The Demon Barber of Prague (A Tragedy in One Act) (1912) by Jaroslav Hašek (The barber, Mr Špachta, is in full flow. His victim has been thoroughly soaped and Mr Špachta has set about shaving him with all due ceremony. He chats to his customer as he works) ‘So now the Turks are in for it at last. Those Turkish so-and-so’s have pushed further and further and at last the Italians have said: “That’s far enough!” Head right back, Your Honor, if you would be so kind. We old soldiers, Your Honor . . . it’s just a little scratch, Your Honor: the lazy devil has forgotten to soap that little bristly bit there. Head back, Your Honor, that’s it . . . We old soldiers know a thing or two about war. The Italians are very well armed, Your Honor and the Turks won’t want to be far behind. I just hope Serbia doesn’t get involved, Your Honor; it’s all boiling up just now, down in the Balkans. It was nothing, Your Honor, just a wart. The thing to do with them is to cut them off with the razor and they won’t grow again. The Great Powers won’t like it, Your Honor. It’s a powder-keg, the Balkans; all of a sudden, it can go off “Bang!” No, no, Your Honor, the skin’s not broken; it was just one of those little pimples. You’re much better nipping them off than squeezing them out. And you see, Your Honor, perhaps the Hungarians will open the border and let the Serbian cattle in, just so as the Serbs don’t sell them to the Turkish army. But they won’t do that. The best thing would be if the Turks died of hunger, but if they can’t manage that, they’ll drive the camels after the army. That’s the way I see it, Your Honor. You’ve got to play it cleverly with the Turks. They’re a sharp bunch, those Turks: they’ve given up Tripoli now, but they’ll withdraw into the interior and get together with the Arabs and start a guerilla war, and then there will be some cut and thrust - oh no, Sir, that wasn’t a cut, just some little insect: can’t leave that there. It’ll be tough, Your Honor, a guerilla war like that; a lot of blood will flow. Oh no, Your Honor, you mustn’t think that, it wasn’t part of the lip, just a little bit of a cold sore that I’ve shaved off and that’s a very good thing, Sir, believe me. You must have had a bit of a scare during the night, Your Worship, and who wouldn’t feel scared these days? And if war breaks out right across Europe, there will be cold sores appearing all over the place and it will be terrible, Your Honor: brothers will be butchering each other . . . don’t worry, Your Honor, just a slip of the razor, we’ll soon stop the bleeding . . . there! all back to normal again! If only the Great Powers could say that, eh? I don’t know what’s got into this razor today, Your Honor; it’s as if it wanted to go and fight against the Turks. Like quicksilver it is, and sharp with it. Believe me, Your Honor, if I didn’t have a family, I’d be off to fight the Turks myself. And that’s not because they’re unbelievers. Nobody gives a shit about that nowadays, you can believe what you like. It’s because they’re Turks. They’re filth, those Turks; just look at the Turks in Prague, Your Honor, look at the trousers they wear: it’s enough to give you the shivers. And then, when instead of the knickknacks they sell, they stick a long knife into their belt and then a short one and then a pistol and then another pistol and one of those khanjars, those swords of theirs and you bump into one and he comes at you with all that lot . . . Your Honor, Your Honor, it’s only a little piece of skin gone; just got to finish shaving that bit. It’s no fun and games tangling with Turks; they’re like dragons, the lot of them. And the Italians are like wild men: God help them all when the balloon goes up! It’ll be a real brawl, Your Honor. Oh my God! We’ll soon put it right, Your Honor, believe me, it was only another of those insects. It had to come off, Your Honor, there was nothing I could do but cut it away. Oh, and did you hear, Your Honor, that the Turks have cut the Italians off from the sea around Tripoli? They’re sending the bashibazuks in; a real gang, they are . . . Just turn your head sideways, Your Honor, we’re just going to shave under the nose now. Well, Your Honor, the Italians aren’t hanging back either; they’re sending in one regiment after another. But the Arabs, Your Honor, they’re joining up with the Turks; they have the same religion and they’re glad of the chance of a slash and a stab . . . For Heaven’s sake, Your Honor, don’t faint on me! Josef, just sprinkle some water on the gentleman and wipe the blood away from his nose . . . There now, Your Honor, everything’s all right again. It wasn’t the tip of your nose, just a wart. You had a wart on the end of your nose, Sir, a birthmark perhaps, and that had to go. Why, it was disfiguring Your Honor’s face. Oh, and I mustn’t forget: the Italians will have their hands full against the Turks when the Arabs have risen against the Rumanians. The Arab, Your Honor, is a worse bastard than the Turk in my opinion; cut off your head, he will. . . Josef, give the gentleman a sprinkle! It’s nothing, Your Honor, just a bit of skin, just a bit off the top. Skin’s a nuisance when it won’t give, so off with it, I say! I’ll run off to Tripoli, on my soul I will! There now, Your Honor. Josef, bring some water! Now then, Your Honor, I’m going to give you a good wash, and then shave over again. No, really, Your Honor, I’ve got to, you’ve got to be done again . . . give me that new razor, Josef! What do you think, Your Honor . . . head well back now . . . who’d have thought the blood would start to flow again? No, Your Honor, I just caught that old wound; I’m very careful, I don’t want any dissatisfied customers . . . you know, Your Honor, the whole world’s turned upside down today. It doesn’t matter where you look; there’s rebellion everywhere and there will be blood flowing before long and Great God in Heaven, Your Honor! Bring him round, Josef! The nose is intact, Your Honor, it was just the bit under the nose, only a tiny bit, hardly worth mentioning. Oh, what a lovely war there would be if those Turks would just start the ball rolling! It’s got me all confused, Your Honor. Josef, give me that bandage! It’ll soon pass, Your Honor, cuts soon heal over; there, Your Honor, we’ll just put a bandage on and now, if you wouldn’t mind turning your head round so that we can shave it clean on that side as well. . . You know, Your Honor, man’s a bloodthirsty beast! There will be orphans and lamentations and weeping when the news comes in from the battlefield. Josef, wrap that ear up in a bit of paper . . . All right again now, Your Honor, you gave me a fright when you fell off the chair. Like a meteor, you were; soon have you right again. They say that meteors have started falling again; that means a war, Your Honor, it’s a sure sign, an age-old sign. Right, then, Your Honor, we’ll just finish you off under the chin . . . No, no, Your Honor, it’s got to be done, please don’t shift about like that! It’s a terrible thing, war, especially in a savage land like Africa. Just do you under the chin now, Your Honor, soon be all over. Do you know, Your Honor, that those wild men down there cut their prisoners’ throats? First, they catch their prisoner and then they take a long knife and they put it under his chin, just like that. . . just a little bit longer, Your Honor, nearly done now . . . just like that, Your Honor, and Snap! Off with his head! Josef, pick up that head and put it away somewhere . . . (Pause) ‘Oh my Good God, Your Honor, what have you gone and done?’ (Mr Špachta falls in a dead faint)