‘He seems a bit better, thank you.’
Arfled clasped his hands together, raised his eyes to heaven and went into a paroxysm of gratefulness.
‘Mersee, mon Dioo, mersee!’
But this improvement in M. Pionce’s health was not maintained. Sadly, he was worse the next day and the doctor ordered him back to bed.
The effect on Arfled was dreadful to behold.
But that evening M. Pionce was slightly better again.
It was enough to bring Arfled to his knees in front of the reception desk, where he improvised a short psalm of thanks.
‘Thanks be to thee, O Lord, thanks!!’
Mme Pionce’s natural concern for her husband’s state of health was never quite strong enough to resist Arfled’s little pantomimes, and every time he reacted to the latest news, whether it was good or bad, she simply melted into laughter. So it continued for a week, with M. Pionce alternately improving and deteriorating, Arfled improvising accordingly and Mme Pionce screaming with laughter the whole time.
One evening, though, Arfled came back to find her at the desk surrounded by a small crowd of friends and comforters. From her reddened eyes and drawn features, it was quite clear that things had taken a turn for the worse and that M. Pionce must be in a bad way. But when she saw Arfled and suddenly thought of the way he would react to her latest news, she could not help bursting into peals of laughter and collapsing into her chair. After a minute or two she pulled herself together sufficiently to tell him, between outbursts of helpless hilarity:
‘He’s ………. he’s ………. dead!’
PATRIOTISM ON THE CHEAP
An open letter to Paul Déroulède
My deal Paul,
I hope you won’t mind my addressing you as ‘my dear Paul’ even if I have never had the honour of being introduced to you (any more than you have had the honour of being introduced to me)?
Good. Then I shall come to the point straightaway.
Please believe me, my dear Paul, when I say that I, like you, can hardly wait to see the French and Germans at each other’s throats. It is my dearest dream to see them busy eviscerating and slaughtering each other, as is only fitting to the national dignity of two great neighbouring peoples.
The only reservation I have about all-out war is its incredible expense.
People simply have no idea how many billions we have spent in the last twenty-five years on feeding, equipping and arming our fighting men, building barracks for them, fortifying our strongholds, manufacturing powder, smokeless and otherwise….
Why, only the other day I was in Toulouse and with my own eyes I saw a French Navy gun which cost us the modest sum of 1,800 francs (eighteen hundred francs!) every time it was fired. If the French people are happy to pay out that kind of money, they must be even worse suckers than I thought.
Ah, my dear Paul, may I confide in you and reveal that I am deeply distressed by the thought of such extravagance?
Poor France! I would dearly love to see her victorious in war. But I would like to see her stay solvent as well.
*
Which is why it occurs to me that perhaps we could use modern science to help us wage war more economically. In other words, why use gunpowder, which costs a bomb, when we could use microbes for nothing?
An intelligent man like you will have caught my drift already. We could easily disband the army, turn the drill-halls into music-halls, sell the cannons as scrap metal – wind up the whole bang shoot, in fact. Instead of supporting such a ridiculously costly (and noisy) set-up, we would merely have to instal a few discreet little laboratories where we would produce the most virulent and pestilential microbes in the best conditions possible.
And then! …. When Germany finally went too far, we wouldn’t need to declare war on them. We could simply declare cholera, or smallpox, or all known diseases at the same time. We would hit ’em in the colon: aim for the stomach exclamation mark! and bring the nation to a full stop. (The Ministry of War, I need hardly say, would be replaced by the Ministry of Contagious and Infectious Diseases.) And it would be so easy. Our agents would simply have to infiltrate the nation we all hate so much and leave their little test tubes in the right strategic places….
The great advantage of this kind of offensive, my dear Paul, is that it affects every class of society, individuals of every age, people of all sexes.
Old-fashioned war was all very well in its own way, but it was sadly limited when you consider that it only accounted for able-bodied men between the ages of twenty and forty-five. Do you really want us to restrict ourselves to the slaughter of young German males? You are a strange kind of patriot if you do.
I hate the Germans, but I hate all of them – all, all, all!
I hate eight-year-old Bavarian girls. I hate Pomeranian centenarians. I hate old ladies in Frankfurt-am-Main and street urchins in Königsberg!
And with my system we would kill the lot.
What a beautiful vision!
We would get our conquered lands back at last, too. After my bacteria had done their job there might not be anyone left alive there, but what does that matter?
The main thing is that revenge would be ours at last!!
What a nice little chat we’ve had, my dear Paul. Look after yourself and God bless.
FINIS BRITANNIAE
I’m afraid our English friends have not had a very good press of late. Their Jubilee celebrations were so ostentatious and arrogant that most of Europe felt distinctly alienated; some of the comments in the Continental press had to be read to be believed.
The loudest voices in this chorus of resentment came, of course, from Germany where they have never been slow to make fun of the British colossus, which they see merely as a huge inflated balloon waiting for the first pin to come along and deflate it.
Well, our friends in Germany speak truer than they know, because their little joke is about to become very prophetic indeed. I now take great pleasure in revealing exclusively that England is on the point of disappearing.
One or two experts have suspected it all along.
‘It can’t be very long now,’ they have told each other over the years.
And now the time has come. The English have taken so much coal and ore and mineral wealth from the bowels of the earth that their country has become light enough to float.
Yes, the whole island has now been afloat for the past two days.
It may not be tossing around like an champagne cork* exactly, but it is definitely floating.
I happened to be at Greenwich Observatory on Thursday, and the place was in a state of near-panic. I managed to get an interview with one of the senior astronomers there, the Hon. Sir Loin of Wildhog, and his pessimism was plain for all to see.
‘It’s true. We have now started moving,’ he told me. ‘The island is not actually pitching and yawing yet, but this morning the whole of the British Isles moved half a degree to the west. We measured it.’
‘My God!’ I said.
‘And at our present rate of progress we shall reach America before the end of the year. Always assuming….’
‘Yes?’
‘Always assuming we manage to keep afloat that long,’ he said, with the utmost gravity, not to say sense of doom.
I clasped his rough, weather-beaten hand in mine and said: ‘God Save the Queen!’
At which Sir Loin could scarce forbear to shed a single tear. And for a moment, my friends, I cannot deny that I felt sorry for old England.
* From a bottle of Léon Laurent, preferably.
FINIS BRITANNIAE (CONTINUED)
I recently reported in these pages the imminent disappearance of England, or at least her departure for other climes.
‘England is now afloat!’ I announced – and not without a tinge of satisfaction, because although I have encountered many Englishmen who were charming as individuals, my feelings as a whole for perfidious, hypocritical and predatory Albion are far from flattering.
But I never thought th
is bit of news would bring such an impressive response from my brilliant readership – certainly not the avalanche of letters and every other form of communication imaginable which I received.
*
Among them a telegram from Sir Loin of Wildhog protesting indignantly against the pessimistic remarks which I put into his mouth.
Very sorry to be a cause of distress to such a great gentleman, but I did nothing except transcribe and publish the noble cosmographer’s exact words.
And I had a witness in the shape of M. Taupin Blackburn, the negro astronomer, who was present throughout our conversation in Greenwich Park.
*
I would like to leave the final word on the subject to M. Eugène Foreau, our distinguished scientific colleague, who has sent me a substantial letter packed with irrefutable evidence and brilliant insights.
Here is the crucial passage.
‘You are right, my dear Allais, in your assumption that England is now floating like an empty cask after being gutted of her coal and mineral ore.
‘Where you are wrong is in claiming that she is also on the move. England may be afloat, but she is not moving for the simple reason that she is moored in position.
‘No, don’t argue: it is a scientifically verifiable proposition. Here, briefly, are the facts.
‘English scientists had already become aware of what was likely to happen to their island home at least fifty years ago.
‘They considered several different solutions to the problem at the time.
‘Some of them were in favour of a “water ballast” system, in other words of weighing the island down by filling the hollowed out spaces in their coal mines with sea water.
‘They eventually decided against this method for all sorts of reasons which it would take too long to go into here and now.
‘Finally they voted unanimously for another proposed system and a few months later, using telegraphic communications as a pretext, began to secure England to Calais, Ostend, Copenhagen, Ireland etc., by means of strong metal cables under the sea.
‘Later they added more cables in order to link the vast floating buoy we call Great Britain to America, China, Australia and so on.
‘Practical as ever, the English had contrived to ensure the safety of their native sod without incurring a penny’s expense, simply by getting every other country in the world to share the costs.’
FINAL THOUGHTS ON THE FLOATING OF ENGLAND
I had made up my mind not to return to the subject of England being afloat, thrilling though it is.
But my readers have decided differently and I have been deluged with thousands of letters relative to this bizarre occurrence.
So, as your curiosity is obviously insatiable on this score, I shall relent to the extent of passing on the fascinating points raised by M. Jules Domergue, an economist whose authority nobody, I trust, would seek to dispute.
Here is what he has to say:
‘My dear Allais,
‘There is no disputing the fact that England is now floating. I experienced it first-hand during my last trip there; as soon as I set foot on dry land at Dover I could feel the ground giving way under me, as if I were passing from a small vessel to a very large one.
‘And you are quite right to point out that if England is not yet actually drifting out to sea it is only because she has taken the precaution of mooring herself to various continents by means of so-called telegraphic cables.
‘What you have not pointed out, and it is your clear duty to do so, is the action that England is bound to take in a forthcoming war (against France for example, and we all know it cannot be long now). Because the day war starts England will simply cut her mooring ropes and use her entire navy as tugs to take the country off to nobody knows where.
‘How could anyone know? All communications will be completely severed.
‘With the result that when we arrive with our invasion force there will be nothing left to invade, except perhaps a large hole like the Maelstrom which our fleet will promptly tumble into.
‘Which will make the Admiralty look very silly.
‘And will not much impress the rest of Europe, to say nothing of our great allies the Russians.
‘It needs working out.
‘I can only see one solution, personally. Before we ever declare war on Britain we must destroy all their ships in advance.
‘Then we shall be free to go in and take over the British Isles which are, after all, not without their own intrinsic value.
‘As long as we don’t make the mistake of leaving them where they are. We in turn must attach our ships to the island and bring it across into our waters where we can fix it for instance to Penmarch Point, or off Saint-Jean-de-Luz (there’s plenty of room – I’ve checked). Then we could develop it as a new colony which would be much easier to exploit than Madagascar or that damned nuisance Indo-China.
‘Well, my dear Allais, that’s the way I see it. What do you think?’
*
What do I think, my dear Jules? I think it’s a splendid idea, and I urge the French nation to take all steps to carry out the plan so that we can at last take our rightful place again as top country.
CRISIS TIME FOR ENGLAND
I have just received the latest number of the Kent Messenger. It contains a story which I know will bring great joy to all those among my brilliant and warm-hearted readership who suffer from Anglophobia.
Here it is.
As follows.
‘The last church in Dunwich has just been swallowed up by the sea. Although Dunwich was once a flourishing town containing no less than 20,000 inhabitants and at least six fine churches, the sea has gradually encroached until now the last remaining church has crumbled and vanished into the waves. Soon there will be nothing left of Dunwich but memories and old sea stories.’
Alas, poor Dunwich!
But back to the fascinating Kent Messenger.
‘Recently we reported that a French humorist, a certain Alphonse Allais, had told his readers that England has started to float. He claimed that so much coal had been taken from underground that our island had become buoyant and was only being kept in position by the underwater telegraph cables we had cleverly used to moor ourselves to other continents.
‘Well, it was a good joke.
‘Unfortunately, the truth is even more serious than that, and it looks as though the time is not far off when we shall all say: “Farewell England!” Because our coastline is becoming subject to a highly ominous and alarming process, namely the gradual erosion of the land by the sea.
‘Nowhere is this more marked than in the counties of Norfolk, Suffolk, Kent and the whole of Yorkshire, adding up to several hundred miles of threatened coastline. The Goodwin Sands were once part of the mainland; now they are six miles out to sea. And in parts of Norfolk things are almost in a state of general retreat – some villages, like Shipden, Eccles, Wimpwell, etc., have completely disappeared over the last few years and the town of Cromer has been forced to move three miles inland, lock, stock and barrel. Other towns under imminent threat of invasion by the sea are Winchelsea, Rye, Sandwich, Southport, Overstrand, Sheringham, Sidestrand, Southwold, Auburn and Halburn.
‘Over on the west coast of Britain things are not quite so alarming, but there is no cause for complacency, as even there erosion sometimes reaches a rate of five feet a year.’
And the Kent Messenger concludes with this philosophical thought.
‘It would be nothing less than tragic if the sea, which has proved England’s natural defence for so long, turned out to be our mortal enemy and eventually destroyed us.’
*
As none of us will probably live to see that happy day, let us at least echo the poet’s words:
On n’en finira donc jamais
Avec ces N… de D… d’Angliches!
Faudrait qu’on les extermin’rait
Et qu’on les réduise en sandwiches!
etc., etc., etc.,……
IT’S LOVE THAT MAKES YOU GO ROUND THE WORLD
He was an officer in the Scottish Navy. His name was Captain MacNee but to his fellow officers he was always Captain Steelcock. He was, in fact, what you might call a man’s man. A lady’s man, rather. Either way, he was all man. He stood fully six foot two in his stockinged feet, which is the nearest the English can get to saying that he was almost two metres tall. Quite a man.
He was also an immaculate dresser and without doubt the coolest thing in naval uniform since Nelson’s Column. (Except when pursuing women, which was his main purpose in life.) To top it all, he was one of the very few officers in the Scottish Navy who insisted on wearing a monocle at all times – the crew of the Topsy Turvy, the three-masted frigate over which he assumed total command next to God, swore that he went to bed with his monocle still firmly screwed in, though none of them had ever actually seen him do so.
Nor, come to that, had any of them ever seen him become in the slightest way involved in the running of the ship. He always kept implacably aloof from naval matters, whatever the weather, staying well apart on the bridge. There he strolled up and down by himself, impeccably dressed, hands behind his back, for all the world like a gentleman of Edinburgh taking the air in Princes Street. The running and steering of the ship was left to the first officer, an old sea-dog from Dundee who knew the sea better than the back of his hand. Occasionally he came to tell the captain what course they were on and Steelcock would try to look tremendously interested, but you could see that his mind was far away and that he really couldn’t care less what longitude or latitude they were in.
His mind was far away, did I say? It was in another world. Because what Steelcock was doing was thinking about women. Thinking about the women he had just left. The women he had still not met. The women he had known and the women he wanted to know. Just thinking about women, in fact.
The World of Alphonse Allais Page 10