MARY removing her hat: I’m not pretty any more. Don’t look at me. The rats have gnawed at me. I’m bringing you what’s left.
SHLINK: That strange milky light! Ah, that’s it! Phosphorescent rot, that’s it!
MARY: Does my face look bloated to you?
SHLINK: Do you realize you’ll be lynched if the mob catches you here?
MARY: It’s all the same to me.
SHLINK: I beg you, leave me alone in my last moments.
N
MARY: Come. Hide in the underbrush. There’s a hiding-place in the quarry.
SHLINK: Damn it! Are you out of your mind? Don’t you see that I have to cast one last look over this jungle? That’s what the moon is rising for. Steps into the entrance of the tent.
MARY: All I see is that you’ve lost the ground from under your feet. Have pity on yourself.
SHLINK: Can’t you do me this one last kindness?
MARY: I only want to look at you. I’ve found out that this is where I belong.
SHLINK: Maybe so! Then stay. A signal is heard in the distance. Two o’clock. I’ve got to find safety.
MARY: Where’s George?
SHLINK: George? He’s run away. What a miscalculation! Safety. He tears off his scarf. The barrels are beginning to stink. Good fat fish, I caught them myself. Well-dried, packed up in crates. Salted. First set out in ponds, bought, overpaid, fattened! Fish eager for death, suicidal fish, that swallow hooks like holy wafers. Phoo! Quick now! He goes to the table, sits down. Drinks from a flask. I, Wang Yeng, known as Shlink, born in Yokohama in northern Peiho under the sign of the Tortoise. I operated a lumber business, ate rice, and dealt with all sorts of people. I, Wang Yeng, known as Shlink, aged fifty-four, ended three miles south of Chicago without heirs.
MARY: What’s the matter?
SHLINK seated: You here? My legs are getting cold. Throw a cloth over my face. Have pity. He collapses.
Panting in the underbrush. Footsteps and hoarse curses from behind.
MARY: What are you listening for? Answer me. Are you asleep? Are you still cold? I’m here, close to you. What did you want with the cloth?
At this moment knives cut openings in the tent. The lynchers step silently through the openings.
MARY going towards them: Go away. He just died. He doesn’t want anyone to look at him.
11
The Private Office of the late C. Shlink
A week later
The lumber yard has burned down. Signs here and there saying:
‘Business for Sale’. Garga, John Garga, Mary Garga.
JOHN: It was stupid of you to let this place burn down. Now all you’ve got is charred beams. Who’s going to buy them?
GARGA laughing: They’re cheap. But what are you two planning to do?
JOHN: I thought we’d stay together.
GARGA laughing: I’m leaving. Are you going to work?
MARY: I’m going to work. But not scrub stairs like my mother.16
JOHN: I’m a soldier. We slept in watering troughs. The rats on our faces never weighed less than seven pounds. When they took away my rifle and it was over, I said: From now on we’ll all sleep with our caps on.
GARGA: You mean: we’ll all sleep.
MARY: We’d better go now, Father. Night’s coming on, and I still have no room.
JOHN: Yes, let’s go. Looks around. Let’s go. A soldier at your side. Forward march! Against the jungle of the city.
GARGA: I’ve got it behind me. Hello!
MANKY comes in beaming, with his hands in his pockets: It’s me. I read your ad in the paper. If your lumber business doesn’t cost too much, I’ll buy it.
GARGA: What’s your offer?
MANKY: Why are you selling?
GARGA: I’m going to New York.
MANKY: And I’m moving in here.
GARGA: How much can you pay?
MANKY: I’ll need some cash for the business.
GARGA: Six thousand, if you’ll take the woman too.
MANKY: All right.
MARY: I’ve got my father with me.
MANKY: And your mother?
MARY: She’s not here any more.
MANKY after a pause: All right.
MARY: Draw up the contract.
The men sign.
MANKY: Let’s all have a bite. Want to come along, George?
GARGA: No.
MANKY: Will you still be here when we get back?
GARGA: No.
JOHN: Good-bye, George. Take a look at New York. You can come back to Chicago if the going gets too rough.
The three go out.
GARGA putting the money away: It’s a good thing to be alone. The chaos is spent. That was the best time.
The Life of Edward the Second of England
(after Marlowe)
a history
I wrote this play with Lion Feuchtwanger
BERTOLT BRECHT
Translator: JEAN BENEDETTI
Here is shown before the public the history of the troubled reign of Edward the Second, King of England, and his lamentable death / likewise the glory and end of his favourite, Gaveston / further the disordered fate of Queen Anne / likewise the rise and fall of the great earl Roger Mortimer / all which befell in England, and specially in London, more than six hundred years ago
Characters
King Edward the Second ‧ Queen Anne, his consort ‧ Kent, his brother ‧ Young Edward, his son, afterwards King Edward III ‧ Gaveston ‧ Archbishop of Winchester ‧ Lord Abbot of Coventry, afterwards Archbishop of Westminster ‧ Mortimer ‧ Lancaster ‧ Rice ap Howell ‧ Berkeley ‧ Spencer ‧ Baldock ‧ The elder Gurney ‧ The younger Gurney ‧ Lightborn ‧ James ‧ Peers ‧ Soldiers ‧ A ballad-monger ‧ A monk
14 DECEMBER 1307: RETURN OF THE FAVOURITE DANIEL GAVESTON ON THE OCCASION OF THE ACCESSION OF EDWARD THE SECOND
London
GAVESTON reading a letter from King Edward:
‘My father is deceas’d. Come Gaveston
And share the kingdom with thy dearest friend
King Edward the Second.’
I come. These thy amorous lines
Whistled astern the brig from Ireland.
The sight of London to an exile’s eyes
Is as Elysium to a new-come soul.
My father told me often: thou art
Already gross with drinking ale at eighteen years.
And my mother said: behind your corpse
Less men shall walk than a hen has teeth
In its beak. And now a king moves heaven and earth
For your son’s friendship.
Holà. Reptiles!
What crawling things are these first cross my path?
Enter two poor men.
FIRST:
Such as desire your worship’s service.
GAVESTON:
What canst thou do?
FIRST:
GAVESTON:
But I have no horses.
What art thou?
SECOND:
A soldier that has served against the Irish.
GAVESTON:
But I have no war. So God be wi’ ye, gentlemen.
SECOND:
God be wi’ us?
FIRST to the second:
England gives nothing
To old soldiers, sir.
GAVESTON:
England gave you Saint James’ Hospital.
FIRST:
To rot to death in.
GAVESTON:
Death is a soldier’s lot.
SECOND:
Is’t so?
Then do thou die in thy England!
And perish by a soldier’s hand!
Exeunt the two poor men.
GAVESTON:
He spoke just like my father.
Ah well!
This fellow’s words move me as much
As if a goose should play the porcupine
And dart her plumes at me, imagining
To pierce me through
the breast. But onward!
The day has come when many a man shall be paid home.
For too much drinking ale and playing whist cannot
Fade the memory of that paper where they wrote
That I was Edward’s whore and banished me.
Here comes my newly furbished king
With a herd of peers. I’ll stand aside.
Enter Edward, Kent, Mortimer, the Archbishop of Winchester, Lancaster.
ARCHBISHOP:
Here, my lord, hasting to say mass
For the immortal relics of your father Edward
King of England, this I say:
On his death-bed Edward took his Peers —
LANCASTER:
He was already whiter than his sheets —
ARCHBISHOP:
To oath than he would never come again
To England.
GAVESTON behind:
Mort Dieu!
ARCHBISHOP:
If you love us, my lord, hate Gaveston.
Gaveston whistles between his teeth.
LANCASTER:
Comes he across the water there’ll be naked swords
In England.
EDWARD:
I will have Gaveston.
GAVESTON:
Well done, Ned.
LANCASTER:
We mean we would not break our oath.
ARCHBISHOP:
My lord, why do you thus incense your Peers
Who naturally would love and honour you?
EDWARD:
I will have Gaveston.
LANCASTER:
There may be naked swords in England
My lords.
KENT:
If there be naked swords in England, Lancaster
Brother, methinks there will be heads
Set upon poles for trespass of their tongues.
ARCHBISHOP:
Our heads!
EDWARD:
Aye, yours. Now, I pray you, scuttle.
LANCASTER:
Our hands I think may fence our heads.
Exeunt Peers.
KENT:
Brother, leave Gaveston but bridle your peers.
EDWARD:
Brother, I live or die with Gaveston.
GAVESTON coming forward:
I can no longer keep me from my lord.
EDWARD:
What, Danny! Dearest friend!
Embrace me, Danny, as I do thee.
GAVESTON:
And since I went from hence no soul in hell
Has felt more torment than poor Gaveston.
EDWARD:
I know it. Now rebellious Lancaster
Arch-heretic Winchester, conspire as you will
I here create thee Lord High Chamberlain
High Chancellor, Earl of Cornwall, Lord of Man.
KENT darkly:
Brother, enough!
EDWARD:
Brother, silence!
GAVESTON:
My lord, do not overwhelm me. What will men
Say? Perhaps: it is too much
For a simple butcher’s son.
EDWARD:
Fear’st thou thy person? Thou shalt have a guard.
Wantest thou gold? Go to my treasury.
Woulds’t thou be fear’d. Receive my ring and seal.
And in our name command, as thou wilt.
GAVESTON:
By your love am I made Caesar’s equal.
Enter the Abbot of Coventry.
EDWARD:
Whither goes my lord of Coventry?
ABBOT:
To celebrate your father’s exequies.
EDWARD showing Gaveston:
My ghostly father has a guest from Ireland.
ABBOT:
What, is that wicked Gaveston returned?
GAVESTON:
Yes, knave. In London there’ll be tears and gnashing teeth.
ABBOT:
I did no more than I was bound to do.
And, Gaveston, if thou art here unlawfully
I’ll bring thy case once more before the Parliament
And thou shalt back again upon an Irish ship.
GAVESTON grabbing him:
Let’s to it now. Here is the channel water
And since ’twas thou, sir priest, that wrote that paper
I will plunge thee, my Lord Abbot, in the gutter
As thou plungedst me into the Irish sea.
EDWARD:
Since thou dost it, ’tis good. What thou dost is good.
Aye, plunge him in, Gaveston. Wash his face
Barber thy enemy in the filthy stream.
KENT:
O brother! Touch him not with sacrilegious hand!
For he’ll complain unto the See of Rome.
EDWARD:
Spare his life then! But seize upon his gold and rents!
Be thou Lord Abbot, be he exiled.
ABBOT:
King Edward, God will pay you home
For this misdeed.
EDWARD:
But in the meantime, Gaveston, away
And put his house and livings under seal.
GAVESTON:
What should a priest do with so fair a house?
MISGOVERNMENT UNDER THE REIGN OF KING EDWARD IN THE YEARS 1307-12. A WAR IN SCOTLAND IS LOST BECAUSE OF THE KING’S INDIFFERENCE
London
Spencer, Baldock, the two poor men, soldiers.
BALDOCK:
The Archbishop of Winchester said in the pulpit the wheat this year is worm-ridden. That means much.
SECOND POOR MAN:
But not to us. It’s Winchester eats the corn.
FIRST POOR MAN:
The provisions for the Scottish troops have just been seized by a Yorkshireman.
BALDOCK:
But in Neddy’s house they’re drinking beer at breakfast.
SPENCER:
Yesterday Ned fell into a swoon.
FIRST SOLDIER:
Why so?
SPENCER:
The Earl of Cornwall told him he was growing a beard.
BALDOCK:
Ned was sick the other day in Tanner’s Lane.
SECOND SOLDIER:
Why so?
BALDOCK:
A woman made him liverish.
SECOND SOLDIER:
Have you heard the latest on the Earl of Cornwall? Now he wears a false arse.
Laughter.
Enter a ballad monger.
BALLAD MONGER:
Neddy’s woman has a beard on his chest.
Pray for us, pray for us, pray for us!
And so the Scot’s war has been laid to rest.
Pray for us, pray for us, pray for us!
The Earl of Cornwall has silver at his rump
Pray for us, pray for us, pray for us!
But Pat has no arms and O’Nelly just a stump.
Pray for us, pray for us, pray for us.
Ned louses his Gavy and never has time.
Pray for us, pray for us, pray for us.
So Johnny fell in the bog at Bannockbride.
Pray for us, pray for us, pray for us.
SPENCER:
That song is worth a ha’penny, sir.
Enter Edward and Gaveston.
EDWARD:
My dearest Gaveston, thou hast me for thy friend.
Let them be! We’ll to the pond at Tynemouth
Fishing, eating fish, riding, shooting
On the catapult walls, knee to knee.
SPENCER grabbing the ballad monger: This is high treason, sir. And if you ripped to pieces my aunt’s nephew yet my mother’s son could never once endure his dearest Earl of Cornwall to be slandered.
GAVESTON:
What would’st thou, good friend?
SPENCER:
My lord, I am always well inclined to pretty couplets; but high treason plainly goes against my stomach.
GAVESTON:
What is it?
SPENCER:
This worm-eaten peg-leg, my Lord.
The ballad monger runs out.
GAVESTON to the King:
Calumniare audacter, sempèr aliquid haeret.
SPENCER:
In your language: hang him the lower.
GAVESTON to Spencer:
Come follow me.
He goes off with the King. Spencer signs to Baldock and they go off together. Those left behind laugh.
Enter the Archbishop and Lancaster.
ARCHBISHOP:
All London mocks us. Tax farmers ask how long the Parliament and Peers can let things be. In every alley ‘Civil war’ is spoken.
LANCASTER:
One strumpet does not make a war.
London
MORTIMER in his house, alone among his books:
Plutarch tells of Gaius Julius Caesar
That he could at the same time read and write and dictate to
His clerk and beat the Gauls. It seems
That people of his stature owe their
Fame to a particular lack
Of insight into the vanity of man’s
Concerns and deeds; coupled with an
Amazing lack of seriousness; in short, to their
Shallowness.
Enter archbishop and barons.
ARCHBISHOP:
You, Roger Mortimer, feed apart
On classic writings, meditations
Of times now dead
While like a seething ant-hill
London needs you.
MORTIMER:
London needs flour.
ARCHBISHOP:
If God should leave a hundred pigs to die
For lack of flour in Saint James’s Hospital
We would not, certainly, for that
Mortimer, disturb you at your books.
But when this pig wallows in Westminster
Suckled with the milk of the land by him
Who is the guardian of the land, a king
Then it is truly time to leave the classics
To be classics.
MORTIMER:
The classics tell us: Great Alexander
Loved Hephaestion, Alcibiades was loved
Of grave Socrates and for
Patroclus Achilles drooped. Must I
For such freaks of nature drag my countenance
Into the market-place amid the sweaty rabble?
ARCHBISHOP:
Ned’s long arms, the catapults
May bring to pass that you, head topped
May not enjoy this hard-defended leisure.
You step from the rain and drown in the flood.
You are cold in passion, at an age
For well-considered deeds, skilled and
Sharp in knowledge of man’s frailty