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
On a certain day the ringing of the bell and accompanying rush of men to the window facing the entrance gate was supplemented by an unparalleled volley of enthusiastic exclamations in all the languages of La FertĂ© MacĂ©â âprovoking in me a certainty that the queen of fair women had arrived. This certainty thrillingly withered when I heard the cry: âIl y a un noir!â Fritz was at the best peephole, resisting successfully the onslaught of a dozen fellow prisoners, and of him I demanded in English, âWhoâs come?ââ ââOh, a lot of girls,â he yelled, âand thereâs a nigger tooââ âhereupon writhing with laughter.
I attempted to get a look, but in vain; for by this at least two dozen men were at the peephole, fighting and gesticulating and slapping each otherâs back with joy. However, my curiosity was not long in being answered. I heard on the stairs the sound of mounting feet, and knew that a couple of plantons would before many minutes arrive at the door with their new prey. So did everyone elseâ âand from the farthest beds uncouth figures sprang and rushed to the door, eager for the first glimpse of the nouveau; which was very significant, as the ordinary procedure on arrival of prisoners was for everybody to rush to his own bed and stand guard over it.
Even as the plantons fumbled with the locks I heard the inimitable, unmistakable divine laugh of a negro. The door opened at last. Entered a beautiful pillar of black strutting muscle topped with a tremendous display of the whitest teeth on earth. The muscle bowed politely in our direction, the grin remarked musically: âBoâjour, touâlâmondeâ; then came a cascade of laughter. Its effect on the spectators was instantaneous: they roared and danced with joy. âComment vous appelez-vous?â was fired from the hubbub.â ââJâmâappelle Jean, moi,â the muscle rapidly answered with sudden solemnity, proudly gazing to left and right as if expecting a challenge to this statement: but when none appeared, it relapsed as suddenly into laughterâ âas if hugely amused at itself and everyone else including a little and tough boy, whom I had not previously noted, although his entrance had coincided with the muscleâs.
Thus into the misÚre of La Ferté Macé stepped lightly and proudly Jean le NÚgre.
Of all the fine people in La FertĂ©, Monsieur Jean (âle noirâ as he was entitled by his enemies) swaggers in my memory as the finest.
Jeanâs first act was to complete the distribution (begun, he announced, among the plantons who had escorted him upstairs) of two pockets full of Cubebs. Right and left he gave them up to the last, remarking carelessly, âJâne veux, moi.â
AprĂšs la soupe (which occurred a few minutes after le noirâs entry) B. and I and the greater number of prisoners descended to the cour for our afternoon promenade. The cook spotted us immediately and desired us to âcatch waterâ; which we did, three cartfuls of it, earning our usual cafĂ© sucrĂ©. On quitting the kitchen after this delicious repast (which as usual mitigated somewhat the effects of the swill that was our official nutriment) we entered the cour. And we noticed at once a well-made figure standing conspicuously by itself, and poring with extraordinary intentness over the pages of a London Daily Mail which it was holding upside-down. The reader was culling choice bits of news of a highly sensational nature, and exclaiming from time to time: âYou donât say! Look, the King of England is sick. Some news!â ââ ⊠What? The queen too? Good God! Whatâs this?â âMy father is dead! Oh, well. The war is over. Good.ââ âIt was Jean le NĂšgre, playing a little game with himself to beguile the time.
When we had mounted Ă la chambre, two or three tried to talk with this extraordinary personage in French; at which he became very superior and announced: âJâsuis anglais, moi. Parlez anglais. Comprends pas français, moi.â At this a crowd escorted him over to B. and meâ âanticipating great deeds in the English language. Jean looked at us critically and said: âVous parlez anglais? Moi parlez anglais.ââ ââWe are Americans, and speak English,â I answered.â ââMoi anglais,â Jean said. âMon pĂšre, capitaine de gendarmes, Londres. Comprends pas français, moi. Spee-Kinglissââ âhe laughed all over himself.
At this display of English on Jeanâs part the English-speaking Hollanders began laughing. âThe son of a bitch is crazy,â one said.
And from that moment B. and I got on famously with Jean.
His mind was a childâs. His use of language was sometimes exalted fibbing, sometimes the purely picturesque. He courted above all the sound of words, more or less disdaining their meaning. He told us immediately (in pidgeon French) that he was born without a mother because his mother died when he was born, that his father was (first) sixteen (then) sixty years old, that his father gagnait cinq cent franc par jour (later, par annĂ©e), that he was born in London and not in England, that he was in the French army and had never been in any army.
He did not, however, contradict himself in one statement: âLes français sont des cochonsââ âto which we heartily agreed, and which won him the approval of the Hollanders.
The next day I had my hands full acting as interpreter for âle noir qui comprends pas français.â I was summoned from the cour to elucidate a great grief which Jean had been unable to explain to the Gestionnaire. I mounted with a planton to find Jean in hysterics,
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