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

prefer to the glories of the front line the torments (I have heard my friends at Ham screaming a score of times) attendant upon venereal diseases. Or as one of my aforesaid friends told me⁠—after discovering that I was, in contrast to les américains, not bent upon making France discover America but rather upon discovering France and les français myself:

“Mon vieux, it’s quite simple. I go on leave. I ask to go to Paris, because there are prostitutes there who are totally diseased. I catch syphilis, and, when possible gonorrhea also. I come back. I leave for the front line. I am sick. The hospital. The doctor tells me: you must not smoke or drink, then you will be cured quickly. ‘Thanks, doctor!’ I drink all the time and I smoke all the time and I do not get well. I stay five, six, seven weeks. Perhaps a few months. At last, I am well. I rejoin my regiment. And now it is my turn to go on leave. I go. Again the same thing. It’s very pretty, you know.”

But about the syphilitics at La Ferté: they were, somewhat tardily to be sure, segregated in a very small and dirty room⁠—for a matter of, perhaps, two weeks. And the Surveillant actually saw to it that during this period they ate la soupe out of individual china bowls.

I scarcely know whether The Fighting Sheeney made more of a nuisance of himself during his decumbiture or during the period which followed it⁠—which period houses an astonishing number of fights, rows, bullyings, etc. He must have had a light case for he was cured in no time, and on everyone’s back as usual. Well, I will leave him for the nonce; in fact, I will leave him until I come to The Young Pole, who wore black puttees and spoke of The Zulu as “mon ami”⁠—the Young Pole whose troubles I will recount in connection with the second Delectable Mountain Itself. I will leave the Sheeney with the observation that he was almost as vain as he was vicious; for with what ostentation, one day when we were in the kitchen, did he show me a postcard received that afternoon from Paris, whereon I read “Comme vous êtes beau” and promises to send more money as fast as she earned it and, hoping that he had enjoyed her last present, the signature (in a big, adoring hand)

“Ta môme. Alice.”

and when I had read it⁠—sticking his map up into my face, The Fighting Sheeney said with emphasis:

“No travailler moi. Femme travaille, fait la noce, tout le temps. Toujours avec officiers anglais. Gagne beaucoup, cent francs, deux cent francs, trois cent francs, toutes les nuits. Anglais riches. Femme me donne tout. Moi no travailler. Bon, eh?”

Grateful for this little piece of information, and with his leer an inch from my chin, I answered slowly and calmly that it certainly was. I might add that he spoke Spanish by preference (according to Mexique very bad Spanish); for The Fighting Sheeney had made his home for a number of years in Rio, and his opinion thereof may be loosely translated by the expressive phrase, “it’s a swell town.”

A charming fellow, The Fighting Sheeney.

Now I must tell you what happened to the poor Spanish Whoremaster. I have already noted the fact that Count Bragard conceived an immediate fondness for this rolypoly individual, whose belly⁠—as he lay upon his back of a morning in bed⁠—rose up with the sheets, blankets and quilts as much as two feet above the level of his small, stupid head studded with chins. I have said that this admiration on the part of the admirable Count and R.A. for a personage of the Spanish Whoremaster’s profession somewhat interested me. The fact is, a change had recently come in our own relations with Vanderbilt’s friend. His cordiality toward B. and myself had considerably withered. From the time of our arrivals the good nobleman had showered us with favours and advice. To me, I may say, he was even extraordinarily kind. We talked painting, for example: Count Bragard folded a piece of paper, tore it in the centre of the folded edge, unfolded it carefully, exhibiting a good round hole, and remarking: “Do you know this trick? It’s an English trick, Mr. Cummings,” held the paper before him and gazed profoundly through the circular aperture at an exceptionally disappointing section of the altogether gloomy landscape, visible thanks to one of the ecclesiastical windows of The Enormous Room. “Just look at that, Mr. Cummings,” he said with quiet dignity. I looked. I tried my best to find something to the left. “No, no, straight through,” Count Bragard corrected me. “There’s a lovely bit of landscape,” he said sadly. “If I only had my paints here. I thought, you know, of asking my housekeeper to send them on from Paris⁠—but how can you paint in a bloody place like this with all these bloody pigs around you? It’s ridiculous to think of it. And it’s tragic, too,” he added grimly, with something like tears in his grey, tired eyes.

Or we were promenading The Enormous Room after supper⁠—the evening promenade in the cour having been officially eliminated owing to the darkness and the cold of the autumn twilight⁠—and through the windows the dull bloating colours of sunset pouring faintly; and the Count stops dead in his tracks and regards the sunset without speaking for a number of seconds. Then⁠—“it’s glorious, isn’t it?” he asks quietly. I say “Glorious indeed.” He resumes his walk with a sigh, and I accompany him. “Ce n’est pas difficile à peindre, un coucher du soleil, it’s not hard,” he remarks gently. “No?” I say with deference. “Not hard a bit,” the Count says, beginning to use his hands. “You only need three colours, you know. Very simple.” “Which colours are they?” I