Ubu Plays, The (10 page)

CONSCIENCE. In which case, Sir, I think we shall have to leave it at that, and so on and so forth, for today.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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 Organ, 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.

THE PALCONTENTS. Those who aren’t skeered - of his tiny beard - are all of them fools - and flunk-at-schools - who’ll find themselves, ere the day is done - in his knackingmachine for their bit of fun.

PA UBU,
who was sitting at his table, gets up and walks.

THE PALCONTENTS: This barrel that rolls, arrel that rolls, arrel that rolls, is Pa Ubu. And his strumpot huge, his trumpot huge, his rumpot huge, his umpot huge is like a ...

PA UBU.
Non cum vacaveris, pataphysicandum est,
as Seneca has said. It would seem a matter of urgency that we get a patch inserted in our suit of homespun philosophy.
Omnia alia negligenda sunt,
it is certainly highly irreverent,
ut huic assideamus,
to employ casks and barrels for the vile business of sewage disposal, for that would constitute the grossest insult to our Master of Phynance now present as a quorum.
Cui nullum tempus vitae satis magnum
est, and so that’s the reason why we have invented this instrument which we have no hesitation whatsoever in designating by the title of Pschittapump.
(He takes it from his pocket and puts it on the table.)