Bertolt Brecht: Mutter Courage und ihre Kinder 7

  GRUSHA: Yes.

  YUSSUP: But your soldier won’t return now. Don’t you believe it.

  GRUSHA: No.

  YUSSUP: You’re cheating me. You’re my wife and you’re not my wife. Where you lie, nothing lies. And yet no other woman can lie there. When I go to work in the mornings I’m dead-tired. When I lie down at night I’m awake as the devil. God has made you a woman, and what d’you do about it? My fields don’t bring me in enough to buy myself a woman in town. Besides, it’s a long way. Woman hoes the fields and parts her legs. That’s what our calendar says. D’you hear?

  GRUSHA: Yes. Quietly. I don’t like cheating you out of it.

  YUSSUP: She doesn’t like! Pour some more water. The mother-in-law pours. Ow!

  THE SINGER

  As she sat by the stream to wash the linen

  She saw his image in the water, and his face grew dimmer

  As the months passed by.

  As she raised herself to wring the linen

  She heard his voice from the murmuring maple, and his voice grew fainter

  As the months passed by.

  Prayers and sighs grew more numerous, tears and sweat flowed faster

  As the months passed by, as the child grew up.

  Grusha sits by a stream dipping linen into the water. Some distance away a few children are standing. Grusha is talking to Michael.

  GRUSHA: You can play with them, Michael. But don’t let them order you about because you’re the smallest. Michael nods and joins the children. They start playing.

  THE TALLEST BOY: Today we’re going to play Heads-off. To a fat boy: You’re the Prince and you must laugh. To Michael: You’re the Governor. To a girl: You’re the Governor’s wife and you cry when his head’s chopped off. And I do the chopping. He shows his wooden sword. With this. First, the Governor’s led into the courtyard. The Prince walks ahead. The Governor’s wife comes last.

  They form a procession. The fat boy goes ahead, and laughs. Then comes Michael, and the tallest boy, and then the girl, who weeps.

  MICHAEL standing still: Me too chop head off!

  THE TALLEST BOY: That’s my job. You’re the smallest. The Governor’s part is easiest. All you do is kneel down and have your head chopped off. That’s simple.

  MICHAEL: Me too have sword.

  THE TALLEST BOY: That’s mine. He gives him a kick.

  THE GIRL shouting to Grusha: He doesn’t want to do what he’s told.

  GRUSHA laughing: Even ducklings take to water, they say.

  THE TALLEST BOY: You can play the Prince if you know how to laugh.

  Michael shakes his head.

  THE FAT BOY: I’m the best laugher. Let him chop off the head just once. Then you do it, then me.

  Reluctantly the tallest boy hands Michael the wooden sword and kneels. The fat boy sits down, smacks his thigh and laughs with all his might. The girl weeps loudly. Michael swings the big sword and chops off the head. In doing so, he topples over.

  THE TALLEST BOY: Hi, I’ll show you how to do it properly.

  Michael runs away, and the children run after him. Grusha laughs, following them with her eyes. On turning round, she sees Simon Chachava standing on the opposite bank. He wears a shabby uniform.

  GRUSHA: Simon!

  SIMON: Is that Grusha Vachnadze?

  GRUSHA: Simon!

  SIMON politely: A good morning, and good health to the young lady.

  GRUSHA gets up gaily and bows deeply: A good morning to the soldier. And thank God he has returned in good health.

  SIMON: They found better fish than me, so they didn’t eat me, said the haddock.

  GRUSHA: Courage, said the kitchen boy. Luck, said the hero.

  SIMON: And how are things here? Was the winter bearable? Did the neighbour behave?

  GRUSHA: The winter was a little rough, the neighbour as usual, Simon.

  SIMON: May one ask if a certain person is still in the habit of putting her leg in the water when washing her linen?

  GRUSHA: The answer is no. Because of the eyes in the bushes.

  SIMON: The young lady is talking about soldiers. Here stands a paymaster.

  GRUSHA: Is that worth twenty piastres?

  SIMON: And board.

  GRUSHA with tears in her eyes: Behind the barracks under the date trees.

  SIMON: Just there. I see someone has kept her eyes open.

  GRUSHA: Someone has.

  SIMON: And has not forgotten. Grusha shakes her head. And so the door is still on its hinges, as they say. Grusha looks at him in silence and shakes her head again. What’s that mean? Is something wrong?

  GRUSHA: Simon Chachava, I can never go back to Nukha. Something has happened.

  SIMON: What has happened?

  GRUSHA: It so happened that I knocked down an Ironshirt.

  SIMON: Grusha Vachnadze will have had her reasons for that.

  GRUSHA: Simon Chachava, my name is also no longer what it was.

  SIMON after a pause: I don’t understand that.

  GRUSHA: When do women change their names, Simon? Let me explain it to you: Nothing stands between us. Everything between us has remained as it was. You’ve got to believe that.

  SIMON: How can nothing stand between us and things be changed?

  GRUSHA: How can I explain it to you? So fast and with the stream between us? Couldn’t you cross that bridge?

  SIMON: Perhaps it’s no longer necessary.

  GRUSHA: It’s most necessary. Come over, Simon. Quick!

  SIMON: Is the young lady saying that someone has come too late?

  Grusha looks up at him in despair, her face streaming with tears. Simon stares before him. He picks up a piece of wood and starts cutting it.

  THE SINGER

  So many words are said, so many words are left unsaid.

  The soldier has come. Whence he comes he doesn’t say.

  Hear what he thought but didn’t say:

  The battle began at dawn, grew bloody at noon.

  The first fell before me, the second behind me, the third at my side.

  I trod on the first, I abandoned the second, the captain sabred the third.

  My one brother died by steel, my other brother died by smoke.

  My neck was burnt by fire, my hands froze in my gloves, my toes in my socks.

  For food I had aspen buds, for drink I had maple brew, for bed I had stones in water.

  SIMON: I see a cap in the grass. Is there a little one already?

  GRUSHA: There is, Simon. How could I hide it? But please don’t let it worry you. It’s not mine.

  SIMON: They say: Once the wind begins to blow, it blows through every crack. The woman need say no more.

  Grusha lowers her head and says no more.

  THE SINGER

  There was great yearning but there was no waiting.

  The oath is broken. Why was not disclosed.

  Hear what she thought, but didn’t say:

  While you fought in the battle, soldier

  The bloody battle, the bitter battle

  I found a child who was helpless

  And hadn’t the heart to do away with it.

  I had to care for what otherwise would have come to harm

  I had to bend down on the floor for breadcrumbs

  I had to tear myself to pieces for what was not mine

  But alien.

  Someone must be the helper.

  Because the little tree needs its water

  The little lamb loses its way when the herdsman is asleep

  And the bleating remains unheard.

  SIMON: Give me back the cross I gave you. Or better, throw it in the stream.

  He turns to go.

  GRUSHA: Simon Chachava, don’t go away. It isn’t mine, it isn’t mine! She hears the children calling. What is it, children?

  VOICES: Soldiers have come!—They are taking Michael away!

  Grusha stands aghast as two Ironshirts, with Michael between them, come towards her.

  IRONSHIRT:
Are you Grusha? She nods. Is that your child?

  GRUSHA: Yes. Simon goes off. Simon!

  IRONSHIRT: We have official orders to take this child, found in your charge, back to the city. There is suspicion that it is Michael Abashvili, son and heir of the late Governor Georgi Abashvili, and his wife, Natella Abashvili. Here is the document and the seal.

  They lead the child away.

  GRUSHA running after them and shouting: Leave it here, please! It’s mine!

  THE SINGER

  The Ironshirts took the child away, the precious child.

  The unhappy girl followed them to the city, the dangerous place.

  The real mother demanded the child back. The foster mother faced her trial.

  Who will try the case, on whom will the child be bestowed?

  Who will be the Judge? A good one, a bad one?

  The city was in flames. On the Judgment Seat sat Azdak.

  5

  THE STORY OF THE JUDGE

  THE SINGER

  Listen now to the story of the Judge:

  How he turned Judge, how he passed judgment, what kind of Judge he is.

  On the Easter Sunday of the great revolt, when the Grand Duke was overthrown

  And his Governor Abashvili, father of our child, lost his head

  The village clerk Azdak found a fugitive in the woods and hid him in his hut.

  Azdak, in rags and tipsy, helps a fugitive dressed as a beggar into his hut.

  AZDAK: Don’t snort. You’re not a horse. And it won’t do you any good with the police if you run like a dirty nose in April. Stop, I tell you. He catches the fugitive, who has trotted into the hut as though he would go through the walls. Sit down and feed: here’s a piece of cheese. From under some rags in a chest he fishes out some cheese, and the fugitive greedily begins to eat. Haven’t had anything for some time, eh? The fugitive groans. Why did you run so fast, you arse-hole? The police wouldn’t even have seen you!

  THE FUGITIVE: Had to.

  AZDAK: Blue funk? The fugitive stares, uncomprehending. Got the squitters? Afraid? Don’t slobber like a Grand Duke or a sow. I can’t stand it. It’s well-born stinkers we’ve got to put up with as God made them. Not the likes of you. I once heard of a Senior Judge who farted at a public dinner. Just to show his independence. Watching you eat like that really gives me the most awful ideas! Why don’t you say something? Sharply. Let’s have a look at your hand. Can’t you hear? Show me your hand. The fugitive slowly puts out his hand. White! So you’re no beggar at all! A fraud! A swindle on legs! And here am I hiding you from the police as though you were a decent human being! Why run like that if you’re a landowner? Because that’s what you are. Don’t try to deny it. I see it in your guilty face. He gets up. Get out of here! The fugitive looks uncertainly at him. What are you waiting for, you peasant-flogger?

  THE FUGITIVE: Am hunted. Ask for undivided attention. Make proposition.

  AZDAK: What do you want to make? A proposition? Well, if that isn’t the height of insolence! He making a proposition! The bitten man scratches his fingers bloody, and the leech makes a proposition. Get out, I tell you!

  THE FUGITIVE: Understand point of view. Persuasion. Will pay 100,000 piastres for one night. How’s that?

  AZDAK: What? Do you think you can buy me? And for 100,000 piastres? A third-rate farm. Let’s say 150,000. Got it?

  THE FUGITIVE: Not on me, of course. Will be sent. Hope, don’t doubt.

  AZDAK: Doubt profoundly! Get out!

  The fugitive gets up and trots to the door. A voice from off-stage.

  VOICE: Azdak!

  The fugitive turns, trots to the opposite corner and stands still.

  AZDAK shouting: I’m not in. He walks to the door. Is that you spying around here again, Shauva?

  POLICEMAN SHAUVA outside, reproachfully: You’ve snared another rabbit, Azdak. You promised me it wouldn’t happen again.

  AZDAK severely: Shauva, don’t talk about things you don’t understand. The rabbit is a dangerous and destructive animal. It devours plants, especially what they call weeds. So it must be exterminated.

  SHAUVA: Azdak, don’t be so hard on me. I’ll lose my job if I don’t arrest you. I know you have a good heart.

  AZDAK: I don’t have a good heart! How often am I to tell you I’m a man of intellect?

  SHAUVA slyly: I know, Azdak. You’re a superior person. You say so yourself. I’m a Christian and an ignoramus. So I ask you: if one of the Prince’s rabbits is stolen, and I’m a policeman, what am I to do with the offender?

  AZDAK: Shauva, Shauva, shame on you! There you stand asking me a question. Nothing is more tempting than a question. Suppose you were a woman—let’s say Nunovna, that bad girl—and you showed me your thigh—Nunovna’s thigh, that is—and you asked me: what shall I do with my thigh? It itches. Is she as innocent as she pretends? No. I catch a rabbit, you catch a man. Man is made in God’s image. Not so a rabbit, you know that. I’m a rabbit-eater; but you’re a man-eater, Shauva. And God will pass judgment on you. Shauva, go home and repent. No, stop! There’s something … He looks at the fugitive, who stands trembling in the corner. No, it’s nothing after all. Go home and repent. He slams the door behind Shauva. To the fugitive: Now you’re surprised, eh? Surprised I didn’t hand you over? But I couldn’t hand over even a bedbug to that beast of a policeman! It goes against my grain. Don’t tremble at the sight of a policeman. So old and yet so cowardly! Finish your cheese, but eat it like a poor man, or else they’ll still catch you. Do I even have to tell you how a poor man behaves? He makes him sit down, and then gives him back the cheese. The box is the table. Put your elbows on the table, and now surround the plate with your arms as though you expected the cheese to be snatched from you at any moment. What right have you to be safe? Now hold the knife as if it were a small sickle; and don’t look so greedily at your cheese, look at it mournfully—because it’s already disappearing—like all good things. Azdak watches him. They’re after you. That speaks in your favour. But how can I be sure they’re not mistaken about you? In Tiflis they once hanged a landowner, a Turk. He could prove he quartered his peasants instead of merely cutting them in half, as is the custom. And he squeezed twice the usual amount of taxes out of them. His zeal was above all suspicion, and yet they hanged him like a common criminal. Why? Because he was a Turk—something he couldn’t do much about. An injustice! He got on to the gallows like Pontius Pilate into the Creed. In a word, I don’t trust you.

  THE SINGER

  Thus Azdak gave shelter to the old beggar

  Only to find out that he was that murderer, the Grand Duke.

  And he was ashamed of himself, he accused himself and ordered the policeman

  To take him to Nukha, to Court, to be judged.

  In the Court of Justice three Ironshirts sit drinking. From a pillar hangs a man in judge’s robes. Enger Azdak, in chains, dragging Shauva behind him.

  AZDAK shouting: I have helped the Grand Duke, the Grand Thief, the Grand Murderer, to escape! In the name of Justice, I demand to be judged severely in a public trial!

  THE FIRST IRONSHIRT: Who is this queer bird?

  SHAUVA: That’s our clerk, Azdak.

  AZDAK: I am despicable, treacherous, branded! Tell them, flatfoot, how I insisted on being put in chains and brought to the capital. Because I sheltered the Grand Duke, the Grand Swindler, by mistake. As I realized only afterwards when I found this document in my hut. The Ironshirts study the document. To Shauva: They can’t read. Point out that the branded man is accusing himself. Tell them how I forced you to walk with me through half the night, to get everything cleared up.

  SHAUVA: And all by threats. That wasn’t nice of you, Azdak.

  AZDAK: Shauva, shut your trap. You don’t understand. A new age has come, which will thunder over you. You’re finished. The police will be wiped out, pfft! Everything is being investigated, brought into the open. In these circumstances a man prefers to give himself up. Why? Because he won’t escape the mob. Tell them
how I’ve been shouting all along Shoemaker Street! He acts with expansive gestures, looking sideways at the Ironshirts. ‘Out of ignorance I let the Grand Swindler escape. Tear me to pieces, brothers!’ So as to get in first.

  THE FIRST IRONSHIRT: And what was their answer?

  SHAUVA: They comforted him in Butcher Street, and laughed themselves sick in Shoemaker Street. That’s all.

  AZDAK: But here with you it’s different, I know you’re men of iron. Brothers, where is the Judge? I must be tried.

  THE FIRST IRONSHIRT pointing at the hanged man: Here’s the Judge. And stop ‘brothering’ us. That’s rather a sore spot this evening.

  AZDAK: ‘Here’s the Judge.’ That’s an answer never heard in Grusinia before. Citizens, where’s His Excellency the Governor? Pointing at the gallows: Here’s His Excellency, stranger. Where’s the Chief Tax Collector? Where’s the official Recruiting Officer? The Patriarch? The Chief of Police? Here, here, here—all here. Brothers, that’s what I expected from you.

  THE SECOND IRONSHIRT: Stop! What did you expect, you bird?

  AZDAK: What happened in Persia, brothers. What happened there.

  THE SECOND IRONSHIRT: And what did happen in Persia?

  AZDAK: Forty years ago. Everyone hanged. Viziers, tax-collectors. My grandfather, a remarkable man, saw it all. For three whole days. Everywhere.

  THE SECOND IRONSHIRT: And who reigned after the Vizier was hanged?

  AZDAK: A peasant.

  THE SECOND IRONSHIRT: And who commanded the army?

  AZDAK: A soldier, soldier.

  THE SECOND IRONSHIRT: And who paid the wages?

  ADAZK: A dyer. A dyer paid the wages.

  THE SECOND IRONSHIRT: Wasn’t it a carpet weaver perhaps?

  THE FIRST IRONSHIRT: And why did all this happen, you Persian?

  AZDAK: ‘Why did all this happen?’ Must there be a special reason? Why do you scratch yourself, brother? War! Too long a war! And no justice! My grandfather brought back a song that tells what it was all about. I and my friend the policeman will sing it for you. To Shauva: And hold on to the rope, that’s part of it. He sings, with Shauva holding the rope.