Ubu Roi

Alfred Jarry

• Publisher: Dover Publications
• Year: 2012
• Print ISBN: 9780486426877
• eBook ISBN: 9780486112558
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: European Drama
• Index: Literature

When it first opened in Paris in late 1896, Ubu Roi immediately outraged audiences with its scatological references and surrealist style. Spectators rioted during the premiere (and final) performance and unrelenting controversy over the play's meaning followed. The quality and stunning impact of the work, however, was never questioned.
Early drafts of the play were written by Jarry in his teens to ridicule one of his teachers. The farce was done in the form of stylized burlesque, satirizing the tendency of the successful bourgeois to abuse his authority and become irresponsibly complacent. Ubu — the cruel, gluttonous, and grotesque main character (the author's metaphor for modern man) — anticipated characteristics of the Dada movement. In the 1920s, Dadaists and Surrealists championed the play, recognizing Ubu Roi as the first absurdist drama.

ACT III

SCENE I

The palace.

PAPA TURD, MAMA TURD

PAPA TURD. Now, by my green candle, here I am, king in this country. I already have a magnificent indigestion, and pretty soon they’re going to bring in my great big cape.

MAMA TURD. What’s it made of, Papa Turd ? It’s all very well to be king, but we have to economize.

PAPA TURD. Madam my female, the cape is made of sheepskin with a clasp and frogs of dog-hide.

MAMA TURD. Why, that’s lovely. But it’s even lovelier to be king.

PAPA TURD. Yes, you were right all along, Mama Turd.

MAMA TURD. We owe a great deal to the Duke of Lithuania.

PAPA TURD. To who ?

MAMA TURD. Why, Captain Bordure.

PAPA TURD. Do me a favor, Mama Turd : don’t talk to me about that dummy. Now that I don’t need him any more, he can go scratch his ass. He’ll never get that duchy.

MAMA TURD. You’re making a great mistake, Papa Turd. He’ll turn against you.

PAPA TURD. Pooh ! Too bad about him. I don’t give any more of a damn for that little crumb than for Buggerlaus.

MAMA TURD. Hm, you think you’ve seen the last of Buggerlaus ?

PAPA TURD. Blood and money ! absolutely. What do you think he could do to me, that fourteen-year-old kid ?

MAMA TURD. Papa Turd, mind what I’m telling you. You must try to win over Buggerlaus by your generosity.

PAPA TURD. What ! More money to hand out ? Once and for all, no ! You already made me throw away more than twenty-two million.

MAMA TURD. It’s on your own head, Papa Turd. He’ll cook your goose.

PAPA TURD. Oh well, you’ll be in the pot with me.

MAMA TURD. Listen to me, one last time. I am positive young Buggerlaus will carry it off. After all, he thinks he has justice on his side.

PAPA TURD. Oh, crap ! Isn’t injustice just as good as justice ? You annoy me, Mama Turd. I’m going to cut you to bits !

[MAMA TURD runs away, pursued by TURD.

[PAPA TURD, alone. – Hornstrumpot ! I’ll start by grabbing all the phynance. Then I’ll kill everybody and leave. Here’s two that are dead already. Lucky there’s a trapdoor to throw them in. One ! Two ! The others will follow soon enough.]

SCENE II

The great hall of the palace.

PAPA TURD, MAMA TURD, OFFICERS and SOLDIERS ; GYRON, PILE, COCCYX; NOBLES in chains, FINANCIERS, MAGISTRATES, HERALDS. [In the cellar, THE DEBRAINING MACHINE.

SUBTERRANEAN NOISES. Kneading the glottises and larynges of the jaw without a palate,

How fast the printer prints!

The sequins tremble like the windmill’s vanes,

The leaves fall, in the teasing of the wind.

The jaw of the skull without brains chews up the stranger’s brain,

Sundays, on the hill, to the sound of fifes and drums,

Or on red-letter days, in the endless cellars of the palace.

Unfolding and explaining, the Debraining Machine,

How fast, how fast, the printer prints ! ]

PAPA TURD. Bring in the crate of Nobles and the hook for Nobles and the sword for Nobles and the box of Nobles ! And then – bring in the Nobles !

(The NOBLES are brutally shoved in.)

MAMA TURD. For heaven’s sake, Papa Turd, restrain yourself.

PAPA TURD. I have the honor to inform you that for the enrichment of the realm I’m going to have the Nobles executed and seize all their property.

NOBLES. Horrors ! Help, people and soldiers !

PAPA TURD. Bring in the first Noble, and pass me my Noble-hook. Those that are condemned to death I’ll put through the trapdoor and they’ll tumble into the sub-cellars of Pinchpork and Moneybag, where their brains will be removed by the printing-press. (To the NOBLE.) Who are you, stupid ?

FIRST NOBLE. Count of Vitebsk.

PAPA TURD. What’s your income ?

FIRST NOBLE. Three million bagels.

PAPA TURD. Condemned ! (He grabs the NOBLE with the hook and puts him down the hole.)

MAMA TURD. What vile ferocity !

PAPA TURD. Second Noble, who are you ? (The NOBLE says nothing.) You going to answer, stupid ?

SECOND NOBLE. G-G-G-Grand Duke of Posen.

PAPA TURD. Fine ! fine ! That’s all I want to know. In the trap ! — Third Noble, who are you ? And what an ugly mug you’ve got.

THIRD NOBLE. Duke of Cortland and of the cities of Riga, Ravel, and Mitau.

PAPA TURD. Splendid ! splendid ! You haven’t anything else ?

THIRD NOBLE. Nothing.

PAPA TURD. Then, in the trap ! — Fourth Noble, who are you ?

FOURTH NOBLE. Prince of Podolia.

PAPA TURD. What’s your income ?

FOURTH NOBLE. I’m bankrupt.

PAPA TURD. For that dirty word, you go in the trap. — Fifth Noble, who are you ?

FIFTH NOBLE. Margrave of Thorn, Palatine of Polackia.

PAPA TURD. That’s not much. Haven’t you anything else ?

FIFTH NOBLE. It’s enough for me.

PAPA TURD. Sure, better little than nothing. In the trap ! — What are you snivelling about, Mama Turd ?

MAMA TURD. You’re so bloodthirsty, Papa Turd.

PAPA TURD. Bah, I’m getting rich. I think I’ll have them read me MY list of MY properties. Herald, read me MY list of MY properties.

THE HERALD. Earldom of Sandomir . . .

PAPA TURD. Begin with the principalities, you stupid bugger !

THE HERALD. Principality of Podolia, Grand-Duchy of Posen, Duchy of Cortland, Earldom of Sandomir, Earldom of Vitebsk, Palatinate of Polackia, Margraviate of Thorn.

PAPA TURD. What else ?

THE HERALD. That’s all.

PAPA TURD. Whaddya mean, that’s all ? Oh, all right, let’s get on with the Nobles. Seeing that it’s taking so long to get rich, I’m going to have the whole bunch of them killed. That way I’ll get all their vacant holdings. All right, throw the rest of the Nobles in the trap. (The NOBLES are piled into the trap.) Come on, hurry up. Now I want to make laws.

SEVERAL. That, we’ll have to see.

PAPA TURD. First of all I’m going to reform justice, after which we’ll proceed to the finances.

SEVERAL MAGISTRATES. We are opposed to any change whatsoever.

PAPA TURD. Pshit ! From now on, the magistrates don’t get paid.

MAGISTRATES. And what will we live on ? We’re poor.

PAPA TURD. You can have the fines you levy, and the property of whoever you condemn to death.

FIRST MAGISTRATE. Horrors !

SECOND. Infamy!

THIRD. Scandal!

FOURTH. Shame !

ALL. We refuse to judge under those circumstances.

PAPA TURD. In the trap with the magistrates !

(They struggle in vain.)

MAMA TURD. Oh my ! What are you doing, Papa Turd ? Who’s to render justice now ?

PAPA TURD. Me ! You’ll see how well things’ll go.

MAMA TURD. Yes, that’ll be just dandy.

PAPA TURD. Aw, shut up, big-mouth ! — And now, gentlemen, we shall proceed to matters of finance.

FINANCIERS. There’s nothing to change.

PAPA TURD. Whaddya mean ? I want everything changed ! First of all, I’m keeping half the taxes.

FINANCIERS. That’s all ?

PAPA TURD. Gentlemen, we’ll put a ten percent tax on all property, another on commerce and industry, a third on marrying, a fourth [on not marrying, and a fifth] on dying — fifteen cents apiece.

FIRST FINANCIER. But that’s idiotic, Papa Turd.

SECOND FINANCIER. It’s absurd.

THIRD FINANCIER. It hasn’t got head or tail.

PAPA TURD. Aha ! you’re trying to screw me. In the trap with the financiers ! (They stuff the FINANCIERS in.)

MAMA TURD. But really, Papa Turd, what kind of a king are you ? You’re murdering everybody.

PAPA TURD. Ah, pshit !

MAMA TURD. No more justice, no more finance . . .

PAPA TURD. Fear nothing, my sweet child. I’ll go from village to village myself, and collect the taxes. — [Pshit ! In the trap ! Bring in whoever’s left of these eminent persons. (Procession of notables of the moment, and text ad lib.) You who so strangely resemble a well-known horseman in the park — in the trap ! And you, Mr. Chief of Police, with all due respect to you - in the trap ! In the trap with this English minister, and so as not to make anyone jealous, throw in a French minister too — it doesn’t matter who. And you, notable antisemite — in the trap ! And you, antisemitic Jew ; and you, reverend priest; and you, Mr. Apothecary ; and you, Mr. Censor ; and you, mister — in the trap ! Wait, here’s a song-writer, got in with the wrong key. We’ve had enough of him — in the trap ! Oh, oh ! he isn’t a song-writer, he’s a story-writer for the newspapers. What does it matter ? It’s the same old song. In the trap ! All right, everybody in the trap ! In the trap ! In the trap ! Hurry up - in the trap ! In the trap ! In the trap ! ]

[Ad lib. from the translation credited to “Jane Warren do Arnold Devree” (Judith Malina and Julian Beck) presented at the Cherry Lane Theatre, New York, August 1952, with Mungi Moskowitz as Ubu : ]

PAPA UBU. Oh, Shit ! Into the trap. And all the important personages, into the trap . . . You, who look like a famous critic for a highly respectable newspaper, into the trap. And you, Chief of Police, into the trap ; and you, cop on the beat, into the trap. Russian Delegate to the U.N., into the trap. And to prove that we’re not prejudiced, American Delegate to the U.N. into the trap. Anybody and everybody into the trap. Anti-Semites, into the trap. Semites, into the tra...

Table of contents

• Title Page
• DOVER THRIFT EDITIONS
• Copyright Page
• Table of Contents
• NOTE
• PREFACE
• COMPOSITION OF THE ORCHESTRA
• CHARACTERS
• Dedication
• ACT I
• ACT II
• ACT III
• ACT IV
• ACT V