by Alfred Jarry
SCENE TWO
ACHRAS, a FLUNKEY.
FLUNKEY. Sir, there’s a bloke out here as wants a word with you. He’s pulled the bell out with his ringing, and he’s broken three chairs trying to sit down. (He gives ACHRAS a card.)
ACHRAS. What’s all this? Herr Ubu, sometime King of Poland and Aragon, professor of pataphysics. That makes no sense at all. What’s all that about ? Pataphysics! Well, never mind, he sounds like a person of distinction. I should like to make a gesture of goodwill to this visitor by showing him my polyhedra. Have the gentleman come up.
SCENE THREE
ACHRAS, UBU in a travelling costume, carrying a suitcase.
PA UBU. Hornstrumpot, Sir! What a miserable kind of hang-out you’ve got here: we’ve been obliged to tinkle away for more than an hour, and when your flunkeys at last make up their minds to let us in, we are confronted by such a miserable orifice that we are at a loss to understand how our strumpot managed to negotiate it.
ACHRAS. Oh but it’s like this, excuse me. I was very far from expecting the visit of such a considerable personage ... otherwise, you can be sure I would have had the door enlarged. But you must forgive the humble circumstances of an old collector, who is at the same time, I venture to say, a famous scientist.
PA UBU. Say that by all means if it gives you any pleasure, but remember that you are addressing a celebrated pataphysician.
ACHRAS. Excuse me, Sir, you said?
PA UBU. Pataphysician. Pataphysics is a branch of science which we have invented and for which a crying need is generally experienced.
ACHRAS. Oh but it’s like this, if you’re a famous inventor, we’ll understand each other, look you, for between great men...
PA UBU. A little more modesty, Sir! Besides, I see no great man here except myself. But, since you insist, I have condescended to do you a most signal honour. Let it be known to you, Sir, that your establishment suits us and that we have decided to make ourselves at home here.
ACHRAS. Oh but it’s like this, look you ...
PA UBU. We will dispense with your expressions of gratitude. And, by the way, I nearly forgot. Since it is hardly proper that a father should be separated from his children, we shall be joined by our family in the immediate future - Madam Ubu, together with our dear sons and daughters Ubu. They are all very quiet, decent, well-brought-up folk.
ACHRAS. Oh but it’s like this, look you. I’m afraid ...
PA UBU. We quite understand. You’re afraid of boring us. All right then, we’ll no longer tolerate your presence here except by our kind permission. One thing more, while we are inspecting the kitchens and the dining room, you will go and look for three packing cases which we have had deposited in the hall.
ACHRAS. Oh but it’s like this - fancy even thinking of moving in like that on people. It’s a manifest imposture.
PA UBU. A magnificent posture! Exactly, Sir, for once in your life you’ve spoken the truth.
Exit ACHRAS.
SCENE FOUR
PA UBU, then later, his CONSCIENCE.
PA UBU. Have we any right to behave like this ? Hornstrumpot, by our green candle, let us consult our Conscience. There he is, in this suitcase, all covered with cobwebs. As you can see, we don’t overwork him. (He opens the suitcase. His CONSCIENCE emerges in the guise of a tall, thin fellow in a shirt.)
CONSCIENCE. Sir, and so on and so forth, be so good as to take a few notes.
PA UBU. Excuse me, Sir, we are not very partial to writing, though we have no doubt that anything you say would be most interesting. And while we’re on the subject, we should like to know how you have the insolence to appear before us in your shirt tails ?
CONSCIENCE, Sir, and so on and so forth, Conscience, like Truth, usually goes without a shirt. If I have put one on, it is as a mark of respect to the distinguished audience.
PA UBU. As for that, Mister or Mrs Conscience, you’re making a fuss about nothing. Answer this question instead: would it be a good thing to kill Mister Achras who has had the audacity to come and insult me in my own house?
CONSCIENCE. Sir, and so on and so forth, to return good with evil is unworthy of a civilised man. Mister Achras has lodged you; Mister Achras has received you with open arms and made you free of his collection of polyhedra; Mister Achras, and so forth, is a very fine fellow and perfectly harmless; it would be a most cowardly act, and so forth, to kill a poor old man who is incapable of defending himself.
PA UBU. Hornstrumpot! Mister Conscience, are you so sure that he can’t defend himself?
CONSCIENCE. Absolutely, Sir, so it would be a coward’s trick to do away with him.
PA UBU. Thank you, Sir, we shan’t require you further. Since there’s no risk attached, we shall assassinate Mister Achras, and we shall also make a point of consulting you more frequently for you know how to give us better advice than we had anticipated. Now, into the suitcase with you! (He closes it again.)
CONSCIENCE. In which case, Sir, I think we shall have to leave it at that, and so on and so forth, for today.
SCENE FIVE
PA UBU, ACHRAS, the FLUNKEY.
Enter ACHRAS, backwards, prostrating himself with terror before the three red packing cases pushed by the FLUNKEY.
PA UBU (to the FLUNKEY). Off with you, sloven. And you, Sir, I want a word with you. I wish you every kind of prosperity and I entreat you, out of the kindness of your heart, to perform a friendly service for me.
ACHRAS. Anything, look you, which you can reasonably demand from an old professor who has given up sixty years of his life, look you, to studying the habits of polyhedra.
PA UBU. Sir, we have learned that our virtuous wife, Madam Ubu, is most abominably deceiving us with an Egyptian, by the name of Memnon, who combines the functions of a clock at dawn with driving of a sewage truck at night, and in the daytime presents himself as cornutator of our person. Hornstrumpot! We have decided to wreak the most terrible vengeance.
ACHRAS. As far as that goes, look you, Sir, as to being a cuckold I can sympathise with you.
PA UBU. We have resolved, then, to inflict a severe punishment. And we can think of nothing more appropriate to chastise the guilty, in this case, than ordeal by Impalement.
ACHRAS. Excuse me, I still don’t see very clearly, look you, how I can be of any help.
PA UBU. By our green candle, Sir, since we have no wish for the execution of our sentence to be bungled, we should esteem it as a compliment if a person of your standing were to make a preliminary trial of the Stake, just to make sure that it is functioning with maximum efficiency.
ACHRAS. Oh but it’s like this, look you, not on your life. That’s too much. I regret, look you, that I can’t perform this little service for you, but it’s quite out of the question. You’ve stolen my house from me, look you, you’ve told me to bugger off, and now you want to put me to death, oh no, that’s going too far.
PA UBU. Don’t distress yourself, my good friend. It was only our little joke. We shall return when you have quite recovered your composure.
Exit PA UBU.
SCENE SIX
ACHRAS, then the three PALCONTENTS climbing out of their packing cases.
THE PALCONTENTS. We are the Palcontents,
We are the Palcontents,
With a face like a rabbit -
Which seldom prevents
Our bloody good habit
Of croaking the bloke
Wot lives on his rents.
We are the Pals,
We are the Cons,
We are the Palcontents.
CRAPENTAKE. Each in his box of stainless steel
Imprisoned all the week we kneel,
For Sunday is the only day
That we’re allowed a getaway.
Ears to the wind, without surprise,
We march along with vigorous step
And all the onlookers cry ‘Yep,
They must be soldiers, damn their eyes!’
ALL THREE. We are the Palcontents, etc.
&n
bsp; BINANJITTERS. Every morning we are called
By the Master’s boot on our behind,
And, half awake, our backs are galled
By the money-satchels we have to mind.
All day the hammer never ceases
As we chip your skulls in a thousand pieces,
Until we bring to Pa Ubé
The dough from the stiffs we’ve croaked this day.
ALL THREE. We are the Palcontents, etc.
They perform a dance. ACHRAS, terrified, sits down on a chair.
FOURZEARS. In our ridiculous looniforms
We wander through the streets so pansy,
Or else we plug the bockle-and-jug
Of every slag who takes our fancy.
We get our eats through platinum teats,
We pee through a tap without a handle,
And we inhale the atmostale
Through a tube as bent as a Dutchman’s candle!
ALL THREE. We are the Palcontents, etc.
They dance round ACHRAS.
ACHRAS. Oh but it’s like this, look you, it’s ridiculous, it doesn’t make sense at all. (The stake rises under his chair.) Oh dear, I don’t understand it. If you were only my polyhedra, look you.... Have mercy on a poor old professor.... Look ... look you. It’s out of the question! (He is impaled and raised in the air despite his cries. It grows pitch dark.)
THE PALCONTENTS (ransacking the furniture and pulling out bags stuffed full of phynance): Give the cash - to Pa Ubu. Give all the cash - to Pa Ubu. Let nothing remain - not even a sou - to go down the drain - for the Revenue. Give all the cash - to Pa Ubu! (Re-entering their packing-cases.) We are the Palcontents, etc.
ACHRAS loses consciousness.
SCENE SEVEN
ACHRAS (impaled), PA UBU, MA UBU.
PA UBU. By my green candle, sweet child, how happy shall we be in this house!
MA UBU. There is only one thing lacking to my happiness, my dear friend, an opportunity to greet the worthy host who has placed such entertainment at our disposal.
PA UBU. Don’t let that bother you, my dear: to anticipate your wish I have had him installed in the place of honour.
He points to the Stake. Screams and hysterics from MA UBU.
Act Two
SCENE ONE
ACHRAS (impaled), Ubu’s CONSCIENCE.
CONSCIENCE. Sir.
ACHRAS. Hhron.
CONSCIENCE. And so on and so forth.
ACHRAS. There must be something beyond this hhron, but what? I ought to be dead! Leave me in peace.
CONSCIENCE. Sir, although my philosophy condemns outright any form of action, what Mister Ubu has done is really too disgraceful, so I am going to disimpale you. (He lengthens himself to the height of ACHRAS.)
ACHRAS (disimpaled). I have no objection, Sir.
CONSCIENCE. Sir, and so on and so forth, I should like to have a word with you. Please sit down.
ACHRAS. Oh, but it’s like this, look you, pray don’t mention it. I should never be so rude as to sit down in the presence of an ethereal spirit to whom I owe my life, and besides, it’s just not on.
CONSCIENCE. My inner voice and sense of justice tell me it’s my duty to punish Mister Ubu. What revenge would you suggest ?
ACHRAS. Hey, but it’s like this, look you, I’ve thought about it for a long time. I shall simply unfasten the trap door into the cellar ... hey ... put the armchair on the edge, look you, and when the fellow, look you, comes in from his dinner, he’ll bust the whole thing in, hey. And that’ll make some sense, goodie-goodie!
CONSCIENCE. Justice will be done, and so forth.
SCENE TWO
The same, PA UBU. Ubu’s CONSCIENCE gets back into his suitcase.
PA UBU. Hornstrumpot! You, Sir, certainly haven’t stayed put as I arranged you. Well, since you’re still alive to be of use to us, don’t forget to tell your cook that she’s in the habit of serving the soup with too much salt in it and that the joint was overdone. That’s not at all the way we like them. It’s not that we aren’t able, by our skill in pataphysics, to make the most exquisite dishes rise from the earth, but that doesn’t prevent your methods, Sir, from provoking our indignation!
ACHRAS. Oh, but it’s like this, I promise you it will never happen again ... (PA UBU is engulfed in the trap.) ... Look you ...
PA UBU. Hornstrumpot, Sir! What is the meaning of this farce ? Your floor boards are in a rotten state. We shall be obliged to make an example of you.
ACHRAS. It’s only a trap door, look you.
CONSCIENCE. Mister Ubu is too fat, he’ll never go through.
PA UBU. By my green candle, a trap door must be either open or shut. All the beauty of the phynancial theatre consists in the smooth functioning of its trap doors. This one is choking us, it’s flaying our transverse colon and our great epiploon. Unless you extract us we shall certainly croak.
ACHRAS. All that’s in my power, look you, is to charm your last moments by the reading of some of the characterclystic passages, look you, of my treatise on the habits of polyhedra, and of the thesis which I have taken sixty years to compose on the tishoos of the clonic suction. You’d rather not? Oh, very well, I’m off - I couldn’t bear to watch you give up the ghost, it’s quite too sad. (Exit.)
SCENE THREE
PA UBU, his CONSCIENCE.
PA UBU. My Conscience, where are you? Hornstrumpot, you certainly gave us good advice. We shall do penance and perhaps restore into your hands some small fraction of what we have taken. We shall desist from the use of our debraining machine.
CONSCIENCE. Sir, I’ve never wished for the death of a sinner, and so on and so forth. I offer you a helping hand.
PA UBU. Hurry up, Sir, we’re dying. Pull us out of this trap door without delay and we shall accord you a full day’s leave of absence from your suitcase.
Ubu’s CONSCIENCE, after releasing UBU, throws the Suitcase in the hole.
CONSCIENCE (gesticulating). Thank you, Sir. Sir, there’s no better exercise than gymnastics. Ask any health expert.
PA UBU. Hornstrumpot, Sir, you play the fool too much. To show you our superiority in this, as in everything else, we are going to perform the prestidigitatious leap, which may surprise you, when you take into account the enormity of our strumpot.
He begins to run and jump.
CONSCIENCE. Sir, I entreat you, don’t do anything of the sort, you’ll only stove in the floor completely, and disappear down another hole. Observe our own light touch. (He remains hanging by his feet.) Oh! help! help! I shall rupture something, come and help me, Mister Ubu.
PA UBU (sitting down). Oh no. We shall do nothing of the kind, Sir. We are performing our digestive functions at this moment, and the slightest dilatation of our strumpot might instantly prove fatal. In two or three hours at the most, the digestive process will be finalised in the proper manner and we’ll fly to your aid. And besides, we are by no means in the habit of unhooking such tatters off the peg.
CONSCIENCE wriggles around, and finally falls on Ubu’s strumpot.
PA UBU. Ah, that’s too much, Sir. We don’t tolerate anyone camping about on us, and least of all, you!
Not finding the suitcase, he takes his CONSCIENCE by the feet, opens the door of the lavatory recess at the end of the room, and shoves him head first down the drain, between the two stone footrests.
SCENE FOUR
PA UBU; the three PALCONTENTS, standing up in their packing-cases.
THE PALCONTENTS. Those who aren’t skeered of his tiny beard are all of them fools and flunk-at-schools - who’ll get a surprise ere the day is out - that’s what his machine is all about. For he doan’ wan’ - his royal person — a figure of fun - for some son-of-a-gun. - Yeh, he doan’ like his little Mary - to be passed remarks on by Tom, Dick, or Harry. - This barrel that rolls, arrel that rolls, arrel that rolls is Pa Ubu.
Meanwhile, PA UBU lights his green candle, a jet of hydrogen in the sulphurous steam, which, constructed after the principle of the Philosopher’s O
rgan, gives out a perpetual flute note. He also hangs up two notices on the walls: ‘Machine-pricking done here’ and ‘Get your nears cut.’)
CRAPENTAKE. Hoy, Mister! Some folks has all the trouble. Mister Rebontier’s already had eleven doses of the Bleed-Pig machine this morning in the place de la Concorde. Hoy!
BINANJITTERS. Mister, like you told me to, I’ve carried a case of explosive knuckle-dusters to Mister * * * * *, and a pot full of pschitt to Mister * * * * *! Hoy!
FOURZEARS. I’ve been in Egypt, Mister, and I’ve brought back that there singing Memnon. By reason of which matter, as I don’t know if he roightlee has to be wound up before he sings every morning, I’ve deposited him in the penny bank. Hoy!
PA UBU. Silence, you clots. We are moved to meditation. The sphere is the perfect form; the sun is the perfect planet, and in us nothing is more perfect than our head, always uplifted toward the sun and aspiring to its shape - except perhaps the human eye, mirror of that star and cast in its likeness. The sphere is the form of the angels. To man is it given to be but an incomplete angel. And yet, more perfect than the cylinder, less perfect than the sphere, radiates the barrel’s hyper-physical body. We, its isomorph, are passing fair.