The Enormous Room

E >> Edward Estlin Cummings >> The Enormous Room

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But--again like an inconsolable child who weeps his heart out when no
human comfort avails and wakes the next day without an apparent trace of
the recent grief--Jean le Negre, in the course of the next twenty-four
hours, had completely recovered his normal buoyancy of spirit. The
_sees-tee franc_ were gone. A wrong had been done. But that was
yesterday. To-day--

and he wandered up and down, joking, laughing, singing "_apres la
guerre finit_." ...

In the _cour_ Jean was the target of all female eyes. Handkerchiefs were
waved to him; phrases of the most amorous nature greeted his every
appearance. To all these demonstrations he by no means turned a deaf ear;
on the contrary. Jean was irrevocably vain. He boasted of having been
enormously popular with the girls wherever he went and of having never
disdained their admiration. In Paris one day--(and thus it happened that
we discovered why _le gouvernement francais_ had arrested Jean)--

One afternoon, having _rien a faire_, and being flush (owing to his
success as a thief, of which vocation he made a great deal, adding as
many ciphers to the amounts as fancy dictated) Jean happened to cast his
eyes in a store window where were displayed all possible appurtenances
for the _militaire_. Vanity was rooted deeply in Jean's soul. The uniform
of an English captain met his eyes. Without a moment's hesitation he
entered the store, bought the entire uniform, including leather puttees
and belt (of the latter purchase he was especially proud), and departed.
The next store contained a display of medals of all descriptions. It
struck Jean at once that a uniform would be incomplete without medals. He
entered this store, bought one of every decoration--not forgetting the
Colonial, nor yet the Belgian Cross (which on account of its size and
colour particularly appealed to him)--and went to his room. There he
adjusted the decorations on the chest of his blouse, donned the uniform,
and sallied importantly forth to capture Paris.

Everywhere he met with success. He was frantically pursued by women of
all stations from _les putains_ to _les princesses._ The police salaamed
to him. His arm was wearied with the returning of innumerable salutes. So
far did his medals carry him that, although on one occasion a _gendarme_
dared to arrest him for beating-in the head of a fellow English officer
(who being a mere lieutenant, should not have objected to Captain Jean's
stealing the affections of his lady), the sergeant of police before whom
Jean was arraigned on a charge of attempting to kill refused to even hear
the evidence, and dismissed the case with profuse apologies to the heroic
Captain. "_'Le gouvernement francais, Monsieur_, extends to you, through
me, its profound apology for the insult which your honour has received.'
_Ils sont des cochons, les francais_," said Jean, and laughed throughout
his entire body.

Having had the most blue-blooded ladies of the capital cooing upon his
heroic chest, having completely beaten up, with the full support of the
law, whosoever of lesser rank attempted to cross his path or refused him
the salute--having had "great fun" saluting generals on _les grands
boulevards_ and being in turn saluted ("_tous les generals, tous_, salute
me, Jean have more medals"), and this state of affairs having lasted for
about three months--Jean began to be very bored (me _tres ennuye_). A fit
of temper ("me _tres fache_") arising from this _ennui_ led to a _rixe_
with the police, in consequence of which (Jean, though outnumbered three
to one, having almost killed one of his assailants), our hero was a
second time arrested. This time the authorities went so far as to ask the
heroic captain to what branch of the English army he was at present
attached; to which Jean first replied "_parle pas francais, moi_," and
immediately after announced that he was a Lord of the Admiralty, that he
had committed robberies in Paris to the tune of _sees meel-i-own franc_,
that he was a son of the Lord Mayor of London by the Queen, that he had
lost a leg in Algeria, and that the French were _cochons_. All of which
assertions being duly disproved, Jean was remanded to La Ferte for
psychopathic observation and safe keeping on the technical charge of
wearing an English officer's uniform.

Jean's particular girl at La Ferte was "LOO-Loo." With Lulu it was the
same as with _les princesses_ in Paris--"me no _travaille, jam-MAIS. Les
femmes travaillent_, geev Jean mun-ee, _sees, sees-tee, see-cent francs.
Jamais travaille, moi._" Lulu smuggled Jean money; and not for some time
did the woman who slept next Lulu miss it. Lulu also sent Jean a lace
embroidered handkerchief, which Jean would squeeze and press to his lips
with a beatific smile of perfect contentment. The affair with Lulu kept
Mexique and Pete The Hollander busy writing letters; which Jean dictated,
rolling his eyes and scratching his head for words.

At this time Jean was immensely happy. He was continually playing
practical jokes on one of the Hollanders, or Mexique, or the Wanderer,
or, in fact, anyone of whom he was particularly fond. At intervals
between these demonstrations of irrepressibility (which kept everyone in
a state of laughter) he would stride up and down the filth-sprinkled
floor with his hands in the pockets of his stylish jacket, singing at the
top of his lungs his own version of the famous song of songs:

_apres la guerre finit,
soldat anglais parti,
mademoiselle que je laissais en France
avec des pickaninee._ PLENTY!

and laughing till he shook and had to lean against a wall.

B. and Mexique made some dominoes. Jean had not the least idea of how to
play, but when we three had gathered for a game he was always to be found
leaning over our shoulders, completely absorbed, once in a while offered
us sage advice, laughing utterly when someone made a _cinque_ or a
multiple thereof.

One afternoon, in the interval between _la soupe_ and _promenade_, Jean
was in especially high spirits. I was lying down on my collapsible bed
when he came up to my end of the room and began showing off exactly like
a child. This time it was the game of _l'armee francaise_ which Jean was
playing.--"_Jamais soldat, moi. Connais tous l'armee francaise._" John
The Bathman, stretched comfortably in his bunk near me, grunted.
"_Tous_," Jean repeated.--And he stood in front of us; stiff as a stick
in imitation of a French lieutenant with an imaginary company in front of
him. First he would be the lieutenant giving commands, then he would be
the Army executing them. He began with the manual of arms. "_Com-pag-nie
..._" then, as he went through the manual, holding his imaginary
gun--"_htt, htt, htt_."--Then as the officer commending his troops:
"_Bon. Tres bon. Tres bien fait_"--laughing with head thrown back and
teeth aglitter at his own success. John le Baigneur was so tremendously
amused that he gave up sleeping to watch. _L'armee_ drew a crowd of
admirers from every side. For at least three-quarters of an hour this
game went on....

Another day Jean, being angry at the weather and having eaten a huge
amount of _soupe_, began yelling at the top of his voice: "_MERDE a la
France_" and laughing heartily. No one paying especial attention to him,
he continued (happy in this new game with himself) for about fifteen
minutes. Then The Trick Raincoat (that undersized specimen, clad in
feminine-fitting raiment with flashy shoes, who was by trade a pimp,
being about half Jean's height and a tenth of his physique,) strolled up
to Jean--who had by this time got as far as my bed--and, sticking his
sallow face as near Jean's as the neck could reach, said in a solemn
voice: "_II ne faut pas dire ca._" Jean astounded, gazed at the intruder
for a moment; then demanded: "_Qui dit ca? Moi? Jean? Jamais, ja-MAIS.
MERDE a la France!_" nor would he yield a point, backed up as he was by
the moral support of everyone present except the Raincoat--who found
discretion the better part of valour and retired with a few dark threats;
leaving Jean master of the situation and yelling for the Raincoat's
particular delectation: "_MAY-RRR-DE a la France!_" more loudly than
ever.

A little after the epic battle with stovepipes between The Young Pole and
Bill The Hollander, the wrecked _poele_ (which was patiently waiting to
be repaired) furnished Jean with perhaps his most brilliant inspiration.
The final section of pipe (which conducted the smoke through a hole in
the wall to the outer air) remained in place all by itself, projecting
about six feet into the room at a height of seven or eight feet from the
floor. Jean noticed this; got a chair; mounted on it, and by applying
alternately his ear and his mouth to the end of the pipe created for
himself a telephone, with the aid of which he carried on a conversation
with The Wanderer (at that moment visiting his family on the floor below)
to this effect:

--Jean, grasping the pipe and speaking angrily into it, being evidently
nettled at the poor connection--"Heh-loh, hello, hello, hello"--surveying
the pipe in consternation--"_Merde. Ca marche pas_"--trying again with a
deep frown--"heh-LOH!"--tremendously agitated--"HEHLOH!"--a beautiful
smile supplanting the frown--"hello Barbu. Are you there? _Oui?
Bon!_"--evincing tremendous pleasure at having succeeded in establishing
the connection satisfactorily--"Barbu? Are you listening to me? _Oui?_
What's the matter Barbu? _Comment? Moi? Oui, MOI? JEAN jaMAIS! jamais,
jaMAIS_, Barbu. I have never said you have fleas. _C'etait pas moi, tu
sais. JaMAIS, c'etait un autre. Peutetre c'etait Mexique_"--turning his
head in Mexique's direction and roaring with laughter--"Hello, HEH-LOH.
Barbu? _Tu sais_, Barbu, _j'ai jamais dit ca. Au contraire_, Barbu. _J'ai
dit que vous avez des totos_"--another roar of laughter--"What? It isn't
true? Good. Then. What have you got, Barbu? Barbu? Lice--OHHHH. I
understand. It's better"--shaking with laughter, then suddenly
tremendously serious--"hellohellohellohello HEHLOH!"--addressing the
stove-pipe--"_C'est une mauvaise machine, ca_"--speaking into it with the
greatest distinctness--"HEL-L-LOH. Barbu? _Liberte_, Barbu. _Oui.
Comment? C'est ca. Liberte pour tou'l'monde. Quand? Apres la soupe. Oui.
Liberte pour tou'l'monde apres la soupe!_"--to which jest astonishingly
reacted a certain old man known as the West Indian Negro (a stocky
credulous creature with whom Jean would have nothing to do, and whose
tales of Brooklyn were indeed outclassed by Jean's _histoires d'amour_)
who leaped rheumatically from his _paillasse_ at the word "_Liberte_" and
rushed limpingly hither and thither inquiring Was it true? to the
enormous and excruciating amusement of The Enormous Room in general.

After which Jean, exhausted with laughter, descended from the chair and
lay down on his bed to read a letter from Lulu (not knowing a syllable of
it). A little later he came rushing up to my bed in the most terrific
state of excitement, the whites of his eyes gleaming, his teeth bared,
his kinky hair fairly standing on end, and cried:

"You--me, me--you? _Pas bon._ You--you, me--me: _bon_. Me--me, you--you!"
and went away capering and shouting with laughter, dancing with great
grace and as great agility and with an imaginary partner the entire
length of the room.

There was another game--a pure child's game--which Jean played. It was
the name game. He amused himself for hours together by lying on his
_paillasse_ tilting his head back, rolling up his eyes, and crying in a
high quavering voice--"JAW-neeeeee." After a repetition or two of his own
name in English, he would demand sharply "Who is calling me? Mexique?
_Es-ce que tu m'appelle_, Mexique?" and if Mexique happened to be asleep,
Jean would rush over and cry in his ear, shaking him thoroughly--"_Es-ce
tu m'appelle, toi?_" Or it might be Barbu, or Pete The Hollander, or B.
or myself, of whom he sternly asked the question--which was always
followed by quantities of laughter on Jean's part. He was never perfectly
happy unless exercising his inexhaustible imagination....

Of all Jean's extraordinary selves, the moral one was at once the most
rare and most unreasonable. In the matter of _les femmes_ he could hardly
have been accused by his bitterest enemy of being a Puritan. Yet the
Puritan streak came out one day, in a discussion which lasted for several
hours. Jean as in the case of France, spoke in dogma. His contention was
very simple: "The woman who smokes is not a woman." He defended it hotly
against the attacks of all the nations represented; in vain did Belgian
and Hollander, Russian and Pole, Spaniard and Alsatian, charge and
counter-charge--Jean remained unshaken. A woman could do anything but
smoke--if she smoked she ceased automatically to be a woman and became
something unspeakable. As Jean was at this time sitting alternately on
B.'s bed and mine, and as the alternations became increasingly frequent
as the discussion waxed hotter, we were not sorry when the _planton's_
shout "_A la promenade les hommes!_" scattered the opposing warriors.
Then up leaped Jean (who had almost come to blows innumerable times) and
rushed laughing to the door, having already forgotten the whole thing.

Now we come to the story of Jean's undoing, and may the gods which made
Jean le Negre give me grace to tell it as it was.

The trouble started with Lulu. One afternoon, shortly after the
telephoning, Jean was sick at heart and couldn't be induced either to
leave his couch or to utter a word. Everyone guessed the reason--Lulu had
left for another camp that morning. The _planton_ told Jean to come down
with the rest and get _soupe_. No answer. Was Jean sick? "_Oui_, me
seek." And steadfastly he refused to eat, till the disgusted _planton_
gave it up and locked Jean in alone. When we ascended after _la soupe_ we
found Jean as we had left him, stretched on his couch, big tears on his
cheeks. I asked him if I could do anything for him; he shook his head. We
offered him cigarettes--no, he did not wish to smoke. As B. and I went
away we heard him moaning to himself "Jawnee no see LooLoo no more." With
the exception of ourselves, the inhabitants of La Ferte Mace took Jean's
desolation as a great joke. Shouts of Lulu! rent the welkin on all sides.
Jean stood it for an hour; then he leaped up, furious; and demanded
(confronting the man from whose lips the cry had last issued)--"Feeneesh
LooLoo?" The latter coolly referred him to the man next to him; he in
turn to someone else; and round and round the room Jean stalked, seeking
the offender, followed by louder and louder shouts of Lulu! and Jawnee!
the authors of which (so soon as he challenged them) denied with innocent
faces their guilt and recommended that Jean look closer next time. At
last Jean took to his couch in utter misery and disgust. The rest of _les
hommes_ descended as usual for the promenade--not so Jean. He ate nothing
for supper. That evening not a sound issued from his bed.

Next morning he awoke with a broad grin, and to the salutations of Lulu!
replied, laughing heartily at himself "FEENEESH Loo Loo." Upon which the
tormentors (finding in him no longer a victim) desisted; and things
resumed their normal course. If an occasional Lulu! upraised itself, Jean
merely laughed, and repeated (with a wave of his arm) "FEENEESH."
Finished Lulu seemed to be.

But _un jour_ I had remained upstairs during the promenade, both because
I wanted to write and because the weather was worse than usual.
Ordinarily, no matter how deep the mud in the _cour_, Jean and I would
trot back and forth, resting from time to time under the little shelter
out of the drizzle, talking of all things under the sun. I remember on
one occasion we were the only ones to brave the rain and slough--Jean in
paper-thin soled slippers (which he had recently succeeded in drawing
from the Gestionnaire) and I in my huge _sabots_--hurrying back and forth
with the rain pouring on us, and he very proud. On this day, however, I
refused the challenge of the mud.

The promenaders had been singularly noisy, I thought. Now they were
mounting to the room making a truly tremendous racket. No sooner were the
doors opened than in rushed half a dozen frenzied friends, who began
telling me all at once about a terrific thing which my friend the _noir_
had just done. It seems that The Trick Raincoat had pulled at Jean's
handkerchief (Lulu's gift in other days) which Jean wore always
conspicuously in his outside breast pocket; that Jean had taken the
Raincoat's head in his two hands, held it steady, abased his own head,
and rammed the helpless T.R. as a bull would do--the impact of Jean's
head upon the other's nose causing that well-known feature to occupy a
new position in the neighbourhood of the right ear. B. corroborated this
description, adding the Raincoat's nose was broken and that everyone was
down on Jean for fighting in an unsportsmanlike way. I found Jean still
very angry, and moreover very hurt because everyone was now shunning him.
I told him that I personally was glad of what he'd done; but nothing
would cheer him up. The T.R. now entered, very terrible to see, having
been patched up by Monsieur Richard with copious plasters. His nose was
not broken, he said thickly, but only bent. He hinted darkly of trouble
in store for _le noir_; and received the commiserations of everyone
present except Mexique, The Zulu, B. and me.

The Zulu, I remember, pointed to his own nose (which was not
unimportant), then to Jean, and made a _moue_ of excruciating anguish,
and winked audibly.

Jean's spirit was broken. The well-nigh unanimous verdict against him had
convinced his minutely sensitive soul that it had done wrong. He lay
quietly, and would say nothing to anyone.

Some time after the soup, about eight o'clock, the Fighting Sheeney and
The Trick Raincoat suddenly set upon Jean le Negre a propos of nothing;
and began pommelling him cruelly. The conscience-stricken pillar of
beautiful muscle--who could have easily killed both his assailants at one
blow--not only offered no reciprocatory violence but refused even to
defend himself. Unresistingly, wincing with pain, his arms mechanically
raised and his head bent, he was battered frightfully to the window by
his bed, thence into the corner (upsetting the stool in the _pissoir_),
thence along the wall to the door. As the punishment increased he cried
out like a child: "_Laissez-moi tranquille!_"--again and again; and in
his voice the insane element gained rapidly. Finally, shrieking in agony,
he rushed to the nearest window; and while the Sheeneys together
pommelled him yelled for help to the _planton_ beneath.--

The unparalleled consternation and applause produced by this one-sided
battle had long since alarmed the authorities. I was still trying to
break through the five-deep ring of spectators (among whom was The
Messenger Boy, who advised me to desist and got a piece of advice in
return)--when with a tremendous crash open burst the door; and in stepped
four _plantons_ with drawn revolvers, looking frightened to death,
followed by the Surveillant who carried a sort of baton and was crying
faintly: "_Qu'est-ce que c'est!_"

At the first sound of the door the two Sheeneys had fled, and were now
playing the part of innocent spectators. Jean alone occupied the stage.
His lips were parted. His eyes were enormous. He was panting as if his
heart would break. He still kept his arms raised as if seeing everywhere
before him fresh enemies. Blood spotted here and there the wonderful
chocolate carpet of his skin, and his whole body glistened with sweat.
His shirt was in ribbons over his beautiful muscles.

Seven or eight persons at once began explaining the fight to the
Surveillant, who could make nothing out of their accounts and therefore
called aside a trusted older man in order to get his version. The two
retired from the room. The _plantons_, finding the expected wolf a lamb,
flourished their revolvers about Jean and threatened him in the
insignificant and vile language which _plantons_ use to anyone whom they
can bully. Jean kept repeating dully "_laissez-moi tranquille. Ils
voulaient me tuer._" His chest shook terribly with vast sobs.

Now the Surveillant returned and made a speech, to the effect that he had
received independently of each other the stories of four men, that by all
counts _le negre_ was absolutely to blame, that _le negre_ had caused an
inexcusable trouble to the authorities and to his fellow-prisoners by
this wholly unjustified conflict, and that as a punishment the _negre_
would now suffer the consequences of his guilt in the _cabinot_.--Jean
had dropped his arms to his sides. His face was twisted with anguish. He
made a child's gesture, a pitiful hopeless movement with his slender
hands. Sobbing he protested: "It isn't my fault, _monsieur le
Surveillant!_ They attacked me! I didn't do a thing! They wanted to kill
me! Ask him"--he pointed to me desperately. Before I could utter a
syllable the Surveillant raised his hand for silence: _le negre_ had done
wrong. He should be placed in the _cabinot_.

--Like a flash, with a horrible tearing sob, Jean leaped from the
surrounding _plantons_ and rushed for the coat which lay on his bed
screaming--"_AHHHHH--mon couteau!_"--"Look out or he'll get his knife and
kill himself!" someone yelled; and the four _plantons_ seized Jean by
both arms just as he made a grab for his jacket. Thwarted in his hope and
burning with the ignominy of his situation, Jean cast his enormous eyes
up at the nearest pillar, crying hysterically: "Everybody is putting me
in _cabinot_ because I am black."--In a second, by a single movement of
his arms, he sent the four _plantons_ reeling to a distance of ten feet:
leaped at the pillar: seized it in both hands like a Samson, and (gazing
for another second with a smile of absolute beatitude at its length)
dashed his head against it. Once, twice, thrice he smote himself, before
the _plantons_ seized him--and suddenly his whole strength wilted; he
allowed himself to be overpowered by them and stood with bowed head,
tears streaming from his eyes--while the smallest pointed a revolver at
his heart.

This was a little more than the Surveillant had counted on. Now that
Jean's might was no more, the bearer of the croix de guerre stepped
forward and in a mild placating voice endeavoured to soothe the victim of
his injustice. It was also slightly more than I could stand, and slamming
aside the spectators I shoved myself under his honour's nose. "Do you
know," I asked, "whom you are dealing with in this man? A child. There
are a lot of Jeans where I come from. You heard what he said? He is
black, is he not, and gets no justice from you. You heard that. I saw the
whole affair. He was attacked, he put up no resistance whatever, he was
beaten by two cowards. He is no more to blame than I am."--The
Surveillant was waving his wand and cooing "_Je comprends, je comprends,
c'est malheureux._"--"You're god damn right its _malheureux_" I said,
forgetting my French. "_Quand meme_, he has resisted authority" The
Surveillant gently continued: "Now Jean, be quiet, you will be taken to
the _cabinot_. You may as well go quietly and behave yourself like a good
boy."

At this I am sure my eyes started out of my head. All I could think of to
say was: "_Attends, un petit moment._" To reach my own bed took but a
second. In another second I was back, bearing my great and sacred
_pelisse_. I marched up to Jean. "Jean" I remarked with a smile, "you are
going to the _cabinot_ but you're coming back right away. I know that you
are perfectly right. Put that on"--and I pushed him gently into my coat.
"Here are my cigarettes, Jean; you can smoke just as much as you like"--I
pulled out all I had, one full _paquet_ of Maryland, and a half dozen
loose ones, and deposited them carefully in the right hand pocket of the
_pelisse_. Then I patted him on the shoulder and gave him the immortal
salutation--"_Bonne chance, mon ami!_"

He straightened proudly. He stalked like a king through the doorway. The
astounded _plantons_ and the embarrassed Surveillant followed, the latter
closing the doors behind him. I was left with a cloud of angry witnesses.

An hour later the doors opened, Jean entered quietly, and the doors shut.
As I lay on my bed I could see him perfectly. He was almost naked. He
laid my _pelisse_ on his mattress, then walked calmly up to a
neighbouring bed and skillfully and unerringly extracted a brush from
under it. Back to his own bed he tiptoed, sat down on it, and began
brushing my coat. He brushed it for a half hour, speaking to no one,
spoken to by no one. Finally he put the brush back, disposed the
_pelisse_ carefully on his arm, came to my bed, and as carefully laid it
down. Then he took from the right hand outside pocket a full _paquet
jaune_ and six loose cigarettes, showed them for my approval, and
returned them to their place. "_Merci_" was his sole remark. B. got Jean
to sit down beside him on his bed and we talked for a few minutes,
avoiding the subject of the recent struggle. Then Jean went back to his
own bed and lay down.

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