Bertolt Brecht: Mutter Courage und ihre Kinder 2

  ALL: Hurrah for Polly!

  MAC: The rotten part of it is that I won’t be here for the Coronation. There’s a gilt-edged deal for you. In the day time nobody’s home and at night the toffs are all drunk. That reminds me, you drink too much, Matthew. Last week you suggested it was you set the Greenwich Children’s Hospital on fire. If such a thing occurs again, you’re out. Who set the Children’s Hospital on fire?

  MATTHEW: I did.

  MAC to the others: Who set it on fire?

  THE OTHERS: You, Mr Macheath.

  MAC: So who did it?

  MATTHEW sulkily: You, Mr Macheath. At this rate our sort will never rise in the world.

  MAC with a gesture of stringing up: You’ll rise all right if you think you can compete with me. Who ever heard of one of those professors at Oxford College letting some assistant put his name to his mistakes? He puts his own.

  ROBERT: Ma’am, while your husband is away, you’re the boss. We settle up every Thursday, ma’am.

  POLLY: Every Thursday, boys. The gang goes out.

  MAC: And now farewell, my heart. Look after your complexion, and don’t forget to make up every day, exactly as if I were here. That’s very important, Polly.

  POLLY: And you, Mac, promise me you won’t look at another woman and that you’ll leave town right away. Believe me, it’s not jealousy that makes your little Polly say that; no, it’s very important, Mac.

  MAC: Oh, Polly, why should I go round drinking up the empties? I love only you. As soon as the twilight is deep enough I’ll take my black stallion from somebody’s stable and before you can see the moon from your window, I’ll be the other side of Highgate Heath.

  POLLY: Oh, Mac, don’t tear the heart out of my body. Stay with me and let us be happy.

  MAC: But I must tear my own heart out of my body, for I must go away and no one knows when I shall return.

  POLLY: It’s been such a short time, Mac.

  MAC: Does it have to be the end?

  POLLY: Oh, last night I had a dream. I was looking out the window and I heard laughter in the street, and when I looked out I saw our moon and the moon was all thin like a worn-down penny. Don’t forget me, Mac, in strange cities.

  MAC: Of course I won’t forget you, Polly. Kiss me, Polly.

  POLLY: Goodbye, Mac.

  MAC: Goodbye, Polly. On his way out:

  For love will endure or not endure

  Regardless of where we are.

  POLLY alone: He never will come back. She sings:

  Nice while it lasted, and now it is over

  Tear out your heart, and goodbye to your lover!

  What’s the use of grieving, when the mother that bore you

  (Mary, pity women!) knew it all before you?

  The bells start ringing.

  POLLY:

  Into this London the Queen now makes her way.

  Where shall we be on Coronation Day?

  Interlude

  Mrs Peachum and Low-Dive Jenny step out before the curtain.

  MRS PEACHUM: So if you see Mac the Knife in the next few days, run to the nearest constable and turn him in; it’ll earn you ten shillings.

  JENNY: Shall we see him, though, if the constables are after him? If the hunt is on, he won’t go spending his time with us.

  MRS PEACHUM: Take it from me, Jenny, even with all London at his heels, Macheath is not the man to give up his habits. She sings:

  THE BALLAD OF SEXUAL OBSESSION

  There goes a man who’s won his spurs in battle

  The butcher, he. And all the others, cattle.

  The cocky sod! No decent place lets him in.

  Who does him down, that’s done the lot? The women.

  Want it or not, he can’t ignore that call.

  Sexual obsession has him in its thrall.

  He doesn’t read the Bible. He sniggers at the law

  Sets out to be an utter egoist

  And knows a woman’s skirts are what he must resist

  So when a woman calls he locks his door.

  So far, so good, but what’s the future brewing?

  As soon as night falls he’ll be up and doing.

  Thus many a man watched men die in confusion:

  A mighty genius, stuck on prostitution!

  The watchers claimed their urges were exhausted

  But when they died who paid the funeral? Whores did.

  Want it or not, they can’t ignore that call.

  Sexual obsession has them in its thrall.

  Some fall back on the Bible. Some stick to the law

  Some turn to Christ and some turn anarchist.

  At lunch you pick the best wine on the list

  Then meditate till half-past four.

  At tea: what high ideals you are pursuing!

  Then soon as night falls you’ll be up and doing.

  5

  Before the Coronation bells had died away, Mac the Knife was sitting with the whores of Turnbridge! The whores betray him. It is Thursday evening.

  Whorehouse in Turnbridge.

  An afternoon like any other; the whores, mostly in their shifts, are ironing clothes, playing draughts, or washing: a bourgeois idyll.7 Crook-fingered Jake is reading the newspaper. No one pays any attention to him. He is rather in the way.

  JAKE: He won’t come today.

  WHORE: No?

  JAKE: I don’t think he’ll ever come again.

  WHORE: That would be a pity.

  JAKE: Think so? If I know him, he’s out of town by now. This time he’s really cleared out.

  Enter Macheath, hangs his hat on a nail, sits down on the sofa behind the table.

  MAC: My coffee!

  VIXEN repeats admiringly: ‘My coffee!’

  JAKE horrified: Why aren’t you in Highgate?

  MAC: It’s my Thursday. Do you think I can let such trifles interfere with my habits? Throws the warrant on the floor. Anyhow, it’s raining.

  JENNY reads the warrant: In the name of the King, Captain Macheath is charged with three …

  JAKE takes it away from her: Am I in it too?

  MAC: Naturally, the whole team.

  JENNY to the other whore: Look, that’s the warrant. Pause. Mac, let’s see your hand. He gives her his hand.

  DOLLY: That’s right, Jenny, read his palm, you do it so well. Holds up an oil lamp.

  MAC: Coming into money?

  JENNY: No, not coming into money.

  BETTY: What’s that look for, Jenny? It gives me the shivers.

  MAC: A long journey?

  JENNY: No, no long journey.

  VIXEN: What do you see?

  MAC: Only the good things, not the bad, please.

  JENNY: Oh well, I see a narrow dark place and not much light. And then I see a big T, that means a woman’s treachery. And then I see …

  MAC: Stop. I’d like some details about that narrow dark place and the treachery. What’s this treacherous woman’s name?

  JENNY: All I see is it begins with a J.

  MAC: Then you’ve got it wrong. It begins with a P.

  JENNY: Mac, when the Coronation bells start ringing at Westminster, you’ll be in for a sticky time.

  MAC: Go on! Jake laughs uproariously. What’s the matter? He runs over to Jake, and reads. They’ve got it wrong, there were only three of them.

  JAKE laughs: Exactly.

  MAC: Nice underwear you’ve got there.

  WHORE: From the cradle to the grave, underwear first, last and all the time.

  OLD WHORE: I never wear silk. Makes gentlemen think you’ve got something wrong with you.

  Jenny slips stealthily out the door.

  SECOND WHORE to Jenny: Where are you going, Jenny?

  JENNY: You’ll see. Goes out.

  DOLLY: But homespun underwear can put them off too.

  OLD WHORE: I’ve had very good results with homespun underwear.

  VIXEN: It makes the gentlemen feel they’re at home.

  MAC to Betty: Have you still got the black lace
trimming?

  BETTY: Still the black lace trimming.

  MAC: What kind of lingerie do you have?

  SECOND WHORE: Oh, I don’t like to tell you. I can’t take anybody to my room because my aunt is so crazy about men, and in doorways, you know, I just don’t wear any. Jake laughs.

  MAC: Finished?

  JAKE: No, I just got to the rapes.

  MAC back to the sofa: But where’s Jenny? Ladies, long before my star rose over this city …

  VIXEN: ‘Long before my star rose over this city …’

  MAC: … I lived in the most impecunious circumstances with one of you dear ladies. And though today I am Mac the Knife, my good fortune will never lead me to forget the companions of my dark days, especially Jenny, whom I loved the best of all. Now listen, please. While Mac sings, Jenny stands to the right outside the window and beckons to Constable Smith. Then Mrs Peachum joins her. The three stand under the street lamp and watch the house.

  BALLAD OF IMMORAL EARNINGS

  There was a time, now very far away

  When we set up together, I and she.

  I’d got the brain, and she supplied the breast.

  I saw her right, and she looked after me –

  A way of life then, if not quite the best.

  And when a client came I’d slide out of our bed

  And treat him nice, and go and have a drink instead

  And when he paid up I’d address him: Sir

  Come any night you feel you fancy her.

  That time’s long past, but what would I not give

  To see that whorehouse where we used to live?

  Jenny appears in the door, with Smith behind her.

  JENNY:

  That was the time, now very far away

  He was so sweet and bashed me where it hurt.

  And when the cash ran out the feathers really flew

  He’d up and say: I’m going to pawn your skirt.

  A skirt is nicer, but no skirt will do.

  Just like his cheek, he had me fairly stewing

  I’d ask him straight to say what he thought he was doing

  Then he’d lash out and knock me headlong down the stairs.

  I had the bruises off and on for years.

  BOTH:

  That time’s long past, but what would I not give

  To see that whorehouse where we used to live?

  BOTH together and alternating:

  That was the time, now very far away8

  MAC:

  Not that the bloody times seem to have looked up.

  JENNY:

  When afternoons were all I had for you

  MAC:

  I told you she was generally booked up.

  (The night’s more normal, but daytime will do.)

  JENNY:

  Once I was pregnant, so the doctor said.

  MAC:

  So we reversed positions on the bed.

  JENNY:

  He thought his weight would make it premature.

  MAC:

  But in the end we flushed it down the sewer.

  That could not last, but what would I not give

  To see that whorehouse where we used to live?

  Dance. Mac picks up his sword stick, she hands him his bat, be

  is still dancing when Smith lays a hand on his shoulder.

  SMITH: Coming quietly?

  MAC: Is there only one way out of this dump?

  Smith tries to put the handcuffs on Macheath; Mac gives him a

  push in the chest and he reels back. Mac jumps out of the window.

  Outside stands Mrs Peachum with constables.

  MAC with poise, very politely: Good afternoon, ma’am.

  MRS PEACHUM: My dear Mr Macheath. My husband says the greatest heroes in history have tripped over this humble threshold.

  MAC: May I ask how your husband is doing?

  MRS PEACHUM: Better, thank you. I’m so sorry, you’ll have to be bidding the charming ladies goodbye now. Come, constable, escort the gentleman to his new home. He is led away. Mrs Peachum through the window: Ladies, if you wish to visit him, you’ll invariably find him in. From now on the gentleman’s address will be the Old Bailey. I knew he’d be round to see his whores. I’ll settle the bill. Goodbye, ladies. Goes out.

  JENNY: Wake up, Jake, something has happened.

  JAKE who has been too immersed in his reading to notice anything: Where’s Mac?

  JENNY: The rozzers were here.

  JAKE: Good God! And me just reading, reading, reading … Well, I never! Goes out.

  6

  Betrayed by the whores, Macheath is freed from prison by the love of yet another woman.

  The cells in the Old Bailey.

  A cage.

  Enter Brown.

  BROWN: If only my men don’t catch him! Let’s hope to God he’s riding out beyond Highgate Heath, thinking of his Jackie. But he’s so frivolous, like all great men. If they bring him in now and he looks at me with his faithful friendly eyes, I won’t be able to bear it. Thank God, anyway, the moon is shining; if he is riding across the heath, at least he won’t stray from the path. Sounds backstage. What’s that? Oh, my God, they’re bringing him in.

  MAC tied with heavy ropes, accompanied by six constables, enters with head erect. Well, flatfeet, thank God we’re home again. He notices Brown who has fled to the far corner of the cell.

  BROWN after a long pause, under the withering glance of his former friend: Oh, Mac, it wasn’t me … I did everything … don’t look at me like that, Mac … I can’t stand it … Your silence is killing me. Shouts at one of the constables: Stop tugging at that rope, you swine … Say something, Mac. Say something to your poor Jackie … A kind word in his tragic … Rests his head against the wall and weeps. He doesn’t deem me worthy even of a word. Goes out.

  MAC: That miserable Brown. The living picture of a bad conscience. And he calls himself a chief of police. It was a good idea not shouting at him. I was going to at first. But just in time it occurred to me that a deep withering stare would send much colder shivers down his spine. It worked. I looked at him and he wept bitterly. That’s a trick I got from the Bible.

  Enter Smith with handcuffs.

  MAC: Well, Mr Warder, I suppose these are the heaviest you’ve got? With your kind permission I should like to apply for a more comfortable pair. He takes out his cheque book.

  SMITH: Of course, Captain, we’ve got them here at every price. It all depends how much you want to spend. From one guinea to ten.

  MAC: How much would none at all be?

  SMITH: Fifty.

  MAC writes a cheque: But the worst of it is that now this business with Lucy is bound to come out. If Brown hears that I’ve been carrying on with his daughter behind his friendly back, he’ll turn into a tiger.

  SMITH: You’ve made your bed, now lie on it.

  MAC: I bet the little tart is waiting outside right now. I can see happy days between now and the execution.

  Is this a life for one of my proud station?

  I take it, I must frankly own, amiss.

  From childhood up I heard with consternation:

  One must live well to know what living is!

  Song lighting: golden glow. The organ is lit up. Three lamps are

  lowered on a pole, and the signs say:

  BALLADE OF GOOD LIVING9

  I’ve heard them praising single-minded spirits

  Whose empty stomachs show they live for knowledge

  In rat-infested shacks awash with ullage.

  I’m all for culture, but there are some limits.

  The simple life is fine for those it suits.

  I don’t find, for my part, that it attracts.

  There’s not a bird from here to Halifax

  Would peck at such unappetising fruits.

  What use is freedom? None, to judge from this.

  One must live well to know what living is.

  The dashing sort who cut precarious capers

  An
d go and risk their necks just for the pleasure

  Then swagger home and write it up at leisure

  And flog the story to the Sunday papers –

  If you could see how cold they get at night

  Sullen, with chilly wife, climbing to bed

  And how they dream they’re going to get ahead

  And see the future stretching out of sight –

  Now tell me, who would choose to live like this?

  One must live well to know what living is.

  There’s plenty that they have. I know I lack it

  And ought to join their splendid isolation

  But when I gave it more consideration

  I told myself: my friend, that’s not your racket.

  Suffering ennobles, but it can depress.

  The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

  You once were poor and lonely, wise and brave.

  You ought to try to bite off rather less.

  The search for happiness boils down to this:

  One must live well to know what living is.

  Enter Lucy.

  LUCY: You dirty dog, you – how can you look me in the face after all there’s been between us?

  MAC: Have you no bowels, no tenderness, my dear Lucy, seeing a husband in such circumstances?

  LUCY: A husband! You monster! So you think I haven’t heard about your goings-on with Miss Peachum! I could scratch your eyes out!

  MAC: Seriously, Lucy, you’re not fool enough to be jealous of Polly?

  LUCY: You’re married to her, aren’t you, you beast?

  MAC: Married! It’s true, I go to the house, I chat with the girl. I kiss her, and now the silly jade goes about telling everyone that I’m married to her. I am ready, my dear Lucy, to give you satisfaction – if you think there is any in marriage. What can a man of honour say more? He can say nothing more.

  LUCY: Oh, Mac, I only want to become an honest woman.

  MAC: If you think marriage with me will … all right. What can a man of honour say more? He can say nothing more. Enter Polly.

  POLLY: Where is my dear husband? Oh, Mac, there you are. Why do you turn away from me? It’s your Polly. It’s your wife.

  LUCY: Oh, you miserable villain!

  POLLY: Oh, Mackie in prison! Why didn’t you ride across Highgate Heath? You told me you weren’t going to see those women any more. I knew what they’d do to you; but I said nothing, because I believed you. Mac, I’ll stay with you till death us do part. – Not one kind word, Mac? Not one kind look? Oh, Mac, think what your Polly must be suffering to see you like this.