MATTI: Yes, Mr Puntila.
PUNTILA: The lakes, for instance! Never mind the forests, so far as I am concerned, mine are over that way, I’m having the one on the point cut down; just take the lakes, Matti, just take one or two of them, forget the fish they’re so full of, just take the way the lakes look in the morning and it’s enough to stop you ever wanting to leave or you’d waste away in foreign parts and die of homesickness; and we’ve got eight thousand of them in Finland.
MATTI: Right, I’ll just take the way they look.
PUNTILA: See that little tug with a bow like a bulldog, and the tree trunks in the morning light? The way they swim along in the tepid water, beautifully bundled and stripped, a small fortune. I can smell fresh timber ten miles off, can you? And talking of the smells we have in the Tavast country, that’s a chapter on its own, the berries for instance. After it has rained. And the birch trees, when you come out of the sauna and get whipped with a stout bush, and even in bed next morning, how they smell! Where else do you find that? Where on earth is there such a view?
MATTI: Nowhere, Mr Puntila.
PUNTILA: I like it best when it goes all hazy, like those instants in love when you close your eyes and there’s a haze round everything. Though I don’t think you get that kind of love outside Tavastland either.
MATTI: Where I was born we used to have caves with rocks outside them round as cannon balls polished all over.
PUNTILA: I bet you used to creep inside? Instead of minding the cows? Hey, I can see some. They’re swimming across the lake.
MATTI: I see them. Must be at least fifty head.
PUNTILA: At least sixty. There goes the train. If I listen carefully I can hear the milk churns rattling.
MATTI: If you listen really carefully.
PUNTILA: And I haven’t shown you Tavasthus yet, the old place, we’ve got cities too, I can pick out the Park Hotel, they keep a decent wine there, I can recommend it. We’ll pass over the castle, they’ve turned it into a women’s prison for politicals, what business have they got meddling in politics anyway, but the steam mills make a nice picture at this range, they brighten up the landscape. And now what do you see to the left?
MATTI: Well, what do I see?
PUNTILA: Eh, fields! You see fields as far as the eye can reach, Puntila’s are among them, particularly the heath, the soil’s so rich there I can milk the cows three times a day once I’ve let them into the clover, and the wheat grows up to your chin and twice a year at that. Join in now!
And the waves on the beautiful Roina
Are kissing the milky-white sand.
Enter Fina and Laina.
FINA: Lawks!
LAINA: They’ve smashed up the whole library.
MATTI: We’re just standing on top of Mount Hatelma enjoying the panorama.
PUNTILA: Join in! Where’s your feeling for your country?
ALL except Matti:
And the waves on the beautiful Roina
Are kissing the milky-white sand.
PUNTILA: O Tavastland, blessed art thou! With thy sky, thy lakes, thy people and thy forests! To Matti: Tell me that your heart swells at the sight of it all.
MATTI: My heart swells at the sight of your forests, Mr Puntila.
12
Matti turns his back on Puntila
The yard at Puntila’s. It is early morning. Matti comes out of the house with a suitcase. Laina follows with a packed lunch.
LAINA: Here, take your lunch, Matti. I can’t think why you’re going. Why not wait anyway till Mr Puntila’s up?
MATTI: I’d sooner not risk having him wake. He was that pissed last night he was promising me in the early hours to make over half his forest to me, and in front of witnesses too. When he hears that he’ll send for the police.
LAINA: But if you leave without a reference you’ll be ruined.
MATTI: What’s the good of a reference if he’s either going to write that I’m a Red or that I’m a human being? Neither will get me a job.
LAINA: He won’t be able to manage without you now he’s so used to you.
MATTI: He’ll have to soldier on alone. I’ve had enough. I can’t take his familiarities after that business with Surkkala. Thanks for the lunch and goodbye, Laina.
LAINA, sniffing: Have a good trip. Goes in quickly.
MATTI, after walking a few paces:
The hour for taking leave has struck
So, Puntila, I wish you luck.
I’ve met them worse than you and twice as tough
You’re half-way human when you’ve drunk enough.
But matiness dissolves in boozer’s gloom
It’s back to normal and the old ‘Who whom?’
And if it’s sad to find out in the end
That oil and water cannot ever blend
Let’s waste no tears, there’s nothing we can do:
It’s time your servants turned their backs on you.
They’ll find they have a master really cares
Once they’re the masters of their own affairs.
He walks rapidly away.
The Puntila Song
1
Old Puntila went on a three-day blind
In a Tavasthus hotel.
He left an enormous tip behind
But the waiter said ‘Go to hell!’
Oh, waiter, how can you insult him so
When life’s so gay and sweet?
The waiter replied, ‘How am I to know?
I’ve been far too long on my feet.’
2
The landowner’s daughter, Eva P.
A novel once did read.
She marked the place where it told her she
Belonged to a higher breed.
She turned to the chauffeur all the same
And gave his clothes a stare:
‘Come sport with me, Mr What’s-his-name
I’m told there’s a man in there.’
3
Old Puntila met an early bird
As he strolled in the morning dew:
‘O milkmaid with the milk-white breasts
Where are you going to?
You’re going off to milk my cows
Before cockcrow, I see.
But the best thing for you now you’ve been roused
Is to come back to bed with me.’
4
The bath hut on the Puntila farm
Is the place for a bit of fun
Where a servant may go to take a bath
While the mistress is having one.
Old Puntila said, ‘I’m giving my child
To be a diplomatist’s wife.
He won’t mind her being a bit defiled
If I’ll settle his debts for life.’
5
The landowner’s daughter wandered in
To the kitchen at half-past nine:
‘O chauffeur, I find you so masculine
Come bring your fishing line.’
‘Yes, miss,’ the chauffeur replies to her,
‘I can see you are ripe for bed.
But can’t you see that I prefer
To read my paper instead?’
6
The league of Puntila’s would-be brides
Arrived for the nuptial feast.
Old Puntila swore he would have their hides
And roared like a wounded beast.
But when did a sheep get a woollen shirt
Since shearing first began?
‘I’ll sleep with you, yes, but you’re only dirt
In the house of a gentleman.’
7
The women from Kurgela jeered, it is said
When they saw how they’d been foiled
But their shoes and stockings were torn to a shred
And their Sunday was totally spoiled.
And any woman who still believes
That a rich man will honour her claim
Will be lucky to lose no more than her shoes
But she’s only herself
to blame.
8
Old Puntila thumped on the table, piled
With glorious wedding cake:
‘How could I ever betroth my child
To this slab of frozen hake?’
He wanted his servant to have her instead
But the servant first wanted to try her
And finally said, ‘I’m not having her.
She has none of what I require.’
Notes on the music
The Ballad of the Forester and the Countess was written to the tune of an old Scottish ballad, the Plum Song to a folk tune.
The Puntila Song has been composed by Paul Dessau. During scene changes the actress playing Laina the cook comes before the curtain with a guitarist and an accordion player, and sings the verse corresponding to the scene just performed. Meanwhile she does various jobs in preparation for the great engagement party, such as sweeping the floor, dusting, kneading dough, beating egg whites, greasing cake tins, polishing glasses, grinding coffee and drying plates.
Editorial note
Brecht’s song provides no verses for scenes 4, 10, 11 nor (more understandably) 12. In case these scenes are played, the following verses in similar style and metre might serve the same function.
3a
He drove to the fair to hire some men
And quell his raging thirst
But he thought it a terrible insult when
A neighbour approached them first.
Old Puntila gave them his word and his hand
Till his servant said, ‘All very fine
But they won’t come unless they know where they stand.
You must sign on the dotted line.’
9
The stars in the Finnish summer night
Are a vision not to miss
And Puntila felt they were never so bright
As when he was having a piss.
‘I detest black looks,’ he said to his mate.
‘They stab me like a knife.
‘Why can’t my men appreciate
‘The joys of an outdoor life?’
10
Old Puntila stood on a lofty peak
To view the country round
And said, ‘This landscape is unique
The economy too is sound.
We need to exploit our resources, my friend
And a thousand flowers will bloom.’
But his servant replied, ‘Won’t a lot depend
On who is exploiting whom?’
Notes and Variants
THE GOOD PERSON OF SZECHWAN
Texts by Brecht
THE SONG FROM THE OPIUM DEN
1
THE GIRL
In those distant days of loving-kindness
Which they say are now forever gone
I adored the world, and sought for blindness
Or a heaven, the very purest one.
Soon enough, at dawn, I got my warning:
Blindness strikes the inquisitive offender
Who would see the heaven’s pure bright dawning.
And I saw it. And I saw its splendour.
How can scrounging crumbs make people happy?
What’s the good if hardships last for ever?
Must we never pluck the crimson poppy
Just because its blooms are sure to wither?
And so I said: drop it.
Breathe in the smoke twisting black
Towards the colder heavens. Look up: like it
You’ll not come back.
2
THE MAN
My enemy who ‘mid the poppies moulders–
I think of him when lighting up the drug.
And my bull? I’ve harnessed his great shoulders
And I’ve marched before a crimson flag.
By midday I’d tired of strife and rancour
Thought they offered nothing much to go on
You meantime were being so much franker
Saying they could be of use to no one.
Why smite enemies? I have no doubt mine
Nowadays could smite me without trying.
Nobody grows fatter than his outline.
Why, then, put on weight when you are dying?
And so I said: drop it
Breathe in the smoke twisting black
Towards colder heavens. Look up: like it
You’ll not come back.
3
THE OLD MAN
Ever since those distant days I’ve hurried
Sown my millet, reaped it where it grew
Lain with women, cried to gods when worried
Fathered sons who now sow millet too.
Late enough, at night, I got the lesson:
Not a cock will crow, they’re all ignoring
My end – nor will the most complete confession
Rouse a single god where he lies snoring.
Why keep sowing millet on this gravel
Soil whose barrenness can’t be corrected
If my tamarisk is doomed to shrivel
Once I’m dead and it is left neglected?
And so I said: drop it.
Breathe in the smoke twisting black
Towards colder heavens. Look up: like it
You’ll not come back.
[‘Der Gesang aus der Opiumhöhle,’ GW Gedichte, pp. 90–91 Brecht’s typescript is dated by BBA ‘About 1920.’ This song, unpublished till after Brecht’s death, is the origin of the ‘Song of the Smoke’ (pp. 19–20) and would appear to have been the first of his known writings on Chinese and Japanese themes. The opium motif will be found to recur in the Santa Monica version of the play (see pp. 325–30 and 336 ff.).]
FRAGMENT OF A STORY
However as the dearth increased and the cries of all living creatures asserted themselves the gods grew uneasy. For there were many complaints that there can be no fear of the gods where shortages are excessive. And they said ‘Were we to alter the world, which cost so much effort to create, a great disorder would ensue. Therefore if we can find people who are steadfast in time of dearth and keep our commandments in spite of poverty then the world shall remain as it is and there will be no disorder in it.’
Three of the highest thereupon set forth to discover god-fearing people such as might keep their commandments and display resistance in time of dearth.
And they came to the city of Szechwan, where they found a water seller who feared the gods, and he went around seeking a shelter for them. And he hunted round the city on their behalf for an entire day and could find no shelter.
And he said ‘I thought that it would be simple, for these are among the highest of the gods, and it is only for one night. But there is not a house in Szechwan that will give them shelter.’
And he came back to them and comforted them, and went again and turned to a girl whom he knew by the name of Mi Lung to ask her for shelter.
And they saw that the measuring cup from which he sold water had a false bottom.
“[From Werner Hecht (ed.): Materialien zu Brechts ‘Der gute Mensch von Sezuan,’ Frankfurt, Suhrkamp, 1968, p. 95. There described as ‘probably written very early on.’ The name Mi Lung never recurs.]
PRESS REPORT
A strange story has been reported from Szechwan province. Mr. Lao Go, a manufacturer of tobacco products in the provincial capital, has been standing trial for the murder of his cousin, a certain Miss Li Gung. According to witnesses this Miss Li Gung was known among the common populace of the slum quarters as a ‘good person.’ She even acquired the romantic sobriquet of ‘angel of the slums.’ Starting out as a simple woman of the streets, she was put in possession of a little capital by an alleged donation from the gods. She bought a tobacco shop, which however she ran on such altruistic lines that a few days later it was on the brink of ruin. Not only did she feed and maintain a number of persons from her extremely poor and overcrowded neighbourhood, but she also proved incapable of refusing lodging in her little shop to a family of nine with whom she was bare
ly acquainted. Shortly before the débâcle a young man turned up describing himself to her numerous hangers-on as Miss Li Gung’s cousin, and intervened so drastically as to put her confused affairs into comparative order. The following incident will provide an example of his methods. The family sent an adolescent boy out to steal bottles of milk from the neighbour’s doorsteps. The cousin voiced no objection but called a policeman into the shop and chatted to him until the boy came back with the stolen milk. The visitors were forthwith taken off to the police station and Miss Li Gung was rid of them. The young lady for her part stayed away while her cousin was saving her business for her.
After her own return and her cousin Mr. Lao Go’s departure, she resumed her charitable activities but on a very reduced scale. Instead she entered into an intimate relationship with an unemployed airmail pilot named Yü Schan whom she was locally rumoured to have saved from an attempted suicide. Unfortunately her hopes of making him a loan which would help him to secure a post as a mail pilot in Peking were cut short when her shop turned out not to be the little gold mine that people usually imagine such small concerns to be. There was a further threat to her shop in the shape of the methods employed by Mr. Feh Pung, the so-called ‘Tobacco King of Szechwan,’ a man not unduly inhibited by humanitarian scruples. When one of Mr. Feh Pung’s shops opened in her immediate vicinity, selling tobacco fifty per cent cheaper, she once again bowed to outside advice and summoned her cousin to help. He did indeed … [A break in the typescript follows, during which there was presumably some mention of the other small tobacconists and their decision to unite.]
… On his first visit he had deliberately omitted to tell them of the threats already made to the shop by Feh Pung on the day of its opening; otherwise he would not have been admitted to their mutual aid association. While accepting their tobacco, which was intended to help him to hold out, he now nonetheless negotiated with Feh Pung and induced the tobacco king to make a special bid for the shop to the disadvantage of the other members. However, he was not anxious to effect his cousin’s intended purchase of the desired post for her lover Yü Schan, even though the sale of the shop had put him in a position to do so. Apparently this Yü Schan had made it all too plain to him that he was counting on Li Gung’s money. Rather than gratify Yü Schan’s wishes her conscientious cousin arranged a sensible marriage between Mis Li Gung and the prosperous Mr. Kau, a barber. However, it seems that he had underestimated the extent of Yü Schan’s power over his cousin. At any rate the pilot succeeded in gaining her complete confidence and persuading her to make a love marriage with himself. This marriage was much discussed in the neighbourhood, because it never came about. When the small tobacconists heard of Mr. Lao Go’s plan to hand over the tobacco king Li Gung’s shop, which had been kept afloat only by their joint efforts, they had little difficulty in persuading Li Gung to cancel it. Here her lover’s power over her proved quite ineffective. Mr. Lao Go, sent for by the lover to make his cousin ‘see reason,’ failed to appear; then Li Gung realized how Schan’s behaviour had hurt her, and made no secret of the fact that her cousin thought him a bad person and a fortune hunter; at which point the whole marriage blew up. Perhaps if the whole neighbourhood had not been so enchanted by its ‘angel of the slums’ it would by now have realised the amazing fact underlying the situation: that Mr. Lao Go was none other than Miss Li Gung herself. She was the conscientious ‘cousin’ whose sometimes equivocal manipulations made possible the good deeds for which people so admired her. However, it was to be a long time before Szechwan understood this. Unhappily the other tobacconists were not able to benefit from Li Gung’s self-sacrifice. The short time spent on her efforts at marriage had been enough to make them doubt her loyalty. Undercutting one another’s prices, they had handed their shops on a plate to the tobacco king, to the good old refrain of ‘devil take the hindmost.’ Li Gung meanwhile was forced to admit to her old friend Sun the water seller that she thought she was pregnant. The situation was desperate. Her shop was on the brink of total ruin. For the third (and, as it turned out, last) time her cousin appeared. His task was to rescue the shop on behalf of the expected child, object now of all the girl’s love. The means selected by him were wholly unscrupulous. Taking every financial advantage both of the barber’s admiration for his ‘cousin’ and the faith placed by many small people in the ‘angel of the slums,’ he organised a sweat shop of the worst sort in which her former friends and dependents were to process tobacco at starvation wages. Yü Schan, the child’s father, was likewise roped into the rapidly booming business. Before her third disappearance Li Gung had promised his mother to find him a post where he might ‘improve himself by honest work.’ Under the strict hand of Mr. Lao Go he was made foreman in the new factory. The effect of such employment was to bring him into continual close contact with Mr. Lao Go. In the end this was to be Mr. Lao Go’s downfall. Yü Schan had been led by an occasional small personal gift to believe that Mr. Lao Go was keeping his cousin locked up in a room at the back of the shop. He made an attempt at blackmail, which the tobacconist naturally rejected. Thwarted, he ended up by sending for the police, whereupon the back room proved to contain all Li Gung’s clothing and personal possessions. The only way for Mr. Lao Go to answer the charge of murder was by making a clean breast of the true facts: that he and Miss Lil Gung were one and the same. Before the astonished eyes of the court, Lao Go changed back into Li Gung: the scourge of the slums and the angel of the slums were identical. Badness was only the reverse face of goodness, good deeds were made possible only by bad – a shattering testimonial to the unhappy condition of this world.