Bertolt Brecht: Mutter Courage und ihre Kinder 7

by Bertolt Brecht

  SIMONE: He’s keeping me on so my brother doesn’t lose his job here.

  PÈRE GUSTAVE: In that way he gets a petrol pump attendant, a waitress and a scullery maid, all rolled into one.

  SIMONE: That’s because there’s a war on.

  PÈRE GUSTAVE: And that’s not at all bad for him, is it?

  PATRON appears in the doorway of the hostelry: Père Gustave, half a bottle of Chablis ‘23 for the gentleman who’s having trout. Returns into the hostelry.

  PÈRE GUSTAVE: The gentleman in the dustcoat, alias the Colonel, desires a bottle of Chablis before France falls. Exit into the store room. During the following scene he brings the bottle of Chablis across the yard into the hostelry.

  A FEMALE VOICE from the first floor of the hostelry: Simone, where are the tablecloths?

  Simone takes up the basket and is about to enter the hostelry. Enter from the street a sergeant and two sappers with a dixie.

  SERGEANT: We’re supposed to pick up our food here. The Mayor’s office say they’ve rung up.

  SIMONE keen, radiantly: I’m sure it’ll be ready. Just go into the kitchen. To the sergeant, while the two sappers go in: My brother André’s with 132 Regiment too, Monsieur. Do you happen to know why there has been no more mail from him?

  SERGEANT: Everything is upside down at the front. We haven’t been in touch with our people at the front for the last two days either.

  SIMONE: Have we lost the war, Monsieur?

  SERGEANT: Oh no, Mademoiselle. It’s just a question of isolated thrusts by enemy tank formations. They think the monsters will soon run out of petrol. Then they’ll just break down along the roads, you know.

  SIMONE: I’ve heard they won’t get as far as the Loire.

  SERGEANT: No, no. Don’t you worry. It’s a long way from the Seine to the Loire. The only bad thing is those streams of refugees. You can hardly move because of them. And we have to repair the bombed bridges, otherwise our reserves can’t get through.

  The two sappers return with their dixie, the sergeant looks into it.

  SERGEANT: Is that all? It’s a disgrace. Look at this dixie, Mademoiselle. Not even half full. This is the third restaurant they’ve sent us to. Nothing at all in the first two, and now this.

  SIMONE looks into the dixie, shocked: That must be a mistake. We’ve got enough. Lentils, bacon too. I’ll go and see the Patron myself straight away. You’ll get a full dixie. Wait a moment. She runs in.

  GEORGES offering cigarettes: Her brother can’t be more than seventeen. He was the only volunteer in Saint-Martin. She’s very fond of him.

  SERGEANT: The devil take it, I don’t call this a war. They’re treating the army like an enemy in its own country. And the Prime Minister saying on the radio ‘The Army is the People’.

  PÈRE GUSTAVE who has come out again: ‘The Army is the People.’ And the people are the enemy.

  SERGEANT hostile: How do you mean?

  GEORGES looking into the cauldron: How can you stand for that? Fetch the Mayor.

  SERGEANT: We know Mayors. They do nothing.

  SIMONE returns slowly, without looking at the Sergeant: The Patron says that’s all the hostelry can spare; there are so many refugees.

  PÈRE GUSTAVE: And we can’t spare anything for them because the army gets it all.

  SIMONE desperately: The Patron is furious because the Mayor’s office is making such demands.

  SERGEANT tired: Always the same story.

  PATRON in the doorway, handing a folded bill to Simone: Give the gentleman who had trout his bill. Tell him I’m charging the strawberries at what they cost me, it was your parents that sold them to the hostelry. He pushes her in. What’s the matter? Are the gentlemen not satisfied? Perhaps you’ll be good enough to put yourselves in the shoes of the civil population. They have already been bled white, and new demands are being put on them all the time. God knows nobody feels for France as I do, but—with a great gesture of helplessness—I can only keep this place up by making the greatest sacrifices. Look at the help I’ve got. Points to Père Gustave and Georges. An old man and a cripple. And this youngster of a girl. I give them work because otherwise they would starve. But I can’t feed the French army as well.

  SERGEANT: And I can’t ask my men to march into the night under fire for you on an empty stomach. Mend the bridges yourselves. I’ll wait for my field kitchen. Even if it means waiting seven years. Exit with sappers.

  PATRON: What can I do? You can’t please everybody. Trying to ingratiate himself: Well, boys, you should be glad you don’t own a hostelry. It’s like having to defend it against wolves, eh? After all the trouble we took to get it two stars in the guide book. With annoyance, as Père Gustave and Georges show little sympathy for his troubles: Don’t stand around like cabbages! Calling back into the house: Monsieur, the yard is clear now.

  COLONEL, the gentleman in the dustcoat, comes out of the hostelry; to the Patron who sees him across the yard as far as the street:

  Your prices are impudent, Monsieur. 160 francs for a lunch!

  GEORGES has meanwhile gone into the hostelry and pulls out Simone, who holds her hands to her face: They left quite a while ago. You don’t have to hide in the passage because of them. It’s not your fault, Simone.

  SIMONE drying her tears: It’s just that they’re from the 132nd too, you know. Their people at the front are waiting for help, and the sappers have to repair the bridges first, Monsieur Georges.

  PATRON returning from the street: Foie gras, trout, saddle of lamb, asparagus, Chablis, coffee, a Martell ’84. In these days! And when the bill comes they pull a face that long. But they have to be served at the double because they can’t wait to get away from the battle. An officer! A colonel! Poor France. Observing Simone, and with a bad conscience: And you, don’t you interfere in kitchen matters. Exit into the hostelry.

  GEORGES to Père Gustave, pointing to Simone: She’s ashamed because of the sappers.

  SIMONE: What are they going to think of the hostelry, Monsieur Georges?

  GEORGES to Simone: It’s not you who ought to be ashamed. The hostelry cheats like hell, the Patron would take the pennies off a dead man’s eyes. You aren’t the hostelry, Simone. When they praise the wine you have no reason to smile and when the roof falls in you have no reason to cry. It wasn’t you chose the linen. It wasn’t you held back the food. Get me?

  SIMONE unconvinced: Yes, Monsieur Georges.

  GEORGES: André’s fully aware you are keeping his job here warm for him. That’s enough. Now you go off to the village hall and see young François. But don’t let his mother scare you again with her talk of Stukas, or you’ll dream half the night that you’re in the middle of the fighting. He pushes her into the hostelry. To Père Gustave: Too much imagination.

  PÈRE GUSTAVE mending his tyre: She doesn’t like going down to the hall. They abuse her because the food packets are too expensive.

  GEORGES with a sigh: She will even stick up for the Patron, if I know. She’s loyal, our Simone.

  PATRON comes out of the hostelry and calls in the direction of the store room, clapping his hands: Maurice! Robert!

  ROBERT’S VOICE from the shed, sleepily: Yes?

  PATRON: Captain Fétain rang up. He wants you to go on to Bordeaux with the rest of his wine barrels.

  ROBERT’S VOICE: Tonight? But that’s impossible, Monsieur Henri. We’ve been two days on the road.

  PATRON: I know, I know. What can I do? The Captain thinks we’re taking too long about it. What do you expect, with those blocked roads? I really don’t want to do you out of your sleep, but … Gesture of helplessness.

  ROBERT’S VOICE: But the roads are blocked by night too, and on top of that you can’t use your headlights.

  PATRON: That’s war for you. But we can’t antagonize our best customers. Maman insists on it. So get ready. To Père Gustave: Oh, do finish your tyre.

  Monsieur Chavez, the Mayor, has entered from the street, a briefcase under his arm. He is very agitated.
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br />   PÈRE GUSTAVE drawing the Patron’s attention to him: The Mayor.

  MAYOR: Henri, I’ve got to speak to you once more about your lorries. I must insist that you put them at my disposal for the refugees.

  PATRON: But I’ve told you that I’m bound by contract to move Captain Fétain’s wine. I can’t say no to him. Maman and the Captain have been friends from their young days.

  MAYOR: Captain Fétain’s wine! Henri, you know how I hate to interfere in your business affairs, but under present conditions I can no longer make allowances for your relations with that fascist Fétain.

  Simone has come out of the hostelry with a tray full of big packets suspended from her neck and carrying two baskets filled with more packets.

  PATRON menacingly: Philippe, better not call Captain Fétain a fascist.

  MAYOR bitterly: ‘Better not.’ That’s all you’ve got to say, you and your Captain, when the Germans are up to the Loire. France is going to the dogs.

  PATRON: Where? Where are the Germans?

  MAYOR emphatically: Up to the Loire. And our Ninth Army, which was standing by to relieve the situation, has found Route 20 blocked with refugees. Your lorries are requisitioned like all the other lorries in Saint-Martin, and will be ready tomorrow morning to evacuate the refugees in the hall. That’s official. He takes a small red notice from his briefcase and is about to stick it to the garage door.

  SIMONE quietly, horrified, to Georges: The tanks are coming, Monsieur Georges!

  GEORGES putting his arm round her shoulder: Yes, Simone.

  SIMONE: They’re up to the Loire; they’ll be coming into Tours.

  GEORGES: Yes, Simone.

  SIMONE: And they will be coming here, won’t they?

  PATRON: Now I understand why the Captain was in such a hurry.

  Shaken: The Germans up to the Loire, that’s terrible. Crosses over to the Mayor, who is still busy fixing his notice. Philippe, leave that. Let’s go in. We must talk in private.

  MAYOR angrily: No, Henri, we are not going to talk in private any more. Your people are to know that your lorries have been requisitioned, and your petrol too. I’ve winked an eye for too long.

  PATRON: Have you gone mad? Requisitioning my lorries at this juncture! And I have no petrol except that little bit here.

  MAYOR: Plus some black market stuff you haven’t registered.

  PATRON: What? You dare suspect me of hoarding petrol illegally? Père Gustave, have we any black market petrol?

  Père Gustave pretends not to have heard, and is about to roll his tyre into the garage.

  PATRON shouting: Maurice! Robert! Come down at once! Père Gustave! Père Gustave stops. Out with it! Have we any black market petrol or not?

  PÈRE GUSTAVE: I don’t know anything about it. To Simone, who is staring at him: You get on with your work and stop eavesdropping.

  PATRON: Maurice! Robert! Where are you?

  MAYOR: If you have no extra petrol how are you going to move Captain Fétain’s wine?

  PATRON: A catch question, eh, Mayor? Well, I’ll tell you: I’m going to move the Captain’s wine with the Captain’s petrol. Georges, have you heard of my having any black market petrol?

  GEORGES looking at his arm: I’ve only been back from the front four days.

  PATRON: All right, that lets you out, but here are Maurice and Robert. Maurice and Robert have come. Maurice and Robert! Here’s Monsieur Chavez accusing the hostelry of hiding petrol. I ask you in Monsieur Chavez’s presence: is that true? The brothers hesitate.

  MAYOR: Maurice and Robert, you know me. I’m no policeman. I don’t like interfering in other people’s business. But France needs petrol now, and I am asking you formally to state that there is petrol here. You are honest chaps.

  PATRON: Well?

  MAURICE gloomily: We don’t know about any petrol.

  MAYOR: So that’s your answer. To Simone: You’ve got a brother at the front. But I suppose you won’t tell me there is petrol here either.

  Simone stands motionless, then she begins to cry.

  PATRON: Ah, you want to call this young girl as a witness against me? You have no right, Mayor, to undermine this child’s respect for her Patron. To Simone: You can go.

  MAYOR tired: Are you sending her to the hall again with those exorbitant packets of yours? You gave the sappers a half-empty dixie. Everybody’s exploiting the refugees down to their last sou, that’s why they can’t move on.

  PATRON: I am an innkeeper, not a charitable institution.

  MAYOR: All right. Only a miracle can save France now. She’s rotten to the core. Exit. Silence.

  PATRON: Beat it, Simone. Allez hopp!

  Simone walks slowly and uncertainly to the gateway of the yard, repeatedly looking round. The book which she has hidden on her tray drops to the ground. She shyly picks it up and walks out of the yard with her packets and baskets.

  First Dream of Simone Machard

  Night of 14-15 June

  Music. Out of the darkness the angel emerges. He stands on the garage roof, his face golden and expressionless. In his hand he has a small drum, and he calls out ‘Joan!’ three times in a loud voice. Then the stage gets lighter, and Simone is standing in the empty courtyard looking up at the angel, with the linen basket on her arm.

  THE ANGEL

  Joan, thou daughter of France, something must be done

  Or mighty France will bleed to death before two weeks have run.

  That’s why God Almighty has begun looking around for aid

  And now His eyes have fallen on His little Maid.

  I bring you a drum, which God’s sent specially

  For you to shake the people awake from their everyday lethargy.

  To beat it so that it echoes you must lay it on the ground

  As if you would make the very soil of France resound

  Till rich and poor, old and young, all waking from their trance

  Take pity on their mother, la France.

  If she needs shipping, summon every bargeman on the Seine.

  Make the peasants of Gironde feed her fighting men.

  When she wants tanks you must wake the metal workers in the town of Saint-Denis.

  Let the carpenters of Lyon saw away the bridges to hamper the enemy.

  Speak to them. Tell them that the mother by whom they’ve been protected

  And whom in return they have insulted and rejected—

  Tell them that France, the mighty worker and drinker of wine

  Needs them to rescue her. Let your drumming be their sign!

  SIMONE looking round to see if anyone else is there: Do I have to, Monsieur? Aren’t I too small for a Saint Joan?

  THE ANGEL: No.

  SIMONE: Then I’ll do it.

  THE ANGEL: It will be hard. Leftit cribble clump.

  SIMONE timidly: Are you my brother André?

  The angel is silent.

  SIMONE: Are you all right?

  The angel disappears. But Georges comes sauntering out of the darkened garage, bringing Simone his bayonet and his steel helmet.

  GEORGES: A sword and a helmet, that’s what you’ll need. It’s not the sort of thing for you, but the Patron has nobody else to help him apart from a cripple and a young girl. Forget about your work. Listen, the tanks are going ahead like bulldozers, flattening everything. No wonder your brother is now an angel.

  SIMONE taking the helmet and bayonet: Shall I clean them for you, Monsieur Georges?

  GEORGES: No, as you’re the Maid of Orleans you’ll need them.

  SIMONE putting on the helmet: How right you are. I must go straightaway and see the King at Orleans. It’s a good twenty miles, the tanks do about 45 m.p.h., and my shoes are full of holes, I shan’t have a new pair till Easter. Turns as if to go. At least wave me good-bye, Monsieur Georges, or else I’ll be too scared to go; battles are old-fashioned, bloody stuff.

  Georges makes an effort at waving with his bandaged arm, then disappears. Simone sets out on her way to Orleans, marching
around in a small circle.

  SIMONE sings loudly:

  As I went to Saint-Nazaire

  I forgot my trousers.

  All at once I heard a cry:

  Where’ve you put your trousers?

  I replied: at Saint-Nazaire

  Skies are blue as ever

  And the wheat’s as tall as I

  And the sky blue as ever.

  The drivers Maurice and Robert suddenly appear jogging along after her, bearing medieval weapons but in their overalls.

  SIMONE: What are you doing here? Why are you following me?

  ROBERT: We’re following you because we are your bodyguard. But would you mind not singing that song, it’s indecent. After all, we are engaged to you, Joan, so you’d better behave yourself.

  SIMONE: Am I engaged to Maurice too?

  MAURICE: Yes, secretly.

  Père Gustave comes towards them dressed in very simple medieval armour. He looks away and tries to pass them.

  SIMONE: Père Gustave!

  PÈRE GUSTAVE: Count me out. Fancy putting me in the heavy artillery at my age. What a nerve! Live off tips and die for France!

  SIMONE quietly: But your mother, France, is in danger.

  PÈRE GUSTAVE: My mother was Madame Poirot the washerwoman. She was going to get pneumonia. But what could I do? I couldn’t afford all the dozens of medicines she needed.

  SIMONE shouting: Then I command you in the name of God and the Angel to turn back and command the heavy artillery against the enemy. More softly: I’ll clean it for you.

  PÈRE GUSTAVE: All right, that’s different. Here you are, take my pike. He adds his pike to her load and joins them in their march.

  MAURICE: How much longer, Simone? We’re doing this for the bloated capitalists. Workers of unfurled, ignite! Simone replies likewise in dream language and is incomprehensible to the audience. She speaks with great conviction.

  MAURICE who understands her: That’s quite true. Good, let’s march on.

  ROBERT: You’re stumbling, Simone. This load is too heavy for you.

  SIMONE suddenly quite exhausted: Sorry. But I didn’t have a proper breakfast. Stops and wipes her brow. I’ll be all right in a minute. Robert, can you remember what I’m to tell the King?