Gneu, Gou, Gu

WE have it on the authority of Sir Harold Nicol- son, as Strix was saying - recently, that 'the appreciation of nonsense . . . is a phenomenon which can rarely be found except among the. English people.' But those foreigners are catch- ing up with us, if the plays of M. lonesco are anything to go by. Of course it may well be that the appreciation of these plays by audiences and critics here surpasses that accorded them in Paris. It would not be surprising, for we are by nature especially respectful in the face of foreign non- sense. M. Ionesco is himself, as is often the way, rather more light-hearted. Amedie ou Comment s'en Debarrasser, he explains, 'simply relates an incident from any newspaper, a sad commonplace adventure that could happen to any of us and that has certainly happened to many of us. It is a slice of life, a realistic play. So, if you can accuse this work of being ordinary you certainly

cannot condemn it for its lack of truthfulness. For example, you will see mushrooms growing on the stage and this must be evident proof that these are real mushrooms, altogether normal mush- rooms.' The incident in question is the annoying discovery by Amddde and Madeleine that the corpse they have kept for some years in a bed- room has begun to grow. This puts Madeleine off her stride at the switchboard where she works and makes it quite impossible for Amedee to get on with his writing. The corpse grows and grows, while monstrous mushrooms sprout all over the place. Enormous boots propelled by gigantic legs gradually push across the stage. Eventually the swelling corpse begins to break through the win- dow. Good God, what will the neighbours think? How to get rid of it? M. lonesco provides alterna- tive endings, neither of them particularly con- vincing. A friend of mine who is always trying to get rid of corpses tells me that nothing is more difficult than getting them to turn into parachutes and carry you off to the stars.

Other nonsense by M. lonesco has more satis- fying nonsensical endings. The New Tenant, for example, is moving into a flat. He stands in the middle of the stage directing two furniture movers who stagger in and out with pieces large and small. They keep on doing so until the new tenant disappears from sight and the entire stage is jammed. By this time, one is given to understand, the staircase and the street are also jammed with the new tenant's furniture; the whole city, in fact, is at a standstill; the tubes have stopped running; the Thames can flow no longer.

What could be simpler? It's the sort of thing that's always happening—perfectly straight- forward. Nor could one be mystified by M. Ionesco's dialogue, which is simple indeed to the point of banality. We should sympathise with him when he grows irritated by the more earnest critics and cocks a snook at his interpreters.

Then there is The Lesson, in which a girl of eighteen comes to get some private tuition from an elderly Professor.

PROFESSOR: What do one and one make? PUPIL: One and one make two.

PROFESSOR (astounded by his pupil's erudition): But that's very good indeed! You're extremely advanced in your studies. You'll have very little difficulty in passing all your Doctorate examinations.

PUPIL: I'm very pleased to hear it, Sir. Especially from you.

PaorEssoa: Let us proceed a little farther: What do two and one make?

PUPIL: Three.

But after an hour or so of such lightning pro- gress the pupil tires and the professor quite under- standably stabs her to death. Perfectly reasonable.

One can see M. lonesco's aim quite perfectly : it is to provide an effectively nonsensical theatrical experience with the absolute minimum of content. He succeeds nowhere better than in The Chairs, a play with an enormous cast, only three of which, however, are visible and audible. In the beginning there is an Old Woman and an Old Man, the first ninety-four years and the second ninety-five. They chatter their sweet, nonsensical nothings in a senile way until the Old Man remembers that this is the night on which, before many distinguished guests, he is to 'give birth to a great idea, a mes- sage for all men, for all mankind.' The bell rings, and rings again. The invisible guests begin to arrive. The poor old couple drive themselves silly running in and out with chairs for their guests until the entire stage is packed with them. 'Who on earth are all these people?' says the Old Woman in a moment of forgetfulness. When all are assembled the third visible and audible character puts in an appearance; he is a hired

Orator who will deliver the Old Man's message. Before he does so the old couple conveniently jump to their death through the window. The Orator, after some waggling of his hands, says : He, Mme, mm, mm.

Ju, gou, hou, hou.

Heu, heu, gu, gou, god, gueu.

That accomplished, he writes `ANGELBREAD' on a blackboard, and after a few more mms and gueus leaves the stage to its hordes of invisible

occupants. Anyone who saw the production at the Royal Court will agree that it was a superbly triumphant exercise in making bricks without straw—not so much by the actors or the producer, for the text is full of elaborate directions, but by the author, who has constructed an amusing theatrical entertainment on the basis of a wholly nonsensical and banal duologue springing from some such proposition as 'Life's a lot of balls.' Or, at any rate, a great deal of gueu, gou, and gu.

JAIN HAMILTON