THEATER 67
437
of the play a "cunning" Galileo tries to outwit the Inquisition and
pursue his studies just as Brecht's anti-Fascist friends tried to outwit
the Nazi regime and get on with their work. In every version, Brecht
examines the problems of those who bear a revolutionary truth. For the
purpose of this examination he does not find it necessary to distinguish
between the Renaissance
Denker
and the Marxist
Dichter.
These con–
temporary perspectives and allusions give the play much of its interest;
unfortunately, Brecht miscalculated when he decided to hold Galileo re–
sponsible for the crime of the atomic scientists: the Hiroshima bomb
was dropped as Brecht and Laughton labored over the second version
of the play.
Galileo is made to say, "I surrendered my knowledge to the powers
that be, to use it, no, not
use
it, abuse it, as it suits their ends." This
accusation may describe the behavior of the atomic scientists, but it is
patently untrue of the Galileo of history or of Brecht's play. Any audi–
ence that "sees" is bound to see this, and to be put off by it. Besides,
the case of the atomic scientists threatens to undermine the dialectic
of Brecht's play. For the obvious inference is that the atomic scientists
should have suppressed their knowledge for the good of mankind (as
they do in Diirrenmatt's
The Physicists).
But suppression of the truth
for the good of mankind is precisely the Church's aim, and the play is
committed to considering it criminal. Hiroshima supports the Church's
claim, not Galileo's. The most serious consequence of Brecht's mis–
calculation, and the one most difficult to remedy in performance, re–
mains to be mentioned.
If
Galileo is responsible for Hiroshima the
Stalinist Brecht (having fabricated the facts) must see to it that Galileo
confesses his guilt and denounces himself in the style of the Moscow
trials. As Eric Bentley observes (in his indispensable remarks on the
play) this self-accusation is jarringly out of character, and he sym–
pathizes with Laughton for muting it in performance.
Quayle, unfortunately, mutes the entire character, and Brecht's
main idea about it is lost. Brecht's Galileo is a man of appetites who
cannot say no to a new thought or an old bottle of wine. Thinking is
simply another physical pleasure and this makes it entirely plausible that
Galileo should recoil from the instruments of torture or fail to consider
the responsibilities of scientists. Quayle's Galileo is, by contrast, an
homme moyen sensuel.
His scientific impulses seek a cool, didactic ex–
pression; his sensual fulfillments display a gentlemanly
joie de vivre.
(And Aline MacMahon is too old by a generation for there to be any
suggestion of sexual hanky-panky with the housekeeper.) At the last,
he is a broken man, picking at his dinner. Laughton's Galileo fell
