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

“Nom de dieu tirez!”

The bucket, in big merry sounding jumps, was approaching the window below us.

The planton took aim, falling fearlessly on one knee, and closing both eyes. I confess that my blood stood on tiptoe; but what was death to the loss of that jam-bucket, let alone everyone’s apparel which everyone had so generously loaned? We kept on hauling silently. Out of the corner of my eye I beheld the planton⁠—now on both knees, musket held to his shoulder by his left arm and pointing unflinchingly at us one and all⁠—hunting with his right arm and hand in his belt for cartridges! A few seconds after this fleeting glimpse of heroic devotion had penetrated my considerably heightened sensitivity⁠—up suddenly came the bucket and over backwards we all went together on the floor of The Enormous Room. And as we fell I heard a cry like the cry of a boiler announcing noon⁠—

“Too late!”

I recollect that I lay on the floor for some minutes, half on top of The Zulu and three-quarters smothered by Monsieur Auguste, shaking with laughter.⁠ ⁠…

Then we all took to our hands and knees, and made for our bunks.

I believe no one (curiously enough) got punished for this atrocious misdemeanour⁠—except the planton; who was punished for not shooting us, although God knows he had done his very best.

And now I must chronicle the famous duel which took place between The Zulu’s compatriot, The Young Pole, and that herebefore introduced pimp, The Fighting Sheeney; a duel which came as a climax to a vast deal of teasing on the part of The Young Pole⁠—who, as previously remarked, had not learned his lesson from Bill The Hollander with the thoroughness which one might have expected of him.

In addition to a bit of French and considerable Spanish, Rockyfeller’s valet spoke Russian very (I did not have to be told) badly. The Young Pole, perhaps sore at being rolled on the floor of The Enormous Room by the worthy Sheeney, set about nagging him just as he had done in the case of neighbour Bill. His favourite epithet for the conqueror was “moshki” or “moski” I never was sure which. Whatever it meant (The Young Pole and Monsieur Auguste informed me that it meant “Jew” in a highly derogatory sense) its effect upon the noble Sheeney was definitely unpleasant. But when coupled with the word “moskosi,” accent on the second syllable or long o, its effect was more than unpleasant⁠—it was really disagreeable. At intervals throughout the day, on promenade, of an evening, the ugly phrase

“Mos-ki moskosi”

resounded through The Enormous Room. The Fighting Sheeney, then rapidly convalescing from syphilis, bided his time. The Young Pole moreover had a way of jesting upon the subject of The Sheeney’s infirmity. He would, particularly during the afternoon promenade, shout various none too subtle allusions to Moshki’s physical condition for the benefit of les femmes. And in response would come peals of laughter from the girls’ windows, shrill peals and deep guttural peals intersecting and breaking joints like overlapping shingles on the roof of Craziness. So hearty did these responses become one afternoon that, in answer to loud pleas from the injured Moshki, the pimply sergeant de plantons himself came to the gate in the barbed wire fence and delivered a lecture upon the seriousness of venereal ailments (heartfelt, I should judge by the looks of him), as follows:

“Il ne faut pas rigoler de ça. Savez-vous? C’est une maladie, ça,”

which little sermon contrasted agreeably with his usual remarks concerning, and in the presence of, les femmes, whereof the essence lay in a single phrase of prepositional significance⁠—

“bon pour coucher avec”

he would say shrilly, his puny eyes assuming an expression of amorous wisdom which was most becoming.⁠ ⁠…

One day we were all upon afternoon promenade, (it being beau temps for that part of the world), under the auspices of by all odds one of the littlest and mildest and most delicate specimens of mankind that ever donned the high and dangerous duties of a planton. As B. says: “He always looked like a June bride.” This mannikin could not have been five feet high, was perfectly proportioned (unless we except the musket upon his shoulder and the bayonet at his belt), and minced to and fro with a feminine grace which suggested⁠—at least to les deux citoyens of These United States⁠—the extremely authentic epithet “fairy.” He had such a pretty face! and so cute a moustache! and such darling legs! and such a wonderful smile! For plantonic purposes the smile⁠—which brought two little dimples into his pink cheeks⁠—was for the most part suppressed. However it was impossible for this little thing to look stern: the best he could do was to look poignantly sad. Which he did with great success, standing like a tragic last piece of uneaten candy in his big box at the end of the cour, and eyeing the sinful hommes with sad pretty eyes. Won’t anyone eat me?⁠—he seemed to ask.⁠—I’m really delicious, you know, perfectly delicious, really I am.

To resume: everyone being in the cour, it was well filled, not only from the point of view of space but of sound. A barnyard crammed with pigs, cows, horses, ducks, geese, hens, cats and dogs could not possibly have produced one-fifth of the racket that emanated, spontaneously and inevitably, from the cour. Above which racket I heard tout à coup a roar of pain and surprise; and looking up with some interest and also in some alarm, beheld The Young Pole backing and filling and slipping in the deep ooze under the strenuous jolts, jabs and even haymakers of The Fighting Sheeney, who, with his coat off and his cap off and his shirt