‘You could be right.’
‘Of course I’m right. Now, taking pity on the sufferings of a bull is all very good and proper. But, sir, one bull is only one bull, whereas when you prepare something even as small as a cup of camomile tea you cause more agony and more suffering than has been produced in all the bull rings of the world in the last few centuries.’
‘By God! What a terrible thought. But is there nothing we can do about it?’
‘Yes, certainly. It’s quite simple. Whenever you absolutely have to boil some water, just put a good helping of cocaine in it. Because cocaine removes all sense of feeling from microbes.’
*
I have followed the young man’s advice ever since. Which explains why all those who have done me the honour of dining at my house recently have thought the cooking tasted decidedly odd and gone home feeling wretchedly ill for no apparent reason.
THE PAPER CRISIS
You may have noticed that I have spent most of my recent waking life writing distraught articles about the imminent disappearance of the world’s trees, brought about by our insatiable demand for more and more paper. You may have wondered at the time if there was some special reason for my new obsession. You may even have suspected that I had a hidden commercial interest.
Well, of course I had! I might as well tell you now – before you think of the idea yourself – that I have already set up a little public company which, if it achieves nothing else, will cause a world-wide sensation and make a vast fortune for me. And for you, if you are wise enough to buy shares in it.
Personally, I feel that it will appeal most of all to those small savers and investors who have been so badly treated recently, but it is also bound to be highly attractive to the big investor and no less so to the medium-sized investor. If on the other hand you have no savings of any shape or size, it makes no difference; just get hold of some money and make it available to me.
The main purpose of my new company, I need hardly say, is eminently progressive and ecological. Briefly, we intend to do without paper wherever it is not absolutely necessary and instead to use only substances discovered by modern science.
There are some pundits who claim that we are now living in a Golden Age of Paper. I disagree. My counter-argument runs roughly as follows: You stupid, cretinous imbeciles, you haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about! Why, our grandchildren will think paper to be no more sophisticated than we now consider prehistoric flint. Golden Age of Paper, indeed!
No, no, my friends and fellow shareholders-to-be, let us abandon this sad, sad fallacy.
Not that I advocate for one moment doing away with newspapers or magazines or books.
On the contrary, I pray that the freedom of the press may shine ever more brightly in our society.
May truth, justice and beauty roll forth ever more dazzling in the fearless editorials of this great land of ours!
May…!
But back to business.
I cannot emphasise too strongly that my little company has been formed primarily to ensure that our dailies, weeklies, monthlies, yearlies and other publications no longer depend on paper. And if there be any person so trapped in the archaic world of printing and publishing (especially publishing) that he cannot conceive of an alternative to paper, now is the time for him to be enlightened.
Newspapers can survive without paper!
Magazines can be printed without paper!
Novels can be read without paper!
Let me tell you how.
To start with, my new company will devote most of its resources to publishing every day, if not more often, a new periodical called The Daily Celluloid. All subscribers to this new daily (which will, incidentally, be the best written and most informative of all time) will receive with the first issue a small machine reminiscent of a magic lantern, though not nearly so complicated. You will also get a booklet containing the few instructions needed to work it.
And you will receive, every day, a copy of The Daily Celluloid, which is a small transparent rectangle about the size of a playing card. All you have to do is insert it into a slot in the machine and project on your wall the best selection of news from French papers and from foreign dailies as well.
This miracle is made possible simply by micro-photographing eight or ten pages of a large master newspaper and transferring the results onto the small card mentioned in the last paragraph.
As soon as I have established this enterprise on a firm footing, I shall examine other ways in which the new process can provide us with fat profits, or confer benefits on society or simply enable us to find new ways of shocking the French bourgeoisie.
Meanwhile, send in your subscription as soon as possible.
Although I am very busy with many other projects at the moment, I shall personally welcome all funds sent in by potential shareholders.
Don’t forget – to avoid disappointment, send me your money now.
COMMERCIAL INTERLUDE
(Scene: an ironmonger’s shop. The door opens and a customer comes in.)
*
Customer: Good morning.
Ironmonger: Good morning, sir. Can I help you?
Customer: Yes. I’m looking for one of those gadgets which you fix on a door so that it closes by itself, with a spring. If you know what I mean.
Ironmonger: An automatic door-closer?
Customer: That’s it! An automatic door-closer. Not too expensive, if possible.
Ironmonger: One medium-price automatic door-closer, then.
Customer: That’s right. As long as it’s not too complicated and fiddly.
Ironmonger: Of course not, sir. Just a cheap, simple automatic door-closer.
Customer: Yes, please. But I don’t want one of those really strong ones that pull the door shut before you’re halfway through ….
Ironmonger:…. and tear half your jacket off? I know the kind you mean! No, no, what you need is a simple, reasonably priced automatic door-closer, with gentle action. Does that cover it?
Customer: Absolutely. Not too gentle, though. I’ve seen some door-closers that work so slowly …..
Ironmonger:…. the door’s still half open next time you come back? Right! Don’t tell me! What you’re looking for is a simple budget model, gentle-action quick return door-closer.
Customer: I think that covers everything. As long as it isn’t too stiff. One or two makes seem to be so powerful that you have to push like mad to get the door open at all.
Ironmonger: Right. So what we’re after is a low cost, straightforward, gentle-action, quick return, easy-to-operate automatic door-closer.
Customer: That’s it. Could I have a look at what you’ve got, please?
Ironmonger: Sorry, sir. Don’t do door-closers, sir.
FAMILY LIFE
Ribeyrou and Delavanne, two inseparable friends, had spent their entire Sunday afternoon in the Latin Quarter passing from one big café to another and visiting all the bars where the girls were, scrupulously careful not to miss a single one out.
Until shortly before seven they abruptly remembered that they had been invited out to dinner somewhere in the boulevard de Clichy.
Luckily, the Place Pigalle bus came past and stopped, welcoming them open-armed. They got in and sat down, rather touched by its solicitude.
You should know, by the way, that the route they were about to embark on takes in the Quai des Orfèvres. A curious street, the Quai des Orfèvres. The houses all follow the same pattern; a little shop on the ground floor and then, above shop level, a tiny mezzanine apartment looking more like a ship’s cabin than anything on dry land.
And as the shops themselves are not very tall, the tops of the buses are on the same level as the mezzanine (always assuming the wheel-base of the bus is at road level) and the passengers can see into the mezzanine apartment with amazing ease.
The same applied, of course, to Ribeyrou and Delavanne. So when a traffic jam brought their bus to a complete halt for a minute o
r more, they found themselves, willy-nilly, party to a little family gathering.
The shop they had stopped in front of belonged to a heraldic engraver or armorial block-maker.
Upstairs they could see the whole family sitting ready for the evening meal round the table, and on the table an appetising, steaming tureen of soup.
There was father, and mother, and two grown-up daughters about twenty years old (wearing matching dresses) and another daughter, much younger.
The weather being fine and warm that evening, these nice people had left their window wide open.
And the bus being so close, everyone on board could smell the delicious fragrance of the family stock-pot.
Ribeyrou and Delavanne were completely mesmerised by the domestic tableau. They both felt a lump come into their throat.
Then the bus set off again.
Delavanne was the first to break the silence.
‘There’s real family life for you.’
‘It must be a wonderful life,’ said Ribeyrou.
‘Far better than the kind of life we lead.’
‘Much more restful, too.’
‘I wouldn’t mind taking another look at those nice people. Come on – let’s get off and go back!’
Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to see from street level. The circle of light on the ceiling from the table lamp, and that was about it.
So they went all the way back to the Place Saint-Michel, had a quick absinthe (one for the road), and climbed on to another bus which was just leaving. This time the traffic was flowing freely. The mezzanine apartment looked as appealing as ever but it went past far too fast.
They just got a glimpse of mother serving roast beef. Or was it? There wasn’t really time to be sure.
‘Ah, family life!’ said Ribeyrou again, with a sigh.
‘Tell you what it reminds me of, it reminds me of those Dutch interiors by … that painter …. know the one?’
‘Yes, I know the one you mean … the Flemish artist …’
‘That’s the one!’
‘Shall we have another look.’
‘Suits me.’
So the whole performance took place again, not once but ten times, each circuit being punctuated by an absinthe (one for the road) in the Place Saint-Michel.
The bus station staff began to get worried about their strange behaviour. But as the two travellers were otherwise just as orderly as the other passengers, there seemed to be no cause for interference.
They simply got on the bus, had their look, got off, walked back and got on the next bus…
Meanwhile the heraldic engraver and his family were quietly getting on with their meal, totally unaware that its progress was being surveyed with great emotion by two young men on a bus.
The beef was followed by a leg of lamb, followed by haricot beans, then a salad, then dessert.
Presently the evening became a little cooler and they shut the windows.
One of the daughters sat down at the piano. Another could be seen singing.
From their vantage in the bus they could hear nothing but they knew instinctively that the music must be delightful.
After the absorption of so many absinthes (about a dozen for the road) the two friends had become very powerfully affected by their experience. They were now crying openly, like babies.
‘Ah! Family life! Ah!’
Till brusquely Delavanne came to a momentous decision.
‘Look! We’re being stupid making ourselves unhappy like this. The solution is in our own hands, dammit! All we have to do is go and knock on their door and ask for the two daughters’ hands in marriage! Right?’
So they did.
You can imagine the kind of reception they got.
The heraldic engraver was dumb-struck. Not for long though – once recovered, he delivered a short speech of amazing pungency in which the phrase ‘drunken oafs!’ recurred with regrettable frequency.
Delavanne showed admirable dignity in retreat.
‘My dear proletarian sir, you are perfectly entitled to refuse our kind offer if you wish, but your speech of refusal would have lost nothing by being couched in more select language.’
‘Oh, come on!’ said Ribeyrou. ‘We have to get to Montmartre. Let’s catch the bus.’
‘Bus? Not for me, thanks. I’ve seen enough buses for one day.’
And it came to pass the next morning, after a wild night on the tiles, that the two friends found themselves near the Bastion de Saint-Ouen, without having the faintest recollection of the chain of events that had brought them to such an outlandish part of Paris.
They took refuge in a nearby café and ordered a cognac-and-cassis each (one for the road). Midway through, Delavanne suddenly burst into helpless laughter.
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Ribeyrou. ‘You’re thinking of the heraldic engraver and his family.’
‘Yes! Sitting up there ’tween decks ….’
‘Can you imagine …?’
‘What cretins …!’
And they both went off home to bed.
SENSITIVITY
I am taking the plunge at last, ladies and gentlemen. I am getting married!
More fool you, I hear my readers cry.
And you’re absolutely right. I couldn’t agree more. More fool me.
I’m getting married all the same.
Wait till you hear who I’m getting married to, though. Then you’ll really be up in arms. Not to a woman like that, you’ll say, not to one of those, surely you can’t seriously mean you’re going to marry a ….?
Yes, I can and to prove it I am. And let me tell you something else – any reader who had found himself in the same position as me would have felt exactly the same way I did and ended up marrying her just as I am. So no more idle criticism, please.
Thank you.
Not that it’s my fault anyway. Personally, I blame the mud.
Funny stuff, Paris mud.
Country mud I can understand. The country can’t help being full of mud. When the rain comes down it mixes with the soil and what have you got? You’ve got mud.
But Paris is different. How can rain mix with paving stones or asphalt? Exactly. So where does all the mud in Paris come from?
The day I become a millionaire (the event is tentatively scheduled for the middle of next month) I shall immediately institute an award of 350,000 francs to be given to the best essay on ‘Paris Mud Through the Ages’. No, make that ‘Paris Muds Through the Ages’. Because there are as many different kinds of mud in our capital as there are streets. Go out into Paris on a rainy day, wander from district to district, and before your very feet you’ll see stiff mud, runny mud, black mud, grey mud – every kind of mud. I have even seen bright purple mud. (Only in Impressionist paintings, admittedly.)
But the most aristocratic mud to be found anywhere in Paris, a mud which I can recommend personally after extensive tests, is the mud to be found in the rue des Martyrs. Smooth? It’s so smooth it’s like cold cream in mourning. So bland is it, so soothing, so oily, so mellifluous is it, that any doctor could safely prescribe it as an ointment for a lady’s chapped breast.
To look at it reminds me of a darker version of dubbin.
Did they use dubbin in your regiment when you were in the army?
I was in the 119th Regt, and if you were in the ranks like me you had to put dubbin on your boots once a week.
At least.
There was nothing, absolutely nothing like dubbin for keeping leather fresh and supple, they said – our captain even claimed the stuff gave the leather something to feed on.
Feed on, I ask you!
The worst bit was trying to shine your boots the day after you’d fed the brutes.
Which reminds me – I still laugh every time I think of it – of an excellent practical joke I once played, with the help of dubbin, on a new recruit to the regiment.
The very first day he joined I spotted him in the mess hall chewing his rations in a half-hearted sort
of way, so I went over to cheer him up.
‘Eat up, lad,’ I said. ‘Can’t have you losing your appetite, you know.’
‘It’s not that – it’s just that I don’t fancy this beef very much.’
‘Well, why not have some mustard? That’ll help it down a bit.’
‘Not a bad idea. Where do they keep the mustard round here?’
I helpfully fetched a jar of dubbin and invited him to get stuck in.
All unsuspecting, the poor lad took a good helping on his mess tin lid and dipped every mouthful of meat in it.
Laugh? I almost died.
He went one better. His system revolted against the meat-and-dubbin mixture and he brought it all up again, but in his convulsions he must have injured some vital internal organ because that very night he was admitted to the military hospital and died before dawn.*
I’ve never had such a good laugh in all my life.
*
As I was saying, oiliness is a quality much prized in cold cream and in religion (ever noticed how the top priests are always the oiliest?), but for sheer unctuous blandness nobody can touch the mud in the rue des Martyrs.
Without falling over.
Which is where we came in.
I was walking back home the other night after a day of rain, and the ground had become so treacherous that the passers-by had to fight as hard to keep their balance as if they were sailors inching along a bowsprit covered in olive oil.
I managed to keep my vertical axis perpendicular to the centre of the earth as far as the Café des Martyrs, but there my feet finally slipped from beneath me and I fell flat on my pavement.
I was absolutely covered in the stuff, also in confusion, shame and humiliation (none of it helped much by the laughter of the friendly onlookers).
The World of Alphonse Allais Page 16