The Enormous Room E. E. Cummings (snow like ashes TXT) đ
- Author: E. E. Cummings
Book online «The Enormous Room E. E. Cummings (snow like ashes TXT) đ». Author E. E. Cummings
âPlan-ton! It is im-pos-si-ble to sleep!â
A great cry: âYes! I am coming!â floated upâ âevery single noise droppedâ âRockyfeller shot out his hand for the candle, seized it in terror, blew it out as if blowing it out were the last thing he would do in this lifeâ âand The Enormous Room hung silent; enormously dark, enormously expectant.â ââ âŠ
Bang! Open the door. âAlors, qui, mâappelle? Quâest-ce quâon a foutu ici.â And the Black Holster, revolver in hand, flashed his torch into the inky stillness of the chamber. Behind him stood two plantons white with fear; their trembling hands clutching revolvers, the barrels of which shook ludicrously.
âCâest moi, plan-ton!â Monsieur Auguste explained that no one could sleep because of the noise, and that the noise was because âce monsieur lĂ â would not extinguish his candle when everyone wanted to sleep. The Black Holster turned to the room at large and roared: âYou children of Merde donât let this happen again or Iâll fix you every one of you.ââ âThen he asked if anyone wanted to dispute this assertion (he brandishing his revolver the while) and was answered by peaceful snorings. Then he said by X Y and Z heâd fix the noisemakers in the morning and fix them goodâ âand looked for approbation to his trembling assistants. Then he swore twenty or thirty times for luck, turned, and thundered out on the heels of his fleeing confrĂšres who almost tripped over each other in their haste to escape from The Enormous Room. Never have I seen a greater exhibition of bravery than was afforded by The Black Holster, revolver in hand, holding at bay the snoring and weaponless inhabitants of The Enormous Room. Vive les plantons. He should have been a gendarme.
Of course Rockyfeller, having copiously tipped the officials of La FertĂ© upon his arrival, received no slightest censure nor any hint of punishment for his deliberate breaking of an established ruleâ âa rule for the breaking of which anyone of the common scum (e.g., thank God, myself) would have got cabinot de suite. No indeed. Several of les hommes, however, got pain secâ ânot because they had been caught in an act of vociferous protestation by the Black Holster, which they had notâ âbut just on principle, as a warning to the rest of us and to teach us a wholesome respect for (one must assume) law and order. One and all, they heartily agreed that it was worth it. Everyone knew, of course, that the Spy had peached. For, by Jove, even in The Enormous Room there was a man who earned certain privileges and acquired a complete immunity from punishment by squealing on his fellow-sufferers at each and every opportunity. A really ugly person, with a hard knuckling face and treacherous hands, whose daughter lived downstairs in a separate room apart from les putains (against which âdirty,â âfilthy,â âwhoresâ he could not say enoughâ ââHiâd rather die than âave my daughter with them stinkinâ âores,â remarked once to me this strictly moral man, in Cockney English) and whose daughter (aged thirteen) was generally supposed to serve in a pleasurable capacity. One did not need to be warned against the Spy (as both B. and I were warned, upon our arrival)â âa single look at that phiz was enough for anyone partially either intelligent or sensitive. This phiz or mug had, then, squealed. Which everyone took as a matter of course and admitted among themselves that hanging was too good for him.
But the vast and unutterable success achieved by the Menagerie was thisâ âRockyfeller, shortly after, left our ill-bred society for âlâhĂŽpitalâ; the very same âhospitalâ whose comforts and seclusion Monsieur le Surveillant had so dextrously recommended to B. and myself. Rockyfeller kept The Fighting Sheeney in his way, in order to defend him when he went on promenade; otherwise our connection with him was definitely severed, his new companions being Muskowitz the Cockeyed Millionaire, and The Belgian Song Writerâ âwho told everyone to whom he spoke that he was a government official (âde la blagueâ cried the little Machine-Fixer, âcâest un menteur!â Adding that he knew of this person in Belgium and that this person was a man who wrote popular ditties). Would to Heaven we had got rid of the slave as well as the masterâ âbut unfortunately The Fighting Sheeney couldnât afford to follow his lordâs example. So he went on making a nuisance of himself, trying hard to curry favour with B. and me, getting into fights and bullying everyone generally.
Also this lionhearted personage spent one whole night shrieking and moaning on his paillasse after an injection by Monsieur Richardâ âfor syphilis. Two or three men were, in the course of a few days, discovered to have had syphilis for some time. They had it in their mouths. I donât remember them particularly, except that at least one was a Belgian. Of course they and The Fighting Sheeney had been using the common dipper and drink pail. Le gouvernement français couldnât be expected to look out for a little thing like venereal disease among prisoners: didnât it have enough to do curing those soldiers who spent their time on permission trying their best to infect themselves with both gonorrhea and syphilis? Let not the reader suppose I am daydreaming: let him rather recall that I had had the honour of being a member of Section Sanitaire Vingt-et-Un, which helped evacuate the venereal hospital at Ham, with whose inhabitants (in odd moments) I talked and walked and learned several things about la guerre. Let the readerâ âif he does not realise it alreadyâ ârealise that This Great War for Humanity, etc., did not agree with some peopleâs ideas, and that some peopleâs ideas made them
Comments (0)