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

the Zulu; he being one of the Delectable Mountains. For which reason I shall have more to say of him later, when I ascend the Delectable Mountains in a separate chapter or chapters; till when the reader must be content with the above, however unsatisfactory description.⁠ ⁠…

One of the most utterly repulsive personages whom I have met in my life⁠—perhaps (and on second thought I think certainly) the most utterly repulsive⁠—was shortly after this presented to our midst by the considerate French government. I refer to The Fighting Sheeney. Whether or no he arrived after the Spanish Whoremaster I cannot say. I remember that Bill the Hollander⁠—which was the name of the triangular rope-belted man with shifty blue eyes (co-arrivé with the whiskey Belgian; which Belgian, by the way, from his not to be exaggerated brutal look, B. and myself called The Baby-snatcher)⁠—upon his arrival told great tales of a Spanish millionaire with whom he had been in prison just previous to his discovery of La Ferté. “He’ll be here too in a couple o’ days,” added Bill the Hollander, who had been fourteen years in These United States, spoke the language to a T, talked about “The America Lakes,” and was otherwise amazingly well acquainted with The Land of The Free. And sure enough, in less than a week one of the fattest men whom I have ever laid eyes on, overdressed, much beringed and otherwise wealthy-looking, arrived⁠—and was immediately played up to by Judas (who could smell cash almost as far as le gouvernement français could smell sedition) and, to my somewhat surprise, by the utterly respectable Count Bragard. But most emphatically not by Mexique, who spent a half-hour talking to the nouveau in his own tongue, then drifted placidly over to our beds and informed us:

“You see dat feller over dere, dat fat feller? I speak Spanish to him. He no good. Tell me he make fifty thousand franc last year runnin’ whorehouse in” (I think it was) “Brest. Son of bitch!”

“Dat fat feller” lived in a perfectly huge bed which he contrived to have brought up for him immediately upon his arrival. The bed arrived in a knockdown state and with it a mechanician from la ville, who set about putting it together, meanwhile indulging in many glances expressive not merely of interest but of amazement and even fear. I suppose the bed had to be of a special size in order to accommodate the circular millionaire and being an extraordinary bed required the services of a skilled artisan⁠—at all events, “dat fat feller’s” couch put the Skipper’s altogether in the shade. As I watched the process of construction it occurred to me that after all here was the last word in luxury⁠—to call forth from the metropolis not only a special divan but with it a special slave, the Slave of the Bed.⁠ ⁠… “Dat fat feller” had one of the prisoners perform his corvée for him. “Dat fat feller” bought enough at the canteen twice every day to stock a transatlantic liner for seven voyages, and never ate with the prisoners. I will mention him again apropos the Mecca of respectability, the Great White Throne of purity, Three rings Three⁠—alias Count Bragard, to whom I have long since introduced my reader.

So we come, willy-nilly, to The Fighting Sheeney.

The Fighting Sheeney arrived carrying the expensive suitcase of a livid, strangely unpleasant-looking Romanian gent, who wore a knit sweater of a strangely ugly red hue, impeccable clothes, and an immaculate velour hat which must have been worth easily fifty francs. We called this gent Rockyfeller. His personality might be faintly indicated by the adjective Disagreeable. The porter was a creature whom Ugly does not even slightly describe. There are some specimens of humanity in whose presence one instantly and instinctively feels a profound revulsion, a revulsion which⁠—perhaps because it is profound⁠—cannot be analysed. The Fighting Sheeney was one of these specimens. His face (or to use the good American idiom, his mug) was exceedingly coarse-featured and had an indefatigable expression of sheer brutality⁠—yet the impression which it gave could not be traced to any particular plane or line. I can and will say, however, that this face was most hideous⁠—perhaps that is the word⁠—when it grinned. When The Fighting Sheeney grinned you felt that he desired to eat you, and was prevented from eating you only by a superior desire to eat everybody at once. He and Rockyfeller came to us from, I think it was, the Santé; both accompanied B. to Précigne. During the weeks which The Fighting Sheeney spent at La Ferté Macé, the nonexistence of the inhabitants of The Enormous Room was rendered something more than miserable. It was rendered well-nigh unbearable.

The night Rockyfeller and his slave arrived was a night to be remembered by everyone. It was one of the wildest and strangest and most perfectly interesting nights I, for one, ever spent. Rockyfeller had been corralled by Judas, and was enjoying a special bed to our right at the upper end of The Enormous Room. At the canteen he had purchased a large number of candles in addition to a great assortment of dainties which he and Judas were busily enjoying⁠—when the planton came up, counted us twice, divided by three, gave the order “Lumières éteintes,” and descended, locking the door behind him. Everyone composed himself for miserable sleep. Everyone except Judas, who went on talking to Rockyfeller, and Rockyfeller, who proceeded to light one of his candles and begin a pleasant and conversational evening. The Fighting Sheeney lay stark-naked on a paillasse between me and his lord. The Fighting Sheeney told everyone that to sleep stark-naked was to avoid bugs (whereof everybody, including myself, had a goodly portion). The Fighting Sheeney was, however, quieted by the planton’s order; whereas Rockyfeller continued to talk and munch to his heart’s content. This began to get on everybody’s nerves.