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
âMais quâest-ce que vous avez,â Monsieur le Surveillant demanded, in a tone of profound if kindly astonishment, as I wended my lonely way to la soupe some days after the disappearance of les partis.
I stood and stared at him very stupidly without answering, having indeed nothing at all to say.
âBut why are you so sad?â he asked.
âI suppose I miss my friend,â I ventured.
âMaisâ âmaisâ ââ he puffed and panted like a very old and fat person trying to persuade a bicycle to climb a hillâ ââmaisâ âvous avez de la chance!â
âI suppose I have,â I said without enthusiasm.
âMaisâ âmaisâ âparfaitementâ âvous avez de la chanceâ âuh-ahâ âuh-ahâ âparce queâ âcomprenez-vousâ âvotre camaradeâ âah-ahâ âa attrapĂ© prison!â
âUh-ah!â I said wearily.
âWhereas,â continued Monsieur, âyou havenât. You ought to be extraordinarily thankful and particularly happy!â
âI should rather have gone to prison with my friend,â I stated briefly; and went into the dining-room, leaving the Surveillant uh-ahing in nothing short of complete amazement.
I really believe that my condition worried him, incredible as this may seem. At the time I gave neither an extraordinary nor a particular damn about Monsieur le Surveillant, nor indeed about âlâautre amĂ©ricainâ alias myself. Dimly, through a fog of disinterested inapprehension, I realized thatâ âwith the exception of the plantons and, of course, Apollyonâ âeveryone was trying very hard to help me; that The Zulu, Jean, The Machine-Fixer, Mexique, The Young Skipper, even The Washing Machine Man (with whom I promenaded frequently when no one else felt like taking the completely unagreeable air) were kind, very kind, kinder than I can possibly say. As for Afrique and The Cookâ âthere was nothing too good for me at this time. I asked the latterâs permission to cut wood, and was not only accepted as a sawyer, but encouraged with assurances of the best coffee there was, with real sugar dedans. In the little space outside the cuisine, between the building and la cour, I sawed away of a morning to my great satisfaction; from time to time clumping my saboted way into the chefâs domain in answer to a subdued signal from Afrique. Of an afternoon I sat with Jean or Mexique or The Zulu on the long beam of silent iron, pondering very carefully nothing at all, replying to their questions or responding to their observations in a highly mechanical manner. I felt myself to be, at last, a dollâ âtaken out occasionally and played with and put back into its house and told to go to sleep.â ââ âŠ
One afternoon I was lying on my couch, thinking of the usual Nothing, when a sharp cry sung through The Enormous Room:
âIl tombe de la neigeâ âNoĂ«l! NoĂ«l!â
I sat up. The Guard ChampĂȘtre was at the nearest window, dancing a little horribly and crying:
âNoĂ«l! NoĂ«l!â
I went to another window and looked out. Sure enough. Snow was falling, gradually and wonderfully falling, silently falling through the thick soundless Autumn.â ââ ⊠It seemed to me supremely beautiful, the snow. There was about it something unspeakably crisp and exquisite, something perfect and minute and gentle and fatal.â ââ ⊠The Guard ChampĂȘtreâs cry began a poem in the back of my head, a poem about the snow, a poem in French, beginning Il tombe de la neige, NoĂ«l, NoĂ«l. I watched the snow. After a long time I returned to my bunk and I lay down, closing my eyes; feeling the snowâs minute and crisp touch falling gently and exquisitely, falling perfectly and suddenly, through the thick soundless autumn of my imagination.â ââ âŠ
âLâamĂ©ricain! LâamĂ©ricain!â
Someone is speaking to me.
âLe petit belge avec le bras cassĂ© est lĂ -bas, Ă la porte, il veut parler.â ââ âŠâ
I marched the length of the room. The Enormous Room is filled with a new and beautiful darkness, the darkness of the snow outside, falling and falling and falling with the silent and actual gesture which has touched the soundless country of my mind as a child touches a toy it loves.â ââ âŠ
Through the locked door I heard a nervous whisper: âDis Ă lâamĂ©ricain que je veux parler avec lui.ââ ââMe voiciâ I said.
âPut your ear to the keyhole, Mâsieuâ Jean,â said the Machine-Fixerâs voice. The voice of the little Machine-Fixer, tremendously excited. I obeyâ ââAlors. Quâest-ce que câest, mon ami?â
âMâsieuâ Jean! Le Directeur va vous appeler tout de suite! You must get ready instantly! Wash and shave, eh? Heâs going to call you right away. And donât forget! Oloron! You will ask to go to Oloron Sainte Marie, where you can paint! Oloron Sainte Marie, Basse PyrenĂ©es! Nâoubliez pas, Mâsieuâ Jean! Et dĂ©pĂȘchez-vous!â
âMerci bien, mon ami!ââ âI remember now. The little Machine-Fixer and I had talked. It seemed that la commission had decided that I was not a criminal, but only a suspect. As a suspect I would be sent to some place in France, any place I wanted to go, provided it was not on or near the sea coast. That was in order that I should not perhaps try to escape from France. The Machine-Fixer had advised me to ask to go to Oloron Sainte Marie. I
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