Bertolt Brecht: Mutter Courage und ihre Kinder 2

  FILCH: Ten bob.

  PEACHUM: Plus fifty per cent of your take, settle up once a week. With outfit seventy per cent.

  FILCH: What does the outfit consist of?

  PEACHUM: That’s for the firm to decide.

  FILCH: Which district could I start in?

  PEACHUM: Baker Street. Numbers 2 to 104. That comes even cheaper. Only fifty per cent, including the outfit.

  FILCH: Very well. He pays.

  PEACHUM: Your name?

  FILCH: Charles Filch.

  PEACHUM: Right. Shouts. Mrs Peachum! Mrs Peachum enters. This is Filch. Number 314. Baker Street district. I’ll do his entry myself. Trust you to pick this moment to apply, just before the Coronation, when for once in a lifetime there’s a chance of making a little something. Outfit C. He opens a linen curtain before a showcase in which there are five wax dummies.

  FILCH: What’s that?

  PEACHUM: Those are the five basic types of misery, those most likely to touch the human heart. The sight of such types puts a man into the unnatural state where he is willing to part with money. Outfit A: Victim of vehicular progress. The merry paraplegic, always cheerful – He acts it out. – always carefree, emphasised by arm-stump. Outfit B: Victim of the Higher Strategy. The Tiresome Trembler, molests passers-by, operates by inspiring nausea – He acts it out. – attenuated by medals. Outfit C: Victim of advanced Technology. The Pitiful Blind Man, the Cordon Bleu of Beggary.

  He acts it out, staggering toward Filch. The moment he bumps into Filch, Filch cries out in horror. Peachum stops at once, looks at him with amazement and suddenly roars. He’s sorry for me! You’ll never be a beggar as long as you live! You’re only fit to be begged from! Very well, outfit D! Celia, you’ve been drinking again. And now you can’t see straight. Number 136 has complained about his outfit. How often do I have to tell you that a gentleman doesn’t put on filthy clothes? The only thing about it that could inspire pity was the stains and they should have been added by just ironing in candle wax. Use your head! Have I got to do everything myself? To Filch: Take off your clothes and put this on, but mind you, look after it!

  FILCH: What about my things?

  PEACHUM: Property of the firm. Outfit E: young man who has seen better days or, if you’d rather, never thought it would come to this.

  FILCH: Oh, you use them again? Why can’t I do the better days act?

  PEACHUM: Because nobody can make his own suffering sound convincing, my boy. If you have a bellyache and say so, people will simply be disgusted. Anyway, you’re not here to ask questions but to put these things on.

  FILCH: Aren’t they rather dirty? After Peachum has given him a penetrating look. Excuse me, sir, please excuse me.

  MRS PEACHUM: Shake a leg, son, I’m not standing here holding your trousers till Christmas.

  FILCH suddenly emphatic: But I’m not taking my shoes off! Absolutely not. I’d sooner pack the whole thing in. They’re the only present my poor mother ever gave me, I may have sunk pretty low, but never …

  MRS PEACHUM: Stop drivelling. We all know your feet are dirty.

  FILCH: Where am I supposed to wash my feet? In midwinter?

  Mrs Peachum leads him behind a screen, then she sits down on the left and starts ironing candle wax into a suit.

  PEACHUM: Where’s your daughter?

  MRS PEACHUM: Polly? Upstairs.

  PEACHUM: Has that man been here again? The one who’s always coming round when I’m out?

  MRS PEACHUM: Don’t be so suspicious, Jonathan, there’s no finer gentleman. The Captain takes a real interest in our Polly.

  PEACHUM: I see.

  MRS PEACHUM: And if I’ve got half an eye in my head, Polly thinks he’s very nice too.

  PEACHUM: Celia, the way you chuck your daughter around anyone would think I was a millionaire. Wanting to marry her off? The idea! Do you think this lousy business of ours would survive a week if those ragamuffins our customers had nothing better than our legs to look at? A husband! He’d have us in his clutches in three shakes 1 In his clutches! Do you think your daughter can hold her tongue in bed any better than you?

  MRS PEACHUM: A fine opinion of your daughter you have.

  PEACHUM: The worst. The very worst. A lump of sensuality, that’s what she is.

  MRS PEACHUM: If so, she didn’t get it from you.

  PEACHUM: Marriage! I expect my daughter to be to me as bread to the hungry. He leafs in the Book. It even says so in the Bible somewhere. Anyway marriage is disgusting. I’ll teach her to get married.

  MRS PEACHUM: Jonathan, you’re just a barbarian.

  PEACHUM: Barbarian! What’s this gentleman’s name?

  MRS PEACHUM: They never call him anything but ‘the Captain’.

  PEACHUM: So you haven’t even asked him his name? Interesting.

  MRS PEACHUM: You don’t suppose we’d ask for a birth certificate when such a distinguished gentleman invites Polly and me to the Cuttlefish Hotel for a little hop.

  PEACHUM: Where?

  MRS PEACHUM: To the Cuttlefish Hotel for a little hop.

  PEACHUM: Captain? Cuttlefish Hotel? Hm, hm, hm …

  MRS PEACHUM: A gentleman who has always handled me and my daughter with kid gloves.

  PEACHUM: Kid gloves!

  MRS PEACHUM: Honest, he always does wear gloves, white ones: white kid gloves.

  PEACHUM: I see. White gloves and a cane with an ivory handle and spats and patent-leather shoes and a charismatic personality and a scar …

  MRS PEACHUM: On his neck. Isn’t there anyone you don’t know?

  Filch crawls out from behind the screen.

  FILCH: Mr Peachum, couldn’t you give me a few tips, I’ve always believed in having a system and not just shooting off my mouth any old how.

  MRS PEACHUM: A system!

  PEACHUM: He can be a half-wit. Come back this evening at six, we’ll teach you the rudiments. Now piss off!

  FILCH: Thank you very much indeed, Mr Peachum. Many thanks. Goes out.

  PEACHUM: Fifty per cent! – And now I’ll tell you who this gentleman with the gloves is – Mac the Knife! He runs up the stairs to Polly’s bedroom.

  MRS PEACHUM: God in Heaven! Mac the Knife! Jesus! Gentle Jesus meek and mild – Polly! Where’s Polly?

  Peachum comes down slowly.

  PEACHUM: Polly? Polly’s not come home. Her bed has not been slept in.

  MRS PEACHUM: She’ll have gone to supper with that wool merchant. That’ll be it, Jonathan.

  PEACHUM: Let’s hope to God it is the wool merchant!

  Mr and Mrs Peachum step before the curtain and sing. Song lighting: golden glow. The organ is lit up. Three lamps are lowered from above on a pole, and the signs say:

  THE ‘NO THEY CAN’T’ SONG

  No, they can’t

  Bear to be at home all tucked up tight in bed.

  It’s fun they want

  You can bet they’ve got some fancy notions brewing up instead.

  So that’s your Moon over Soho

  That is your infernal ‘d’you feel my heart beating?’ line.

  That’s the old ‘wherever you go I shall be with you, honey’

  When you first fall in love and the moonbeams shine.

  No, they can’t

  See what’s good for them and set their mind on it.

  It’s fun they want

  So they end up on their arses in the shit.

  Then where’s your Moon over Soho?

  What’s come of your infernal ‘d’you feel my heart beating?’ bit?

  Where’s the old ‘wherever you go I shall be with you, honey’?

  When you’re no more in love, and you’re in the shit?

  2

  Deep in the heart of Soho the bandit Mac the Knife is celebrating his marriage to Polly Peachum, the beggar king’s daughter.

  Bare stable.

  MATTHEW, known as Matt of the Mint, holds out his revolver and searches the stable with a lantern: Hey, hands up, anybody that’s here!


  Macheath enters and makes a tour of inspection along the foot-lights.

  MACHEATH: Well, is there anybody?

  MATTHEW: Not a soul. Just the place for our wedding.

  POLLY enters in wedding dress: But it’s a stable!

  MAC: Sit on the feed-bin for the moment, Polly. To the audience: Today this stable will witness my marriage to Miss Polly Peachum, who has followed me for love in order to share my life with me.

  MATTHEW: All over London they’ll be saying this is the most daring job you’ve ever pulled, Mac, enticing Mr Peachum’s only child from his home.

  MAC: Who’s Mr Peachum?

  MATTHEW: He’ll tell you he’s the poorest man in London.

  POLLY: But you can’t be meaning to have our wedding here? Why, it is a common stable. You can’t ask the vicar to a place like this. Besides, it isn’t even ours. We really oughtn’t to start our new life with a burglary, Mac. Why, this is the biggest day of our life.

  MAC: Dear child, everything shall be done as you wish. We can’t have you embarrassed in any way. The trimmings will be here in a moment.

  MATTHEW: That’ll be the furniture.

  Large vans are heard driving up. Half a dozen men come in, carrying carpets, furniture, dishes, etc., with which they transform the stable into an exaggeratedly luxurious room.1*

  MAC: Junk.

  The gentlemen put their presents down left, congratulate the bride and report to the bridegroom.2

  JAKE known as Crook-fingered Jake: Congratulations! At 14 Ginger Street there were some people on the second floor. We had to smoke them out.

  BOB known as Bob the Saw: Congratulations! A copper got done in the Strand.

  MAC: Amateurs.

  NED: We did all we could, but three people in the West End were past saving. Congratulations!

  MAC: Amateurs and bunglers.

  JIMMY: An old gent got hurt a bit, but I don’t think it’s anything serious. Congratulations.

  MAC: My orders were: avoid bloodshed. It makes me sick to think of it. You’ll never make business men! Cannibals, perhaps, but not business men!

  WALTER known as Dreary Walt: Congratulations. Only half an hour ago, Madam, that harpsichord belonged to the Duchess of Somerset.

  POLLY: What is this furniture anyway?

  MAC: How do you like the furniture, Polly?

  POLLY in tears: Those poor people, all for a few sticks of furniture.

  MAC: And what furniture! Junk! You have a perfect right to be angry. A rosewood harpsichord along with a renaissance sofa. That’s unforgivable. What about a table?

  WALTER: A table?

  They lay some planks over the bins.

  POLLY: Oh, Mac, I’m so miserable! I only hope the vicar doesn’t come.

  MATTHEW: Of course he’ll come. We gave him exact directions.

  WALTER introduces the table: A table!

  MAC seeing Polly in tears: My wife is very much upset. Where are the rest of the chairs? A harpsichord and the happy couple has to sit on the floor! Use your heads! For once I’m having a wedding, and how often does that happen? Shut up, Dreary! And how often does it happen that I leave you to do something on your own? And when I do you start by upsetting my wife.

  NED: Dear Polly …

  MAC knocks his hat off his head3: ‘Dear Polly’! I’ll bash your head through your kidneys with your ‘dear Polly’, you squirt. Have you ever heard the like? ‘Dear Polly!’ I suppose you’ve been to bed with her?

  POLLY: Mac!

  NED: I swear …

  WALTER: Dear madam, if any items of furniture should be lacking, we’ll be only too glad to go back and …

  MAC: A rosewood harpsichord and no chairs. Laughs. Speaking as a bride, what do you say to that?

  POLLY: It could be worse.

  MAC: Two chairs and a sofa and the bridal couple has to sit on the floor.

  POLLY: Something new, I’d say.

  MAC sharply: Get the legs sawn off this harpsichord! Go on!

  FOUR MEN saw the legs off the harpsichord and sing:

  Bill Lawgen and Mary Syer

  Were made man and wife a week ago.

  When it was over and they exchanged a kiss

  He was thinking ‘Whose wedding dress was this?’

  While his name was one thing she’d rather like to know.

  Hooray!

  WALTER: The finished article, madam: there’s your bench.

  MAC: May I now ask the gentlemen to take off those filthy rags and put on some decent clothes? This isn’t just anybody’s wedding, you know. Polly, may I ask you to look after the fodder?

  POLLY: Is this our wedding feast? Was the whole lot stolen, Mac?

  MAC: Of course. Of course.

  POLLY: I wonder what you will do if there’s a knock at the door and the sheriff steps in.

  MAC: I’ll show you what your husband will do in that situation.

  MATTHEW: It couldn’t happen today. The mounted police are all sure to be in Daventry. They’ll be escorting the Queen back to town for Friday’s Coronation.

  POLLY: Two knives and fourteen forks! One knife per chair.

  MAC: What incompetence! That’s the work of apprentices, not experienced men! Haven’t you any sense of style? Fancy not knowing the difference between Chippendale and Louis Quatorze.

  The gang comes back. The gentlemen are now wearing fashionable evening dress, but unfortunately their movements are not in keeping with it.

  WALTER: We only wanted to bring the most valuable stuff. Look at that wood! Really first class.

  MATTHEW: Ssst! Ssst! Permit us, Captain …

  MAC: Polly, come here a minute.

  Mac and Polly assume the pose of a couple prepared to receive congratulations.

  MATTHEW: Permit us, Captain, on the greatest day of your life, in the full bloom of your career, or rather the turning point, to offer you our heartiest and at the same time most sincere congratulations, etcetera. That posh talk don’t half make me sick. So to cut a long story short – Shakes Mac’s hand. – keep up the good work, old mate.

  MAC: Thank you, that was kind of you, Matthew.

  MATTHEW shaking Polly’s hand after embracing Mac with emotion: It was spoken from the heart, all right! So as I was saying, keep it up, old china, I mean – Grinning – the good work of course.

  Roars of laughter from the guests. Suddenly Mac with a deft movement sends Matthew to the floor.

  MAC: Shut your trap. Keep that filth for Kitty, she’s the kind of slut that appreciates it.

  POLLY: Mac, don’t be so vulgar.

  MATTHEW: Here, I don’t like that. Calling Kitty a slut … Stands up with difficulty.

  MAC: Oh, so you don’t like that?

  MATTHEW: And besides, I never use filthy language with her. I respect Kitty too much. But maybe you wouldn’t understand that, the way you are. You’re a fine one to talk about filth. Do you think Lucy didn’t tell me the things you’ve told her? Compared to that, I’m driven snow. Mac looks at him.

  JAKE: Cut it out, this is a wedding. They pull him away.

  MAC: Fine wedding, isn’t it, Polly? Having to see trash like this around you on the day of your marriage. You wouldn’t have thought your husband’s friends would let him down. Think about it.

  POLLY: I think it’s nice.

  ROBERT: Blarney. Nobody’s letting you down. What’s a difference of opinion between friends? Kitty’s as good as the next girl. But now bring out your wedding present, mate.

  ALL: Yes, hand it over!

  MATTHEW offended: Here.

  POLLY: Oh, a wedding present. How kind of you, Mr Matt of the Mint. Look, Mac, what a lovely nightgown.

  MATTHEW: Another bit of filth, eh, Captain?

  MAC: Forget it. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings on this festive occasion.

  WALTER: What do you say to this? Chippendale!

  He unveils an enormous Chippendale grandfather clock.

  MAC: Quatorze.

  POLLY: It’s wonderful. I’m so happ
y. Words fail me. You’re so unbelievably kind. Oh, Mac, isn’t it a shame we’ve no flat to put it in?

  MAC: Hm, it’s a start in the right direction. The great thing is to get started. Thank you kindly, Walter. Go on, clear the stuff away now. Food!

  JAKE while the others start setting the table: Trust me to come empty-handed again. Intensely to Polly: Believe me, young lady, I find it most distressing.

  POLLY: It doesn’t matter in the least, Mr Crook-finger Jake.

  JAKE: Here are the boys flinging presents right and left, and me standing here like a fool. What a situation to be in! It’s always the way with me. Situations! It’s enough to make your hair stand on end. The other day I meet Low-Dive Jenny; well, I say, you old cow …

  Suddenly he sees Mac standing behind him and goes off without a word.

  MAC leads Polly to her place: This is the best food you’ll taste today, Polly. Gentlemen!

  All sit down to the wedding feast.4

  NED indicating the china: Beautiful dishes. Savoy Hotel.

  JAKE: The plover’s eggs are from Selfridge’s. There was supposed to be a bucket of foie gras. But Jimmy ate it on the way, he was mad because it had a hole in it.

  WALTER: We don’t talk about holes in polite society.

  JIMMY: Don’t bolt your eggs like that, Ned, not on a day like this.

  MAC: Couldn’t somebody sing something? Something splendiferous?

  MATTHEW choking with laughter: Something splendiferous? That’s a first-class word. He sits down in embarrassment under Mac’s withering glance.

  MAC knocks a bowl out of someone’s hand: I didn’t mean us to start eating yet. Instead of seeing you people wade straight into the trough, I would have liked something from the heart. That’s what other people do on this sort of occasion.

  JAKE: What, for instance?

  MAC: Am I supposed to think of everything myself? I’m not asking you to put on an opera. But you might have arranged for something else besides stuffing your bellies and making filthy jokes. Oh well, it’s a day like this that you find out who your friends are.

  POLLY: The salmon is marvellous, Mac.

  NED: I bet you’ve never eaten anything like it. You get that every day at Mac the Knife’s. You’ve landed in the honey pot all right. That’s what I’ve always said: Mac is the right match for a girl with a feeling for higher things. As I was saying to Lucy only yesterday.