Sigh of the exhausted grape-picker at the sound of the Angelus.’
Hearing this
Grusha walks a few steps towards the child and bends over it.
she went back to the child
Just for one more look, just to sit with it
For a moment or two till someone should come
Its mother, perhaps, or someone else—
She sits down opposite the child, and leans against a trunk.
Just for a moment before she left, for now the danger was too great
The city full of flame and grief.
The light grows dimmer as though evening and night were falling, Grusha has gone into the palace and fetched a lamp and some milk, which she gives the child to drink.
THE SINGER loudly:
Terrible is the temptation to do good!
Grusha now settles down to keep watch over the child through the night. Once, she lights a small lamp to look at it. Once, she tucks it in with a brocade coat. Now and again she listens and looks up to see if someone is coming.
For a long time she sat with the child.
Evening came, night came, dawn came.
Too long she sat, too long she watched
The soft breathing, the little fists
Till towards morning the temptation grew too strong.
She rose, she leaned over, she sighed, she lifted the child
She carried it off.
She does what the singer says as he describes it.
Like booty she took it for herself
Like a thief she sneaked away.
3
THE FLIGHT INTO THE NORTHERN MOUNTAINS
THE SINGER
As Grusha Vachnadze left the city
On the Grusinian highway
Towards the northern mountains
She sang a song, she bought some milk.
THE MUSICIANS
How will the merciful escape the merciless
The bloodhounds, the trappers?
Into the deserted mountains she wandered
Along the Grusinian highway she wandered
She sang a song, she bought some milk.
Grusha Vachnadze continues on her way. On her back she carries the child in a sack, in one hand a bundle, in the other a big stick.
GRUSHA singing:
Four generals set off for Iran
Four generals but not one man.
The first did not strike a blow
The second did not beat the foe
For the third the weather was not right
For the fourth the soldiers would not fight.
Four generals went forth to attack
Four generals turned back.
Sosso Robakidse marched to Iran
Sosso Robakidse was a man.
He struck a sturdy blow
He certainly beat the foe
For him the weather was good enough
For him the soldiers fought with love
Sosso Robakidse marched to Iran
Sosso Robakidse is our man.
A peasant’s cottage appears.
GRUSHA to the child: Noontime, eating time. Now we’ll sit here quietly in the grass, while the good Grusha goes and buys a little mug of milk. She lays the child down and knocks at the cottage door. An old peasant opens it. Grandpa, could I have a little mug of milk? And perhaps a corn cake?
THE OLD MAN: Milk? We haven’t any milk. The soldiers from the city took our goats. If you want milk, go to the soldiers.
GRUSHA: But Grandpa, you surely have a mug of milk for a child?
THE OLD MAN: And for a ‘God Bless You’, eh?
GRUSHA: Who said anything about a ‘God Bless You’? She pulls out her purse. We’re going to pay like princes. Head in the clouds, bottom in the water! The peasant goes off grumbling to fetch milk. And how much is this mug?
THE OLD MAN: Three piastres. Milk has gone up.
GRUSHA: Three piastres for that drop? Without a word the old man slams the door in her face. Michael, did you hear that? Three piastres! We can’t afford that. She goes back, sits down again and gives the child her breast. Well, we must try again like this. Suck. Think of the three piastres. There’s nothing there, but you think you’re drinking, and that’s something. Shaking her head, she realizes the child has stopped sucking. She gets up, walks back to the door, and knocks again. Open, Grandpa, we’ll pay. Under her breath: May God strike you! When the old man appears again: I thought it would be half a piastre. But the child must have something. What about one piastre?
THE OLD MAN: Two.
GRUSHA: Don’t slam the door again. She rummages a long time in her purse. Here are two piastres. But this milk has got to last. We still have a long journey ahead of us. These are cutthroat prices. It’s a sin.
THE OLD MAN: If you want milk, kill the soldiers.
GRUSHA letting the child drink: That’s an expensive joke. Drink, Michael. This is half a week’s pay. The people here think we’ve earned our money sitting on our bottom. Michael, Michael, I certainly took on a nice burden with you! Looking at the brocade coat in which the child is wrapped: A brocade coat worth 1000 piastres, and not one piastre for milk. She glances round. Look! There’s a carriage, with rich ladies. We ought to get on to that.
In front of a caravansary. Grusha dressed in the brocade coat is seen approaching two elegant ladies. She holds the child in her arms.
GRUSHA: Oh, you ladies want to spend the night here, too? It’s awful how crowded it is everywhere! And not a carriage to be found! My coachman simply turned back. I’ve been walking half a mile on foot. Barefoot, too! My Persian shoes—you know those heels! But why doesn’t someone come?
THE ELDER LADY: That innkeeper certainly takes his time. The whole country has lost its manners since those goings-on started in the capital.
The innkeeper appears, a very dignified old man with a long beard, followed by his servant.
THE INNKEEPER: Excuse an old man for keeping you waiting, ladies. My little grandchild was showing me a peach tree in blossom. There on the slope, beyond the cornfields. We’re planting fruit trees there, a few cherries. Further west—pointing—the ground gets more stony. That’s where the farmers graze their sheep. You ought to see the peach blossom, the pink is exquisite.
THE ELDER LADY: You live in a fertile region.
THE INNKEEPER: God has blessed it. How far on is the fruit-blossom further south, my ladies? I take it you come from the south?
THE YOUNGER LADY: I must admit I haven’t been paying much attention to the landscape.
THE INNKEEPER politely: Of course, the dust. It is advisable to travel slowly on our high roads. Provided, of course, one isn’t in too great a hurry.
THE ELDER LADY: Put your scarf round your throat, dearest. The evening breeze seems rather cool here.
THE INNKEEPER: It comes down from the Janga-Tau glaciers, my ladies.
GRUSHA: Yes, I’m afraid my son may catch cold.
THE ELDER LADY: A very spacious caravansary! Shall we go in?
THE INNKEEPER: Oh, the ladies want rooms? But the caravansary is full up, my ladies. And the servants have run off. I very much regret it, but I cannot accommodate another person, not even with references …
THE YOUNGER LADY: But we can’t spend the night here on the road.
THE ELDER LADY drily: How much?
THE INNKEEPER: My ladies, you will understand that in these times, when so many fugitives, no doubt quite respectable people but not popular with the authorities, are looking for shelter, a house has to be particularly careful. Therefore …
THE ELDER LADY: My dear man, we aren’t fugitives. We’re simply moving to our summer residence in the mountains, that’s all. It would never occur to us to ask for hospitality if we needed it—all that urgently.
THE INNKEEPER nodding his head in agreement: Of course not. I only doubt if the tiny room at my disposal would suit the ladies. I have to charge 60 piastres per person. Are the ladies together?
GRUSHA: In a wa
y. I’m also in need of shelter.
THE YOUNGER LADY: 60 piastres! That’s a cut-throat price.
THE INNKEEPER coldly: My ladies, I have no desire to cut throats. That’s why … He turns to go.
THE ELDER LADY: Must we talk about throats? Let’s go in.
She enters, followed by the servant.
THE YOUNGER LADY desperate: 180 piastres for one room! Glancing back at Grusha: But with the child it’s impossible! What if it cries?
THE INNKEEPER: The room costs 180, whether it’s two persons or three.
THE YOUNGER LADY changing her attitude to Grusha: On the other hand, I couldn’t bear to think of you on the road, my dear. Do come in.
They enter the caravansary. From the rear on the opposite side of the stage the servant appears with some luggage. Behind him come the elder lady, the younger lady and Grusha with the child.
THE YOUNGER LADY: 180 piastres! I haven’t been so upset since they brought dear Igor home.
THE ELDER LADY: Must you talk about Igor?
THE YOUNGER LADY: Actually, we are four persons. The child is one too, isn’t it? To Grusha: Couldn’t you pay half at least?
GRUSHA: That’s impossible. I had to leave in a hurry, you see. And the Adjutant forgot to slip me enough money.
THE ELDER LADY: Perhaps you haven’t even got the 60?
GRUSHA: That much I’ll pay.
THE YOUNGER LADY: Where are the beds?
THE SERVANT: There aren’t any beds. Here are some sacks and blankets. You’ll have to arrange them yourselves. Be glad you’re not being put in a hole in the earth. Like lots of others. Exit.
THE YOUNGER LADY: Did you hear that? I’m going straight to the innkeeper. That man must be whipped.
THE ELDER LADY: Like your husband?
THE YOUNGER LADY: Don’t be so cruel! She weeps.
THE ELDER LADY: How are we going to arrange something to sleep on?
GRUSHA: I’ll see to that. She puts down the child. It’s always easier when there are several hands. You still have the carriage. Sweeping the floor. I was taken completely by surprise. ‘My dear Anastasia Katarinovska,’ my husband was saying before luncheon, ‘do go and lie down for a while. You know how easily you get your migraine.’ She spreads out sacks and makes beds. The ladies, watching her work, exchange glances. ‘Georgi’, said I to the Governor, ‘I can’t lie down when there are sixty for luncheon. And one can’t trust the servants. And Michael Georgivich won’t eat without me.’ To Michael: See, Michael? Everything’ll be all right, what did I tell you! She suddenly realizes that the ladies are watching her strangely and whispering. Well, there we are! At least one doesn’t have to lie on the bare floor. I’ve folded the blankets double.
THE ELDER LADY imperiously: You seem to be rather clever at making beds, my dear. Let’s have a look at your hands!
GRUSHA frightened: What?
THE YOUNGER LADY: You’re being asked to show your hands.
Grusha shows the ladies her hands.
THE YOUNGER LADY triumphant: Cracked! A servant!
THE ELDER LADY goes to the door and shouts: Service!
THE YOUNGER LADY: You’re caught! You swindler! Just confess what mischief you’re up to!
GRUSHA confused: I’m not up to any mischief. I just thought you might take us a little way in your carriage. Please, I ask you, don’t make a noise, I’ll go on my own.
THE YOUNGER LADY while the elder lady continues shouting for service: Yes, you’ll go all right, but with the police. For the moment you’ll stay. Don’t you dare move, you!
GRUSHA: But I was ready to pay the 60 piastres. Here. She shows her purse. Look for yourself. I have them. Here are four tens, and here’s a five—no, that’s another ten, and ten, makes 60. All I want is to get the child on to the carriage. That’s the truth.
THE YOUNGER LADY: Aha, so that’s what you want. On to the carriage! Now it’s come out.
GRUSHA: Madam, I confess, I am from a humble family. Please don’t call the police. The child is of noble birth, look at the linen. It’s fleeing, like yourself.
THE YOUNGER LADY: Of noble birth! We know that one. The father’s a prince, eh?
GRUSHA to the elder lady, fiercely: Stop shouting! Have you no heart at all?
THE YOUNGER LADY to the elder lady: Look out! She’ll attack you! She’s dangerous! Help! Murder!
THE SERVANT entering: What’s going on here?
THE ELDER LADY: This person here has smuggled herself in by playing the lady. She’s probably a thief.
THE YOUNGER LADY: And a dangerous one, too. She wanted to murder us. It’s a case for the police. Oh God, I can feel my migraine coming on!
THE SERVANT: There aren’t any police at the moment. To Grusha: Pack up your things, sister, and make yourself scarce.
GRUSHA angrily picking up the child: You monsters! And they’re already nailing your heads to the wall!
THE SERVANT pushing her out: Shut your trap. Or you’ll have the Old Man here. And there’s no trifling with him.
THE ELDER LADY to the younger lady: Just see if she hasn’t stolen something already!
While the ladies, right, look feverishly to see whether something has been stolen, the servant and Grusha go out through the door, left.
THE SERVANT: Look before you leap, I say. Another time have a good look at people before you get mixed up with them.
GRUSHA: I thought they’d be more likely to treat their own kind better.
THE SERVANT: Not them! Believe me, nothing’s harder than aping a lazy useless person. Once they suspect you can wipe your own arse, or that your hands have ever touched a broom, the game’s up. Just wait a minute, I’ll get you a corn cake and a few apples.
GRUSHA: Better not. I must get out before the Old Man comes. And if I walk all night I’ll be out of danger, I think.
She walks away.
THE SERVANT calling after her in a low voice: At the next crossroads, turn right.
She disappears.
THE SINGER:
As Grusha Vachnadze wandered northwards
She was followed by the Prince’s Ironshirts.
THE MUSICIANS
How will the barefooted girl escape the Ironshirts
The bloodhounds, the trappers?
They are hunting even by night.
Pursuers don’t get tired.
Butchers sleep little.
Two Ironshirts are trudging along the highway.
THE CORPORAL: Blockhead, you’ll never amount to anything. Why? Because your heart’s not in it. Your superior sees it in little things. Yesterday when I laid that fat woman, I admit you collared her husband as I commanded. And you did kick him in the stomach. But did you enjoy it like a good soldier? Or did you just do it from a sense of duty? I’ve kept my eyes on you, blockhead. You’re like a hollow reed or a tinkling cymbal. You’ll never get promoted. They walk awhile in silence. Don’t you get the idea I don’t notice how insubordinate you are in every way. I forbid you to limp! You do it simply because I sold the horses, and I sold them because I’d never have got that price again. I know you: you limp just to show me you don’t like marching. But that won’t help you. It’ll go against you. Sing!
THE TWO IRONSHIRTS singing:
O sadly one morning, one morning in May
I kissed my darling and rode far away.
Protect her, dear friends, until home from the wars
I come riding in triumph, alive on my horse.
THE CORPORAL: Louder!
THE TWO IRONSHIRTS:
When I lie in my grave and my sword turns to rust
My darling shall bring me a handful of dust.
For the feet that so gaily ran up to her door
And the arms that went round her shall please her no more.
They begin to walk again in silence.
THE CORPORAL: A good soldier has his heart and soul in it. He lets himself be hacked to pieces by his superiors, and even while dying he’s aware of his Corporal nodding approval. F
or him that’s reward enough. That’s all he wants. But you won’t get a nod. And you’ll croak just the same. Christ, how am I to lay my hands on the Governor’s bastard with an ass like you!
They trudge on.
THE SINGER
When Grusha Vachnadze came to the River Sirra
The flight grew too much for her, the helpless child too heavy.
THE MUSICIANS
The rosy dawn in the cornfields
Is nothing but cold to the sleepless.
The gay clatter of the milk cans in the farmyard
Where the smoke rises is nothing but a threat to the fugitives.
She who drags the child feels nothing but its weight.
Grusha stops in front of a farm.
GRUSHA: Now you’ve wetted yourself again, and you know I’ve no nappies. Michael, we’ve got to part. This is far enough from the city. They won’t want you so badly, little squit, that they’ll follow you all this way. The woman looks kind, and just you smell the milk! So farewell, little Michael. I’ll forget how you kicked me in the back all night to make me go faster. And you—you forget the meagre fare. It was meant well. I’d love to have kept you, because your nose is so small, but it can’t be done. I’d have shown you your first rabbit and—how not to wet yourself, but I must turn back, because my sweetheart the soldier might soon return, and suppose he didn’t find me? You can’t ask that of me, Michael.
A fat peasant woman carries a milk can to the door. Grusha waits until she has gone in, then gingerly approaches the house. She tiptoes to the door and lays the child on the threshold. Then, hiding behind a tree, she waits until the peasant woman opens the door and sees the bundle.
THE PEASANT WOMAN: Jesus Christ, what’s this? Husband!
THE PEASANT: What’s up? Let me have my soup.
THE PEASANT WOMAN to the child: Where’s your mother? Haven’t you got one? It’s a boy. And the linen is fine; it’s from a good family. And they just leave him on our doorstep. Oh, what times we live in!
THE PEASANT: If they think we’re going to feed it, they’re mistaken. You take it to the priest in the village. That’s all we can do.
THE PEASANT WOMAN: What will the priest do with it? It needs a mother. There, it’s waking up. Don’t you think we could keep it?
THE PEASANT shouting: No!
THE PEASANT WOMAN: I could lay it in the corner, next to the armchair. I only need a crib for it. And I can take it into the fields with me. Look how it’s smiling! Husband, we have a roof over our heads and we can do it. I won’t hear another word.
Brecht Collected Plays: 7: Visions of Simone Machard; Schweyk in the Second World War; Caucasian Chalk Circle; Duchess of Malfi (World Classics) Page 20