The Enormous Room E. E. Cummings (snow like ashes TXT) 📖

Fear was instilled by three means into the erstwhile human entities whose presence at La Ferté gave Apollyon his job. The three means were: through his subordinates, who being one and all fearful of his power directed their energies to but one end⁠—the production in ourselves of a similar emotion; through two forms of punishment, which supplied said subordinates with a weapon over any of us who refused to find room for this desolating emotion in his heart of hearts; and, finally, through direct contact with his unutterable personality.

Beneath the Demon was the Surveillant. I have already described the Surveillant. I wish to say, however, that in my opinion the Surveillant was the most decent official at La Ferté. I pay him this tribute gladly and honestly. To me, at least, he was kind: to the majority he was inclined to be lenient. I honestly and gladly believe that the Surveillant was incapable of that quality whose innateness, in the case of his superior, rendered that gentleman a (to my mind) perfect representative of the Almighty French Government: I believe that the Surveillant did not enjoy being cruel, that he was not absolutely without pity or understanding. As a personality I therefore pay him my respects. I am myself incapable of caring whether, as a tool of the Devil, he will find the bright firelight of Hell too warm for him or no.

Beneath the Surveillant were the Secrétaire, Monsieur Richard, the Cook, and the plantons. The first I have described sufficiently, since he was an obedient and negative⁠—albeit peculiarly responsible⁠—cog in the machine of decomposition. Of Monsieur Richard, whose portrait is included in the account of my first day at La Ferté, I wish to say that he had a very comfortable room of his own filled with primitive and otherwise imposing medicines; the walls of this comfortable room being beauteously adorned by some fifty magazine covers representing the female form in every imaginable state of undress, said magazine-covers being taken chiefly from such amorous periodicals as Le Sourire and that old standby of indecency, La Vie Parisienne. Also Monsieur Richard kept a pot of geraniums upon his window-ledge, which haggard and aged-looking symbol of joy he doubtless (in his spare moments) peculiarly enjoyed watering. The Cook is by this time familiar to my reader. I beg to say that I highly approve of The Cook; exclusive of the fact that the coffee, which went up to The Enormous Room tous les matins, was made every day with the same grounds plus a goodly injection of checkerberry⁠—for the simple reason that the Cook had to supply our captors and especially Apollyon with real coffee, whereas what he supplied to les hommes made no difference. The same is true of sugar: our morning coffee, in addition to being a water-thin, black, muddy, stinking liquid, contained not the smallest suggestion of sweetness, whereas the coffee which went to the officials⁠—and the coffee which B. and I drank in recompense for “catching water”⁠—had all the sugar you could possibly wish for. The poor Cook was fined one day as a result of his economies, subsequent to a united action on the part of the fellow-sufferers. It was a day when a gent immaculately dressed appeared⁠—after duly warning the Fiend that he was about to inspect the Fiend’s ménage⁠—an, I think, public official of Orne. Judas (at the time chef de chambre) supported by the sole and unique indignation of all his fellow-prisoners save two or three out of whom Fear had made rabbits or moles, early carried the pail (which by common agreement not one of us had touched that day) downstairs, along the hall, and up one flight⁠—where he encountered the Directeur, Surveillant and Handsome Stranger all amicably and pleasantly conversing. Judas set the pail down; bowed; and begged, as spokesman for the united male gender of La Ferté Macé, that the quality of the coffee be examined. “We won’t any of us drink it, begging your pardon, Messieurs,” he claims that he said. What happened then is highly amusing. The petit balayeur, an eyewitness of the proceeding, described it to me as follows:

“The Directeur roared ‘Comment?’ He was horribly angry. ‘Oui, Monsieur,’ said the maître de chambre humbly⁠—‘Pourquoi?’ thundered the Directeur.⁠—‘Because it’s undrinkable,’ the maître de chambre said quietly.⁠—‘Undrinkable? Nonsense!’ cried the Directeur furiously.⁠—‘Be so good as to taste it, Monsieur le Directeur.’⁠—‘I taste it? Why should I taste it? The coffee is perfectly good, plenty good for you men. This is ridiculous⁠—’⁠—‘Why don’t we all taste it?’ suggested the Surveillant ingratiatingly.⁠—‘Why, yes,’ said the Visitor mildly.⁠—‘Taste it? Of course not. This is ridiculous and I shall punish⁠—’⁠—‘I should like, if you don’t mind, to try a little,’ the Visitor said.⁠—‘Oh, well, of course, if you like,’ the Directeur mildly agreed. ‘Give me a cup of that coffee, you!’⁠—‘With pleasure, sir,’ said the maître de chambre. The Directeur⁠—M’sieu’ Jean, you would have burst laughing⁠—seized the cup, lifted it to his lips, swallowed with a frightful expression (his eyes almost popping out of his head) and cried fiercely, ‘Delicious!’ The Surveillant took a cupful; sipped; tossed the coffee away, looking as if he had been hit in the eyes, and remarked, ‘Ah.’ The maître de chambre⁠—M’sieu’ Jean he is clever⁠—scooped the third cupful from the bottom of the pail, and very politely, with a big bow, handed it to the Visitor; who took it, touched it to his lips, turned perfectly green, and cried out ‘Impossible!’ M’sieu’ Jean, we all thought⁠—the Directeur and the Surveillant and the maître de chambre and myself⁠—that he was going to vomit. He leaned against the wall a moment, quite green; then recovering said faintly⁠—‘The Kitchen.’ The Directeur looked very nervous and shouted, trembling all over, ‘Yes, indeed! We’ll see the cook about this