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

Mexique played dominoes with us (B. having devised a set from cardboard), strolled The Enormous Room with us, telling of his father and brother in Mexico, of the people, of the customs; and⁠—when we were in the cour⁠—wrote the entire conjugation of tengo in the deep mud with a little stick, squatting and chuckling and explaining. He and his brother had both participated in the revolution which made Carranza president. His description of which affair was utterly delightful.

“Every-body run a-round with guns,” Mexique said. “And bye-and-bye no see to shoot everybody, so everybody go home.” We asked if he had shot anybody himself. “Sure. I shoot everybody I do’no” Mexique answered laughing. “I t’ink every-body no hit me” he added, regarding his stocky person with great and quiet amusement. When we asked him once what he thought about the war, he replied, “I t’ink lotta bull⁠—,” which, upon copious reflection, I decided absolutely expressed my own point of view.

Mexique was generous, incapable of either stupidity or despondency, and mannered as a gentleman is supposed to be. Upon his arrival he wrote almost immediately to the Mexican (or is it Spanish?) consul⁠—“He know my fader in Mexico”⁠—stating in perfect and unambiguous Spanish the facts leading to his arrest; and when I said goodbye to La Misère Mexique was expecting a favorable reply at any moment, as indeed he had been cheerfully expecting for some time. If he reads this history I hope he will not be too angry with me for whatever injustice it does to one of the altogether pleasantest companions I have ever had. My notebooks, one in particular, are covered with conjugations which bear witness to Mexique’s ineffable good-nature. I also have a somewhat superficial portrait of his back sitting on a bench by the stove. I wish I had another of Mexique out in le jardin with a man who worked there who was a Spaniard, and whom the Surveillant had considerately allowed Mexique to assist; with the perfectly correct idea that it would be pleasant for Mexique to talk to someone who could speak Spanish⁠—if not as well as he, Mexique, could, at least passably well. As it is, I must be content to see my very good friend sitting with his hands in his pockets by the stove with Bill the Hollander beside him. And I hope it was not many days after my departure that Mexique went free. Somehow I feel that he went free⁠ ⁠… and if I am right, I will only say about Mexique’s freedom what I have heard him slowly and placidly say many times concerning not only the troubles which were common property to us all but his own peculiar troubles as well.

“That’s fine.”

Here let me introduce the Guard Champêtre, whose name I have already taken more or less in vain. A little, sharp, hungry-looking person who, subsequent to being a member of a rural police force (of which membership he seemed rather proud), had served his patrie⁠—otherwise known as La Belgique⁠—in the capacity of motorcyclist. As he carried dispatches from one end of the line to the other his disagreeably big eyes had absorbed certain peculiarly inspiring details of civilised warfare. He had, at one time, seen a bridge hastily constructed by les alliés over the Yser River, the cadavers of the faithful and the enemy alike being thrown in helter-skelter to make a much needed foundation for the timbers. This little procedure had considerably outraged the Guard Champêtre’s sense of decency. The Yser, said he, flowed perfectly red for a long time. “We were all together: Belgians, French, English⁠ ⁠… we Belgians did not see any good reason for continuing the battle. But we continued. O indeed we continued. Do you know why?”

I said that I was afraid I didn’t.

“Because in front of us we had the German shells, behind, the French machine guns, always the French machine guns, mon vieux.”

“Je ne comprends pas bien” I said in confusion, recalling all the highfalutin rigmarole which Americans believed⁠—(little martyred Belgium protected by the allies from the inroads of the aggressor, etc.)⁠—“why should the French put machine guns behind you?”

The Guard Champêtre lifted his big empty eyes nervously. The vast hollows in which they lived darkened. His little rather hard face trembled within itself. I thought for a second he was going to throw a fit at my feet⁠—instead of doing which he replied pettishly, in a sunken bright whisper:

“To keep us going forward. At times a company would drop its guns and turn to run. Pupupupupupupupup⁠ ⁠…” his short unlovely arms described gently the swinging of a mitrailleuse⁠ ⁠… “finish. The Belgian soldiers to left and right of them took the hint. If they did not⁠—pupupupupupup.⁠ ⁠… O we went forward. Yes. Vive le patriotisme.”

And he rose with a gesture which seemed to brush away these painful trifles from his memory, crossed the end of the room with short rapid steps, and began talking to his best friend Judas, who was at that moment engaged in training his wobbly mustachios.⁠ ⁠… Toward the close of my visit to La Ferté the Guard Champêtre was really happy for a period of two days⁠—during which time he moved in the society of a rich, intelligent, mistakenly arrested and completely disagreeable youth in bone spectacles, copious hair and spiral putees, whom B. and I partially contented ourselves by naming Jo Jo The Lion Faced Boy. Had the charges against Jo Jo been stronger my tale would have been longer⁠—fortunately for tout le monde they had no basis; and back went Jo Jo to his native Paris, leaving the Guard Champêtre with Judas and attacks of only occasionally interesting despair.

The reader may suppose that it is about time another Delectable Mountain appeared upon his horizon. Let him keep his eyes wide open, for here one comes.⁠ ⁠…

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