Brecht Collected Plays: 1: Baal; Drums in the Night; In the Jungle of Cities; Life of Edward II of England; & 5 One Act Plays: "Baal", "Drums in the Night", "In the Jungle of Ci (World Classics) (4 page)

To my friend George Pfanzelt

Translator
:
PETER TEGEL

Baal, poet
‧
Mech, merchant and publisher
‧
Emilie, his wife
‧
Dr Piller, critic
‧
Johannes Schmidt
‧
Pschierer, director of the water rates
‧
a young man
‧
a young woman
‧
Johanna
‧
Ekart
‧
Luise, a waitress
‧
the two sisters
‧
the landlady
‧
Sophie Barger
‧
the tramp
‧
Lupu
‧
Mjurk
‧
the nightclub singer
‧
a pianist
‧
the parson
‧
Bolleboll
‧
Gougou
‧
the old beggar
‧
Maja, the beggarwoman
‧
the young woman
‧
Watzmann
‧
a waitress
‧
two policemen
‧
drivers
‧
peasants
‧
woodcutters

HYMN OF BAAL THE GREAT

Baal grew up within the whiteness of the womb

With the sky already large and pale and calm

Naked, young, endlessly marvellous

As Baal loved it when he came to us.

And that sky remained with him through joy and care

Even when Baal slept, blissful and unaware.

Nights meant violet sky and drunken Baal

Dawns, Baal good, sky apricottish-pale.

So through hospital, cathedral, bar

Baal trots coolly on, and learns to let them go.

When Baal’s tired, boys, Baal will not fall far:

Baal will drag his whole sky down below.

Where the sinners herd in shame together

Baal lies naked, soaking up the calm.

Just the sky, but sky to last for
ever

Hides his nakedness with its strong arm.

And that lusty girl, the world, who laughs when yielding

To the man who’ll stand the pressure of her thighs

Gives him instants of a sweet ecstatic feeling.

Baal survives it; he just looks and sees.

And when Baal sees corpses all around

Then a double pleasure comes to him.

Lots of space, says Baal; they’re not enough to count.

Lots of space inside this woman’s womb.

Once a woman, Baal says, gives her all

She’ll have nothing more, so let her go!

Other men would represent no risk at all.

Even Baal is scared of babies, though.

Vice, says Baal, is bound to help a bit

And so are the men who practise it.

Vices leave their mark on all they touch.

Stick to two, for one will be too much.

Slackness, softness – that’s what you should shun.

Nothing’s tougher than pursuing fun.

Powerful limbs are needed, and experience too

Swollen bellies may discourage you.

Baal watches the vultures in the star-shot sky

Hovering patiently to see when Baal will die.

Sometimes Baal shams dead. The vultures swoop.

Baal, without a word, will dine on vulture soup.

Under mournful stars in our sad vale of trouble

Munching, Baal can graze broad pastures down to stubble.

When they’re cropped, into the forest deep

Baal trots, singing, to enjoy his sleep.

And when Baal’s dragged down to be the dark womb’s prize

What’s the world to Baal? Baal has been fed.

Sky enough still lurks behind Baal’s eyes

To make just enough sky when he’s dead.

Baal decayed within the darkness of the womb

With the sky once more as large and pale and calm

Naked, young, endlessly marvellous

As Baal loved it when he came to us.

Mech, Emilie Mech, Pschierer, Johannes Schmidt, Dr Piller, Baal and other guests enter through the revolving door
.

MECH
to Baal
: Would you like some wine, Mr Baal?
All take seats
,
Baal in the place of honour
. Do you like crab? That’s a dead eel.

PILLER
to Mech
: I’m very glad that the immortal poems of Mr Baal, which I had the honour of reading to you, have earned your approval.
To Baal
: You must publish your poetry. Mr Mech pays like a real patron of the arts. You’ll be able to leave your attic.

MECH:
I buy cinnamon wood. Whole forests of cinnamon float down the rivers of Brazil for my benefit. But I’ll also publish your poetry.

EMILIE:
You live in an attic?

BAAL
eating and drinking
: 64 Klauckestrasse.

MECH:
I’m really too fat for poetry. But you’ve got the same-shaped head as a man in the Malayan Archipelago, who used to have himself driven to work with a whip. If he wasn’t grinding his teeth he couldn’t work.

PSCHIERER:
Ladies and gentlemen. I admit it frankly: I was shattered to find a man like him in such modest circumstances. As you know, I discovered our dear poet in my office, a simple clerk. I have no hesitation in calling it a disgrace to our city that personalities of his calibre should be allowed to work for a daily wage. May I congratulate you, Mr Mech! Your salon will be famous as the cradle of this genius’s, yes genius’s, worldwide reputation. Your health, Mr Baal!

Baal wards off the speech with a gesture; he eats
.

PILLER
: I shall write an essay about you. Have you any manuscripts? I have the backing of the press.

A YOUNG MAN
: How, my friend, do you get that accursed naïve effect? It’s positively homeric. I consider Homer one,
or rather one of several, highly civilized adapters with a penetrating delight in the naïveté of the original folk sagas.

A YOUNG LADY:
You remind me more of Walt Whitman. But you’re more significant. That’s what I think.

ANOTHER MAN:
I’d say he had something rather more of Verhaeren.

PILLER:
Verlaine! Verlaine! Even in physiognomy. Don’t forget our Lombroso.

BAAL:
Some more of the eel, please.

THE YOUNG LADY:
But you have the advantage of greater indecency.

JOHANNES:
Mr Baal sings his songs to the lorry-drivers. In a café down by the river.

THE YOUNG MAN:
Good God, none of those poets are even in the same category. My friend, you’re streets ahead of any living poet.

THE OTHER MAN:
At any rate he’s promising.

BAAL:
Some more wine please.

THE YOUNG MAN:
I consider you a precursor of the great Messiah of European literature whom we can undoubtedly expect within the very near future.

THE YOUNG LADY:
Dear poet, ladies, and gentlemen. Permit me to read you a poem from the periodical ‘Revolution’ which will also be of interest to you.
She rises and reads
:

The poet shuns shining harmonies.

He blows trombones, shrilly whips the drum.

He incites the people with chopped sentences.

The new world

Exterminating the world of pain,

Island of rapturous humanity.

Speeches. Manifestos.

Songs from grandstands.

Let there be preached the new,

The holy state, inoculated into the blood of the people,

Blood of their blood.

Paradise sets in.

– Let us spread a stormy climate!

Learn! Prepare! Practise!

Applause
.

THE YOUNG LADY
quickly
: Permit me! I shall turn to another

poem in the same issue.
She reads
:

Sun had made him shrivel

And wind had blown him dry.

By every tree rejected

He simply fell away.

Only a single rowan

With berries on every limb,

Red as flaming tongues, would

Receive and shelter him.

So there he hung suspended,

His feet lay on the grass.

The blood-red sunset splashed him

As through his ribs it passed.

It moved across the landscape

And struck all the olive groves.

God in his cloud-white raiment

Was manifest above.

Within the flowering forest

There sang a thousand snakes

While necks of purest silver

With slender murmurs shook.

And they were seized with trembling

All over that leafy domain

Obeying the hands of their Father

So light in their delicate veins.

Applause
.

CRIES OF:
Brilliant! Extreme but in good taste. Simply heavenly.

THE YOUNG LADY:
In my opinion it comes closest to the Baalian conception of the world.

MECH:
You should travel! The Abyssinian mountains. That’s something for you.

BAAL:
They won’t come to me, though.

PILLER:
Why? With your zest for life! Your poems had an enormous effect on me.

BAAL:
The lorry-drivers pay if they like them.