Bertolt Brecht: Mutter Courage und ihre Kinder 1

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Bertolt Brecht: Mutter Courage und ihre Kinder 1 Page 23

by Bertolt Brecht


  Near Harwich

  KENT alone:

  With the wind’s first breath he fled. He’s sick.

  Why have I thus all so unbrotherly

  Borne arms against thee? Lying in thy tent

  In their honeymoon this spotted pair

  Aim against thy life, Edward. God rain vengeance

  On my cursed head.

  As running water cannot flow uphill

  So wrong shall die and justice conquer still.

  CAPTURE OF KING EDWARD IN THE GRANARY OF NEATH ABBEY (19 OCTOBER 1324)

  Neath Abbey

  Edward, Spencer, Lord Abbot

  ABBOT:

  Have you no doubt, my lord; have you no fear.

  Forget that I was once abused by you

  In times which have much altered. In these

  Tempests you and we are merely pilgrims

  To Our Lady of the Shipwrecks.

  EDWARD:

  Father, pierced by the sight of my flesh

  All hearts must miss a beat, times have so changed.

  ABBOT:

  As you would hide from evil eyes

  Here in this granary take this pillow.

  EDWARD:

  No pillow, Abbot. Let the soldier

  Have his hammock.

  Enter Baldock.

  EDWARD:

  Who comes?

  BALDOCK:

  King Edward’s Baldock.

  EDWARD:

  And our only friend. ’Tis comfort to the hunted

  When a brother seeks him in his lair.

  Drink our water with us, eat our

  Salt and bread.

  BALDOCK:

  Twice the moon has changed since I saw you

  In the camp at Harwich.

  SPENCER:

  How stands it in London?

  BALDOCK:

  In London all is upside down, it seems.

  EDWARD:

  Come Spencer! Baldock come, sit by me

  Make trial now of that philosophy

  That in our famous nurseries of arts

  Thou suckedst from Plato and from Aristotle.

  Ah, Spencer

  Since words are crude, dividing heart from heart

  And understanding is not given us

  In such deafness only bodies’ touch is left

  Between men. And this indeed’s

  But little, and all is vain.

  Enter a monk.

  MONK:

  Father, a second ship is sailing into harbour.

  ABBOT:

  Since when?

  MONK:

  These few minutes.

  EDWARD:

  What does he say?

  ABBOT:

  Nothing, Sire.

  To Spencer:

  Did any see you come here?

  SPENCER:

  No one.

  ABBOT:

  Do you expect someone?

  SPENCER:

  No. No one.

  MONK:

  The ship puts to.

  BALDOCK:

  Tell me, King Edward, why, when you

  Had Roger Mortimer in your grasp, did you

  Spare him on the day of Killingworth?

  Edward is silent.

  BALDOCK:

  Today you’d have a wind for Ireland.

  Were you in Ireland you’d be saved.

  SPENCER:

  It left us in the lurch and all but sank us.

  EDWARD:

  Mortimer! Who talks of Mortimer?

  A bloody man. Lord Abbot, on thy lap

  Lay I this head, laden with care and violence.

  O might I never ope these eyes again!

  BALDOCK:

  What is that noise?

  SPENCER:

  ‘Tis nothing. ’Tis a gust of snow.

  BALDOCK:

  I thought it was a cock-crow.

  The noise deceived.

  SPENCER:

  Look up, my lord. Baldock, this drowsiness

  Betides no good. We are betrayed already.

  Enter Rice ap Howell and troops.

  SOLDIER:

  I’ll wager Wales, these be the men.

  BALDOCK to himself:

  See him sitting there, hoping, unseen

  As though flies covered him, to escape

  From murdering hands.

  RICE AP HOWELL:

  In England’s name which among you is the king?

  SPENCER:

  There is no king here.

  BALDOCK goes up to King Edward:

  Take this napkin, I pray you, good my lord.

  You have sweat upon your brow.

  RICE AP HOWELL:

  Take him. This is he.

  Edward as he goes between armed men, stares at Baldock.

  BALDOCK weeps:

  My mother in Ireland would eat some bread.

  Sire, pardon me.

  KING EDWARD, A PRISONER IN SHREWSBURY CASTLE, REFUSES TO RENOUNCE THE CROWN.

  Shrewsbury

  The Lord Abbot, now Archbishop of Winchester, Rice ap Howell.

  ABBOT:

  When he succeeded to his father Edward

  He sported happy hours with a man

  Named Gaveston

  Who christened me with channel water

  In a dark alley by Westminster Abbey.

  Then through an error he embroiled himself

  In a desperate oath and turned a tiger.

  Some time after, the Queen, she who clung

  To him so long, left him, with many others.

  After many years it fell to me to see him

  When he was a shipwreck, spattered

  With much blood and vices, under my protection

  At Neath Abbey.

  Today am I Archbishop of Winchester

  Successor to a man whose head he

  Struck off, and I am charged

  To ask him for his crown.

  RICE AP HOWELL:

  Now he is in chains he refuses

  Food and drink. Go carefully, touch

  Not his head but touch his heart.

  ABBOT:

  When you hear these words upon my lips:

  ‘Allow me to begin with the set form’

  Then draw nearer with some others

  Witnesses that Edward the Second abdicated.

  Unnoticed then and painlessly will I

  This concession, like a bad tooth

  Draw from him.

  Enter Edward.

  RICE AP HOWELL:

  He still speaks. Hear him and say naught.

  Better speak than think. See, he warms himself

  With his words. Remember he is cold.

  Will you not eat, my lord? Why do you refuse

  To eat?

  Edward is silent.

  Exit Rice ap Howell.

  EDWARD:

  The forest deer, being struck

  Runs to an herb that closeth up the wounds;

  But when the tiger’s flesh is gored, he rends

  And tears it with his wrathful paw.

  Often I think that all is ever change.

  But when I call to mind I am a king

  Methinks I should revenge me of the wrongs

  That Mortimer and Anne have done to me.

  And yet we kings when regiment is gone

  Are perfect shadows in a sunshine day.

  Truly I think most things are vain.

  The nobles rule, I bear the name of king

  And my unconstant queen

  Once hateful to me for her bitch-like clinging

  (And so debased that her love’s not

  Part of her like her own hair but a mere

  Thing, changing with every change)

  Now spots my nuptial bed

  While sorrow at my elbow still attends

  And grief still clasps me to his breast and I

  Must bleed my heart out at this strange exchange.

  ABBOT:

  God paints with grief and pallor those he loves.
/>
  Would it please your majesty to ease

  Your bosom in my ear?

  EDWARD:

  The starving fishermen of Yarmouth

  I pressed for rent.

  ABBOT:

  What else weighs on thy heart?

  EDWARD:

  I kept my wife Anne in the city in fifteen.

  In the August heat. A whim.

  ABBOT:

  What else weighs on thy heart?

  EDWARD:

  I spared Roger Mortimer for malicious pleasure.

  ABBOT:

  What else weighs upon thy heart?

  EDWARD:

  I whipped my dog Truly till he bled. Vanity.

  ABBOT:

  And what else weighs upon thy heart?

  EDWARD:

  Nothing.

  ABBOT:

  No bloodshed, no offences against nature?

  EDWARD:

  Nothing.

  O wild despair of man’s estate!

  Say, father, must I now resign my crown

  To make usurping Mortimer a king?

  ABBOT:

  Your grace mistakes, with all respect we crave

  The crown for the child Edward’s right.

  EDWARD:

  No it is for Mortimer, not Edward’s head.

  For he’s a lamb encompassed by two wolves

  That in a moment will rip out his throat.

  ABBOT:

  That child in London is in God’s hands.

  And many say your abdication

  Were good both for your son and you.

  EDWARD:

  Why do they tell lies to one who

  Scarce can ope his lids for weariness?

  Say’t, fear not my weariness: You do it

  So that England’s vine may perish

  And Edward’s name ne’er come within the Chronicles.

  ABBOT:

  My Lord, these last times must have been

  Most cruel to make you hold such stark belief

  In human wickedness. My son, since thou

  Hast opened up thy heart to me, lay

  Thy head once more upon my lap and hear me.

  EDWARD takes off his crown, then:

  Let me but wear it for today! Thou shouldst

  Stay by me till evening and I

  Will fast and cry: Continue ever, sun!

  Let not the dark moon possess this clime!

  Stand still you watches of the element

  You moon and seasons, rest you at a stay

  That Edward may be still fair England’s king.

  But day’s bright beam doth quickly pass away.

  He puts on his crown again.

  Inhuman creatures nursed with tiger’s milk

  Lusting for your sovereign’s overthrow.

  See, you monsters, from Westminster Abbey, see!

  I cannot take it off, my hair goes with it

  It is quite grown with it. Oh it

  Has at all times been an easy burden to me

  No heavier than the maple’s crown of twigs

  So light and pleasing at all times to wear

  And for all time now a little blood

  A scrap of skin, black blood will stick to it

  From Edward the Powerless, the Poor, the tiger’s prey.

  ABBOT:

  Be patient. This is but the green discharge

  Of a chastised body, a fantasy, a whistling wind

  On a rainy night. Strip the linen from your breast.

  I lay my hand straightway upon your heart

  That it may lighter beat, for it is real.

  EDWARD:

  Were it reality and reality all this

  The earth would open up and swallow us

  Yet since it does not open and thus

  ‘Tis as a dream, fantasy, and has naught to do

  With the world’s common reality nor with an

  Ordinary day, I lay down this crown —

  ABBOT:

  Aye! Take it off! It is not thy flesh!

  EDWARD:

  Sure this is not real and I

  Must wake in Westminster

  After thirteen happily concluded years of war —

  In London.

  I, in the recorded births at Caernarvon

  Edward, King of England, Edward Longshanks’ son

  Thus in the church register.

  ABBOT:

  You are in a sweat? You must eat!

  I’ll take it from your sight. Make haste!

  EDWARD:

  So quick? Here take it, seize it. But

  If it please you with a cloth, ’tis wet.

  Quick quick! ’Tis almost evening! Go! Tell them

  At Shrewsbury Edward had no wish

  To eat the icy wind with wolves

  And gave it for a roof against the winter

  That stands before the door.

  ABBOT:

  Permit me then

  To begin with the set form: I, Thomas

  Archbishop of Winchester, ask you

  Edward of England, Second of that name

  Son to Edward Longshanks: ‘Art thou willing

  To resign the crown and to renounce

  Therewith all rights and claims.’

  Rice ap Howell and his men have entered.

  EDWARD:

  No no no, you liars! Slaves! Measure you

  The ocean with your little cups? Have I

  Been tricked then? Have I babbled?

  Have you come this time without a storm, man?

  Have you another habit on, Lord Abbot?

  Once before already, Winchester, I had

  Your face struck off. Faces like yours

  Do multiply ever in a most harmful way.

  In such a case one named Mortimer

  Was wont to say: like flies! Or did you

  When I washed you in the gutter, lose

  Your face there so I saw it not

  When I laid my head upon your lap?

  Aye, Lord Abbot, the things of this world are

  Not constant.

  ABBOT:

  Make no mistake. Even if your hand’s too good

  To touch my face, be sure of this:

  My face is real.

  EDWARD:

  Go quick! ’Tis evening. Tell the Peers: Edward

  Dies soon. Less haste were courtesy.

  Say too: he gave you leave not to

  Mourn him greatly when you toll the knell

  For him, but prayed you to go down

  Upon your knees and say: Now

  Is he the easier. Say: He bade us not to

  Credit when, distractedly, he spoke

  What seemed renunciation of the crown.

  Thrice said he: No.

  ABBOT:

  My lord as you have said so be it done.

  But as for us we are only moved by care

  For Mother England. Two days

  In London one was sought who

  Was not your enemy and none was found

  But me. And so we take our leave.

  Exeunt Abbot and the others save Rice ap Howell.

  EDWARD:

  And now Rice ap Howell, give me to eat.

  For Edward eats now.

  He sits and eats.

  Since I did not resign I know the next

  News that they bring will be my death.

  Enter Berkeley with a letter.

  RICE AP HOWELL:

  What bring you, Berkeley?

  EDWARD:

  What we know.

  Pardon us, Berkeley, that we are at meat.

  Come Berkeley

  Tell thy message to my naked breast.

  BERKELEY:

  Think you, my lord, Berkeley

  Would stain his hands?

  RICE AP HOWELL:

  An order from Westminster commands

  That I resign my charge.

  EDWARD:

  And who must keep me now? You, Berkeley?

  BERKELEY:

  S
o ’tis decreed.

  EDWARD takes the letter:

  By Mortimer whose name is written here.

  He tears the letter.

  So may his limbs be torn as is this paper.

  BERKELEY:

  Your grace must straight to horse for Berkeley.

  EDWARD:

  Whither you will; all places are alike

  And every earth is fit for burial.

  BERKELEY:

  And thinks your grace that Berkeley will be cruel?

  EDWARD:

  I know not.

  IN THE YEARS 1324-6 THE PRISONER EDWARD PASSES FROM HAND TO HAND.

  Shrewsbury

  RICE AP HOWELL alone:

  His state moved me to pity. That is

  The ground why Berkeley had

  To take him hence.

  Enter Kent.

  KENT:

  In London it is said the king’s resigned.

  RICE AP HOWELL:

  Lies.

  KENT:

  Mortimer says so.

  RICE AP HOWELL:

  He lies. In my hearing thrice the king

  Said no.

  KENT:

  Where is my brother?

  RICE AP HOWELL:

  These thirteen days Berkeley sent for him

  To come.

  KENT:

  London believes he is with you.

  RICE AP HOWELL:

  Berkeley had an order signed by Mortimer.

  KENT:

  ‘Tis strange that no one’s seen the king

  Face to face and strange that no one’s

  Heard him and strange that now he speaks

  In Mortimer’s mouth.

  RICE AP HOWELL:

  ‘Tis strange indeed.

  KENT:

  Therefore to Berkeley swiftly will I hie

  To learn from Edward’s mouth what’s truth, what lie.

  THE QUEEN LAUGHS AT THE WORLD’S EMPTINESS.

  Westminster

  The Queen, Mortimer, the two brothers Gurney.

  MORTIMER:

  Did Berkeley give him to you willingly?

  ELDER GURNEY:

  No.

  ANNE aside:

  Here among the tapestries of Westminster it reeks

  Of strangled chickens. You walked easier

  In Scottish air.

  MORTIMER talking with the Gurneys:

  Look you, this Berkeley was a man

  With milk in his bones, who wept too easy.

  If he saw someone draw another’s tooth

  He’d faint on you. The earth lie easy on him.

  You are not other such?

  ELDER GURNEY:

  Oh no, my lord, we are not of that sort.

  ANNE:

  Business! Business! The smell of too much

  History between the walls of

  Westminster. Will your hands not

  Peel in London’s lye? Your

  Hands are scribbler’s hands.

  MORTIMER:

  Where is your prisoner?

  YOUNGER GURNEY:

  North east south west from Berkeley, my lord.

  MORTIMER:

  See there are men whom cold air

  Cannot harm. Know you aught

 

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