Ubu Plays, The (11 page)

THE PALCONTENTS. Hoy, Mister! Yas suh!

PA UBU. And now, as it’s getting late, we shall retire to our slumbers. Ah, but I forgot! When you get back from Egypt, you will bring us some mummy-grease for our machine, although we are informed, hornstrumpot, that the animal runs very fast and is extremely difficult to capture.
(He takes his green candle and his pump and goes out.)

THE PALCONTENTS
sing
,
without moving, while the statue of
MEMNON
is erected in the middle of the stage, its base being a barrel.

THE PALCONTENTS.

Tremble and quake at the Lord of Phynance,
Little bourgeois who’s getting too big for his pants!
It’s too late to scream when we’re skinning your arses,
For the Palcontent’s knock means he’ll chop off your block
With a sideaways look through the top of his glasses ...
Meanwhile at dawn Pa Ubu leaves his couch,
No sooner awake, he’s a hundred rounds to make,
With a bang he is out and flings open the door
Where the verminous Palcontents snozzle and snore.
He pricks up an ear, lets it down with a whistle,
To a kick on the bum they fall in by the drum
Till the parade ground’s a mass of unmilitary gristle.
Then he reads his marauders their bloodthirsty orders,
Throws them a crust, betimes an onion raw,
And with his boot inclines them through the door ...
With ponderous tread he quits his retinue,
Inquires the hour, consults his clockatoo ...
‘Great God! ’tis six! how late we are today!
Bestir yourself, my lady wife Ubé!
Hand me my pschittasword and money-tweezers.’
‘Oh, Sir,’ says she, ‘permit a wife’s suggestion:
Of washing your dear face is there no question ?’
The subject is distasteful to the Lord of Phynance
(Sometime King of Aragon, of Poland, and of France);
Through his foul breeks he infiltrates his braces,
And, come rain or snow or hail, slanting to the morning gale,
Bends his broad back toward the lonely places.

THE PALCONTENTS
cross the stage, chanting:

Walk with prudence, watch with care.
Show them how vigilant the Palcontents are,
Wisely discriminating how matters lie
Twixt black tycoons and honest passers-by.
Look at that one - his pin-stripe suit, his multi-coloured
stockings, his plume of feathers - a Rentier or I’m a
Dutchman.
Abominable countenance, cowardly sucker, we’ll give you a
thorough beating up on the spot.
In vain the Rentier tries to appease the Palcontents. He’s
loaded with fetters and belaboured with punches.
The Honourable Pa Ubu will be agreeably surprised.
He shall have Rentier’s brains for dinner.

They go out.

REBONTIER, ACHRAS
enter, one from the right, the other from the left. They recite their soliloquies simultaneously.

REBONTIER
(dressed as a rentier, multicoloured stockings, plume of feathers, etc.).
Ha, it’s shameful! it’s revolting ! A miserable civil servant. I only get 3,700 francs as salary and every morning Herr Ubu demands the payment of a treasury bill for 80,000 francs. If I can’t pay cash I have to go and get a taste of the Bleed-Pig machine set up permanently in the place de la Concorde, and for each session he charges me 15,000 francs. It’s shameful, it’s revolting.

ACHRAS. Oh, but it’s like this, I’ve no way of staying at home. Herr Ubu has long made his intentions clear that I should keep out, look you; and besides, saving your presence, he has installed a pschittapump, look you, in my bedroom. Oh! there’s someone coming. Another Palcontent!

REBONTIER. Whom do I behold? An emissary from the Master of Phynance? Let’s jolly him along. Long live Mister Ubu!

ACHRAS. Rather than risk being impaled again, I’d better agree with him, look you. Killemoff, look you! Debrain him. Off with his nears!

REBONTIER. To the Bleed-Pig! Death to Rentiers!

ACHRAS. To the Stake, look you.

They advance on each other.

REBONTIER. Help! help! murder!

ACHRAS. Ho there, help!

They collide while trying to escape from each other.

ACHRAS
(on his knees).
Mister Palcontent, spare me. I didn’t do it on purpose, look you. I am a faithful supporter of Mister Ubu.

REBONTIER. It’s revolting! I am a zealous defender of the Master of Phynance and Chancellor of the Excreta.

ACHRAS. Oh, but it’s like this, Guv’nor, look you, are you a Fencing Master ?

REBONTIER. I greatly regret, Sir, but I have not that honour.

ACHRAS. ‘Cause,’cause, look you, oh very well, if you aren’t a Fencing Master, I shall hand you my card.

REBONTIER. Sir, in that case, I see no point in any further dissimulation. I am a Fencing Master.

ACHRAS. Oh very well -
(He slaps his face
.) — give me your card now, please, look you. Because I slap all fencing masters so that they are obliged to give me their card, look you, and afterward I give the fencing masters’ cards to anyone who isn’t a fencing master to frighten him, because I’m a man of peace myself and now that’s understood, very well then!

REBONTIER. How revolting! But Sir, you provoke me in vain. I shan’t fight a duel with you; besides, it would be too uneven.

ACHRAS. As to that, look you, set your mind at rest, I shall be magnanimous in victory.

A
WOOLIDOG
⁸
crosses
the
stage.

REBONTIER. It’s infamous! This creature sent by Mister Ubu has stripped my feet of their coverings.

ACHRAS. Your multicoloured stockings and your shoes, look you. And to think that I was going to ask you to escape with me.

REBONTIER. Escape? Where to?

ACHRAS. So we can give each other satisfaction, of course, but far away from Mister Ubu.

REBONTIER. In Belgium?

ACHRAS. Or better still, look you, in Egypt. I shall pick up a pyramid or two for my collection of polyhedra. As for your slippers, look you, I’ll have the cobbler from the comer come up and repair the damage.

REBONTIER, THE PALCONTENTS, MEMNON on
his barrel.

REBONTIER
goes to sit down, and at the same moment
MEMNON
plays a prelude on his flute, since dawn is breaking.
REBONTIER
listens horrified to what follows, as he stands in front of the barrel-base. The
PALCONTENTS,
who will enter from the other side to join in the refrain, cannot see him.

MEMNON. A cabinet-maker was I for many a long year,

Rue du Champs de Mars in All Saints’ Parish;
My dear wife was a dressmaker designing lady’s wear,
And the style in which we lived was pretty lavish.
Every blooming Sunday if it wasn’t raining,
We’d put on our best clothes and toddle down
To join the mob who came for the Debraining,
Rue de l’Echaudé, the greatest show in town.
One, two, watch the wheels go round,
Snip, snap, the brains fly all around,
My oh my the Rentier’s in a stew!

THE PALCONTENTS.
Hip hip arse-over-tip! Hurrah for Old Ubu!

MEMNON. With our two beloved nippers, clutching us jammily

And waving paper dolls, as happy as can be,
Upstairs on the bus we’re a well-adjusted family
As we roll off merrily towards the Echaudé.
Crowding to the barrier, risking broken bones,
Regardless of the blows, we push to the front row.
Then yours truly climbs up on a pile of stones
To protect my turn-ups when the claret starts to flow,
One, two,
etc.

THE PALCONTENTS.
Hip hip arse-over-tip! Hurrah for Old Ubu !

MEMNON. Soon with brains we’re plastered, the old girl and me,

Our two kids lap it up and we’re all jubilating
As we watch the Palcontent display his cutlery -
The first incision’s made and the numbered coffins waiting.
Suddenly I notice right up by the machine
The half-familiar phiz of a chap I used to know.
Hey, there! I shout to him, So much for you, old bean!
You tried to cheat me once, am I glad to see you go!
One, two, etc.

THE PALCONTENTS.
Hip hip arse-over-tip! Hurrah for Old Ubu!

MEMNON. A plucking at my sleeve, it’s my spouse as I perceive.

Come on, you slob, she screeches, Take a crack!
Chuck a man-sized wad of dung at the lying bastard’s tongue,
The Palcontent’s just turned his ruddy back!
Such excellent advice won’t allow me to think twice,
I summon all my courage and let fly -
An enormous lump of pschitt meant to score the winning hit,
Got the Palcontent instead full in the eye.

THE PALCONTENTS
and
MEMNON.
One, two,
etc. MEMNON. Toppled from my heap of stone, on the barrier I’m thrown,

As the Palcontent turns round to see who nicked him:
Down the hole of no return, pulped like butter in a churn,
And The People’s justice claims another victim.
So that is what you cop for a little Sunday hop,
Rue de l’Echaudé where necks are craning -
You set out like a lord and they return you on a board,
Just because you fancied a debraining.

THE PALCONTENTS and MEMNON.
One, two, see the wheels go round,

Snip, snap, the brains fly all around,
My oh my the Rentier’s in a stew!
Hip hip arse-over-tip! Hurrah for Old Ubu!

The PALCONTENTS
climb back into their packing-cases on seeing daylight.
ACHRAS
appears, followed by
SCYTOTOMILLE
carrying his signboard and an assortment of footwear on a tray.

MEMNON, REBONTIER, ACHRAS, SCYTOTOMILLE.

ACHRAS. So out of consideration for the unities, look you, we have been unable to come to your shop. Make yourself at home here -
(He opens the door at the back.)
- in this modest corner, your cobbler’s sign over the door, and my young friend will present you with his request.

REBONTIER. Master Cobbler, I’m the one who’s escaping to Egypt with my worthy friend Mister Achras. The woolidogs have stripped my feet bare. I should like to obtain some shoes from you.

SCYTOTOMILLE. Here’s an excellent article, Sir, though I blush to name it: speciality of the firm - the Turd-Cruncher. For just as no two turds are alike so does a Turd-Cruncher exist for every taste. These are for while they are still steaming; these are for horse dung; these are for the oldest coproliths; these are for sullen cowpats; these for the innocent meconium of a breast-fed baby; here’s something special for policeman’s droppings; and this pair here is for the stools of a middle-aged man.

REBONTIER. Ah, Sir! I’ll take those, they’ll do me very well. How much do you charge for them, Master Cobbler?

SCYTOTOMILLE. Fourteen francs, since you respect us shoe-makers.

ACHRAS. You’re making a mistake, look you, not to take this pair, look you, for policeman’s droppings. You’ll get more wear out of them.

REBONTIER. You’re quite right, Sir. Master Cobbler, I’ll take the other pair.
(He starts to go.)

SCYTOTOMILLE. But you haven’t paid for them, Sir!

REBONTIER. Because I took them instead of those things of yours for the man of middle age.

SCYTOTOMILLE. But you haven’t paid for them either.

ACHRAS. Because he hasn’t taken them, look you.

SCYTOTOMILLE. Fair enough.

ACHRAS(
to
REBONTIER). It’s not a very new trick, look you;but quite good enough for an old botcher like that: he’ll make it up somehow.

ACHRAS
and
REBONTIER,
ready to leave, find themselves face to face with
THE PALCONTENTS.

The same.
THE PALCONTENTS.

THE PALCONTENTS
(outside).
Walk with prudence, watch with care,
etc.

BINANJITTERS. We must hurry up and get in, it’s daylight and our packing-cases will be closed.

CRAPENTAKE. Hi there, Palcontent 3246, here’s one, catch him and stuff him in your crate.

FOURZEARS. I’ve got you, Mister Mummy. Mister Ubu
will
be pleased.

ACHRAS. Oh, but you’ve got hold of the completely wrong idea. Let me go, look you. Don’t you recognise me ? It’s me, Mister Achras, who’s been impaled once already.

REBONTIER. Sir, let me alone, this is a revolting infringement of the liberty of the individual. Besides, I’m late for my appointment with the Bleed-Pig.

CRAPENTAKE. Look out! The Big-un’s getting away.

FOURZEARS. Oh! he’s a lively — , that one.

Struggle.

REBONTIER. Help, Master Cobbler, and I’ll pay for my shoes.

ACHRAS. After them, look you, beat them up.

SCYTOTOMILLE. I’d rather beat it myself.

A
PALCONTENT
sets fire to his hair.

What a night! I’ve got hair-ache.

THE PALCONTENTS. Abominable countenance, etc.

They roast the
COBBLER,
then close the door again: a last tongue of flame shoots through the window.
ACHRAS and REBONTIER
are hurled into the barrel base of
MEMNON
who is himself toppled off it on to the ground, to make room for them.

THE PALCONTENTS
(making their way out).

The woolidogs, those golliwogs ...
The money bunnies, tweezer geezers ...
That unfortunate rentier, Mister Rebontier,
Is covered with pschitt from head to feet;
While the onlookers jeer and not one spares a tear ...
The phynancial camels are last in his train:
The phynancial camels ... they’ve humped it in vain.