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

type, little bald on top, sneaky civility, smells of bad perfume or, at any rate, sweetish soap; tiny redheaded person, also civilian, creased worrying excited face, amusing little body and hands, brief and jumpy, must be a Dickens character, ought to spend his time sailing kites of his own construction over other people’s houses in gusty weather. Behind the Three, all tied up with deference and inferiority, mild and spineless, Apollyon.

Would the reader like to know what I was asked?

Ah, would I could say! Only dimly do I remember those moments⁠—only dimly do I remember looking through the lawyer at Apollyon’s clean collar⁠—only dimly do I remember the gradual collapse of the captain of gendarmes, his slow but sure assumption of sleepfulness, the drooping of his soggy tête de cochon lower and lower till it encountered one hand whose elbow, braced firmly upon the table, sustained its insensate limpness⁠—only dimly do I remember the enthusiastic antics of the little redhead when I spoke with patriotic fervour of the wrongs which La France was doing mon ami et moi⁠—only dimly do I remember, to my right, the immobility of The Wooden Hand, reminding one of a clothing dummy, or a life-size doll which might be made to move only by him who knew the proper combination.⁠ ⁠… At the outset I was asked: Did I want a translator? I looked and saw the secrétaire, weak-eyed and lemon-pale, and I said “Non.” I was questioned mostly by the avocat, somewhat by the Dickens, never by either the captain (who was asleep) or the Directeur (who was timid in the presence of these great and good delegates of hope, faith and charity per the French Government). I recall that, for some reason, I was perfectly cool. I put over six or eight hot shots without losing in the least this composure, which surprised myself and pleased myself and altogether increased myself. As the questions came for me I met them halfway, spouting my best or worst French in a manner which positively astonished the tiny redheaded demigod. I challenged with my eyes and with my voice and with my manner Apollyon Himself, and Apollyon Himself merely cuddled together, depressing his hairy body between its limbs as a spider sometimes does in the presence of danger. I expressed immense gratitude to my captors and to le gouvernement français for allowing me to see and hear and taste and smell and touch the things which inhabited La Ferté Macé, Orne, France. I do not think that la commission enjoyed me much. It told me, through its sweetish-soap leader, that my friend was a criminal⁠—this immediately upon my entering⁠—and I told it with a great deal of well-chosen politeness that I disagreed. In telling how and why I disagreed I think I managed to shove my shovel-shaped imagination under the refuse of their intellects. At least once or twice.

Rather fatiguing⁠—to stand up and be told: Your friend is no good; have you anything to say for yourself?⁠—And to say a great deal for yourself and for your friend and for les hommes⁠—or try your best to⁠—and be contradicted, and be told “Never mind that, what we wish to know is,” and instructed to keep to the subject, et cetera, ad infinitum. At last they asked each other if each other wanted to ask the man before each other anything more, and each other not wanting to do so, they said:

“C’est fini.”

As at Noyon, I had made an indisputably favourable impression upon exactly one of my three examiners. I refer, in the present case, to the redheaded little gentleman who was rather decent to me. I do not exactly salute him in recognition of this decency; I bow to him, as I might bow to somebody who said he was sorry he couldn’t give me a match, but there was a cigar store just around the corner, you know.

At “C’est fini” the Directeur leaped into the limelight with a savage admonition to the Wooden Hand⁠—who saluted, opened the door suddenly, and looked at me with (dare I say it?) admiration. Instead of availing myself of this means of escape I turned to the little kite-flying gentleman and said:

“If you please, sir, will you be so good as to tell me what will become of my friend?”

The little kite-flying gentleman did not have time to reply, for the perfumed presence stated dryly and distinctly:

“We cannot say anything to you upon that point.”

I gave him a pleasant smile, which said, If I could see your intestines very slowly embracing a large wooden drum rotated by means of a small iron crank turned gently and softly by myself, I should be extraordinarily happy⁠—and I bowed softly and gently to Monsieur le Directeur, and I went through the door using all the perpendicular inches which God had given me.

Once outside I began to tremble like a peuplier in l’automne.⁠ ⁠… “L’automne humide et monotone.”

—“Allez en bas, pour la soupe” the Wooden Hand said not unkindly. I looked about me. “There will be no more men before the commission until tomorrow,” the Wooden Hand said. “Go get your dinner in the kitchen.”

I descended.

Afrique was all curiosity⁠—what did they say? what did I say?⁠—as he placed before me a huge, a perfectly huge, an inexcusably huge plate of something more than lukewarm grease.⁠ ⁠… B. and I ate at a very little table in la cuisine, excitedly comparing notes as we swallowed the red-hot stuff.⁠ ⁠… “Du pain; prenez, mes amis,” Afrique said. “Mangez comme vous voulez” the Cook quoth benignantly, with a glance at us over his placid shoulder.⁠ ⁠… Eat we most surely did. We could have eaten the French Government.

The morning of the following day we went on promenade once more. It was neither pleasant nor unpleasant to