The World of Alphonse Allais

by Alphonse Allais

  It turned out that the dogs I had seen were being trained to flee from the German army in time of war, and seek refuge with French or Russian soldiers whom they knew to be kind and gentle. The little carts would be loaded with extremely high explosive, capable of killing thousands of men. The charges, moreover, would be set off at exactly the right moment, thanks to a timing device which could be adjusted according to the distance between the German lines and the enemy.

  It’s as simple as that.

  By the way, the dogs have all been made silent by a surgical operation and the wheels of the little carts are made of rubber, so our men will have no inkling of the approach of this deadly mobile war machine.

  Soldiers of France, you have been warned!

  ROMANCE IN THE RANKS

  It has always been the done thing in the French Army to make fun of the Supply Corps, but the lads in the Supply Corps couldn’t care less. Why should they? As they always say, where else in the French Army does everyone get a horse and carriage laid on free and gratis?

  Horses and carriages! When young Gaston de Puyrâleux joined up for five years, it was this intoxicating prospect which made him opt for what he took to be the premier branch of the armed forces.

  Prior to taking this way out of life’s little problems, Gaston had managed to get through two or three legacies which had come his way, none of them lasting much longer than would the contents of a medium-sized watering can in the Sahara Desert at 12.30 p.m. precisely. What with gambling, dud racing tips, pretty girls, high life and low life, young Puyrâleux had been bled white in no time at all.

  But he had no regrets, and it was with a high heart that he set off to join the 112th Regiment, the Supply Corps, at Vernon.

  Being something of an optimist on the philosopical front, Gaston’s motto in life was ‘Life is what you make of it’, to which he added the admirable rider ‘As long as you have fun’. And being an admirable rider himself, he soon quite effortlessly became the finest horseman and driver in the regiment. His prowess was legendary; if he had wanted to, they said, he could easily have got a full supply train through the eye of a needle without touching the sides.

  *

  The town of Vernon may be set in the most delightful country, but it is also in its own right a pretty dreary old town. For instance, it is short of women. Oh, of how many women is it short! Women worth calling women, if you follow me.

  Which meant that young Gaston was faced with a choice between, on the one hand, going whoring and, on the other hand, going wife-chasing. In such a quandary he had no hesitation. He opted for both.

  In quick succession he became the lover both of fixed-price ladies of the street and of impressionable tradeswomen, not to mention the wives of several civil servants and a Fat Lady in a fair.

  Let me say straightaway that his passion for the last-named never got beyond the platonic stage, despite which it was also unfortunately responsible for the ruining of his brilliant army career.

  La Belle Ardennaise was, according to the sign outside her tent, The Finest Woman of the Century. This may or may not have been the case, but she certainly was one of the most massive. On any other woman her ankles would have done a good job as thighs, and her thighs – well, only a chartered surveyor could have done justice to their suggestive contours. She also went about wearing a huge dark red plush dress set off beautifully by a large scarlet toque. The effect, I can assure you, was rare and wonderful.

  And like an idiot Gaston went and fell deeply, hopelessly, in love with La Belle Ardennaise.

  Sadly, the feeling was not mutual. La Belle Ardennaise was not a light woman in any sense of the word and all Gaston’s lavish attention and the splendour of his full dress uniform were to no avail.

  But he was not the kind of man to take such a humiliating reverse lying down. And having ascertained that La Belle Ardennaise slept all by herself in a caravan far from the fair owner and his family, he hatched a plan of Biblical simplicity.

  One dark night, accompanied only by his faithful groom Plumard, he crept into the fairground. All was silent save for the low growlings of assorted melancholy wild animals. In less time than it takes to write it, he had harnessed to her caravan two fine horses (property of the French government), taken the brakes off, kicked away the chocks from the wheels ….

  A moment later horses, caravan and Gaston were proceeding at top speed out of the town into the sleeping countryside.

  To begin with there was no sign of any reaction from inside the vehicle.

  But hardly were they past the last houses when the caravan window flew open and a loud voice was heard, a rough, strident voice used to giving curt orders. The curt order it gave was: ‘Halt!’

  The horses halted like a shot. And Gaston immediately took on the look of a soldier who is in a very tight spot indeed.

  Because the rough, strident voice was a voice he knew very well indeed, belonging as it did to his commanding officer, Baron Leboult de Montmachin.

  Gaston quickly pulled himself together and went over to the window, cap in hand.

  There was just enough pale starlight for the colonel to recognise him.

  ‘Is that you, Puyrâleux?’

  ‘Yes, sir, it’s me, sir.’

  ‘And what exactly are you up to, may I ask?’

  ‘Well, sir, you see, sir, it was like this, I wasn’t feeling all that well, a bit of a headache actually, and I thought a nice ride in the country might do me a bit of good, so anyway ….’

  The ensuing conversation was not much enjoyed by either side, but it did at least give the colonel a moment or two in which to repair his ravaged toilet. It also gave La Belle Ardennaise time to say several most unladylike things to Gaston.

  ‘And now, if you don’t mind, Puyrâleux,’ said Colonel Baron Leboult de Montmachin by way of concluding things, ‘I would be most grateful if you would take this vehicle back to where you found it and leave it there. I will have another word with you about this incident in the morning.’

  Needless to say, no such conversation ever took place. But Gaston was not overly surprised to learn, when the time came, that he had not been considered for promotion.

  Which was a pity, because it’s not much fun being in Supply if you’re not in demand.

  GOD

  It was late, but the party was still in full swing.

  The later it got, the more flushed the guests became, and noisier, and more amorous.

  Imperceptibly, the ladies began to shed a few inhibitions; likewise a few garments. And as their eyes started to close very gently, their lips began to open wider, revealing the pink and pearly treasure buried within.

  Nobody’s glass stayed full for very long. Or empty either.

  Only the popping of corks and peals of girlish laughter could be heard above the wild singing.

  When suddenly the monotonous nagging tick tock of the ancient grandfather clock in the dining room stopped, and they heard it go into the furious grinding noise which always presaged the striking of the hour.

  It was midnight.

  The twelve strokes rang out slow, stern and solemn, with the vaguely reproachful sound that old family clocks always have. We have struck the midnight hour for all your forebears before you, they seem to say, and we shall be doing the same for your grandsons long after you are dead and gone.

  Unwittingly the rowdy company grew a little quieter. The girls stopped laughing. But Albéric, the maddest of them all, raised his glass and announced mock-heroically:

  ‘Gentlemen, it is midnight, and time to deny the existence of God. I give you the toast: There is no God!’

  Knock, knock, knock.

  There was someone at the front door.

  But who could it be? There were no more guests expected. The servants had all been given the night off.

  Knock, knock, knock!

  The door opened and there stood the imposing figure of an old grey-bearded man wearing a long white robe.

  ‘And who may you be?
’ they all cried.

  The old man answered them very simply.

  ‘I am God.’

  They all looked at each other in dismay. All except Albéric. Braver than the rest, he came forward and said promptly:

  ‘I hope that doesn’t mean you can’t come in and have a little drink with us?’

  In his infinite kindness God saw fit to accept the invitation and soon everyone was back in party mood again. They drank, they laughed, they shouted through the night until finally the stars dimmed with the advent of dawn. Then at last the party broke up.

  When the time came for God to take leave of his hosts, he could be heard quite happily agreeing with everyone that he did not exist.

  A HOUSE OF MYSTERY

  When I read daily newspapers I like to skim through them at top speed, but when it comes to a provincial weekly like Le Petit Bourguignon I always take it nice and slowly, giving myself time to savour every moment. If I haven’t got time to do it properly I put it aside for a moment when I can give it my full attention. Which explains how last week I came to be reading a virgin five-year-old copy of Le Petit Bourguignon.

  And it was while browsing through this otherwise non-controversial organ that I was stopped dead in my tracks by the following sensational item:–

  DIJON REGISTRY OFFICE

  October 29 1895

  Today’s Births

  Henri Clerc, at 7 rue Chaussier

  Lucien-James Ferrand, at 7 rue Chaussier

  Lucienne-Jeanne Walter, at 7 rue Chaussier

  Alice Poisot, at 7 rue Chaussier

  Marcelle-Jeanne-Marguerite Perret, at 11 rue St-Philibert

  In other words, there had been five births on one day in Dijon. And out of those five births, no less than four had taken place in the very same house.

  What a superhuman house it must be.

  The very kind of house that France so desperately needs at a time when every Frenchman worthy of the name is plunged into gloom over our declining birth-rate.

  Now, if only that house in Dijon could manage four births every day, how happy it would make every patriot worthy of the name.

  And if every house in France could put on the same performance, why, in twenty-five years’ time we would have produced enough fighting men to satisfy every rabid, bloodthirsty chauvinist worthy of the name!

  And yet, and yet …. I could not help feeling a tinge of doubt no bigger than a man’s hand.

  Why? Why four births in that one house? And only one in the whole of the rest of Dijon?

  ‘There is something wrong somewhere,’ I hear you murmur.

  You hear me murmur the very same.

  I think you know by now I am not the sort of man to leave any boulevard unexplored, so it will come as no surprise to learn that I wrote immediately to a friend who is high up in local government in Dijon, asking him to shed light on the matter.

  ‘If you can spare time – I wrote – I would be grateful to learn by return of post explanation of multiple births on Oct 29 1895 at 7 rue Chaussier Dijon Côte-d’Or etc.’

  The postal services in Dijon are obviously in a bad way at the moment because it was fully a week before I received a reply. But it was worth waiting for. The tale unfolded by my friend was a dramatic story of intrigue and emotion unparalleled in modern times.

  No. 7 rue Chaussier, it turns out, is a house divided into flats occupied by four different families who all get on extremely well with one another. Or at least they did get on well with one another until the anonymous letters started arriving, a few years ago. They were the worst possible kind of anonymous letters: nasty, vicious and unprincipled, accusing everyone in the house of the most unbridled carryings on, sordid affairs and unmentionable crimes. In no time at all the peace of the house was in ruins. And beyond repair, it seemed, because not only did family stop speaking unto family, but wives started threatening divorce actions and husbands began working out the most efficient ways of murdering wives.

  I need hardly tell you, dear reader, that there was not a word of truth in any of the scandalous accusations contained in those letters, which had all been written by some foul-minded, sick, perverted etc….

  But no-one bothered to try to put the unfortunate state of affairs right again. No-one, that is, except the bachelor who lived right at the top of the house in the fifth and final flat and who was so distressed by the whole affair (so my friend tells me) that he decided to put things right by himself.

  How, though?

  Well, he finally came to the conclusion that you could only fight evil by using its own weapons. So he embarked on a second series of anonymous letters and wrote screeds of them to everyone in the house, but this time so glowing with kindness, cheerfulness and lack of recrimination that before very long everyone was happily reconciled and back on the best of terms again.

  A celebration was clearly called for. Accordingly the bachelor threw a party for the Clercs and Ferrands and Walters and Poisots, a party such as had never been seen in Dijon since the original launching party for the invention of mustard.

  And what a feast it was!

  The food was fabulous, out of this world.

  The wine – well, not only was there nothing but the best, there was as much of it as anyone wanted.

  This reunion party, I should add, took place on January 29.

  And exactly nine months later, on October 29, 1895, France suddenly found itself four little citizens better off.

  *

  STOP PRESS: I have just discovered that I have been the victim of a particularly cruel and heartless practical joke. I regret to have to tell you that No. 7 rue Chaussier is nothing but a common maternity home.

  FREAKS

  In the midst of this Universal Exhibition of 1889, I often find my mind slipping back to the Exhibition of 1878. (An example of that curious phenomenon known as the association of ideas, to which my generation is especially prone. To think that ten years’ worth of water has flowed under the bridge since then! It’s frightening how old one gets between Universal Exhibitions, especially if they happen fairly infrequently.)

  I also find my mind slipping back to the girl-friend I had at the time of the 1878 Exhibition, a sweet little brunette with such an innocent face that even the most cynical priest would have unhesitatingly given her Absolution without Confession. (Mistakenly; a night of orgy was child’s play for her.)

  And I remember her saying to me at table one day:

  ‘Well, what will you be doing at the Exhibition?’

  ‘What were you expecting me to be doing at the Exhibition?’

  ‘Exhibiting.’

  ‘Exhibiting? Exhibiting what?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘But I haven’t invented anything!’

  (This was in the days before I had invented my frosted glass aquarium for shy fish.)

  ‘All right, then,’ she said, ‘just hire a stall and exhibit a freak or monster or prodigy or something.’

  ‘A prodigy? What prodigy? You, perhaps?’

  Her face clouded over fast and she said thunderously:

  ‘Me? A prodigy?’

  Before the rain of blows could fall, I adopted a sunny, conciliatory tone of voice and said quickly:

  ‘Truly a prodigy, my dearest. A prodigy of grace and charm and beauty.’

  I wasn’t exaggerating, actually. She really was quite a darling, the little bitch. Pretty nose, large mouth (well-furnished), masses of silky hair, and one of those rosy-white complexions which betoken a woman fed on cream. I won’t go so far as to say that I would have thrown myself in the Place Pigalle fountains to save her from drowning, but I was tolerably mad about her.

  So in the cause of peace I said:

  ‘All right, all right. Just to please you, I will exhibit a prodigy.’

  ‘Can I be on the door?’

  ‘Yes, you can be on the door.’

  ‘If I make a mistake with the change, you won’t beat me?’

  ‘Have I ever beaten you?’r />
  ‘No, but have you ever let me handle your change before …?’

  I give you this chunk of dialogue only to let you have some idea of the kind of conversation I had to undergo with Eugénie (or Berthe, or whatever her name was).

  Eight days later I received delivery from London of a dwarf, a lovely little dwarf. Now as everyone knows, when English dwarfs really want to be small they can fool the best microscopes, but (and not everyone knows this) when they want to be spiteful then wild Shetland ponies couldn’t stop them. I got one of those. He took an instant dislike to me and spent his entire time in Paris devising trials and tribulations with which to afflict me. On opening day, for example, he stood on tip-toe the whole time and stretched himself upwards to such good effect that he didn’t look much smaller than you or me.

  My friends all pulled my leg and said: ‘Some dwarf you’ve got there!’

  I translated their cynical reactions into English for him, but all he said was:

  ‘Not my fault, is it? You can’t be on top form every day.’

  And then one evening I came home from the office two hours earlier than I usually arrived, and guess who I found in bed with Clara! (I remember now, she was called Clara.)

  Don’t try. You’d never guess in a thousand years.

  My dwarf! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Clara was deceiving me with the Lilliputian Londoner!

  I flew into a terrible rage.

  Luckily for the midget double-crosser, my first reaction was to raise my fists. By the time I had lowered them again to his height, he had gone.

  He didn’t come back either.

  As for Clara, she was still lying in bed convulsed with laughter.

  ‘And what’s so damned funny?’ I asked her.

  ‘So funny? Oh, come on, what’s wrong with you! You great idiot, there’s no need to be jealous of an English dwarf, for heaven’s sake. I was just curious, that’s all. And it was fascinating….’