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

Chiez, si vous voulez, chiez,

and over and beneath and around the voice I saw frightened faces of women hanging in the smoke, some screaming with their lips apart and their eyes closed, some staring with wide eyes; and among the women’s faces I discovered the large, placid, interested expression of the Gestionnaire and the nervous clicking eyes of the Surveillant. And there was a shout⁠—it was the Black Holster shouting at us as we stood transfixed⁠—

“Who the devil brought the men in here? Get up with you where you belong, you.⁠ ⁠…”

—And he made a rush at us, and we dodged in the smoke and passed slowly up the hall, looking behind us, speechless to a man with the admiration of Terror till we reached the further flight of stairs; and mounted slowly, with the din falling below us, ringing in our ears, beating upon our brains⁠—mounted slowly with quickened blood and pale faces⁠—to the peace of The Enormous Room.

I spoke with both balayeurs that night. They told me, independently, the same story: the four incorrigibles had been locked in the cabinot ensemble. They made so much noise, particularly Lily, that the plantons were afraid the Directeur would be disturbed. Accordingly the plantons got together and stuffed the contents of a paillasse in the cracks around the door, and particularly in the crack under the door wherein cigarettes were commonly inserted by friends of the entombed. This process made the cabinot airtight. But the plantons were not taking any chances on disturbing Monsieur le Directeur. They carefully lighted the paillasse at a number of points and stood back to see the results of their efforts. So soon as the smoke found its way inward the singing was supplanted by coughing; then the coughing stopped. Then nothing was heard. Then Celina began crying out within⁠—“Open the door, Lily and Renée are dead”⁠—and the plantons were frightened. After some debate they decided to open the door⁠—out poured the smoke, and in it Celina, whose voice in a fraction of a second roused everyone in the building. The Black Holster wrestled with her and tried to knock her down by a blow on the mouth; but she escaped, bleeding a little, to the foot of the stairs⁠—simultaneously with the advent of the Directeur who for once had found someone beyond the power of his weapon, Fear, someone in contact with whose indescribable Youth the puny threats of death withered between his lips, someone finally completely and unutterably Alive whom the Lie upon his slavering tongue could not kill.

I do not need to say that, as soon as the girls who had fainted could be brought to, they joined Lena in pain sec for many days to come; and that Celina was overpowered by six plantons⁠—at the order of Monsieur le Directeur⁠—and reincarcerated in the cabinot adjoining that from which she had made her velocitous exit⁠—reincarcerated without food for twenty-four hours. “Mais, M’sieu’ Jean,” the Machine-Fixer said trembling, “Vous savez elle est forte. She gave the six of them a fight, I tell you. And three of them went to the doctor as a result of their efforts, including le vieux (The Black Holster). But of course they succeeded in beating her up, six men upon one woman. She was beaten badly, I tell you, before she gave in. M’sieu’ Jean, ils sont tous⁠—les plantons et le Directeur Lui-Même et le Surveillant et le Gestionnaire et tous⁠—ils sont des⁠—” and he said very nicely what they were, and lit his little black pipe with a crisp curving upward gesture, and shook like a blade of grass.

With which specimen of purely medieval torture I leave the subject of Women, and embark upon the quieter if no less enlightening subject of Sunday.

Sunday, it will be recalled, was Monsieur le Directeur’s third weapon. That is to say: lest the ordinarily tantalising proximity of les femmes should not inspire les hommes to deeds which placed the doers automatically in the clutches of himself, his subordinates, and la punition, it was arranged that once a week the tantalising proximity aforesaid should be supplanted by a positively maddening approach to coincidence. Or in other words, the men and the women for an hour or less might enjoy the same exceedingly small room; for purposes of course of devotion⁠—it being obvious to Monsieur le Directeur that the representatives of both sexes at La Ferté Macé were inherently of a strongly devotional nature. And lest the temptation to err in such moments be deprived, through a certain aspect of compulsion, of its complete force, the attendance of such strictly devotional services was made optional.

The uplifting services to which I refer took place in that very room which (the night of my arrival) had yielded me my paillasse under the Surveillant’s direction. It may have been thirty feet long and twenty wide. At one end was an altar at the top of several wooden stairs, with a large candle on each side. To the right as you entered a number of benches were placed to accommodate les femmes. Les hommes upon entering took off their caps and stood over against the left wall so as to leave between them and the women an alley perhaps five feet wide. In this alley stood the Black Holster with his kepi firmly resting upon his head, his arms folded, his eyes spying to left and right in order to intercept any signals exchanged between the sheep and goats. Those who elected to enjoy spiritual things left the cour and their morning promenade after about an hour of promenading, while the materially minded remained to finish the promenade; or if one declined the promenade entirely (as frequently occurred owing to the