The World of Alphonse Allais

by Alphonse Allais

  Very exciting, I admit, but – between you and me – not very dignified.

  My own approach is quite different. I visualise nothing more or less than the disposal of our corpses by means of hungry lions.

  I think you will agree that the ceremony thus involved would be most picturesque and would even have a certain grandeur.

  The only drawback to my proposed method – and I am the first to admit it – is that lions have an unconquerable aversion to meat which has gone off in the slightest, which means that it would be preferable to deliver the body for the ceremony a few hours before it had breathed its last. (A few days before, if possible.)

  I would be pleased to hear what you, as editor-in-chief, think of my little suggestion.

  I remain etc (there then follows the signature of a famous name which, for the sake of his family, I prefer not to reveal).

  What do I think of your little suggestion. M. Poincaré?

  I will tell you.

  You are a puller of legs, sir, and if I had bothered to read your letter to the end before attaching it to my copy, as I so foolishly failed to do, I would never have done you the honour of printing your contribution, believe you me.

  It’s too late now, alas.

  THE CORPSE CAR

  You may recently have read a piece of fantasy by Tristan Bernard in these very pages in which he posited the invention of an electrical device for removing the droppings left by rocking-horses.

  No doubt you smiled to yourself and passed on. Well, the problem doesn’t affect you personally, I’m sure.

  But I can think of a good many people, solid worthy citizens all, who will have found his little joke cruelly near the truth.

  I refer to the genuine sweepers of real droppings left by live horses.

  Not so long ago I had a long talk with the genial head of the National Federation of Horse Dropping Sweepers (Seine Branch) and I learnt from him that the livelihood of these good men is becoming highly precarious.

  Why?

  You all know why.

  Because of bicycles and cars!

  They are the culprits.

  For – and it would be childish to deny it any longer – the horse is not only dying, it is already dead. Henceforth the noblest friend of man is destined to be the petrol-driven vehicle made by Messieurs Dion and Bouton.

  True, the Society for the Protection of Animals could recently be heard praising the advent of the car on the grounds that it would relieve their poor nags of such unwanted drudgery. But these otherwise kindly gents of the SPA are too short-sighted to realise that what may be good for animals is bad for long-suffering humanity.

  What will the horse dropping sweepers do instead?

  What will the spur-makers do?

  What will the merchants of riding boots do?

  And what will happen to all those industries which may seem far removed from the training and equipping of horses but which will be just as savagely affected by the scourge of this modern invention?

  Have you thought, to name only one example, of the effect on undertakers and their horse-drawn hearses? They are, after all, the only tradesmen whom we all have to patronise sooner or later. What, I ask you, will be the effect on them!

  Luckily, it so happens by sheer chance that I am at present involved in the promotion of a new invention which will solve the problems of all undertakers, because it will replace the horse-drawn funeral hearse and the cremation oven at one and the same time.

  The necromobile!

  (Following the fashion of the day, the inventor of the machine has given it an English name: ‘Corpse Car’.)

  As you may have perhaps guessed already, the energy necessary to drive the vehicle is derived from the burning of the body of the dear departed. This means that the engine is powered both by steam and gas via a somewhat complicated process. The steam comes from the water content of the late dear one (the human body is, unbelievably, 75% water). The gas is derived from the distillation of the rest of the remains of the poor lamented father (or mother, as the case may be).

  My inventor calculates that a dead man of average weight should provide enough fuel to carry at least a dozen funeral guests to a cemetery eight kilometres away.

  Which means that at last it will be possible to be simultaneously quick and dead.

  CAPTAIN CAP AGAIN

  Arriving in Nice for the first time, two large posters on a wall caught the eye of Captain Cap and myself.

  (I can’t help thinking there is something terribly wrong with the syntax of that sentence. It is hard to believe I was once a promising writer.)

  The poster that I liked read as follows:-

  MONSIEUR X ———— CHIROPODIST

  Address…….. Telephone Number….

  ‘The only reputable chiropodist in Nice’

  Never in my life have I so regretted not having a single corn, verruca, bunion or trace of athlete’s foot in my netherest regions.

  Can you imagine? There I was, within reach of a master craftsman who not only prided himself on his reputation but could confidently state that he was the only chiropodist in the metropolis of Nice who could legitimately claim one – and I had nothing to offer him on which to work his skill. Pity (what a, oh!).

  The only constructive suggestion Captain Cap could make was that he seemed to remember that among the womenfolk of some Polynesian archipelago or other it was the custom to measure one’s beauty by the amount of corns found in the most unexpected parts of the body and that if I liked we could adjourn to the chiropodist to have me examined. I politely declined.

  Cap himself was much more interested in the other advertisement, which announced to All and Sundry (no doubt a firm of passers-by) that anyone having a sum between 25 centimes and 1 franc on their person could gain admittance to a private view of an orang-outang, yes, ladies and gentlemen, the genuine wild man of the woods, the ONLY (just like my chiropodist, only more so) the ONLY orang-outan ever seen in France since time immemorial! The inscription continued: ‘His name is Auguste. We shall gladly give 10,000 francs to anyone who can disprove our claim.’

  10,000 francs! But for disproving what? That he was a genuine orang-outan? Or that he really was called Auguste?

  To Captain Cap’s pure and unsuspecting soul, there could be no doubt. All one had to do was prove that the pathetic creature was not called Auguste, collect the 10,000 francs and rush off to break the bank at Monte Carlo. How lovely and simple it all seemed to him.

  And thereafter Cap kept muttering unendingly to me:

  ‘I don’t know why, but something keeps telling me that that orang-outan does not rejoice under the name of Auguste.’

  ‘Oh, forget it.’

  ‘Why should I forget it? You saw his picture, He doesn’t even look like an Auguste.’

  ‘**** off.’

  ‘Allais, your taste is objectionable. If you tell me once more to **** off, I shall find myself giving you a ******* good kick in the *****.’

  My motto in life is that there are few things worse you can get in the ***** than a ******* good kick. So I changed the subject and bought Cap a Manhattan Cocktail.

  That same evening, Cap returned to Antibes to spend the night on his yacht and it was another fortnight before I saw him again.

  One morning he burst into my bedroom before I had even woken up, shouting at me in a most unhealthy sort of way:

  ‘I’ve got it! I’ve got it at last! I have absolute, definite proof!’

  ‘Proof?’ I said in my sleep. ‘Proof of what?’

  ‘I knew all along that bloody orang-outan wasn’t called Auguste!’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘I have here in my hand a telegram from Borneo, from the place where he was born. And guess what? Not only is he not called Auguste – his real name is William!’

  ‘Would that make him a relation of William of Orang?’

  ‘Allais, your taste is still objectionable. No matter – we now have from the French consul in Borneo all the
evidence we need to prove beyond doubt that he is not Auguste. Let us to a lawyer and claim our 10,000 francs.’

  My solicitor in Nice, M. Pineau, one of the most eminent lawmen this side of the Alps, arranged the paperwork in the twinkling of an eye and off we set to claim our reward.

  Alas! We found the travelling fair had packed its bags and travelled on. There was no sign of the soi-disant Auguste, or his tent, or the owner, or even the 10,000 francs. They had all moved to San Remo in Italy. And I need hardly remind my readers that under Italian law any monkey, chimpanzee or ape more than 70 centimetres tall may legally be known by any name he chooses.

  A STROKE OF GOOD LUCK

  A few days ago I was involved in a most delightful adventure which I insist on sharing with my distinguished circle of readers. On the day in question, as a matter of fact, I had spent most of my spare time sitting in the Law Courts, but I became so powerfully affected by the eloquent pleading of the counsel for my defence that I could no longer resist the urge to dash across to the Brasserie Dreher for a large glass of beer. And it was there, after only a couple of minutes, that I realised I was being closely observed by a tall young man, with a pale sad face. So I wasn’t too surprised when he got up, came over and very politely:

  ‘Could I steal a few moments of your valuable time?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘I have been watching you, and I get the impression that you are a man who would not be surprised by anything human behaviour had to offer.’

  ‘That just about sums me up.’

  ‘I thought as much. In that case, you may be sympathetic to what I am about to ask of you. You see …. well, I won’t bother with any preamble, or foreword or introduction. All I need tell you is that I have fallen madly in love with a girl who comes past this place every evening at about half past six. So far I have never dared speak to her, because I am desperately shy. But this morning I took a solemn oath that I would go out and talk to her today! The question is, how? Well, I have decided to use one of the oldest tricks in the world. Which means, of course, one of the best tried tricks in the world.’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘What I suggest is that when she appears over the skyline, I point her out to you, and you, as soon as she comes close enough, go out and accost her. You know, make one or two rather forward suggestions ….. then become a bit more pressing ….. then go the whole hog. As soon as I see her getting flustered and embarrassed, I shall come to the rescue. “Sir”, I shall wax indignant, “I must ask you to leave this young lady alone!” etc., etc. After that it should be plain sailing.’

  ‘Excellent!’

  ‘At which point you retire from the scene crestfallen and discomfited. I shall be glad to let you know what ensues thereafter, if you accept my invitation to dine with me here at midday tomorrow.’

  ‘I gladly agree.’

  ‘Good. Ah! …. here she comes now.’

  The young lady in question was certainly very presentable, very presentable indeed. So, following the plan of action, I went out and fell in step beside her. “Hello, darling, any chance of …?” and so on and so forth. She didn’t say a word. My questions became a little franker, but that pretty mouth remained tight shut. So my conversation became, well, somewhat ungentlemanly. She looked prettier and more desirable as each moment passed. At last the pale sad young man thought it was time to interfere.

  ‘Sir, I must ask you to leave this young lady alone!’

  At which she turned on him with a furious expression and, in the most urban of accents:

  ‘Well, you’ve got a bleedin’ nerve, ain’t you? Who asked you to poke your nose in?’

  And to me:

  ‘Go on, tell ’im to clear off! Give ’im one if ’e doesn’t!’

  I debated whether the script really called for physical violence.

  ‘Well? Go on, knock ’is block off! Blimey, are you a man or ain’t yer?’

  This lingering doubt about my virility made up my mind for me. I took a long powerful swing at the pale sad young man, which he managed to parry neatly with his left eye …… Not an hour later this delicious child, this veritable Vermicelli* virgin, was ushering me into her apartment on the Boulevard Arago prior to one of the most intimate and enjoyable evenings of my life.

  *

  The next day, on the stroke of twelve, I appeared for my lunchtime rendezvous with the pale sad young man.

  He never turned up.

  Ingratitude, perhaps? Or just plain forgetfulness?

  * Famous nineteenth century Italian painter.

  A CHRISTMAS STORY II

  I think I am speaking for fellow burglars everywhere when I say that my favourite day in the year – or, to be strictly accurate, my favourite night of the year – is Christmas Eve.

  Especially if I am out burgling in the country.

  In certain parts of the country, especially.

  By which I mean (I don’t have to spell all this out for you, do I?) those parts of the country where religion is still a devout and flourishing business.

  Because there are in France to this day, believe it or not, naive rural areas where the inhabitants flock to midnight mass on Christmas Eve not merely from a sense of duty but with a genuine fervour. They go, not so much as Christians to prayer, more as poets to embrace the images of their dreams. The star …. the three wise men …. the stable …. baby Jesus on his bed of soft wood shavings …. pretty little Mary, Mummy of God, flushed with excitement yet a bit pale too; well, after all, it’s so tiring having to entertain all these unexpected guests, look after them, chat to them, see them out …. and old carpenter Joseph in the corner, looking rather overcome, feeling ever so slightly out of place (not that he hasn’t been amply compensated since with a nice permanent niche in the Abode of the Blessed) ….

  *

  Time: the eighteen-hundred-and-ninety-third anniversary of the great event.

  Place: the parish of A-on-B (in the Département of C-on-D).

  It was a foul night.

  The sky was full of stars.

  Not a cloud to be seen anywhere.

  There was even a big, round, full moon. Stupid great thing! I felt as if I was in a hall of mirrors with all the lights on and the chandeliers blazing overtime.

  How would you like to work in such terrible conditions?

  Still, I had one thing in my favour. The place I was about to patronise was fully equipped with plenty of jewels, silver, stocks and shares, all in the same drawer, together with a little book containing their numbers carefully noted down. (When will they ever learn?)

  I would have to go in by the back garden. Unfortunately, there was a large dog there. Fortunately, strychnine has many valuable uses …. what am I saying? Strychnine has one valuable use.

  While I was waiting for mass to start, I went over my plan of operations again. A lovely plan it was, worked out for me by a friend who till recently was an officer in the Corps of Engineers but had to leave suddenly for reasons which are none of your business.

  A little beauty of a plan.

  A blind burglar could have got away with it.

  And to think there are some people who disapprove of sending army officers to college.

  At last, midnight came.

  The bell rang for mass.

  Then, silence.

  Everyone was safely in church.

  *

  ‘Yap, yap, yap yap!’

  Shut up, you mangy cur.

  ‘Are you hungry, then? Here’s a nice little pill for a nice little doggy.’

  He keeled over and lay on his back, four little paws sticking up in the air, observing a religious silence.

  And there I was, inside!

  *

  There I was, inside.

  And even more quickly, there I was making for the roof.

  Because from nowhere a man had appeared with a pistol in his hand, looking much more intent on arresting people than on celebrating the birth of his Saviour.
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  He shouted at me like a madman.

  I ran like a madman.

  ‘After him, after him!’ he screamed.

  And after me came a great mob of coppers, firemen and God knows what else.

  I never enjoy scrambling around on rooftops at the best of times, but when it has been snowing hard the whole thing becomes unutterably melancholy, don’t you find? I do.

  Suddenly there was a great cry of triumph from everybody: ‘Got you! Got you! Come on, you old rascal, come quietly!’

  Which was odd. Because it wasn’t me they’d got.

  So who was it, then?

  I risked a little peep from the chimneystack behind which I was squatting.

  The police were holding on to the arms, legs and head of some poor old chap who was struggling away for dear life.

  And I felt very sorry for him.

  Because the man they had mistaken for me, the man they thought was the burglar, the man in the long white beard and red cloak bringing presents from baby Jesus, was none other than Father Christmas.

  THE SEARCH FOR THE UNKNOWN WOMAN

  When I give a young person the benefit of my advice, there is one thing I always stress above all. If you intend to embark on an act of violence or a serious crime, plan it carefully. Otherwise the results may be more complicated than you anticipate. Let me tell you a little story to show you what I mean.

  Once upon a time, there was a nice young man (a bit impressionable, perhaps, but nice and young) who was attending the funeral of a lady who had just died and had been, up to that very moment, the wife of a friend of his. Our young man was not particularly religious-minded, so his attitude towards the service could best be described as inattentive, with perhaps a jigger of boredom. When, suddenly ….

  No sarcastic laughs, please. Which one of us can be sure that such a thing will not happen to him?