Collected Plays, Volume 4 (Bertolt Brecht: Plays, Poetry & Prose) 8

by Bertolt Brecht

  CHILDREN: A Fritz! Did you get a thrashing, Fritz? Can we tug his epaulettes?

  PAPA: Why not?

  CHILDREN: Is it going well at the front?

  PAPA: Yes, for the Prussians.

  CHILD: But the Governor won’t capitulate, so they say.

  PAPA: At least not to the French, my son. How does it go? Down with the Gov …

  CHILDREN: … vernor!

  PAPA to the waiter: Three Pernods. No, four.

  WAITER: Very good. But the patron insists you pay in advance. Four Pernods, that’s twelve francs.

  COCO: Man, can’t you see we’ve been in the battle?

  WAITER softly: Twelve francs.

  COCO: They’re out of their minds.

  PAPA: No, they’re not out of their minds. We are, Gustave. You’d have to be to fight for one and a half francs a day. That’s exactly half a Pernod in this place, isn’t it? And what do we fight with? And how? He thrusts his weapon under the portly gentleman’s nose. That’s a breech-loader from the forties. Good enough for the new battalions. A decent chassepot, that cost the state seventy francs, would cost two hundred now. But we’d hit the mark with it, monsieur.

  COCO: Fetch the Pernod, you swine. Or there’ll be trouble. We’re defending Paris and you cut-throats are making a killing on the drinks.

  PAPA: Monsieur, we didn’t get rid of the Stinker, declare a republic and form the National Guard so that you could make money on our efforts.

  PORTLY GENTLEMAN: There we have it! Anarchy! You’re not interested in defending Paris, you people. You want to conquer her.

  COCO: Oh really? And you and your sort own her, do you? To Papa: Nice, isn’t he? Nice and fat. He doesn’t look bad on the siege, does he?

  PORTLY GENTLEMAN: Messieurs, you seem to be forgetting where the front is.

  The child that ran off now returns.

  PAPA: What’s that? To the third National Guardsman, a young man with a bloody bandage round his head: François, the gentleman thinks you’ve forgotten where you got your scratch.

  COCO: The gentleman thinks we should keep our minds on Fritz when we can’t get any beer. Fritz, what do you think? You’re not a fat man, that’s for sure. Waiter, a Pernod for Fritz or we’ll wreck the place. Four Pernods for two francs, do you hear?

  WAITER: Very good. Exit.

  PORTLY GENTLEMAN: Stay where you are, do you hear?

  CHILDREN singing: Fritz is not a fat man! Fritz is not a fat man!

  CHILD who returned: Monsieur, what you can hear is the 207th Battalion. They are very discontented and are marching to the Hôtel de Ville, to hang the generals.

  PORTLY GENTLEMAN: Messieurs, while the Prussians …

  PAPA: Oh yes, while the Prussians … The siege! The ring of iron! Break out, beat the Prussians and you’ll have potatoes again. We’re beginning to see who’s really besieging us. You and your ilk most of all. Or is it the Prussians putting up the price of potatoes?

  PORTLY GENTLEMAN: Messieurs, I hear you discussing the price of potatoes even as men are fighting on the ramparts …

  PAPA: Fighting! Dying, you mean! Do you know what’s going on? We lie all night in the rain and the muck in the fields around Mont Valérien. Me with my rheumatism! The attack begins at ten o’clock. We take the fort at Montretout, the park at Buzenval, we take St Cloud, we advance to Garches. Of 150 guns only thirty are in use, we take Garches without artillery cover, we’re through, the Prussians are running for their lives. Then come orders from the rear: Halt! We wait two hours. Then come orders from the rear: Fall back! And Trochu evacuates Montretout and all the positions we took. What is the meaning of that, monsieur?

  PORTLY GENTLEMAN: I assume your generals know where the enemy will concentrate his fire.

  COCO: They know all right. That’s where they send the National Guard, monsieur.

  PORTLY GENTLEMAN: Enough. Have you any idea what you are saying? Are you accusing your commanding officers, France’s generals, of treason? May I perhaps ask you for proof?

  PAPA: He wants proof, Gustave. And we have none. Except death. Except that we die like flies. Fine, you are dead, Monsieur Whatsyername. Be so kind as to prove you’ve been hit over the head. Say the word and we’ll open proceedings. Ah, nothing to say? I politely enquire what your demands might be, Monsieur Whatsyername, and you don’t move a muscle.

  PORTLY GENTLEMAN: We know all about your demands and your demonstrations at the Hôtel de Ville. The Commune and its extortions!

  COCO: Carry on, carry on. We’ve got time. We’re still waiting for the 101st. It won’t start till then.

  PORTLY GENTLEMAN: The long and short of it is you don’t want to pay your rents. France is fighting for her life and all you think about is your pay and your pensions. Butter’s too dear! But be warned: Paris is losing patience.

  The National Guardsmen stand in silence.

  PORTLY GENTLEMAN: You are the traitors. But take note: We don’t find your newspapers amusing any more. We’ve had enough selfishness from the mob. Quite enough.

  The waiter comes back with four Pernods and a casserole covered by a serviette. The portly gentleman waves him away.

  WAITER: Your chicken, monsieur.

  COCO: Monsieur, your chicken!

  PORTLY GENTLEMAN: I’ll have you thrown out. I’ve had enough of you and the whole National Guard. Don’t you dare …

  The portly gentleman exits hastily.

  CHILDREN: Monsieur, the five francs! They chase after him.

  WAITER: Messieurs, permit me to offer you some refreshment.

  COCO: offering the cuirassier a glass: There you are, Fritz. Oh damnation, you can’t, can you? Poor devil. Your good health then. They drink.

  Mme Cabet and her son come out of the café, still carrying the basket.

  JEAN to the waiter: Where’s the man who had an errand for me?

  The waiter motions him to be silent. Then the young Guardsman who has been wounded recognises the Cabets.

  FRANÇOIS: Madame Cabet!

  JEAN: François!

  MME CABET: François, are you wounded? I must ask you to pay your share of the rent on the room. You know the government is making us pay all the arrears. And in there now they won’t take my cockades. I’m ruined, we’ll be on the streets.

  FRANÇOIS: But Madame Cabet, I haven’t been paid for three weeks. Things are a bit tight for me as well at the moment.

  MME CABET: But when will you pay? Messieurs, it’s no laughing matter. He’s my lodger.

  COCO: Yes, François, when will you pay? Madame, we understand your worries. All we can say is that two battalions, back from two days’ fighting outside the walls, are just on their way to the Hôtel de Ville, to put a few ticklish questions to the government.

  PAPA: And one among them might well be the remission of all our rents. Meanwhile all we can offer you, as a small mark of our sympathy, is the gift of this chicken here that a gentleman ordered but did not eat. They conduct Mme Cabet to the table in front of the café, take the casserole from the waiter’s hands and serve up the chicken elegantly to Mme Cabet. Garçon, the patron would do well in future to insist that the better class of customer pay in advance. It might be that circumstances will arise which make it impossible for them to breakfast satisfactorily. Will you get into trouble?

  WAITER: Indeed I will, monsieur. Serious trouble. I shall be obliged to decide to join you. Perhaps the government will pay for Madame Cabet’s chicken? Two battalions of the National Guard should surely be enough to push through such a demand.

  COCO: Your good health, madame.

  PAPA: Bon appétit! The 101st are honoured to entertain you.

  MME CABET: Messieurs, you are very kind. As it happens, I don’t have all that much in my belly today. Chicken is my favourite dish. Will you allow me to share it with my son Jean?

  JEAN: Present company might be interested to know why they’ve stopped taking cockades in there. The officials inside, after new directives from above, consider recruitment to the new
battalions of the National Guard to be at an end.

  COCO: What’s that? Did you hear that, Papa?

  PAPA: I’m not too bothered. She’ll come with us to the Hôtel de Ville.

  COCO: Do you understand, madame? Papa wants you to come with us to the Hôtel de Ville to show your cockades that are not needed any more. Put your chicken with them in the basket.

  FRANÇOIS: And now here come the 101st!

  Behind and above the wooden fence the 101st Battalion can be seen passing. Bayonets with loaves of bread impaled. Flags. The National Guardsmen help Mme Cabet to her feet and take her with them.

  PAPA pointing to Jean: What’s the matter with him? Why isn’t he fighting? Are we too far to the left for him in the new battalions?

  MME CABET: Oh no, monsieur. I’d say a bit far to the right, I do beg your pardon.

  PAPA: Ah!

  JEAN: And consider me one of yours from now on, messieurs. I like the way you’re heading.

  Papa takes François’ képi and puts it on Jean Cabet’s head.

  FRANÇOIS: I’ve been very bored without you.

  They leave. The waiter flings the serviette on to the little table, turns out the lamp and is about to follow them when he catches sight of the cuirassier, who has been forgotten. He shoos him away, driving him after the National Guards.

  WAITER: Quick march, Fritz, quick march!

  2

  25 January 1871. Bordeaux. Thiers and Jules Favre in conversation. Thiers, still in his dressing gown, is testing the temperature of his bath water and directing his manservant to add hot or cold.

  THIERS drinking his morning milk: This war must end, it is becoming an abomination. We fought it and we have lost it. What are we waiting for?

  FAVRE: But the Prussian demands! Herr von Bismarck speaks of five billion in reparations, the annexation of Alsace-Lorraine, the retention of all prisoners-of-war and the continuing occupation of the forts until everything is concluded to his satisfaction. It will be our ruin!

  THIERS: But what the Parisians are demanding, won’t that be our ruin?

  FAVRE: Certainly.

  THIERS: Will you take coffee? Favre shakes his head. Then milk, like me? Not allowed even that? Ah, Favre, would that we still had stomachs! For we do still have appetites. But back to Herr von Bismarck. A student of the bierkeller, now demented. He racks up his demands because he knows we must accept them, all of them.

  FAVRE: Must we really? What about the iron and tin mines in Lorraine? They are the future of French industry.

  THIERS: What about our secret agents? They are being thrown in the Seine. What use are iron and tin mines to France if the Commune is in Paris?

  FAVRE: Five billion! All our trade!

  THIERS: It is the price of order and stability.

  FAVRE: And Prussia’s lead in Europe for three generations.

  THIERS: And the securing of our rule for five.

  FAVRE: We shall be a nation of peasants, in these modern times.

  THIERS: I’m counting on the peasants. They are the cornerstone of peace. What do they care about Lorraine? They don’t even know where it is. Favre, you ought at least to take a glass of water.

  FAVRE: Is it really necessary, I ask myself.

  THIERS: Even a sip of water is a sign of life. Just the swallowing of it. Oh, I see. Yes, the other is necessary too, absolutely. The price of order and stability.

  FAVRE: The National Guard will be France’s downfall. We made a patriotic sacrifice and armed the mob against the Prussians. Now they have weapons for use against us. That is the truth. But is it not also the case, can it not also be said that these people are defending Paris, that they are actually fighting?

  THIERS: My dear Favre, what is this thing Paris? They speak of Paris in those circles as a holy place that they’d rather burn than surrender. They forget that Paris consists of valuables, they forget because they have no valuables themselves. The scum are quite prepared to blow everything up. But it doesn’t belong to them. They are screaming to be given petroleum, but for the authorities, for us, Paris is not a symbol but a possession. You don’t defend it by setting fire to it.

  Sound of marching men. Thiers and Favre freeze. Thiers, too agitated to speak, waves his manservant to go to the window.

  MANSERVANT: A company of the marine, monsieur.

  THIERS: If they suppose I could ever forget those humiliations …

  FAVRE: Bordeaux is quiet, is it not?

  THIERS: What does quiet mean? Perhaps quiet is too quiet. Such a bad example! Favre, we must exterminate them. We must smash their unwashed faces on the cobbles, in the name of culture. Our civilisation is founded on property. Property must be protected at all costs. They have the nerve to dictate to us what we must give up and what we can keep? Get me sabres, get me cavalry! If it takes a sea of blood to wash Paris clean of its vermin then let us have a sea of blood. My towel!

  The manservant hands him his towel, Thiers wipes the foam from his lips.

  FAVRE: You are becoming agitated, think of your health, so precious to us all.

  THIERS choking: And you armed them! From that moment on, from the morning of 3 September on, I’ve had only one thought in my head: how to end the war, quickly, at once.

  FAVRE: But they fight like devils, alas. Our good friend Trochu is right: the National Guard won’t see reason until ten thousand of them have bled to death. Dear, dear. He sends them into the fight like cattle, to dampen their ardour.

  He whispers into Thiers’ ear.

  THIERS: No, no, he is free to listen. Hippolyte is a patriot.

  FAVRE: I can assure you, Monsieur Thiers, that in this matter at least you have Herr von Bismarck’s entire sympathy.

  THIERS drily: Delighted to hear it since he thinks me, so I am told, less capable than the average horsetrader, and that after meeting me in person.

  FAVRE: Mere boorishness, not at all his real opinion of you.

  THIERS: I think I may say that I have risen above the personal, my dear Favre. What interests me is how Herr von Bismarck proposes to help us.

  FAVRE: He suggested to me personally that as soon as there is a ceasefire he might permit some provision of foodstuffs to the people, but would then put them back on half-rations until they give up their weapons. He thought such a procedure might be more effective than a continuation of hunger.

  THIERS: Not bad. We remind our Parisians what meat tastes like. I’ve never denied that Herr von Bismarck has talent.

  FAVRE: He will even restrain the firms in Berlin who are looking to supply Paris with food.

  THIERS: Talent and courage go together, do they not, Favre? And by the way, the Prussians must undertake to occupy those quartiers in which the National Guard have placed their guns.

  FAVRE: A very good point. Excellent.

  THIERS: I daresay Herr von Bismarck is not the only one with talent. We shall, for example, also get it written into the capitulation treaty that the first instalment of reparations, 500 million, won’t fall due until after the pacification of Paris. That will give Herr von Bismarck an interest in our victory. And incidentally, I should be glad if the word pacification were used more often. It is one of those words that make everything perfectly clear. Ah yes, the reparations. Hippolyte, you can leave us now.

  MANSERVANT: Your bath is at the right temperature, monsieur. Exit.

  THIERS: What is their thinking about these sums of money?

  FAVRE: It has been proposed that certain German firms, especially Herr von Bleichröder, Herr von Bismarck’s own banker, should finance the reparations. Commission was mentioned … As a member of the government I did of course refuse to accept any percentages.

  THIERS: Of course. Did they give figures?

  Favre writes a figure on a scrap of paper which Thiers takes and reads.

  THIERS: Impossible.

  FAVRE: As I said.

  THIERS: We must have peace. France needs it. I hope I shall have the power to carry it through.

  FAVRE: Yo
ur election is absolutely secured, Monsieur Thiers. Twenty-three departments are for you, all the rural ones.

  THIERS: I shall need that power. The forces of disorder are armed.

  FAVRE: Monsieur Thiers, France trembles for your health. Only you can save her now.

  THIERS matter-of-factly: I’m aware of that. That is why you see me drinking milk, which I detest, my dear Favre.

  3

  Night of 17-18 March in the rue Pigalle. There is a cannon on the street.

  a

  One o’clock in the morning. François Faure and Jean Cabet, seated on cane chairs, are guarding the cannon. Babette Cherron is just getting up from Jean’s lap.

  BABETTE stroking the barrel of the gun: Good night, my love. Makes her way slowly to a house at the lower end of the street and enters there.

  JEAN: Girls have to be given things. They are materialists, it excites their senses. It used to be a pretty dressing table, nowadays it’s a cannon that Monsieur Thiers wanted to give to Herr von Bismarck.

  FRANÇOIS: And he’d have it now if we hadn’t fetched it here. – Geneviéve isn’t a materialist.

  JEAN: The little teacher girl? No, she’s pure spirit and that’s why you want to go to bed with her.

  FRANÇOIS: I don’t want to go to bed with her.

  JEAN: Babette says she’s got a nice body.

  FRANÇOIS: How can you two discuss her?

  JEAN: They live together, don’t they? Incidentally, she’s engaged. He’s a prisoner-of-war, a lieutenant. Her breasts are her best bit.

  FRANÇOIS: You’re trying to annoy me, aren’t you?

  JEAN: The way you talk about girls no one would ever guess you’re from the country. But you’d surely had it with a dairymaid by the time you were fourteen.

  FRANÇOIS: You won’t annoy me.

  JEAN: Won’t I? Well anyway I told Babette to tell Geneviéve you’re interested. It might amuse her to wind a priest around her little finger.

  FRANÇOIS: I’m a physicist.

  JEAN: OK, a physicist. Isn’t physics the science of bodies?

  FRANÇOIS: But you said yourself she loves a lieutenant.

  JEAN: I said she’s engaged to him.

  FRANÇOIS: Same thing.