Bertolt Brecht

  He decided to learn to read.

  That was by no means easy. The parish priest, to whom he went with his request, eyed him as though he were a spider on the breakfast table.

  ‘Do you want to read the gospel of the Lord to the cows?’ he asked irately. And the lad was lucky to get away without a thrashing.

  So he had to adopt a different way.

  There was a missal in the vestry of the village church. If you volunteered to pull the bell-ropes, you could get in. Now, if you could determine which passages the priest was singing at mass, it ought to be possible to find a connection between the words and the letters.

  At all events, at mass the boy began to learn by heart the Latin words which the priest intoned, or at least some of them. It must be admitted that the way the priest articulated the words was uncommonly indistinct, and all too often he did not read the mass.

  All the same, after a while the boy could repeat some introits sung by the priest. The head groom surprised him at this exercise behind the barn and thrashed him, for he thought the boy was trying to parody the priest. So he got his thrashing after all.

  He had not yet succeeded in finding the place in the missal with the words which the priest sang when a great catastrophe occurred, putting an end for the time being to his efforts to learn to read. His lordship fell mortally ill.

  He had been ailing all the autumn and had not recovered by the winter when he drove in an open sledge to an estate a few miles off. The boy was allowed to accompany him. He stood on the runners at the back next to the coachman’s box.

  The visit was paid, the old man was plodding back to the sledge, escorted by his host, when he saw a frozen sparrow lying on the path. Halting, he turned it over with his stick.

  ‘How long has it been lying here do you think?’ the boy, trotting behind him with a hot-water bottle, heard him ask his host.

  The answer was: ‘Anything from an hour to a week or more.’

  The little old man walked on deep in thought and took a very abstracted farewell of his host.

  ‘The flesh is still quite fresh, Dick,’ he said, turning round to the boy as the sledge drove off.

  They made their way at a good pace, for dusk was falling over the snow-covered fields and it was rapidly growing colder. Thus it came about that, as they turned into the gates of the courtyard a chicken, having apparently escaped from the coop, was run over. The old man followed the coachman’s attempts to avoid the stiffly flapping chicken and made a sign to stop when the manoeuvre failed.

  Working his way out of his rugs and furs, he left the sledge and, his arm supported by the boy, he went back to the spot where the chicken lay, despite the coachman’s warnings of the cold.

  It was dead.

  The old man told the lad to pick it up.

  ‘Take out the entrails,’ he ordered.

  ‘Can’t it be done in the kitchen?’ asked the coachman, seeing his master standing so frail in the cold wind.

  ‘No, it’s better here,’ he said. ‘I am sure Dick has a knife on him and we need the snow.’

  The boy did as he was told and the old man, who had evidently forgotten his illness and the cold, himself stooped down and, with an effort, picked up a handful of snow. Carefully he stuffed the snow inside the chicken.

  The boy understood. He, too, gathered up snow and handed it to his teacher till the chicken was entirely filled with snow.

  ‘It should keep fresh like this for weeks,’ said the old man with animation. ‘Put it on cold flagstones in the cellar.’

  He walked the short distance to the door, a trifle exhausted and leaning heavily on the boy who carried the snow-stuffed chicken under his arm.

  As he stepped into the hall he shivered with the cold.

  The next morning he lay in a high fever.

  The boy trailed about dejectedly and tried wherever he could to pick up news of his teacher’s condition. He learnt little. The life of the great estate went on unchanged. Things took a turn only on the third day: he was called to the study.

  The old man lay on a narrow wooden bed under many rugs, but the windows stood open, so it was cold. Nevertheless, the sick man seemed aglow. In a tremulous voice he enquired after the state of the snow-filled chicken.

  The lad told him it looked as fresh as ever.

  ‘That’s good,’ said the old man with satisfaction. ‘Give me further news in two days’ time.’

  As he went away the boy regretted that he had not brought the chicken with him. The old man did not seem to be as ill as they made out in the servants’ hall.

  Twice a day he changed the snow putting in fresh, and the chicken was still unblemished when he made his way again to the sickroom.

  He met with quite extraordinary obstacles.

  Doctors had come from the capital. The corridor buzzed with whispering, commanding and obsequious voices and there were unfamiliar faces everywhere. A servant, who was carrying a dish covered with a large cloth, rudely turned him away.

  Several times throughout the morning and afternoon he made vain attempts to reach the sickroom. The strange doctors appeared to be trying to settle down in the great mansion. They seemed to him like huge black birds settling on a sick man who was now defenceless. Towards evening he hid in a closet in the corridor where it was very cold. He shivered all the time, but considered this a good thing, since the chicken must be kept cold at all costs in the interests of the experiment.

  During the dinner hour the black tide receded a little and the boy was able to slip into the sickroom.

  The invalid lay alone; everyone was at dinner. A reading lamp with a green shade stood by the small bed. The old man’s face was peculiarly shrivelled and as pale as wax. The eyes were closed, but the hands moved restlessly on the stiff covers. The room was very hot; they had shut the windows.

  The boy took a few steps towards the bed, clutching the chicken as he held it out and said in a low voice several times: ‘My lord!’ He got no answer. The invalid did not, however, seem to be asleep, for his lips moved every now and again, as though he were speaking.

  The boy decided to rouse his attention, convinced of the importance of further instructions for the experiment. But even before he could tweak the covers – he had had to lay the chicken in its box on a chair – he felt himself seized from behind and pulled away. A fat man with a grey face glared at him as if he were a murderer. He tore himself free with great presence of mind and, in one bound, caught up the box and made off through the door.

  In the corridor he fancied a manservant coming up the stairs had seen him. That was bad. How was he to prove that he had come at his lordship’s bidding, in the conduct of an important experiment? The old man was completely in the doctor’s power; the closed windows in the room showed it.

  And now he saw a servant crossing the courtyard on his way to the stables. So he went without his supper and, after he had put the chicken into the cellar, crept into the forage loft.

  The enquiry hanging over him made his sleep uneasy. It was with fear that he emerged from his hiding-place the next morning.

  No one paid any attention to him. There was a terrible coming and going in the courtyard. His lordship had died towards morning.

  All day the boy went about as though stunned by a blow on the head. He felt he would never get over the loss of his teacher. As he went into the cellar with a bowl of snow in the late afternoon, his grief at the loss turned into grief for the unfinished experiment and he shed tears over the box. What would become of the great discovery?

  Returning to the courtyard – his feet seemed to him so heavy that he looked back to see whether his footprints were not deeper than usual – he found that the London doctors had not yet left. Their carriages were still there.

  Despite his aversions, he made up his mind to confide the discovery to them. They were learned men and would be bound to recognize the significance of the experiment. He fetched the little box with the frozen chicken and stood behind the well, concealing
himself until one of the gentlemen came by, a dumpy fellow, not too awe-inspiring. He stepped forward, holding out the box. At first his voice stuck in his throat, but he did at last manage to bring out his request in disjointed sentences.

  ‘His lordship found it dead six days ago, your excellency. We stuffed it with snow. His lordship believed it might keep fresh. See for yourself; it has kept fresh.’

  The dumpy fellow gazed into the box with perplexity.

  ‘And what of it?’ he asked.

  ‘It hasn’t gone bad,’ said the boy.

  ‘Oh,’ said the dumpy fellow.

  ‘See for yourself,’ urged the lad.

  ‘I see,’ said the dumpy fellow and shook his head. Still shaking his head, he walked on.

  The boy stared after him flabbergasted. He could not understand the dumpy fellow. Had not the old man brought on his death by going out in the cold for the sake of the experiment? He had gathered up snow from the ground with his own hands. That was a fact.

  The boy went slowly back to the cellar door, but stopped short outside it, then turned about smartly and ran to the kitchen.

  He found the cook very busy, as funeral guests from the neighbourhood were expected for dinner.

  ‘What are you doing with that bird?’ growled the cook testily. ‘It’s completely frozen.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ said the lad. ‘His lordship said it doesn’t matter.’

  The cook gazed at him in an absentminded way for a moment, then went importantly to the door with a big pan in his hand, presumably to throw something out.

  The boy followed him eagerly with the box.

  ‘Couldn’t you try it?’ he entreated.

  The cook lost patience. He grabbed at the chicken with his enormous hands and sent it spinning into the yard.

  ‘Haven’t you anything better to think about?’ he yelled, beside himself. ‘And his lordship lying dead!’

  Angrily the boy picked up the chicken from the ground and slunk off with it.

  The next two days were filled with the funeral ceremonies. He had a lot to do, harnessing and unharnessing horses, but though almost asleep with his eyes open he went out at night to put fresh snow into the box. Everything seemed to him hopeless and the new era at an end.

  But on the third day, the day of the burial, well washed and in his best clothes, he felt a change of mood. It was fine bright winter weather and the bells pealed out from the village.

  Filled with new hope, he went into the cellar and gazed long and attentively at the dead fowl. He could discern no speck of decay on it. He carefully packed the creature in its box, filled it with clean white snow, put it under his arm and set off for the village.

  Whistling merrily he stepped into his grandmother’s lowly kitchen. His parents had died young, so she had brought him up and enjoyed his confidence. Without at first showing her what was in the box, he gave the old woman, who was just dressing for the funeral, an account of his lordship’s experiment.

  She heard him out patiently.

  ‘But everybody knows that,’ she said at the end. ‘They go stiff in the cold and keep for a bit. What’s so remarkable about it?’

  ‘I believe you could still eat it,’ answered the lad, trying to appear as casual as possible.

  ‘Eat a chicken that’s been dead for a week? Why it’s poisonous!’

  ‘If it hasn’t changed at all since it died why should it be? And it was killed by his lordship’s carriage so it was quite healthy.’

  ‘But inside, inside, it’s gone bad,’ said the old woman, growing slightly impatient.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said the lad stoutly, his bright eyes on the chicken. ‘It’s had snow inside the whole time. I think I’ll cook it.’

  The old woman got cross.

  ‘You’re coming along to the funeral,’ she said with finality. ‘I should have thought you’d had enough kindness from his lordship for you to walk decently behind his coffin.’

  The boy did not reply. While she tied her black woollen kerchief round her head he took the chicken out of the snow, blew off the last flakes and laid it on two logs in front of the stove. It had to thaw out.

  The old woman took no further notice of him. As soon as she was ready, she took him by the hand and went resolutely out of the door with him.

  He went along obediently for quite a stretch. There were other people, men and women, also on their way to the funeral. Suddenly he gave a cry of pain. One of his feet was stuck in a snowdrift. He pulled it out with a grimace, hobbled to a milestone and sat down, rubbing his foot.

  ‘I’ve sprained it,’ he said.

  The old woman looked at him suspiciously.

  ‘You can walk all right,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t,’ he said sullenly. ‘But if you don’t believe me, you can sit down with me till it’s better.’

  The old woman sat down next to him without a word.

  A quarter of an hour went by. Villagers still kept passing, though fewer all the time. The two of them squatted stubbornly by the roadside.

  Then the old woman said gravely: ‘Didn’t he teach you not to lie?’

  The boy made no answer. The old woman got to her feet, groaning. It was getting too cold for her.

  ‘If you don’t follow in ten minutes,’ she said, ‘I’ll tell your brother and he’ll tan your backside.’

  And she waddled on, in great haste not to miss the funeral oration.

  The boy waited until she had gone far enough and got up slowly. He turned back, but looked round several times and also went on limping for a while. Only when a hedge hid him from the old woman’s view did he walk normally again.

  In the cottage he sat down by the chicken and looked at it expectantly. He would boil it in a pot of water and eat a wing. Then he would know whether it was poisonous or not.

  He was still sitting there when three cannon shots were heard in the distance. They were fired in honour of Francis Bacon, Baron Verulam, Viscount St Alban, former Lord High Chancellor of England, who filled not a few of his contemporaries with loathing, but also many of them with enthusiasm for the practical sciences.

  The Heretic’s Coat

  Giordano Bruno, the man from Nola, whom the tribunals of the Roman Inquisition sent to the stake in the year 1600 to be burnt for heresy, is generally held to be a great man, not only by virtue of his bold and, as was subsequently proved, correct hypotheses concerning the movements of the stars but also by virtue of his spirited bearing in face of the Inquisition, to which he said: ‘You pronounce sentence upon me with greater fear, it may be, than I hear it.’ When one reads his writings and also takes a glance at reports of his demeanour in public, there is indeed every reason to call him a great man. And yet there is a story which may even heighten our respect for him.

  It is the story of his coat.

  You must first know how he fell into the hands of the Inquisition.

  A patrician of Venice, one Mocenigo, invited the man of learning to stay in his house to instruct him in natural philosophy and mnemonics. He gave him hospitality for a few months and in return was given the agreed instruction. But instead of the tuition in black magic for which he had hoped, he received only that in natural philosophy. At this he was most disgruntled as, of course, it was of no use to him. He deplored the expense to which his guest had put him. Again and again he solemnly exhorted him to yield up the secret and lucrative knowledge of which so famous a man must surely be possessed; and as this did no good, he denounced him in a letter to the Inquisition. He wrote saying that this wicked and ungrateful man had spoken ill of Christ in his hearing, had said that the monks were asses who stultified the people and, besides, asserted that, contrary to what stood in the Bible, there was not only one sun but untold numbers, and so on and so on. Therefore he, Mocenigo, had locked him into his attic and requested that he be taken away by the authorities without delay.

  The authorities did, in fact, arrive in the middle of the night between Sunday and Monday an
d took the man of learning to the prison of the Inquisition.

  This occurred on Monday the 25th of May 1592, at three o’clock in the morning, and from that day until he went to the stake on the 17th of February 1600, il Nolano never came out of prison again.

  Throughout the eight years which the terrible trial lasted, he fought unremittingly for his life; but the fight he waged against his extradition to Rome during the first year in Venice was perhaps the most desperate.

  The story about his coat belongs to that period.

  In the winter of 1592, while still living in an hotel, he had been measured for a thick overcoat by a tailor named Gabriele Zunto. When he was arrested the garment had not yet been paid for.

  On hearing of the arrest the tailor rushed to Signor Mocenigo’s house near to St. Samuele to present his bill. He was too late. One of Signor Mocenigo’s servants showed him the door. ‘We’ve spent enough on that impostor,’ he shouted so loudly from the porch that several passers-by looked round. ‘Perhaps you’d like to go to the tribunal of the Holy Office and let them know that you’ve had dealings with that heretic.’

  The tailor stood aghast in the street. A bunch of guttersnipes had overheard everything, and one of them, a pimply urchin in tatters, threw a stone at him. And although a poorly dressed woman came out of her door and boxed his ears, Zunto, an old man, had a distinct hunch that it was dangerous to be someone who ‘had dealings with that heretic’. Looking furtively behind him, he turned the corner and made for home by a very indirect way. He said nothing to his wife about his trouble, and for a whole week she was puzzled by his depressed mood.

  But on the first of June, when she was writing out the bills, she discovered that there was a coat unpaid for by a man whose name was on everyone’s lips, for il Nolano was the talk of the town. The most appalling rumours of his wickedness went about. He had not merely dragged matrimony through the mud, both in books and in conversation, but he had called Christ Himself a charlatan and said the most insane things about the sun. It was all in keeping that he had not paid for his coat. The good woman had not the least inclination to be the loser. After a furious row with her husband, the seventy-year-old woman went to the seat of the Holy Office in her Sunday clothes and, with an angry face, demanded the thirty-two scudi owed her by the imprisoned heretic.