THE TUMULT OF BOLOGNA
A dramatic
monologue by Dario Fo
translated by Ed
Emery
_________________________________________
For all
queries regarding performance rights, please contact
Agenzia
Tolnay : info [@] tolnayagency.it
For all
queries regarding the text, please contact the translator at:
ed.emery
[@]thefreeuniversity.net
Original
text copyright © Dario Fo
Translation
copyright © Ed Emery
_________________________________________
Introduction
Antonio
Gramsci used to say about history that "If you don’t know where you come
from, it’s going to be hard for you to know where you can go." Even though
they keep promising us that our future is going to be wonderful, the truth is
that we live in times that are full of confusion, violence and massacres in
every part of the planet. Those is power speak of "humanitarian
wars"; even the Pope assures us that there is such a thing as "just
wars". The divide between rich people and those forced into a life of
hunger and poverty is growing all the time. However, if we go and dig around in
the history of humanity, we find that countless times the weak and the
oppressed have succeeded in reversing that situation with ingenuity* and
incredible strokes of genius, thereby regaining for themselves dignity and the
right to live as free people.
That
is precisely what happens in the fabulazzo that we are about to perform
for you, in the hopes that you will find it useful as a lesson. The story is
based on an extraordinary event that really did happen. In Bologna in the
fourteenth century. In fact, to be precise, in 1334. That is the date we are
given in the chronicles of the anonymous author of the "History of Cola di
Rienzo", the history of the famous tribune of the Roman Republic [in the
time of Dante]. The anonymous Roman writer tells us not only of things that
were happening in Rome during that century, but also of struggles, upheavals
and wars that were exploding all over Northern Italy, especially in regions
that were subject to the Pope’s papal rule, such as Romagna (where Bologna is
located).
Bologna
was the administrative and military centre for control of the papal lands in
the North. In that period, the Pope did not have his base in Rome… but,
together with his entire Court, had transferred to Avignon (in France). In
Bologna he had a delegate… or "Legate", in the form of a cardinal
archbishop, who was appointed with full powers.
In
those years, the papal "Legate" decided to declare war on Ferrara.
The backbone of his army consisted of Provençal troops, supported by Bretons
under the command of a famous French general, the Count d’Armeniac. D’Armeniac
also had a sizeable quantity of cavalry with him, made up of his fellow
countrymen, and he could count on between 10,000 and 15,000 troops from the
Romagna region, who could be engaged if occasion demanded.
Ferrara
was ne of the outposts of the Venetian Republic. It was positioned on vital –
not to mention profitable – trade and travel routes. Among the the most
important of these was its total control of communications throughout the
estuary of the River Po.
However,
from the point of view of the papal legate, this war on Ferrara also served as
a diversion. In other words, it created a pretext to divert the popular
discontent that was arising out of a major economic crisis, a result of
misgovernment and continual over-taxation.
D’Armeniac’s
men organised press-gang conscription among the young men of Bologna. This led
to scuffles and bad feelings. The military quarters to which the conscripts were
taken were attacked. By way of a warning lesson, some of the
"troublemakers" were hanged.
For
their part, d’Armeniac and the papal Legate promised that the war would be
rapid, and would not involve the population of Bologna in sacrifices or
inconveniences. On the contrary, they said, it would produce great advantage
for all.
The
army, with upwards of 15,000 Bolognesi, a few thousand Bretons and an equal
number of Provençal troops, was under the command of d’Armeniac. It easily
broke through the Ferrara lines and then spread across the plain until it
reached the banks of the River Po.
In
order to cross the Po and reach Ferrara, they needed to build a bridge.
Carpenters were brought up, and they used large quantities of wood to build a
sufficiently solid bridge, which was held in place with ropes moored to the
banks of the river. The army crossed on this bridge. The first to cross were
the Provençal troops... then came the Bolognesi. At that moment, they were
attacked by the Ferrara troops, supported by 2,000 Venetian horsemen that had
come to the aid of their allies. The battle turned into a disaster for the
papal army. Count d’Armeniac found himself cut off. He went down on his knees
and surrendered, promising a huge sum of money for his ransom. All the Provençal
troops who had crossed the river surrendered with him. The rearguard of Breton
troops and the other Provençal troops who were still on the facing bank made
their escape. The Bolognesi found themselves trapped on the bridge. Those who
were still trying to get onto the Ferrara bank retreated... But at their rear
were arriving other Venetian troops who made it impossible for them to retreat.
The bridge began to oscillate as a result of the number of armed men, because
by now there were something like 8,000 men on it, almost all from Bologna.
The
Ferrarans cut the ropes which anchored the bridge... The arches of the bridge
collapsed with a crash into the river, hurling down all the poor wretches who
were on it. Only half the Bolognesi got back to their city... and they were in
poor shape. When the survivors reached the city, the people came out to meet
them. There was tremendous anger. The women in particular cursed the Pope’s men
angrily.
The
Legate and his men had good reason to expect an outbreak of rioting at any
moment. The surviving Provençal and Breton troops retreated into the Bon
Castello, an imposing fortress which at that time stood right at the centre of
Bologna. The Bon Castello was surrounded by deep moats, which were kept
permanently full of water, surmounted by enormous bastions.
The
papal Legate gave orders that they should prepare for a possible long-term
siege, in case they came under attack from the Bolognesi.
So
the papal troops went out on sorties. Looting, where they could, any animal
that could be killed and eaten, including draught horses and donkeys. They laid
in stock of grain and looted the "fodero", in other words the
community’s emergency supplies, which were only used in case of famine, as a
way of helping the more needy parts of the population.
One
night, all the noblemen and clergy of the city, including those from the
priory, withdrew into the Castle. Included among the monks and nuns in the
procession were also a few prostitutes, presumably devotees of the mystic life.
A
papal chronicler of the period tells us that in that castle there were
sufficient supplies accumulated for a siege to be easily survived for at least
two years.
Furthermore,
the castle’s defensive potential was tremendous. Not even an army of
professional assault troops could have imagined getting anywhere near the
bastions of that fortress.
At
this point, however, something truly unforeseeable happened. A stroke of genius
on the part of those who were organising the siege. It is related in all its
detail in the chronicle written by our anonymous Roman.
In
my attempt to find further historical information from the period which would
enable me to fill out this particular story, I have been to look at history
books written by university researchers, and collections of ancient chronicles:
nothing! Total censorship!
A
veil of silence has descended on the facts which I am about to relate. Why is
that? How? After all, it is a tremendous page from our history. Tremendous,
yes, but also rather gross... The key element is obscenity. Academics are full
of mealy-mouthed stupidity based on idiot conventionality.
Anyway,
enough! You can work it out for yourselves... I’ll end my introduction here,
because I don’t want to spoil the surprise in the story. So now I begin.
What
language will I be using in order to perform this gross story, of gross
Bologna, which, by the way, has already been told in the popular language by
story-tellers in mediaeval times?
Well,
obviously, I’m going to use the same style of speech that you will have heard
in my Mistero Buffo. In other words, a combination of dozens of dialects
from throughout the Po Valley, a kind of "passepartout" language
invented by the travelling players of the very times in which the facts that I
am about to relate actually happened.
[End
of Introduction]
THE TUMULT OF BOLOGNA
[The Performance Text]
D’Armeniac,
d’Armeniac, coming forward with all his banners, forward with the trumpets,
beating on the drums: "Pursue the enemy, everyone forward, towards
Ferrara! Bring up the Provençals and the Bretons! Bring up the Romagnoli, and
the men from Bologna. Cross the bridge...! Come on! Come on! We have won! We
have won! Ferrara is ours!"
Damn!
All of a sudden, large numbers of horsemen appear, like a cloud... They come
forward with their visors over their eyes... Lances with the insignia of San
Marco, and banners with the lion of Venice! And all of them, a thousand or so,
advancing like a flood... Immediately they fall upon the troops from Provence,
with d’Armeniac at their head, and in no time at all he holds up his sword in
surrender and shouts: "We give up! Stop. Enough!"
They
stop.
"All
the florins that you desire, for my ransom! Let us live!"
On
their knees, and their banners strewn on the ground... Jesus, those who are on
the other side of the river, who haven’t yet come up on the bridge, make their
escape. A thousand of them from Provence, and two thousand from Brittany,
running off. And the Bolognesi stuck in the middle: trapped on the bridge built
with beams of wood lashed together, they don’t know where to go. They’re
blocked in front and blocked behind, by an armed band of Venetians, so they
can’t get off. The bridge begins to wobble, and crashes!
"Ye
gods! Anyone who knows how to swim, dive in!" And the bridge collapses!
"There
you go.... And good riddance to you!"
The
Ferrara troops cut the ropes which anchor the bridge arches to the bank.
"In they go: Vraam!" Into the Po! And the Po was in flood! What a
mighty crash of men!
How
many drowned! Some of them went down crushed by the timbers... Eight thousand,
eight thousand washed down with their bellies swollen, they found them in the
sea... Another eight thousand were saved.... but they were barely even alive...
All hacked to pieces, they were. They went back to Bologna, swearing and
cursing! The Provençal troops who had already escaped had arrived in the city
the same morning. The people, the women, the men, the old people, the children,
already knew that they had been defeated, and were awaiting their men’s return.
They
returned two days later. And when they arrived at the gates, they were wounded,
crippled, shattered... People losing blood from wounds that were infected. A
tremendous anger burst out! Tumult on every side... People shouted:
"Enough!
We can no longer go on with this Papacy... The Pope, living in Avignon, having
a fancy time... scratching his belly! We’ve had enough, now!"
And
from the palace, the papal officials, who had heard the hubbub, had placed in
front a whole row of Provençal troops in front, in order to hold the fort, and
to hold back the people who were coming forward, wanting to go and talk with
the papal Legate, who was inside Castel Bono. Inside the Castello, they began
peering out of half-shut windows, rather afraid, and getting increasingly
worried: "What’s happening?"
The
people of the town saw horses and carts, wagons and mules, heading for the
bridge which led into the Castel Bono.
They
were transporting pigs, carrying goats, they’d loaded up calves and cows...
"What’s
going on...? Why are they transferring all this stuff inside...? That’s our
stuff too...! From the community storehouse! They’re carrying it all inside...!
And what are we supposed to eat?"
And
they, well protected by their French hired troops, were going to and fro,
pushing carts, dragging in live animals, carrying sacks and baskets.
"How
much stuff they’ve carried off! They’ve even stolen our wine, our oil.... our
lard... They’ve taken everything: live animals and butchered meat alike...!
They’ve filled their whole storehouse with ice up to the brim, to preserve
it!"
"For
heaven’s sake..." All the people looked at each other, stunned:
"They’ve
all locked themselves in...! The whole princely delegation, together with the
cardinals, the counts and their soldiers... their women, their strumpets, even
their prostitutes. The nuns and monks, everyone inside! And here we are,
without so much as a turnip root to eat! What are we supposed to die? Crawl off
and die?!"
The
word went around, and all the great men of the town, the old ones, and the
young ones who were respected for their qualities, held a
"parliament", and in the end they said:
"We
must attack the castle. We can’t leave them all nice and cosy, to enjoy
themselves inside!"
"What
do you mean? When? How? With weapons?"
And
they talked, discussed, launched a whole raft of proposals, and in the end they
reached a decision. They brought into play all the firing implements that they
had: crossbows, stone-throwers with giant slings, ballistas with twisted ropes,
catapults etc.
And
they lined up all these firing machines around the Castello. They went to ask
weapons also from Modena, from Fidenza, even from Craie and Bisonta, all of
which towns were within the League of the Senzabraghe, against the papal Legate
and his kind. And they returned with ballistas and catapults. When it was all
ready, they lined up the machines ready for firing.
They
were all round the castle, and up above, on the towers and bastions, there were
French soldiers, standing up there and laughing:
"Ha,
ha... You can fire as many rocks as you like... Greek fire... for two years on
end, before you’ll get us... What d’you think you’re going to do with ballistas
and catapults against this castle, which never surrendered even to the German emperor!"
And
they made gestures with their fingers as if to show their contempt for the
rough people on the ground cranking up the machines in order to load their
launching platforms.
How
angry they were! All of a sudden, however, carpenters and stonemasons arrived
with the tools of their trade. There were conduits, which carried the water
into the castle. They cut the pipes so as to divert the water to the irrigation
channel which led to the river, and instead they connected the town sewer to
the conduit. So into the castle they sent all the discharge of the city’s
sewers.
And
the people inside came rushing like mad to brick it all up, but too late. It
was like trying to stop a flood... Glug, glug, glug... And it filled the whole courtyard with vile stinking sludge.
But
then, all of a sudden, you heard a yell from the people who were standing up on
high, on the tower. They saw peasants arriving with loads of buckets... They
weren’t bringing stones, but buckets, small carts, wheelbarrows and barrels.
All together they started loading up stuff, which was hard to see what it was.
All of a sudden, they poured into the big ladles of the ballistas huge amounts
of shit.
"They’re
firing shit at us???"
"They’re
firing shit!" Blam!
Inside
the castle shit was arriving all over the place!
Catapults
firing great gobs of dung, ballistas spraying the stuff in the air like a
fireworks display!
And
from that day, every day, starting early in the morning, the whole population,
young and old alike, arrived carrying their shit so that it could be catapulted
into the castle. It was a kind of social duty.
And
those who had made a particularly large amount of shit – their families were
looked upon with respect and applauded.
"Well
done, fellow citizens!"
"Now
that’s what I call patriotism!"
People
from out of town, who were coming down even from the mountains to enjoy the
spectacle, were stopped on the road:
"Where
d’you think you’re going?"
"We
want to see shit being thrown at the papal legates!"
"Admission
only for people carrying shit!"
And
the people of Ferrara arrived too, because by now they’d made peace.
"Do
you need any help?"
"Yes.
Shit!"
And
the people of Modena too:
"Bring
us a dollop of shit!"
And
you could see them, from early morning onwards, popping up on the roads that
led to Bologna from the surrounding villages, wagons with big baskets on board.
There
was everything around the castle: barrels, and a variety of overflowing carts
waiting for their turn. The really good idea was to offer a prize for anyone
inventing more efficient mechanisms for firing the shit. And here the ingenuity
of the common people came into its own. Everyone was inventing. There were some
who had used cow or ox guts, and had pumped liquid shit into them, so as to
make a big balloon. All this was tied to a rope, and then four of them would
get into a tight group, whirling it round and round like a sling. They would
spin, and spin, letting the rope out bit by bit, and then let it go like a
sling.
"Let
go the rope!"
When
this big stuffed pudding was high up in the air, over the castle, they gave a
tug on the rope, and Schloop! The balloon burst and all the filth rained down!
And everybody clapped and cheered:
"Well
done!"
Day
and night, in those parts, they spent their time hurling this stinky stuff,
which exploded and splattered all over.
Others
had set up "see-saws" made out of big beams of timber rested over a
barrel to act as a pivot.
They
would drop a big rock on one end of the thing, and the other end shot up into
the air... Blam! Whoosh! Splat! Huge dollops of dung, which penetrated the
broken windows, high up in the battlements. In the Castle there was a monk, a
scribe, who wrote the chronicle of all this, and he tells us:
"Hell
has arrived here, and it seems as if Christ in person, with the Holy Father and
all the saints and angels, have got together in the skies above us to shit on
us!"
These
people in the Castle, they had everything... They had food, they had drink; but
they couldn’t take a drink, because it smelt of stinky stuff! They went to make
love: like kissing a sewer! Then one day, a great wind blew up. It made a
whirlwind in the courtyard, and lifted dung and straw into the air all around.
An
appalling situation! The nuns began to weep... They recited their rosaries, and
vomited up at every "Ora pro nobis".
The
mothers and fathers among the peasans would keep their children in order by
telling them:
"If
you’re good, on Sunday we’ll take you to see shit being thrown against the
Pope’s men!"
And
imagine, that in that Castle they had been prepared and ready to hold out for
two years!
After
only a fortnight, by order of the Papal Legate, the Captain raised the white
flag! "White" in a manner of speaking, of course! And he asked to
parley.
"We’re
coming out, but if the Legates come, those from Florence to act as guarantors
for us. If they come here to protect our exit, we will leave the city."
"Agreed."
They
go to summon those from Florence, who arrive with their banner... And then they
parley:
"Give
your word that you will let them come out, and you won’t throw any more shit.
Swear it on oath."
"We
swear!"
"We
accompany them as far as Pisa, and you set aside warlike intentions, and don’t
do anything else aggressive. Agreed? You swear?"
"We
swear!"
So,
they all came out: first the Bretons, with their standards, which were pretty
filthy with shit.
Then
came the chaplains, then the nuns, and then the monks. Finally, out comes the
Pope’s Legate, who was a cardinal, together with all the other big prelates. In
order to protect themselves, they had taken shelter beneath a large awning.
There was the grand Cardinal, the Legate in person, who had protected himself
with a white umbrella, even if this too was "white" only in a manner
of speaking. He was carrying the "santissimo", the blessed Host, as
if to say:
"I’d
like to see if they have the courage to throw shit at Christ!"
Outside,
the whole city square was empty, and people had gone up onto balconies,
terraces and roofs. There were people on the house-tops all around.
All
of a sudden, a voice called out:
"If
Christ can bear to stay in the midst of so many shits, then he’ll be able to
stand a bit of our shit too!"
Broooom!
A storm of shite! As if the day of universal judgement had arrived.
The
Legate from Florence raised his arm and shouted:
"This
was not in our agreement!"
But
he didn’t manage to complete "agreement"... Only "ag...",
because a great gob of shite arrived and blocked his mouth!
And
then all the papal troops went running off, scuttling off on all fours, way up
to the mountains, to the Alps.
And
they didn’t pass through villages, for fear of having to put up with some
further "blessings".
Finally
they made their way down into Tuscany.
At
least they reached Pisa. But they didn’t enter Pisa, into the city, because it
was well known that the people of Pisa were shit-flingers extraordinary! So
they went round by the back way, until they reached the port, where they found
a ship provided by the Provençals, ready to take them all on board. They found
armed French soldiers, all around, to defend them.
About
time too!
They
washed themselves, washed themselves in the sea. Wonderful! Having dried their
clothes, they boarded the ships that were ready to catch the wind that would
carry them to Avignon.
They
hoist the anchor.
The
wind is set fair.
They
leave the port, heading for the open sea. Now, as is traditional when an important
ship leaves, a lot of the ships that were moored at the quaysides came to
escort them, with flags and banners streaming. Up in the rigging and the crows
nests, the sailors clambered up to send them on their way.
"Hey
there! Bon voyage! Have a good trip!"
The
ship provided by the Provençals sailed off, with all its sails hoisted, passing
right through the middle of them.
All
of a sudden they heard a thud, and a loud snigger: Blam!
Shit
from all the masts, landing on their ship!
"No!
That’s too much!"
In
the end they arrived at Avignon.
The
chronicles tell that for the whole duration of the voyage, the Delegate was
unable to eat a thing. He hadn’t eaten so much as a grape, during the whole
crossing.
Having
landed, they finally got him to eat... a bit of fruit, a bit of bread soaked in
milk, a couple of bites... an egg... they began to feed him.
Then,
a few days later, the time came when he had to attend to nature’s needs. He
squatted down, sat on the toilet, and produced a great dollop of shit... He looked
at it, saw what he’d produced, and fell down dead!
[Ends]
[Note:
First published by Edizioni F.R. La Comune, Milan, 1982. Dario Fo sent this
text out as his New Year’s present to the world at the start of 2001.]
_________________________________________
All rights
reserved. This text shall not by way of trade or otherwise be copied,
reproduced or recorded in a retrieval system. Nor shall it be lent, resold,
hired out or otherwise circulated without the owners' specific written consent.
Please be
aware that this translation can only be performed with explicit permission in
writing from the agency representing Dario Fo and Franca Rame, the Danesi-Tolnay
agency in Rome.
Last
updated: 3.viii.2012
Universitas
adversitatis