by Alfred Jarry
To drink we flee,
If you can’t get a bottle
Use an old képi !
Chorus : Pee pee pee, pee pee pee.
PAPA TURD : Now by my moustache,
Don’t you dare say Bah !
To the proud white plume
On my old tchapska !
Chorus : Ca ca ca, ca ca ca.
PAPA TURD : Your nose gets pimpled
And your strumpot too,
So drink to Poland
And to Père Ubu !
Chorus : Poo poo poo, poo poo poo.
PAPA TURD. Oh, the fine fellows, I love them ! And now, let’s eat !
THE SOLDIERS. To the attack !
PAPA TURD (watching them go). Tell Mr. Honorable Kitchen Police to bring on the victuals held in reserve for the entire army.
LASKY. But Papa Turd, there aren’t any victuals – there’s nothing to eat.
PAPA TURD. You swine ! whaddya mean there’s nothing to eat ? What can our military commissariat be thinking of ?
LASKY. Don’t you remember ? You threw them all in the trap.
PAPA TURD. Oh yes ! Now I can breathe freely. I knew this excellent administration couldn’t possibly make such a mistake. Everybody knows it loves to stuff the troops with trumps – I mean rumps of turkey, roast chicken, dog-paste, cauliflower à la pshit, and other fowl. But still I’ll have to see if there’s anything left to line my belly with . . . because I’m hungry. (Cannonade begin offstage.) Now what am I going to put in my strumpot ? ] (A Russian cannonball arrives, breaks off one vane of the mill and hits him in the belly.) Hoo ! Hah ! I’m hit! God almighty, I’m dead ! And yet, no – I’m all right.
SCENE IV
THE SAME, A CAPTAIN, then THE RUSSIAN ARMY
A CAPTAIN (coming in). Master Turd, the Russians are attacking.
PAPA TURD. So what ? What do you expect me to do about it ? I didn’t tell them to. However, gentlemen of Phynance, let’s get ready for the fray. (A second cannonball. PAPA TURD is bowled over, the cannonball bouncing up and down on his strumpot several times before coming to a stop.)
GENERAL LASKY. A second cannonball ! [I’m getting out of here. – He flees.]
PAPA TURD. I’ve had enough. It’s raining lead and iron here. Our precious person might even get damaged. – Hey you, Russian soldiers ! Be careful ! Don’t shoot this way ; there’s somebody here ! - Let’s get going.
(They all go down the hill on the run. The battle has just begun. They disappear into torrents of smoke at the foot of the hill.)
A RUSSIAN (striking). For God and the Czar !
RENSKY. I’m dead !
PAPA TURD. Forward ! ! Listen, mister, you that I’m hitting because you tried to hit me first – do you understand, you drunken bum, with your musket that doesn’t go off ?!
THE RUSSIAN. Is that so ? (He shoots him with a revolver.)
PAPA TURD. Ah ! Ooh ! I’m wounded ! I’m riddled ! I’m perforated ! I’m done for ! I’m buried ! No, wait - he missed me! There!! I got him! (He rips him open.) Now start something !
GENERAL LASKY. Forward ! Skip the ditch ! Let’s go ! Victory is ours !!
PAPA TURD. You think so ? So far I got a lot more lumps on my head than laurels.
RUSSIAN CAVALRY [in the wrings]. Huzza!! Make way for the Czar !
(THE CZAR enters, accompanied by BORDURE in disguise.)
A POLE. Oh, Christ! Every man for himself ! Here comes the Czar !
ANOTHER. My God ! He’s crossing the moat.
A THIRD. Biff ! Bam ! There’s four done in by that big bugger of a lieutenant.
BORDURE. All right, had enough, you bastards ?! There, Jan Sobiesky, that’ll fix you ! (He kills him.) Now for the rest!
(He massacres the Poles.)
PAPA TURD. Forward, my friends ! Get that son of a bitch ! We’ll smear the Muscovites ! Victory is ours ! Hurray for the Double Eagle !
ALL. Forward ! Leg-o’-god ! Get the big bugger !
BORDURE. By Saint George, they got me.
PAPA TURD (recognizing him). It’s you, Bordure ! Ah, my friend, we are delighted, along with everyone else present, to see you again. I’m going to cook you over a slow fire! Gentlemen of Phynance, light a fire. – Oh ! Ooh ! I’m dead. I must’ve been hit by a cannonball at least. Oh God, forgive all my sins. Yes, it must have been a cannonball.
BORDURE. You’ve been shot with a cap-pistol.
PAPA TURD. Aha ! you’re making fun of me ! Again ? I’ll fix you ! (He throws himself on BORDURE and rips him apart.)
GENERAL LASKY. Papa Turd, we’re advancing on all fronts.
PAPA TURD. So I see. I’m all worn out. I’m half kicked to death, and I’ve got to sit down. [Sits on the ground.] Ouch ! my bottle !
GENERAL LASKY. Get the Czar’s instead, Papa Turd.
PAPA TURD. Eh ? That’s just what I’m going to do. Here I go ! Pshit-sword, do your duty, and you, money-crook, don’t fall behind. Physic-stick, imitate them unstintingly, and share with this little tip of wood the honor of massacring, goosing, and giving the business to the Muscovite Czar. Forward, Mr. Money-go-mare ! (He throws himself on THE CZAR.)
[THE CZAR. Choknozoff, catastrophe, crapazoff !]
PAPA TURD. Take that, you ! (THE CZAR snatches the stick away from PAPA TURD and hits him with it.) Oh ! Ouch ! Gee whiz ! I’m licked ! I take it all back, Sir ! I didn’t do it on purpose ! (He runs away, THE CZAR chasing him.) Holy Virgin, this lunatic is chasing me ! God almighty, what have I done ? Oh, good ! there’s still the moat to cross. Help ! he’s right behind me, and the moat in front ! Courage ! I’ll just shut my eyes. (He leaps over the ditch. THE CZAR falls in.)
THE CZAR. Shucks ! I’m stuck.
POLES. Hurray ! the Czar is down !
PAPA TURD. I don’t dare look back ! Hey, he’s stuck in the ditch, and they’re hitting him on the head. That’s it, Poles, hit him again ! He’s got a broad back, the son of a bitch ! Just the same, our prediction was completely realized : the physic-stick did marvels, and there isn’t a doubt in the world that I’d have finished him off myself if an inexplicable terror hadn’t overpowered and annulled in ourself the effects of our courage. But we were suddenly obliged to turn tail, and owe our preservation only to our dexterity as a horseman and likewise to the solidity of the hocks of our money-go-mare, whose speed is equalled only by its strength, and whose agility is celebrated in song and story, and likewise to the great depth of the ditch which lay so opportunely in the path of the enemy of ourself, yours truly, Master of Phynance. All of which is very pretty, but no one is listening. Hey, look ! Here we go again ! (The Russian dragoons charge, and rescue THE CZAR.)
GENERAL LASKY (running across). This time it’s a rout !
PAPA TURD. Aha ! Then it’s time to get out of here. Therefore, gentlemen of Poland, forward ! – or rather, backward !
POLES. Every man for himself !
PAPA TURD. Come on, let’s go ! What a mob, what a rout, what a multitude ! How am I going to get out of this mess ? (He is knocked over.) Listen, you ! Watch what you’re doing, or you’re going to experience the fiery courage of the Master of Phynance. There, he’s gone. Now we can run away, and in a hurry too, while Lasky isn’t looking. (He runs off. THE CZAR and the Russian army are seen pursuing the Poles.)
[PAPA TURD, coming back. – Nobody here ? What a mob, what a rout! God almighty, where can I hide ? Ah, in this little house. I’ll surely be safe here.
LASKY (sticking his head out of the mill). Who’s there ?
PAPA TURD. Help ! Oh, it’s you, Lasky. You here too ? Didn’t you get killed yet ? . . . I can’t go on. Suddenly I have a strange need to sleep. But I can’t sleep here, because even with a cotton nightcap (pulling one on) I’m still afraid of drafts. And you know the old saying : anyone that’s afraid of drafts shouldn’t sleep in a windmill.]
SCENE V
A cavern in Lithuania. It is snowing.
PAPA TURD, PILE, COCCYX
PAPA TURD. What awful weather ! It’s free
zing hard enough to split rocks, and the person of the Master of Phynance is suffering terribly.
PILE. Hey ! Mister Turd, did you get over your terror and your flight ?
PAPA TURD. Yes, I’m not scared any more, but I’m still running.
COCCYX (aside). What a pig !
PAPA TURD. Hmm. Master Coccyx, your yard, how does it feel ?
COCCYX. As well as it can, Mister. It could feel worse. In consequeynt of the fact thatte the lead in my pants bends it to the ground, and I haven’t been able to extract the ball.
PAPA TURD. Well, that’s fine. And you were always such a great one for hitting other people. Me, I displayed the greatest courage. Without endangering myself in the least, I massacred four of the enemy with my bare hands, not counting those that were already dead when I dispatched them.
COCCYX. Pile, do y’know what became of little Rensky ?
PILE. He got a bullet through the head.
PAPA TURD. Ah yes, just as the corn-poppy and the pissabed are mowed down in the flower of their youth by the merciless mow of the merciless mower who mows mercilessly their pitiful phizz, just so did little Rensky play the corn-poppy. Valiantly did he fight, but all the same – there were too many Russians.
PILE and COCCYX. Hey ! Mister !
AN ECHO [in the wings]. Harumph !
PILE. What’s that grunting ? Let’s arm ourselves with the torches.
PAPA TURD. Oh God, no ! More Russians, I bet ! I’ve had enough ! If they annoy me I’m gonna fuggem good, and that’s all there is to it.
SCENE VI
Enter A BEAR
COCCYX. Hey ! Mister Phynance !
PAPA TURD. Oh, my ! See the little bow-wow. Isn’t he nice.
PILE. Look out! Ow, what an enormous bear! My cartridges !
PAPA TURD. A bear ? Oh, the monstrous beast! Poor poor me, I’m eaten alive ! God save me ! He’s coming for me ! No, it’s Coccyx he’s after. Oh ! I can breathe again. (THE BEAR throws himself on COCCYX. PILE slashes at him with a knife. PAPA TURD takes refuge on a high rock.)
COCCYX. Help, Pile ! Help ! Save me, Mister Turd !
PAPA TURD. Nothing doing ! Get out of it the best you can, my friend. At the moment we’re saying our Pater Noster. Everybody’ll have his turn to get eaten.
PILE. I got him ! I’m holding him !
COCCYX. Hold tight, my friend. He’s beginning to let go of me.
PAPA TURD. Hallowed be Thy name . . .
COCCYX. Cowardly bugger !
PILE. Ow ! He’s biting me ! Oh God, save me, I’m dying.
PAPA TURD. Thy will be done . . .
COCCYX. Ah ! I’ve wounded him !
PILE. Hurray ! he’s losing blood ! (THE BEAR bellows in pain amidst the shouts of the two CHAMPIONS. PAPA TURD continues to mutter.)
COCCYX. Hold him tight while I get in my dynamite punch.
PAPA TURD. Give us this day our daily bread . . .
PILE. Hurry up, I can’t hold on much longer.
PAPA TURD. As we forgive those who trespass against us . . .
COCCYX. I got it !! (Tremendous explosion. THE BEAR falls dead.)
PILE and COCCYX. Victory !!
PAPA TURD. But deliver us from evil, Amen. All right, is he dead yet ? Can I get down off the rock ?
PILE (disgustedly). Just as you like.
PAPA TURD (combing down). There ! You see – he’s dead ; and here we are, perfectly all right. You may flatter yourselves that if you are still living, still trampling the snows of Lithuania, you owe it to the magnanimous virtue, courage, and presence of mind of the Master of Phynance, who strained himself, broke his back, and practically got a sore throat saying paternosters for your safety, and who wielded the spiritual sword of prayer with as much courage as you handled the temporal dynamite-punch of the here-present Champion Coccyx. We have taken our devotion even further, in that we did not hesitate to climb upon a mighty rock so that our prayers might have less far to go to get to heaven.
PILE. Revolting she-ass !
PAPA TURD. Well well, what a big beast. Thanks to me, you now have something to eat. What a belly, gentlemen ! The Greeks would have been more comfortable in there than in their wooden horse, and we were very near, dear friends, to being able to verify with our own eyes his internal capacity.
PILE. I’m starving. What is there to eat ?
COCCYX. The bear !
PAPA TURD. Eh, poor lads, are you going to eat him raw ? We haven’t anything to start a fire with.
PILE. Haven’t we got our musket-flints ?
PAPA TURD. Hmm, that’s right. And besides, I think I see over there, not too far away, a little woods where there ought to be some dry branches. Go and get some, Master Coccyx.
(COCCYX goes off across the snow.)
PILE. And now, Master Turd, go ahead and carve up the bear.
PAPA TURD. Oh no ! Maybe he isn’t quite dead yet. Whereas you, who are already half eaten, and bitten all over, you’re just made for the part. I’ll light a fire while we’re waiting for the wood. (PILE begins to carve up the bear.) Oh ! Watch out! He moved.
PILE. But Master Turd, he’s already cold.
PAPA TURD. That’s too bad. It would have been better for the system to eat him hot. This is going to give the Master of Phynance indigestion.
PILE (aside). Isn’t he disgusting ? (Aloud.) Give us a hand, Mr. Turd, I can’t do the whole job myself.
PAPA TURD. No, I don’t feel like doing anything. I’m very tired, as a matter of fact.
COCCYX (returning). What snow, my friends ! You’d think you were in Sunny Spain or at the North Pole. But it’s beginning to get dark. Inside of an hour it will be night. Let’s hurry while we still can see.
PAPA TURD. Yes, you hear that, Pile ? Hurry up ! Both of you, hurry up. Put the beast on a spit and cook ’im. I’m hungry.
PILE. That’s the last straw ! Listen, pig, you work or you don’t eat. Understand ?
PAPA TURD. Oh well, it’s all the same to me. I’d just as soon eat it raw, you know. It’s you who’ll suffer. Anyhow, I’m sleepy.
COCCYX. What’ll we do, Pile ? Let’s eat it all ourselves. He don’t get any. Or else we could give him the bones.
PILE. Fine. There ! the fire is catching.
PAPA TURD. Oh ! that’s nice. It’s warm now. But I see Russians everywhere. God almighty, what a rout ! Oh ! (He falls asleep.)
COCCYX. I wonder if what Rensky said is true — if Mama Turd really was dethroned. It wouldn’t be a bit impossible.
PILE. Let’s finish eating.
COCCYX. No, we have more important things to do. I think it would be a good idea for us to look into the truth of this rumor.
PILE. You’re right. Ought we to abandon Papa Turd, or stay here with him ?
COCCYX. The night brings counsel. Let’s go to sleep. Tomorrow we’ll decide what ought to be done.
PILE. No, better to profit by the darkness and get away.
COCCYX. Well then, let’s go.
[They leave.
SCENE VII
[Nightmare, with apparition of rats, spiders, etc., the Guignol classic.]
TURD (talking in his sleep). Hey you, Russian soldiers ! Be careful! Don’t shoot this way ; there’s somebody here ! Oh ! there’s Bordure. He’s a bad one — you’d think he was a bear. And Buggerlaus, coming at me ! The bear, the bear ! Oh, he’s down ! Great God, how tough he is ! Me, I don’t want to do any work. Be off with you, Buggerlaus ! Do you hear me, you fool ? There’s Rensky now, and the Czar! Oh ! they’re going to hit me. And Madame Turde ! Where’d you get all that gold ? You’ve stolen my gold, you wretch ! You’ve been rummaging in my tomb in the Warsaw Cathedral, near the Moon. I’ve been dead a long time. It was Buggerlaus that killed me, and I’m buried at Warsaw with Wladislaus the Great, and also at Cracow with Jan Sigismund, and also at Thorn in the dungeon with Bordure. There he is again! Be off with you, accursed bear — you look just like Bordure ! Do you hear me, you imp of Satan ? No, he can’t hear. The Snot-noses have cut
off his years. That’s it ! Off with their heads ! Murdder ’em ! Chop yards ! Pinch pennies ! And drink yourself to death ! That’s the life of a Snot-nose - that’s the luck of a Master of Phynance. (He falls silent and sleeps.)
ACT V
SCENE I
It is night. PAPA TURD is sleeping.
MAMA TURD enters without seeing him. It is pitch dark.
MAMA TURD. At last I find shelter. Here I shall be alone. No harm done, but what a headlong flight — to cross the whole of Poland in four days ! Every possible misfortune assailed me at once. No sooner does that great fat clown leave, but I go to the crypt to get the treasure. Right afterwards I almost get stoned to death by Buggerlaus and his madmen. I lose my cavalier, Champion Gyron, who was so enamored of my charms that he used to swoon with delight every time he looked at me, and even, I was told, when he didn’t look at me — which is the height of passion. Poor boy, he would have let himself be cut in half for me, and the proof is, he was cut into quarters by Buggerlaus. Biff, bam, boom ! I thought I’d die. Then, afterwards, I take flight, followed by the furious mob. I leave the palace. I come to the Vistula. All the bridges were guarded. I swim across, hoping to tire my pursuers. From all sides the nobility assembled to chase me. A thousand times I escaped being killed, half smothered by a mob of Polacks lusting for my blood. In the end I escaped their fury, and after four days of racing through the snows of what was my kingdom, I arrive and take refuge here. I’ve had nothing to eat or drink these four days. Buggerlaus was pressing close . . . But at last, here I am — safe. Ah ! I’m dying of weariness and cold. But I’d certainly like to know what became of my big fat buffoon, I mean to say my very esteemed husband. After all, did I take his money ? Did I steal his bagels ? Did I grab even one lousy bean ? ! And his money-go-mare, that was dying of hunger — it didn’t see oats often, poor beast. Oh, it’s a sad story. But alas ! I’ve lost my treasure ! It’s at Warsaw, go fetch it who will.