The Enormous Room
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Edward Estlin Cummings >> The Enormous Room
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Bump, slowing down. BUMP--BUMP.
It is light outside. One sees the world. There is a world still, the
_gouvernement francais_ has not taken it away, and the air must be
beautifully cool. In the compartment it is hot. The _gendarmes_ smell
worst. I know how I smell. What polite women.
"_Enfin, nous voila._" My guards awoke and yawned pretentiously. Lest I
should think they had dozed off. It is Paris.
Some _permissionaires_ cried "Paris." The woman across from me said
"Paris, Paris." A great shout came up from every insane drowsy brain that
had travelled with us--a fierce and beautiful cry, which went the length
of the train.... Paris, where one forgets, Paris, which is Pleasure,
Paris, in whom our souls live, Paris, the beautiful, Paris at last.
The Englishman woke up and said heavily to me: "I say, where are
we?"--"Paris," I answered, walking carefully on his feet as I made my
baggage-laden way out of the compartment. It was Paris.
My guards hurried me through the station. One of them (I saw for the
first time) was older than the other, and rather handsome with his Van
Dyck blackness of curly beard. He said that it was too early for the
_metro_, it was closed. We should take a car. It would bring us to the
other station from which our next train left. We should hurry. We emerged
from the station and its crowds of crazy men. We boarded a car marked
something. The conductress, a strong, pink-cheeked, rather beautiful girl
in black, pulled my baggage in for me with a gesture which filled all of
me with joy. I thanked her, and she smiled at me. The car moved along
through the morning.
We descended from it. We started off on foot. The car was not the right
car. We would have to walk to the station. I was faint and almost dead
from weariness and I stopped when my overcoat had fallen from my benumbed
arm for the second time: "How far is it?" The older _gendarme_ returned
briefly, "Twenty minutes." I said to him: "Will you help me carry these
things?" He thought, and told the younger to carry my small sack filled
with papers. The latter grunted, "_C'est defendu._" We went a little
farther, and I broke down again. I stopped dead, and said: "I can't go
any farther." It was obvious to my escorts that I couldn't, so I didn't
trouble to elucidate. Moreover, I was past elucidation.
The older stroked his beard. "Well," he said, "would you care to take a
cab?" I merely looked at him. "If you wish to call a cab, I will take out
of your money, which I have here and which I must not give to you, the
necessary sum, and make a note of it, subtracting from the original
amount a sufficiency for our fare to the Gare. In that case we will not
walk to the Gare, we will in fact ride." "Please," was all I found to
reply to this eloquence.
Several empty cabs had gone by during the peroration of the law, and no
more seemed to offer themselves. After some minutes, however, one
appeared and was duly hailed. Nervously (he was shy in the big city) the
older asked if the driver knew where the Gare was. "_Quelle?_" demanded
the _cocher_ angrily. And when he was told--"Of course, I know, why not?"
We got in; I being directed to sit in the middle, and my two bags and fur
coat piled on top of us all.
So we drove through the streets in the freshness of the full morning, the
streets full of a few divine people who stared at me and nudged one
another, the streets of Paris ... the drowsy ways wakening at the horses'
hoofs, the people lifting their faces to stare.
We arrived at the Gare, and I recognized it vaguely. Was it D'Orleans? We
dismounted, and the tremendous transaction of the fare was apparently
very creditably accomplished by the older. The _cocher_ gave me a look
and remarked whatever it is Paris drivers remark to Paris cab horses,
pulling dully at the reins. We entered the station and I collapsed
comfortably on a bench; the younger, seating himself with enormous
pomposity at my side, adjusted his tunic with a purely feminine gesture
expressive at once of pride and nervousness. Gradually my vision gained
in focus. The station has a good many people in it. The number increases
momently. A great many are girls. I am in a new world--a world of _chic_
femininity. My eyes devour the inimitable details of costume, the
inexpressible nuances of pose, the indescribable _demarche_ of the
_midinette_. They hold themselves differently. They have even a little
bold color here and there on skirt or blouse or hat. They are not talking
about La Guerre. Incredible. They appear very beautiful, these
Parisiennes.
And simultaneously with my appreciation of the crisp persons about me
comes the hitherto unacknowledged appreciation of my uncouthness. My chin
tells my hand of a good quarter inch of beard, every hair of it stiff
with dirt. I can feel the dirt-pools under my eyes. My hands are rough
with dirt. My uniform is smeared and creased in a hundred thousand
directions. My puttees and shoes are prehistoric in appearance....
My first request was permission to visit the _vespasienne_. The younger
didn't wish to assume any unnecessary responsibilities; I should wait
till the older returned. There he was now. I might ask him. The older
benignly granted my petition, nodding significantly to his fellow-guard,
by whom I was accordingly escorted to my destination and subsequently
back to my bench. When we got back the _gendarmes_ held a consultation of
terrific importance; in substance, the train which should be leaving at
that moment (six something) did not run to-day. We should therefore wait
for the next train, which leaves at twelve-something-else. Then the older
surveyed me and said almost kindly: "How would you like a cup of
coffee?"--"Much," I replied sincerely enough.--"Come with me," he
commanded, resuming instantly his official manner. "And you" (to the
younger) "watch his baggage."
Of all the very beautiful women whom I had seen the most very beautiful
was the large and circular lady who sold a cup of perfectly hot and
genuine coffee for two cents, just on the brink of the station, chatting
cheerfully with her many customers. Of all the drinks I ever drank, hers
was the most sacredly delicious. She wore, I remember, a tight black
dress in which enormous and benignant breasts bulged and sank
continuously. I lingered over my tiny cup, watching her swift big hands,
her round nodding face, her large sudden smile. I drank two coffees, and
insisted that my money should pay for our drinks. Of all the treating
which I shall ever do, the treating of my captor will stand unique in
pleasure. Even he half appreciated the sense of humor involved; though
his dignity did not permit a visible acknowledgment thereof.
_Madame la vendeuse de cafe_, I shall remember you for more than a little
while.
Having thus consummated breakfast, my guardian suggested a walk. Agreed.
I felt I had the strength of ten because the coffee was pure. Moreover it
would be a novelty to _me promener sans_ l50-odd pounds of baggage. We
set out.
As we walked easily and leisurely the by this time well peopled streets
of the vicinity, my guard indulged himself in pleasant conversation. Did
I know Paris much? He knew it all. But he had not been in Paris for
several (eight was it?) years. It was a fine place, a large city to be
sure. But always changing. I had spent a month in Paris while waiting for
my uniform and my assignment to a _section sanitaire_? And my friend was
with me? H-mmm-mm.
A perfectly typical runt of a Paris bull eyed us. The older saluted him
with infinite respect, the respect of a shabby rube deacon for a
well-dressed burglar. They exchanged a few well-chosen words, in French
of course. "What ya got there?"--"An American."--"What's wrong with
him?"--"H-mmm" mysterious shrug of the shoulders followed by a whisper in
the ear of the city thug. The latter contented himself with
"Ha-aaa"--plus a look at me which was meant to wipe me off the earth's
face (I pretended to be studying the morning meanwhile). Then we moved
on, followed by ferocious stares from the Paris bull. Evidently I was
getting to be more of a criminal every minute; I should probably be shot
to-morrow, not (as I had assumed erroneously) the day after. I drank the
morning with renewed vigor, thanking heaven for the coffee, Paris; and
feeling complete confidence in myself. I should make a great speech (in
Midi French). I should say to the firing squad: "Gentlemen, _c'est de la
blague, tu sais? Moi, je connais la soeur du conducteur._" ... They would
ask me when I preferred to die. I should reply, "Pardon me, you wish to
ask me when I prefer to become immortal?" I should answer: "What matter?
It's all the same to me, because there isn't any more time--the French
Government forbids it."
My laughter surprised the older considerably. He would have been more
astonished had I yielded to the well-nigh irrepressible inclination,
which at the moment suffused me, to clap him heartily upon the back.
Everything was _blague_. The driver, the cafe, the police, the morning,
and least and last the excellent French Government.
We had walked for a half hour or more. My guide and protector now
inquired of a workingman the location of the _boucheries_? "There is one
right in front of you," he was told. Sure enough, not a block away. I
laughed again. It was eight years all right.
The older bought a great many things in the next five minutes: sausage,
cheese, bread, chocolate, _pinard rouge_. A _bourgeoise_ with an
unagreeable face and suspicion of me written in headlines all over her
mouth served us with quick hard laconicisms of movement. I hated her and
consequently refused my captor's advice to buy a little of everything (on
the ground that it would be a long time till the next meal), contenting
myself with a cake of chocolate--rather bad chocolate, but nothing to
what I was due to eat during the next three months. Then we retraced our
steps, arriving at the station after several mistakes and inquiries, to
find the younger faithfully keeping guard over my two _sacs_ and
overcoat.
The older and I sat down, and the younger took his turn at promenading. I
got up to buy a Fantasio at the stand ten steps away, and the older
jumped up and escorted me to and from it. I think I asked him what he
would read? and he said "Nothing." Maybe I bought him a journal. So we
waited, eyed by everyone in the Gare, laughed at by the officers and
their _marraines_, pointed at by sinewy dames and decrepit
_bonhommes_--the centre of amusement for the whole station. In spite of
my reading I felt distinctly uncomfortable. Would it never be Twelve?
Here comes the younger, neat as a pin, looking fairly sterilized. He sits
down on my left. Watches are ostentatiously consulted. It is time. _En
avant._ I sling myself under my bags.
"Where are we going now?" I asked the older. Curling the tips of his
mustachios, he replied, "Mah-say."
Marseilles! I was happy once more. I had always wanted to go to that
great port of the Mediterranean, where one has new colors and strange
customs, and where the people sing when they talk. But how extraordinary
to have come to Paris--and what a trip lay before us. I was much muddled
about the whole thing. Probably I was to be deported. But why from
Marseilles? Where was Marseilles anyway? I was probably all wrong about
its location. Who cared, after all? At least we were leaving the
pointings and the sneers and the half-suppressed titters....
Two fat and respectable _bonhommes_, the two _gendarmes_, and I, made up
one compartment. The former talked an animated stream, the guards and I
were on the whole silent. I watched the liquidating landscape and dozed
happily. The _gendarmes_ dozed, one at each door. The train rushed lazily
across the earth, between farmhouses, into fields, along woods ... the
sunlight smacked my eye and cuffed my sleepy mind with colour.
I was awakened by a noise of eating. My protectors, knife in hand, were
consuming their meat and bread, occasionally tilting their _bidons_ on
high and absorbing the thin streams which spurted therefrom. I tried a
little chocolate. The _bonhommes_ were already busy with their repast.
The older gendarme watched me chewing away at the chocolate, then
commanded, "Take some bread." This astonished me, I confessed, beyond
anything which had heretofore occurred. I gazed mutely at him, wondering
whether the _gouvernement francais_ had made away with his wits. He had
relaxed amazingly: his cap lay beside him, his tunic was unbuttoned, he
slouched in a completely undisciplined posture--his face seemed to have
been changed for a peasant's, it was almost open in expression and almost
completely at ease. I seized the offered hunk, and chewed vigorously on
it. Bread was bread. The older appeared pleased with my appetite; his
face softened still more, as he remarked: "Bread without wine doesn't
taste good," and proffered his _bidon_. I drank as much as I dared, and
thanked him: "_Ca va mieux._" The _pinard_ went straight to my brain, I
felt my mind cuddled by a pleasant warmth, my thoughts became invested
with a great contentment. The train stopped; and the younger sprang out,
carrying the empty canteens of himself and his comrade. When they and he
returned, I enjoyed another cup. From that moment till we reached our
destination at about eight o'clock the older and I got on extraordinarily
well. When the gentlemen descended at their station he waxed almost
familiar. I was in excellent spirits; rather drunk; extremely tired. Now
that the two guardians and myself were alone in the compartment, the
curiosity which had hitherto been stifled by etiquette and pride of
capture came rapidly to light. Why was I here, anyway? I seemed well
enough to them.--Because my friend had written some letters, I told
them.--But I had done nothing myself?--I explained that we used to be
together all the time, _mon ami et moi_; that was the only reason which I
knew of.--It was very funny to see how this explanation improved matters.
The older in particular was immensely relieved.--I would without doubt,
he said, be set free immediately upon my arrival. The French government
didn't keep people like me in prison.--They fired some questions about
America at me, to which I imaginatively replied. I think I told the
younger that the average height of buildings in America was nine hundred
metres. He stared and shook his head doubtfully, but I convinced him in
the end. Then in my turn I asked questions, the first being: Where was my
friend?--It seems that my friend had left Gre (or whatever it was) the
morning of the day I had entered it.--Did they know where my friend was
going?--They couldn't say. They had been told that he was very
dangerous.--So we talked on and on: How long had I studied French? I
spoke very well. Was it hard to learn English?--
Yet when I climbed out to relieve myself by the roadside one of them was
at my heels.
Finally watches were consulted, tunics buttoned, hats donned. I was told
in a gruff voice to prepare myself; that we were approaching the end of
our journey. Looking at the erstwhile participants in conversation, I
scarcely knew them. They had put on with their caps a positive ferocity
of bearing. I began to think that I had dreamed the incidents of the
preceding hours.
We descended at a minute, dirty station which possessed the air of having
been dropped by mistake from the bung of the _gouvernement francais_. The
older sought out the station master, who having nothing to do was taking
a siesta in a miniature waiting-room. The general countenance of the
place was exceedingly depressing; but I attempted to keep up my spirits
with the reflection that after all all this was but a junction, and that
from here we were to take a train for Marseilles herself. The name of the
station, Briouse, I found somewhat dreary. And now the older returned
with the news that our train wasn't running today, and that the next
train didn't arrive till early morning and should we walk to Marseilles?
I could check my great _sac_ and overcoat. The small _sac_ I should carry
along--it was only a step, after all.
With a glance at the desolation of Briouse I agreed to the stroll. It was
a fine night for a little promenade; not too cool, and with a promise of
a moon stuck into the sky. The _sac_ and coat were accordingly checked by
the older; the station master glanced at me and haughtily grunted (having
learned that I was an American); and my protectors and I set out.
I insisted that we stop at the first cafe and have some wine on me. To
this my escorts agreed, making me go ten paces ahead of them, and waiting
until I was through before stepping up to the bar--not from politeness,
to be sure, but because (as I soon gathered) _gendarmes_ were not any too
popular in this part of the world, and the sight of two _gendarmes_ with
a prisoner might inspire the habitues to attempt a rescue. Furthermore,
on leaving the cafe (a desolate place if I ever saw one, with a fearful
_patronne_) I was instructed sharply to keep close to them but on no
account to place myself between them, there being sundry villagers to be
encountered before we struck the highroad for Marseilles. Thanks to their
forethought and my obedience the rescue did not take place, nor did our
party excite even the curiosity of the scarce and soggy inhabitants of
the unlovely town of Briouse.
The highroad won, all of us relaxed considerably. The _sac_ full of
suspicious letters which I bore on my shoulder was not so light as I had
thought, but the kick of the Briouse _pinard_ thrust me forward at a good
clip. The road was absolutely deserted; the night hung loosely around it,
here and there tattered by attempting moonbeams. I was somewhat sorry to
find the way hilly, and in places bad underfoot; yet the unknown
adventure lying before me, and the delicious silence of the night (in
which our words rattled queerly like tin soldiers in a plush-lined box)
boosted me into a condition of mysterious happiness. We talked, the older
and I, of strange subjects. As I suspected, he had been not always a
_gendarme_. He had seen service among the Arabs. He had always liked
languages and had picked up Arabian with great ease--of this he was very
proud. For instance--the Arabian way of saying "Give me to eat" was this;
when you wanted wine you said so and so; "Nice day" was something else.
He thought I could pick it up inasmuch as I had done so creditably with
French. He was absolutely certain that English was much easier to learn
than French, and would not be moved. Now what was the American language
like? I explained that it was a sort of Argot-English. When I gave him
some phrases he was astonished--"It sounds like English!" he cried, and
retailed his stock of English phrases for my approval. I tried hard to
get his intonation of the Arabian, and he helped me on the difficult
sounds. America must be a strange place, he thought....
After two hours walking he called a halt, bidding us rest. We all lay
flat on the grass by the roadside. The moon was still battling with
clouds. The darkness of the fields on either side was total. I crawled on
hands and knees to the sound of silver-trickling water and found a little
spring-fed stream. Prone, weight on elbows, I drank heavily of its
perfect blackness. It was icy, talkative, minutely alive.
The older presently gave a perfunctory "_alors_"; we got up; I hoisted my
suspicious utterances upon my shoulder, which recognized the renewal of
hostilities with a neuralgic throb. I banged forward with bigger and
bigger feet. A bird, scared, swooped almost into my face. Occasionally
some night-noise pricked a futile, minute hole in the enormous curtain of
soggy darkness. Uphill now. Every muscle thoroughly aching, head
spinning, I half-straightened my no longer obedient body; and jumped:
face to face with a little wooden man hanging all by itself in a grove of
low trees.
--The wooden body, clumsy with pain, burst into fragile legs with
absurdly large feet and funny writhing toes; its little stiff arms made
abrupt cruel equal angles with the road. About its stunted loins clung a
ponderous and jocular fragment of drapery. On one terribly brittle
shoulder the droll lump of its neckless head ridiculously lived. There
was in this complete silent doll a gruesome truth of instinct, a success
of uncanny poignancy, an unearthly ferocity of rectangular emotion.
For perhaps a minute the almost obliterated face and mine eyed one
another in the silence of intolerable autumn.
Who was this wooden man? Like a sharp black mechanical cry in the spongy
organism of gloom stood the coarse and sudden sculpture of his torment;
the big mouth of night carefully spurted the angular actual language of
his martyred body. I had seen him before in the dream of some mediaeval
saint, with a thief sagging at either side, surrounded with crisp angels.
Tonight he was alone; save for myself, and the moon's minute flower
pushing between slabs of fractured cloud.
I was wrong, the moon and I and he were not alone.... A glance up the
road gave me two silhouettes at pause. The _gendarmes_ were waiting. I
must hurry to catch up or incur suspicions by my sloth. I hastened
forward, with a last look over my shoulder ... the wooden man was
watching us.
When I came abreast of them, expecting abuse, I was surprised by the
older's saying quietly "We haven't far to go," and plunging forward
imperturbably into the night.
Nor had we gone a half hour before several dark squat forms confronted
us: houses. I decided that I did not like houses--particularly as now my
guardian's manner abruptly changed; once more tunics were buttoned,
holsters adjusted, and myself directed to walk between and keep always up
with the others. Now the road became thoroughly afflicted with houses,
houses not, however, so large and lively as I had expected from my dreams
of Marseilles. Indeed we seemed to be entering an extremely small and
rather disagreeable town. I ventured to ask what its name was. "Mah-say"
was the response. By this I was fairly puzzled. However the street led us
to a square, and I saw the towers of a church sitting in the sky; between
them the round, yellow, big moon looked immensely and peacefully
conscious ... no one was stirring in the little streets, all the houses
were keeping the moon's secret.
We walked on.
I was too tired to think. I merely felt the town as a unique unreality.
What was it? I knew--the moon's picture of a town. These streets with
their houses did not exist, they were but a ludicrous projection of the
moon's sumptuous personality. This was a city of Pretend, created by the
hypnotism of moonlight.--Yet when I examined the moon she too seemed but
a painting of a moon and the sky in which she lived a fragile echo of
colour. If I blew hard the whole shy mechanism would collapse gently with
a neat soundless crash. I must not, or lose all.
We turned a corner, then another. My guides conferred concerning the
location of something, I couldn't make out what. Then the older nodded in
the direction of a long dull dirty mass not a hundred yards away, which
(as near as I could see) served either as a church or a tomb. Toward this
we turned. All too soon I made out its entirely dismal exterior. Grey
long stone walls, surrounded on the street side by a fence of ample
proportions and uniformly dull colour. Now I perceived that we made
toward a gate, singularly narrow and forbidding, in the grey long wall.
No living soul appeared to inhabit this desolation.
The older rang at the gate. A _gendarme_ with a revolver answered his
ring; and presently he was admitted, leaving the younger and myself to
wait. And now I began to realize that this was the _gendarmerie_ of the
town, into which for safe-keeping I was presently to be inducted for the
night. My heart sank, I confess, at the thought of sleeping in the
company of that species of humanity which I had come to detest beyond
anything in hell or on earth. Meanwhile the doorman had returned with the
older, and I was bidden roughly enough to pick up my baggage and march. I
followed my guides down a corridor, up a staircase, and into a dark,
small room where a candle was burning. Dazzled by the light and dizzied
by the fatigue of my ten or twelve mile stroll, I let my baggage go; and
leaned against a convenient wall, trying to determine who was now my
tormentor.
Facing me at a table stood a man of about my own height, and, as I should
judge, about forty years old. His face was seedy sallow and long. He had
bushy semi-circular eyebrows which drooped so much as to reduce his eyes
to mere blinking slits. His cheeks were so furrowed that they leaned
inward. He had no nose, properly speaking, but a large beak of
preposterous widthlessness, which gave his whole face the expression of
falling gravely downstairs, and quite obliterated the unimportant chin.
His mouth was made of two long uncertain lips which twitched nervously.
His cropped black hair was rumpled; his blouse, from which hung a croix
de guerre, unbuttoned; and his unputteed shanks culminated in
bed-slippers. In physique he reminded me a little of Ichabod Crane. His
neck was exactly like a hen's: I felt sure that when he drank he must
tilt his head back as hens do in order that the liquid may run their
throats. But his method of keeping himself upright, together with certain
spasmodic contractions of his fingers and the nervous "uh-ah, uh-ah"
which punctuated his insecure phrases like uncertain commas, combined to
offer the suggestion of a rooster; a rather moth-eaten rooster, which
took itself tremendously seriously and was showing off to an imaginary
group of admiring hens situated somewhere in the background of his
consciousness.
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