” they assured me.
‘I stood in the way of one disorganised cohort.
‘“I command you to halt”, I shouted peremptorily.
‘Two or three of them actually halted. One was a tall fellow with a twisted chin, and to this day I have not forgotten him even though I only saw him in a dream. Turning to his comrades he said “Who’s this?”. And it was not mere insolence; he honestly meant it. And equally honestly, as I could see, the others replied “No idea”. Then they all ran on towards the dyke.