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

lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Vive la bourgeoisie, I said to myself, ducking the shafts of censure by the simple means of hiding my face behind the moving water barrel.

But one day⁠—as I started to inform the reader⁠—somebody and I were catching water, and, in fact, had caught our last load, and were returning with it down the street; when I, who was striding rapidly behind trying to lessen with both hands the impetus of the machine, suddenly tripped and almost fell with surprise⁠—

On the curb of the little unbeautiful street a figure was sitting, a female figure dressed in utterly barbaric pinks and vermilions, having a dark shawl thrown about her shoulders; a positively Arabian face delimited by a bright coif of some tenuous stuff, slender golden hands holding with extraordinary delicacy what appeared to be a baby of not more than three months old; and beside her a black-haired child of perhaps three years and beside this child a girl of fourteen, dressed like the woman in crashing hues, with the most exquisite face I had ever known.

Nom de Dieu, I thought vaguely. Am I or am I not completely asleep? And the man in the shafts craned his neck in stupid amazement, and the planton twirled his moustache and assumed that intrepid look which only a planton (or a gendarme) perfectly knows how to assume in the presence of female beauty.

That night The Wanderer was absent from la soupe, having been called by Apollyon to the latter’s office upon a matter of superior import. Everyone was abuzz with the news. The gypsy’s wife and three children, one a baby at the breast, were outside demanding to be made prisoners. Would the Directeur allow it? They had been told a number of times by plantons to go away, as they sat patiently waiting to be admitted to captivity. No threats, pleas nor arguments had availed. The wife said she was tired of living without her husband⁠—roars of laughter from all the Belgians and most of the Hollanders, I regret to say Pete included⁠—and wanted merely and simply to share his confinement. Moreover, she said, without him she was unable to support his children! and it was better that they should grow up with their father as prisoners than starve to death without him. She would not be moved. The Black Holster told her he would use force⁠—she answered nothing. Finally she had been admitted pending judgment. Also sprach, highly excited, the balayeur.

“Looks like a⁠—hoor,” was the Belgian-Dutch verdict, a verdict which was obviously due to the costume of the lady in question almost as much as to the untemperamental natures sojourning at La Ferté. B. and I agreed that she and her children were the most beautiful people we had ever seen, or would ever be likely to see. So la soupe ended, and everybody belched and gasped and trumpeted up to The Enormous Room as usual.

That evening, about six o’clock, I heard a man crying as if his heart were broken. I crossed The Enormous Room. Half-lying on his paillasse, his great beard pouring upon his breast, his face lowered, his entire body shuddering with sobs, lay The Wanderer. Several of the men were about him, standing in attitudes ranging from semi-amusement to stupid sympathy, listening to the anguish which⁠—as from time to time he lifted his majestic head⁠—poured slowly and brokenly from his lips. I sat down beside him. And he told me: “I bought him for six hundred francs, and I sold him for four hundred and fifty⁠ ⁠… it was not a horse of this race, but of the race” (I could not catch the word) “as long as from here to that post. I cried for a quarter of an hour just as if my child were dead⁠ ⁠… and it is seldom I weep over horses⁠—I say: you are going, Jewel, au r’oir et bon jour.”⁠ ⁠…

The vain little dancer interrupted about “broken-down horses”⁠ ⁠… “Excuses donc⁠—this was no disabled horse, such as goes to the front⁠—these are some horses⁠—pardon, whom you give eat, this, it is colique, that, the other, it’s colique⁠—this never⁠—he could go forty kilometres a day.⁠ ⁠…”

One of the strongest men I have seen in my life is crying because he has had to sell his favourite horse. No wonder les hommes in general are not interested. Someone said: “Be of good cheer, Demestre, your wife and kids are well enough.”

“Yes⁠—they are not cold; they have a bed like that” (a high gesture toward the quilt of many colours on which we were sitting, such a quilt as I have not seen since; a feathery deepness soft to the touch as air in Spring), “which is worth three times this of mine⁠—but tu comprends, it’s not hot these mornings”⁠—then he dropped his head, and lifted it again, crying, crying.

“Et mes outils, I had many⁠—and my garments⁠—where are they put, où⁠—où? Kis! And I had chemises⁠ ⁠… this is poor” (looking at himself as a prince might look at his disguise)⁠—“and like this, that⁠—where?”

“Si the wagon is not sold⁠ ⁠… I never will stay here for la durée de la guerre. No⁠—bahsht! To resume, that is why I need.⁠ ⁠…”

(more than upright in the priceless bed⁠—the twice streaming darkness of his beard, his hoarse sweetness of voice⁠—his immense perfect face and deeply softnesses eyes⁠—pouring voice)

“my wife sat over there, she spoke to No one and bothered Nobody⁠—why was my wife taken here and shut up? Had she done anything? There is a wife who fait la putain and turns, to everyone and another, whom I bring another tomorrow⁠ ⁠… but a woman who loves only her husband, who waits for no one but her husband⁠—”

(the tone bulged, and the eyes together)

“⁠—Ces cigarettes ne fument pas!” I added an apology, having presented him with the package.