CAST OF CHARACTERS1
[The Narrator]
SAUCY (Saupi[c]quet)
PRICKER-UPPER (Troussetaqueue)
FLORENCE, the NURSE (La Nourrice)
FATHER JOHAN (Domine Johannes)
PRODUCTION NOTES
The official title of this play (RBM, #50) is the Farce nouvelle des Chamberières qui vont à la messe de cinq heures pour avoir de l’eaue beniste, to wit, The Farce of the Chambermaids who Go to Mass at 5:00 A.M. to get their Holy Water. First published in Paris around 1550 by Nicolas Chrestien in an undated edition (SFQS, “Introd.”), it was reedited in ATF, 2: 435–47 (again, paginated but without verse numbers); and by Martin in SFQS at https://sottiesetfarces.wordpress.com/2016/01/13/les-chamberieres (accessed 10 February 2018). Bro Job is comprised of 248 verses in rhyming, fairly regular octosyllabic couplets (with an orphaned rhyme here and there). It was summarized by Petit de Julleville (RTC, 118), by Faivre (Répertoire, 92–93) and, in this case, briefly but insightfully by Sharon King in “Caught in the (One-)Act.”2 To my knowledge, there is no translation into English or into any other modern vernacular, which is a shame because there turns out to be a whole “Chambermaid Series.”
Our farce joins an extensive intertextual dialogue with so-called dialogic poems such as these from the Recueil de poésies françoises des XVe et XVIe siècles (also edited by the same Montaiglon of the ATF): the Apologie des Chamberières (RPF, 5: 270–77); the Replique d’une Chamberière (RPF, 5: 278–83); and the Banquet des Chamberières from 1541 (RPF, 5: 284–95). There were other farces too: a Farce des Chamberières in the Recueil Cohen (#51), along with a kind of prequel to our story in the RBM itself. Immediately preceding Bro Job is #49, the Débat de la Nourrisse et de la Chamberière (ATF, 2: 417–34), which features many of the same characters in the same setting: the Chambermaids doing laundry, a Nurse, and another Father Johan. But, most germane of all: Bro Job shares forty-four consecutive verses with the Caquet des Chamberières (The Chattering Chambermaids) (RPF, 5: 71–83), a “non-dramatic piece” that survives in at least three editions, all three apparently consulted by Montaiglon.3 There was a Parisian version for Jean de Lastré (Reims, 1577); an “inferior” undated Rouen version for Nicolas Lescuyer; and a third edition, also from Rouen but published for Costé.4 It is to the unpaginated Costé edition, easily accessible online, that I turn for an occasional lesson because it is there that we find, after a lengthy prologue, those forty-four lines of reported speech that repeat the dialogue of Bro Job.5 Nor was Montaiglon alone in his recuperative editorial efforts.
The “Silvestre” or “Crapelet” edition of Poésies des XVe et XVIe siècles, publiées d’après les éditions gothiques et des manuscrits, set typographically in Gothic letters, was published in Paris in a short print run of one hundred copies between 1830 and 1832. It too was deemed inferior by Montaiglon, who found it impossible to ascertain which base texts had served to establish the edition (RPF, 5: 71–72n); but it is well worth perusing. As the sixth of fifteen works, The Chattering Chambermaids is snuggled between two sermons joyeux and accompanied by an eleven-verse coda entitled “La maniere pour cognoistre de quel bois se chauffe l’Amour,” “How to Kindle the Fires of Love.”6 Was the Caquet some sort of aphrodisiac? And, if so, who was kindling whose fires of love and, per Matthew 3:12, with what kind of unquenchable fire? One cannot help but notice that hard at work on that Silvestre/Crapelet edition was an up-and-coming “jeune littérateur” (Poésies, 3) who would go on to become one of the most distinguished figures in French medieval theater history: the same Francisque Michel who later partnered with Antoine Le Roux de Lincy on the inaugural edition of the Recueil La Vallière.
So, which came first? The poem or the play? Was the poem a mise-en-écriture of the play? Was the play a dramatization of the poem? Was there a more cyclical, reciprocal borrowing at play? Was the Caquet a theatrical piece of poetry? A poetic piece of theater? Was Bro Job a stimulating private read?
An in-depth response lies beyond the scope of this study, but one thing is clear: we are in the presence of what Paul Zumthor famously called mouvance (Essai, 65–72)—and not just at the level of language. Recall, for instance, that reported speech like the Caquet’s exemplifies the same sort of didascalic commentary that inspired Hardison’s rediscovery of the liturgical origins of medieval drama (CRCD, Essay 3).7 The chambermaids’ chatter moved cross-generationally and cross-generically between performance and print, between poetry and Rabelaisian prose, and between fabliau and the satirical legal dialogues of a Guillaume Coquillart (SFQS, note 70; ROMD, 233–43). It’s almost as if Bro Job, the fiftieth of the sixty-four RBM pieces, were the final farce per se of that Recueil, which then moved toward the debate structures of the morality play. Even Montaiglon, who maintained a rigorous distinction between poetry and theater (RPF, 1: xn), nevertheless posited an entire comic continuum: farce and protopopulist poetry perpetuated and preserved the “truly national[istic] esprit of the fabliaux and storytellers, all serving to transmit it to the farceurs of the age of Henry IV and Louis XIII, through which it will reach Molière and La Fontaine” (RPF, 1: v–vi).
Simply or not so simply put, Bro Job is no stand-alone. It belongs to an intertextual whole that is greater than the sum of its parts—some of which parts I’ve faithfully interpolated into this composite edition, where, again, they are signaled by angle brackets (“ABT,” § “Critical Apparatus”). First, I’ve invited the Caquet’s judgmental male narrator to issue part of his 181-verse sexist diatribe (RPF, 5: 78–83) as a thoroughly detachable Prologue to our play, the better to connect dramaturgically what was already connected textually. Second, to build the character of the Nurse, I’ve cherry-picked one particularly illuminating line from RBM, #49, the Débat (below, note 17). And, third, to minimize confusion, I cite ATF by volume and page number alone, as usual, except when ambiguous; I cite the Caquet with its RPF page number and the Débat de la Nourrisse et de la Chamberière (RBM, #49) as DNC with the corresponding page number of ATF, vol. 2.
Plot
Where, oh where, is a chambermaid to go for the 5 A.M. Mass? With its maids’-eye view of late medieval domestic life, Bro Job is nothing if not site specific. Set in the very heart of Paris, the Farce nouvelle des Chamberières initiates a virtual walking tour of four very real churches: Saint Paul’s, Saint Stephen’s, Saint Benedict’s, and Saint Séverin’s (below, § “Sets and Staging”). Act 1 is situated down by the Seine, where two chambermaids are doing the wash and airing plenty of dirty laundry. Joined by the Nurse, they debate the relative advantages and disadvantages of the aforementioned houses of worship. Act 2 at Saint Séverin’s is then devoted to their mad rush to get at the aspergillum of one Father Johan. Suffice it to say that the desired symbolic, sprinkling cleanse from the phallic goupillon or vipillon casts aspersions on the Church. Watch out, girls, for he has risen; and what he’s spraying ain’t no holy water. Whence my subtitle: oh, come all ye faithful.
An offended Petit de Julleville scarcely minced words when confining his analysis to a single remark: “A grotesque parade on the order of what the bateleurs proposed to the vilest members of the populace” (RTC, 118). For his own part, Faivre was stunned that, in 1550, such a play could have been published at all, no less performed, without the playwright being burned at the stake (Répertoire, 93). As for the innocent Delepierre, the chambermaids were merely “complaining about not receiving as much holy water as they would like” (DLU, 117). In light of Figure 3, the RBM woodcut, methinks he did not get the full thrust.
Characters and Character Development
For Faivre, Bro Job theatricalizes a classic Rabelaisian contrepèterie or spoonerism: the maids are folles de la messe and molles de la fesse—that is, “crazy for Mass and soft in the ass” (Répertoire, 93). Indeed, their precious essence is captured by the piquant, hot-to-trot monikers of the two principals, Saupicquet and Troussetaqueue (here, “Saucy” and “Pricker-Upper”). They are tendre du cul (as in Bitches and Pussycats [HD, #8]), their bottoms perpetually open for business. And, by the way, their Mistresses are getting plenty of action too from a steady stream of monks, soldiers, and a “protonotary,” that last one a legal official in the feudal, royal, or pontifical courts.8
Saupicquet’s vibe is alimentary, as in “spicy” or “saucy” (RF, 9: 272n), and it’s only fitting: frustrated by the meager provisions at home, she’s hungry (2: 440).9 Saucy is a tasty little dish, a sneaky, eavesdropping voyeur, a dirty trickster with a great sense of humor (2: 437), and a hell of an impersonator to boot. She does a terrific job mimicking her employers’ repartee to great comedic effect and in ways that echo the reported speech of the Caquet. Given the legalese coming out of her mouth, her Master might be in the legal business. Either that or it’s the Basochial voice breaking through, especially if she’s played by a man.
Figure 3. Frontispiece, La Farce des Chamberières qui vont à la messe de cinq heures. RBM, #50.
The second chambermaid, Troussetaqueue, is the quicker “Pricker-Upper”; and the imperative of her name—trousse ta queue—signifies “prick up—or stick up—your dick” or “pick up your balls, gurl!” (In the Recueil Cohen, there’s a whole Farce des Queues Troussées [#6]: the Farce of the Pricked-Up Dicks?) And this pricker-upper is all in: peckish for anything performant. Like Saucy, she eavesdrops and spies on the goings-on of a household that seems a bit wealthier than her friend’s. She’s quite the foul-mouthed little actress too: a drama queen hysterically solo-performing her employer’s “separate bedrooms” routine. But, since her Mistress’s refusals send the Master Pricker-Upper’s way for sexual satisfaction, she could also morph into a tragic figure subject to persistent sexual assault (as in the legal cases detailed in my “Theater Makes History”).
Next up is the odd woman out, the Nurse, also featured in the Caquet and the DNC and, here, “Florence,” as in “Florence Nightingale.” The other women resent her—a point amplified in the Caquet (RPF, 5: 83), which might have something to do with her slightly higher social status. (Nanny West of Downton Abbey?) Doing the washing is beneath her dignity: she’d never stoop so low. Not for laundry anyway. But, notwithstanding her better grammar, lexicon, and legalese, Flo is a mere wet nurse who might be toting a child around on her teat. Excessive in all her appetites—food, drink, gluttony, and the alcoholism associated with her type (SFQS, note 19)—she always wants something in her mouth. In fact, she’s already guzzling her shot of red before 5:00 A.M. It’s a cure for nausea, she says, or, as barbs about unbloodied sheets in the DNC imply, perhaps it’s morning sickness? Although she has less dialogue than Saucy or Pricker-Upper, Florence is a fulsome, tipsy presence. There’s plenty to eat at her place; so, try casting a woman of size.
At long last—it’s like waiting forever for Tartuffe to appear—we meet our friendly neighborhood priest about three-quarters of the way in. He is Domine Johannes (pronounced “Johanné,” as the versification makes clear), and I’ve gone with “Father” rather than “Lord” Johan. Obsessed with his aspergillum, he is hot on the trail for penitents, to whom he makes multiple assurances about the stick-to-itiveness of his equipment. It’s a false claim: one of many. Martin even goes so far as to speculate that Johan is a caricature of the Cardinal Guillaume d’Estouteville, rumored to have fathered at least five children and, himself, a canon of Saint Séverin’s (SFQS, note 57). In the DNC, his other talents include spying, eavesdropping, and impersonating a police officer.
Finally, as a counterbalance to, or a bona fide replacement for, the sexist narrator, consider incorporating the words of the Caquet’s Perrette. That’s right: another Perrette, as in #6, Brother Fillerup, which would make for a nice double bill. It would also explain why our previous Perrette was so sick and tired—povre garce!—at the same time that it extends farce’s intertextual conversation to the Recueil La Vallière (RLV, #63). Blurry though the boundaries between comedy and tragedy often were (as I argued in “Miscarriages”), her grim account of why she was forced to leave her previous employ might well transform our play into a full-blown tragedy:
I left because … let’s just say somebody was paranoid—and jealous—even though there was no cause to be.… [The Master] wasn’t wooing me or anything like that.… Most of the time, he’d just grab me when there was no one else around, but that was about it.… When push comes to shove, I’m nothing. I barely make a living wage, speaking of which: for better or for worse, I got a proposition from this bachelor I know who wants me in service. But he wouldn’t be sticking me with one of those frosty-bitch mistresses. At least I’ll get minimum wage and maybe a hundred or so extra in tips. Not exactly pocket change, right? And he’s promising other benefits too. But, in the end—if I could just finish my story here—I still wouldn’t be getting enough rest. (RPF, 5: 81)
The wretched lives of chambermaids were no joke.
Language
Guess what? At the nadir of filth and obscenity, there is no cursing and no taking the name of the Lord in vain. That said, there is no dearth of faith-based exclamations either: a full dozen or so variations of ma foy, par ma foy, par ta foy. And there’s plenty of sexuality implicit in Bro Job’s primary metaphorical registers: militaristic, animalistic (equestrian), legalistic (Basochial), and “laundristic” (cleanses, loads, spigots, etc.). It all makes for a highly irregular spin (cycle) on the Asperges me, a Latin antiphon for all seasons except Easter. Based on Psalm 51:50, it goes like this: Asperges me, Domine, hyssopo et mundabor. Lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor. Miserere mei, Deus, secundum magnam misericordiam tuam (“Thou wilt sprinkle me, O Lord, with hyssop and I shall be cleansed. Thou wilt wash me, and I shall be washed whiter than snow. Pity me, O God, according to Thy great mercy”). In addition to its homeopathic properties, the bitter, minty hyssop was also an aphrodisiac (SFQS, note 60). Could that be why the Crapelet edition tacked on that extra poem about “kindling the fires of love”? In any event, the women shout repeatedly “Sprinkle me! Spray me!” And let’s not forget the all-important “font” of holy water, the benoistier that could refer to both the vagina and the testicles (SFQS, notes 69 and 70). Technically, and serendipitously, it is termed the stoup: looks like shtup.
A last intertextual tidbit warrants our attention: a meta-moment from the DNC that is so charming that I’ve worked it in. When that play’s Father Johan pokes fun at the chambermaids’ battle, he quips that “somebody ought to be putting this stuff on paper” (Et fusse pour mettre en parchemin [2: 424]). “Writing stuff down” was the protonotary’s job and the playwright’s too: it’s called a script.
Sets and Staging
The time: probably a weekday since, eventually, the women are urged to come back on Sunday (2: 446). The place? Location, location, location. Paris, Paris, Paris. Bro Job requires two principal sets. For Act 1, both the Caquet (RPF, 5: 78, 83) and the DNC (ATF, 2: 418) specify “at the river,” where rocks or rudimentary benches offer seating. In Act 2, we move to lady’s choice, Saint Séverin’s, for the climax and the winner of their debate about four—count ’em—four real churches, the other three of which might be depicted in the background: Saint Paul’s, Saint Stephen’s and Saint Benedict’s. Today, you can still visit Saint Séverin’s and Saint Stephen’s on the rive gauche, as well as Saint Paul’s on the rive droite. Not so for Saint Benedict’s, which was destroyed in 1831, a casualty of the Haussmannization of Paris (SFQS, note 49). Nicknamed the “Wrong-Way Church of Saint Benedict” (L’Église Saint-Benoît-le-Bétourné), it used to be in the rue Saint-Jacques, a stone’s throw away from the Sorbonne. Meanwhile, Saint Stephen’s, which the Nurse describes as “up the hill” (2: 441), is almost certainly a reference to Saint Etienne du Mont at 30, rue Descartes in the Fifth Arrondissement, not far from the Pantheon and the Bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève. But seriously, folks: as if fat Florence would climb all the way up there? or, for that matter, over to Saint Paul des Champs in the Marais, which is so far that Martin thinks it’s an error (2: 441; SFQS, note 45). Take my word for it. I walked the topography myself, and that’s without schlepping cumbersome laundry baskets. Indeed, the physical comedy might be enhanced by having the chambermaids do just that.
Other local color is provided by the watering hole known as the Mortier d’Or (2: 442), not exactly the “golden font” for holy water but “The Golden Bowel” (or as “gold” + ord as dirty). For Martin, it’s a gay bar (SFQS, notes 52 and 53); but one thing is clear: it’s got a revolving back door. Speaking of which, the crucial question is: how in the name of all that’s holy to stage the phallic ballet of the spritzing aspergillum?
Of an “erotic metaphor in action,” Faivre opines that, “of all the farces that mime the sex act on stage, this one is doubtless the most explicit and the most daring: while sleazy clergymen abound, it is scarcely the norm that they would satisfy their needs and those of their flock in the middle of the church” (Répertoire, 92–93). What with farce’s propensity for symbolic literalism and literal symbolism (HD, 11–12), a fetishized, milk-shooting aspergillum would desacralize all that it touches. As Martin concludes, with a shout-out to Lluis Borrassa’s Flagellation, “religious symbolism works the same mechanism as carnal symbolism: there is no difference between a saint in an ecstasy and a lover in orgasm” (https://sottiesetfarces.files.wordpress.com/2017/12/lluis-borrassa1–e1600943894948.png). To which Bro Job enthusiastically responds: Vive la différence!
Costumes and Props
For the laundry scene: soap, washtubs, baskets, buckets, washboards, a rudimentary iron, piles of clothes, and so forth; and, for Florence, such alimentary necessities as bread, wine, and a bottle of Chivas Regal (for a pun with charivari [2: 442]). Per Montaiglon, she might carry a small flask, ostensibly for holy water (RPF, 4: 135; ATF, 2: 75). Not. Pricker-Upper’s basket is overflowing with clothes of all shapes and sizes, including many belonging to infants and small children. These are visibly reddish, yellowish, brownish, as they were in the revolting itemization of Shit for Brains (FF, 271–74).
Inside Saint Séverin’s, the audience must see each prop mentioned in the script: candles, collection receptacles, the golden bowl for holy water, and baskets often held by farmers in phallic position for “winnowing” or separating the wheat from the chaff. But the pièce de résistance, evocative of the portable hand-cannon (2: 441–42; my note 25) is the magnificent, bejeweled aspergillum. Obviously, it must be long and pointy.
Scholarly References to Copyrighted Materials (in order of appearance and indicated by© within the text)
· “Rock Around the Clock.” By Max Freedman and James Myers. ASCAP Work ID: 480039358.
· “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’.” By Lee Hazlewood. ASCAP Work ID: 500170925.
· “Bad Moon on the Rise.” By John Cameron Fogerty. BMI Work #79979.
· “Baby Got Back.” By Anthony L. Ray. BMI Work #72106.
· “Burning Love.” By Dennis Linde. BMI Work #160887.
· “Love, Reign o’er Me.” By Pete Townshend. BMI Work #924510.
· “Hit Me with Your Best Shot.” By Edward Sydney Schwartz. ASCAP Work ID: 380218380.
· “Shambala.” By Daniel Moore. BMI Work #1319243.
· “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” Traditional.
· “Don’t Leave Me This Way.” By Kenneth Gamble, Cary Grant Gilbert, and Leon Huff. BMI Work #323300.
· “Go Your Own Way.” By Lindsey Buckingham.10
[Prologue]
[Possible opening mime depicting the home lives of Saucy and Pricker-Upper]
〈The NARRATOR
Ladies and chambermaids, forgive me, please,
should I choose to reveal your secret ways.
If you’re good, no offense: apologies.
Ladies and chambermaids, forgive me, please.
Only the guilty need fear wrath from me,
strutting their asses everywhere these days.
Ladies and chambermaids, forgive me, please,
should I choose to reveal your secret ways.11
Some are good people. That is my position:
It’s neither libel nor misogyny.
I’d die before defaming—that’s un-Christian—
when some are good ones: that is my position.
So sad! We love our neighbors. It’s tradition:
Do unto others, small though they may be.
Some are good people. That’s still my position:
It’s neither libel nor misogyny!
I speak to so-called “ladies”—chambermaids—
at market having fun and getting laid,
hawking your fishy wares, pimping your asses,
selling your souls, no knowledge of what class is:
I’m talking to you, vicious sluts, and I assure you: you’re where honor goes to die each and every time you open those vile, stinking traps. That’s right, I’m talking to you! Not that I was ever on the receiving end of your twattle. No, no, not I! But a friend of a friend was. You do unto them all, from stable boy to master, till you’ve trolled them to death, piling it on till you bring down the house.
You’re called “chambermaids,” as in maids. You’re women! And you’ve got that act of yours down pat. The way you live it up, we might as well be calling you the ladies of the house. You’re better off than they are! So, hear ye! Hear ye why and how:
As any nobleman knows, it’s hard to find good help these days. Ladies and gentlemen, you know exactly what I mean: what you need is a nondisclosure agreement. And a fixer. And, if you don’t have a good man in your employ, then you’d best get on that right away. Find him and keep him, folks—where there’s a will, there’s a way—or you’ll spend your whole life on the hunt. But, no! You use one of those wrinkled old bats instead. I call it as I see it, and what you call them is pimps! Madams, Mesdames! It’s outrageous, and I’ll have you know—forgive me for not mincing words—that, while you’re out, your lovely dwelling place is a fuckin’ whorehouse!
… In the name of the one true God, oh, the sin! Oh, the iniquity, the fornication, the incest! I do believe that’s precisely what the lot of them are up to, “maid” for each other every single night, and that’s the truth. Have you no fear of [God’s] justice? His judgment cometh, and that right soon, when you, gentlemen, are providing the venue for this despicable spectacle, when you are liable for all the criminal acts committed therein. So, wake up! You must cease and desist immediately!
[He proceeds with virtuoso imitations of the different voices.]
“Quick! It’s the Mistress! You gotta get out of here, babe! Quick! Out the back or Madame’s gonna get real mad. Outta here, I said! Out the back door, babe!”
“God give you good day, Ma’am.”
“You, chambermaid! So? Did you keep an eye on the house?”
Good heavens, Madam! You’re not even looking! She’s been knocking back so many stiff ones that she’s knocked up!12
So, Perrette answers and tells the Mistress that she’s sick. She’s weak and dizzy all over and she needs some fresh air. She’s got a real bad tummy ache—you know she does—and you also know why! [Don’t tell me you didn’t catch our performance of Brother Fillerup!] She’s been complaining nonstop for a whole week when—people!—all she needs is a good poke. What she’s not saying is that that boyfriend of hers is already waiting in the wings outside of town: in the fields, cue stick in hand, and all ready to rack her.
And, now, off she goes, into the fields for a little recreation, and she “won’t feel so sick no more.” But, for that, she needs to speak to Madame and do a whole number on her. Crying and flailing: it’s a real production. She can’t very well say that this is the money shot, that she’s gone far too long without, and that that dry spell must come to an end. And she’s also not saying that the boyfriend stands ready to whip out a great big picnic—herring, salad, bread, beer—and warm up the fowl because that fagot’s all ready!
We’re all so sorry! Poor little Perrette! She’s not feeling well. She’s got a fever. People! Do I really have to spell it out for you? If she’s hot, it’s “hot to trot”! And, if she’s sick, well, she’s not the only one “sick and tired” from one solid week of nonstop rockin’ around the clock!© [There’s no end to what she’s been up to and into.] Eating, drinking, and carousing. Singing, dancing, badmouthing, and tongue-lashing!
As for the rest, I’ll leave it at that. I prefer to take this up in writing some other time. Not, however, before I provide you with a full account of everything they’ve been saying when they’re all together down by the river.〉
[Exit the Narrator, booed off the stage, as his tale comes to life.]
[Act 1]
[Scene 1]
[Paris: close to daybreak. Dimly visible on the banks of the Seine is Pricker-Upper, surrounded by piles of laundry as Zydeco music plays incongruously in the background. She testily works the washboard.]
Enter SAUCY
Quicker, Pricker-Upper! Get a move on, girl, or we’ll miss the five-A.M. holy water! Hurry up! We gotta go!
PRICKER-UPPER
Holy shit, Saucy! Can’t you see I’m all wet here? And your timing sucks.
SAUCY
How do you figure?
PRICKER-UPPER
Girl. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. That Bible-thumpin’ bitch I work for was in one of her moods again. 〈Miss Tartuffie, she goes apeshit again.〉 She don’t feel like turnin’ in with Monsieur. Gives him the cold shoulder—outta spite, you know?—just to make trouble. 〈Separate bedrooms and such: she don’t wanna touch him with a ten-foot pole! Now, a one-foot pole, that’s a whole ’nother can o’ worms〉 ’cause, lemme tell you: in the name of my own blessed Saint Muffie, 〈Madame likes that just fine—and the sooner the better. Just her kinda monk-ey business.〉
SAUCY
She gives him the business, all right. Girl got game—I swear!—especially when she’s all by herself.
PRICKER-UPPER
So, she’s all: “I made a promise to Saint Whatserface”—our Lady of Keep-Your-Hands-to-Yourself—that she’s gotta give them lady parts a break every now and then, at least on weekends: like it was her time o’ the month or somethin’, and that she ain’t doin’ it. Not with her husband, anyway.
SAUCY
Sounds like he just wanted to warm the old cockles.
PRICKER-UPPER
Sounds like she wanted to warm ’em, I swear! [Sounds like even God Himself gave it a rest on Sundays!] That bitch was horny. [And them boots ain’t made for talkin’!©] Besides, it ain’t like you need a shoehorn to squeeze yourself in there.13
SAUCY
You won’t catch my mistress makin’ no cockamamie vows like that. She’s a brave little foot soldier, she is: 〈always rushing the vanguard for the first thrusts.〉 [Rear guard too.] And is she ever stocked. She could garrison a whole damn battalion! There’s always room for one more. Make that two more. 〈The Master don’t pay it no mind but I’m thinkin’ he must be on to her.〉14
PRICKER-UPPER
Speakin’ of stockin’ up: my boss has got plenty o’ meat to bring to the table. So, he goes:
“Aren’t you coming to bed? Got your spot all warm for you right here.”
And the Mistress, she goes: “Nuh-uh. I promised God and all.”
And the Master’s like: “Well, vittle-dee-dee! I’ll just go sleep with the chambermaid, Pricker-right-Upper.”15
SAUCY
And I do believe you would’ve been proud as all get-out if he would’ve gotten hard as a rock right then and there, I swear! Come on, admit it: you would’ve wanted it, right?16
PRICKER-UPPER
And why not? If the Master woulda come at me with a tender touch, I woulda been down with that: make me the “stimulady” of the house. [Welcome to my garrison, boys! Time to shelter in place.]
SAUCY
Easy come, easy go. Quick and dirty. On the fly. It’s all backroom deals over there anyway.
Sometimes ⟨at night⟩, I listen in too when Monsieur and Madame are in bed.
And the Mistress, she goes: “Come closer, dear. And don’t you forget I’ll be wantin’ some chow first thing tomorrow morning.”
And the Master’s always, like: “I’m runnin’ a little short this month, dear. Maybe next cycle. There’s a bad moon on the rise.”©
PRICKER-UPPER
[There’s somethin’ on the rise, all right, and it ain’t the moon!] Same old, same old. And what does little Miss Saucy do when she hears that kinda talk?
SAUCY
Girl. I can barely keep a straight face! If anybody needs to strap on the feedbag, it’s me! I’ve gotta bite the hell outta my tongue so I don’t burst out laughing, I do solemnly swear! ⟨And then, there’s that whole tricky business I had to come up with to sneak the protonotary in.
[PRICKER-UPPER
Proto- what?
SAUCY
Protonotary. They write shit down for the Pope.] Anyway, he ain’t no fiddler but he sure can fiddle around. Comes right on in, mounts that pony, and—no boots, no spurs, no nothing—he rides her ragged! Swing your partner, do-si-do!
[Florence begins her approach at some distance, initially unseen by the women.]
PRICKER-UPPER
Say, isn’t there a nurse over at your place looking after the little one? I can’t stand that woman. Such a dirty suck-up. Now, there’s somebody they oughta make a farce about!
SAUCY
I’ll have you know: you’d never catch me in service in a house with no baby. Wet-nursing sucks. It’s total bullshit. Makes me sick to my stomach.
PRICKER-UPPER
You’re sick to your stomach? Try waitin’ on some shitty nurse hand and foot and haulin’ the bitch’s laundry down to the river! Now that sucks. And she’s the one gets jealous of other folks. It ain’t right.
But enough with the dirty laundry already. My load’s finally done. Wanna get outta here?
Shit! Speak o’ the devil: here comes that damn nurse right now—drunk as a skunk every morning as usual so she can pump the milk outta them tits. And she ain’t gonna be shuttin’ up till she gets her hands on some sausage, hot dogs, and buns! It’s the only thing that works. If you ask me, our best bet is to just make nice. Nobody takes her on. That’s how it goes at our place anyway. It’s a losing battle.〉17
[Scene 2]
[Florence saunters over to Pricker-Upper, a bottle of scotch in one hand and an enormous picnic basket in the other. She inspects the laundry and makes herself comfortable. Throughout the scene, she drinks heavily and gorges herself on all the food until there is almost nothing left. A hungry and thirsty Saucy will partake whenever Florence isn’t looking.]
FLORENCE
I’m here. There’s still plenty of time to head out for five-A.M. Mass. [She makes the sign of the cross and takes a swig of her wine.]
PRICKER-UPPER
Well, if it isn’t Florence Nightingale! A bit early in the day for that, no? I swear! Gimme a break.
FLORENCE
You swear? It’s called breakfast and I’m starving! Give me a break. I get so sick to my stomach in the mornings that, if I don’t get maybe a half a glass of wine in me, I’m no good the whole day.
PRICKER-UPPER
You’re pale as a sheet. Lemme guess: Nauseous in the morning?
SAUCY
Always stinks o’ menfolk, that one: from carrying that boy around all day, I do believe. “Carrying a boy.” Get it? You do the math.18
FLORENCE
It’s been ages since anybody slipped me a little something under the table.
[To the audience] And a long time between performances.19
SAUCY
Uh huh. You been taking in quite the load, girl, and I don’t mean laundry. No more bloody sheets. Ahem. [All hustle, no Flo.]20
PRICKER-UPPER
Twist that faucet and tap that. She likes it all frothy and white. You know what they say: “Don’t sheet where you live.”21
FLORENCE
[To the audience] I’ll think of a snappy comeback in a second, I swear. [She takes another swig.]
PRICKER-UPPER
Don’t tell me: another tummy ache? Something stickin’ in your craw? The truth is hard to swallow, ain’t it?
FLORENCE
When it hits me like this, I can’t keep anything down. Not even liquids.22
SAUCY
Uh huh. You’re a real saint. Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. Or up your ass.
[To the audience] Next thing you know, she’ll be savin’ our fair city by stickin’ her finger in the dyke.]23
PRICKER-UPPER
[Nah! Give that girl a battering ram. Butter that butt and call her a biscuit. Hello! Last tango in Paris?] She don’t care where she sticks it. Long as everything’s on the up and up. [And way the hell on the down-low.]
SAUCY
Shoot, girl! No army’s ever gonna snatch victory down there from the jaws of defeat! “Snatch,” get it?
FLORENCE
Over at our place, we got this protonotary comes by the house all the time.
[PRICKER-UPPER, {still confused}
Proto- what?
SAUCY
Protonotary. I already told you. They write shit down for the Pope.]
FLORENCE
No, listen! Is he ever on the case! Makes house calls and everything. And I can assure you that, when he stands up, she really takes notice. [Silence]
I say: he’s fucking the Mistress. It’s quite the system they’ve got worked out too, you know? You’ve gotta give it up for that. Me too.24
PRICKER-UPPER
Don’t tell me: he’s got her doin’ the old do-si-do. On her back. Oh, yeah!
FLORENCE
Oh yeah, oh yeah, you know it, sister! Baby got back,© I swear, and, by that, I mean—allow me to demonstrate—it’s the sign of a Master who’ll buy anything.
SAUCY
Ladies and chambermaids! You name it, he’ll buy it. And he’ll fuck it too. Court’s always in session over there. In chambers. It’s a regular seat o’ judgment. [She grabs one of Florence’s bottles.] Bottoms up!
PRICKER-UPPER
And right in the back door. [Talk about your county seat!] Better watch that ass before it gets taken to court!
SAUCY
You’re lucky, Nursey. At least you’ve got plenty of bread and wine at your place. All you can eat. And communin’ a-go-go. [And gettin’ sauced. Get it?]
FLORENCE
And don’t forget the nightcaps. I swear, when that protonotary comes by, nothing’s too mmm, mmm, good.
PRICKER-UPPER
Mmm, mmm, goodness got nothin’ to do with it, I swear! It just so happens we’re practically dripping in the filthy lucre over at my place. Holy shit! But the Mistress is such a tightwad, she only lets me fill half a carafe for the whole damn day. For the both of ’em! Her and the master! And get this—sshhh!—she makes me dilute it, even though Monsieur ain’t exactly partial to watered-down wine at dinner.
SAUCY
[You must be emptying the damn chamber pots all night!]
[There is a great cacophony of bells, seemingly from every church in Paris.]
If we hang around here much longer, we might miss out on the holy water.
PRICKER-UPPER
Nah, they ain’t said Mass yet. The bells are still ringin’ all over the place.
FLORENCE
Where should we go?
PRICKER-UPPER
I say we go for it and hit Saint Paul’s.
SAUCY
Saint Paul’s? Surely not. They say that, when the vicar’s finished up with his chambermaid, he sticks it to her so bad, he can barely get the family jewels back.
FLORENCE
We could always head up to Saint Stephen’s. There’s bound to be a monk up there who’ll do a morning Mass.
SAUCY
She does have a point. The way I see it, when a monk gives you a sprinkle with that aspergillum of his, it’s like, every drop he ekes out has been blessed twice, for sure.
FLORENCE
Amen to that! Or there’s always Saint Benedict’s. I go there sometimes.
SAUCY
[O’ they doth make the torches to burn bright!] They don’t mess around out there, and that’s no joke. This year, I hear they’re firing off those hand-cannons so hard and fast, they fertilized a whole field of Carmelite nuns! [And that’s nothing to shake a firestick at!] Speed that plow! From fallow to fruitful-and-multiply! Burn that chaff with unquenchable fire! Winnow away! Fire away! [You know what they say: Nothing comes between a monk and his aspergillum! Get it?]25
PRICKER-UPPER
[Don’t wanna cast no aspersions or nothin’ but] me, I don’t much care for their holy water. I hear they been shootin’ off a pretty dirty wad these days over at the Golden Bowl. Golden Bowel, more like. Watch out, boys, here they come!
FLORENCE
I beg your pardon?
[PRICKER-UPPER]
Cock au vin, anyone? I say: I hear they been pullin’ some real shit with the Jesus Juice. It’s leftovers from some monk’s enema bag!26
SAUCY
They’ll drip no wine before it’s time. And, hey: at least they’ve got themselves a hobby.
PRICKER-UPPER
Oh, come on, we’re in the middle of Paris. We can prick and choose.
FLORENCE
That’s enough of a production already. What do you think this is? A pilgrimage to Rome? [{She ekes out the last drop of her bottle of scotch.} Shivaree-ree-Regal!]
PRICKER-UPPER
Speakin’ of which … Have you seen the Roman candle on Father Johan up at Saint Séverin’s? [Talk about your hunk o’ hunk o’ burnin’ love© o’ God!]
Let’s tap that. When he says Mass, he does the chambermaids regal.
SAUCY
Jeez! I do believe not even his daddy tended to the flock like that.
FLORENCE
So, let’s quit standing around!
PRICKER-UPPER
You’re in quite the hurry there, Nursey.
SAUCY
She’s outta bread, outta dough, and she’s really in need—“in knead,” get it? [It’s all sifting and fucking.]
[The three women hasten to Saint Séverin’s.]
[Act 2]
FATHER JOHAN, [summoning the faithful]
Asperges me, Domine, Ysopo et lavabis me. Miserere mei Deus.
Who wants some? [Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean. Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. O Lord, I’ll be awash in the white stuff! What do you say, folks? Just say the word and it’s yours!]
[Come out, come out, wherever you are!] Come one, come all, come hither! O magnum mysterium! Et admirabile! Where the hell is everybody?
PRICKER-UPPER
Ready or not, [Daddy,] here we come. Just in time for first dibs on the holy water.
FLORENCE
I want me some, and before there’s a whole crowd.
SAUCY
Lord Johan, [reign o’er me! Rain on me!©] Rain that holy water all over me! Hit me with your best shot, Father, fire away!©
FATHER JOHAN
Bad girls. You ladies are sinners!
PRICKER-UPPER
You can lavabis the hell outta me too.
FLORENCE
Jeez, Father Johan! [Mother Mary!] Don’t tell me there’s nothing left for Nursey.
FATHER JOHAN
[To Florence] You, keep your pants on. I’ll do you in a minute.
[He sprinkles Pricker-Upper.] [May the Lord raise you up.] Asperges.
SAUCY
Do me! Do me! [There’s definitely something about Mary.]
FATHER JOHAN
Just hold on. There’s plenty for everybody, but I can’t do you all at once. Asperges. Why, I do believe … it’s almost like you’re thinking I’m gonna run outta juice. Never happens.
SAUCY
One more time, Father Johan! Wash away my troubles!© Asperges me like crazy. And lavabis me too while you’re at it.
PRICKER-UPPER
Harder, harder! You’re comin’ up short. Your aspergillum ain’t nearly long enough.
FATHER JOHAN
So, come a little closer. Cum hither. This thing can only reach so far.
SAUCY
You better not let us down, I swear!—or I’ll be takin’ matters into my own hands.
PRICKER-UPPER, [shoving Saucy out of the way]
[A hand job, is it?] She’s goin’ nuts! Wants it all to herself! In the name of Saint Johnson, I’ll get my fair share!
SAUCY
At least take it easy on Daddy Johnson’s spritzer. Don’t manhandle that thing! If you were to bust the equipment, it would be a crying shame!
FLORENCE
Where’s my share? For the love of God, Father—Mister Johnson of Saint Séverin’s—you better give me somethin’ right now or—push comes to shove—I’ll grab you by that stiff, white collar o’ yours and wring your bony neck!
PRICKER-UPPER
Outta my way! You’re gonna bust his sprinkler! Lemme in!
SAUCY
Once he fills her vessel, that thing’s not comin’ out. She’d rather die. It’ll be in there till it rots. That one loves a good stoup.
FATHER JOHAN
Ladies! I can’t possibly keep this up for all three of you, I swear! My stoup’s running dry.
FLORENCE, [squatting unsteadily]
Naturally, a good nurse is prepared to stoup as low as it takes to squeeze out what little she can and make do.
FATHER JOHAN
[To all three women] So, shut up. I’ve got much better in store for you.
PRICKER-UPPER
Come again?
FATHER JOHAN
You’re all gonna run along now and come back on Sunday, and I’ll take care of all three of you. A private sprinkle. To each her own aspergillum. But—cum hither—it’ll be our little secret. On the QT. Very, very hush-hush.
PRICKER-UPPER
Long as I get me a great big spurt.
FATHER JOHAN
From my head to your tail. O magnify the Lord with me! [And no sloppy seconds.]
SAUCY
[O tidings of comfort and joy juice!©] Very well, Father Johan. That’ll do for just this feast day. It’s the nature of the beast-day.
FLORENCE
The beast-day with two backs! Long as we make it a nice, big, fat one.
FATHER JOHAN
[Enough to shake a stick at.] You’ll be takin’ it in, hand over fist.
SAUCY
[Like a fistful o’ collars,] I swear! [Indicating Florence] But it would have to be a big fat one to be up for a second act with her!
FLORENCE
[Kneeling] Come fortify me!© You can’t beat fresh meat for promoting milky-white lactation.
PRICKER-UPPER
And that one’s always toasted. Whatever it takes. She just turns the other cheek.
FLORENCE
Teats don’t fail me now! I’m on my knees here.
FATHER JOHAN
No worries, believe me. But, for now, it’s every girl for herself. Off you go.
[Florence is still hanging on to Father Johan.]
SAUCY
Wanna lay off the beefcake already, Nursey? [Like a dog with a boner.]
FLORENCE
But you better come through, for—yay!—one day our lord shall come. [She rises.]
FATHER JOHAN
[To the chambermaids and the audience] Run along home, now, and go play hide the sausage! Roast those weenies: they plump when you cook ’em! Off you go, I said!
As for me, I’ve got business elsewhere! [{With an inclusive spin of the aspergillum} Round and round and round she goes, where she stoups, nobody knows!] You never know where I’ll pop up, so, beat it!
[Doubled version begins here.]
Just put your lips together, folks, and blow.
God bless you! Hope you all enjoyed the show.27
[At the end of the doubled version, financial contributions might be solicited to the tune of a closing number.]28
The END