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

went on an exclusive promenade, I in my sabots, Jean in a new pair of slippers which he had received (after many requests) from the bureau. And we strode to and fro in the muddy cour admiring la neige, not speaking.

One day, after the snowfall, I received from Paris a complete set of Shakespeare in the Everyman edition. I had forgotten completely that B. and I⁠—after trying and failing to get William Blake⁠—had ordered and paid for the better-known William; the ordering and communicating in general being done with the collaboration of Monsieur Pet-airs. It was a curious and interesting feeling which I experienced upon first opening to As You Like It⁠ ⁠… the volumes had been carefully inspected, I learned, by the sécrétaire, in order to eliminate the possibility of their concealing something valuable or dangerous. And in this connection let me add that the sécrétaire or (if not he) his superiors, were a good judge of what is valuable⁠—if not what is dangerous. I know this because, whereas my family several times sent me socks in every case enclosing cigarettes, I received invariably the former sans the latter. Perhaps it is not fair to suspect the officials of La Ferté of this peculiarly mean theft; I should, possibly, doubt the honesty of that very same French censor whose intercepting of B.’s correspondence had motivated our removal from the Section Sanitaire. Heaven knows I wish (like the Three Wise Men) to give justice where justice is due.

Somehow or other, reading Shakespeare did not appeal to my disordered mind. I tried Hamlet and Julius Caesar once or twice, and gave it up, after telling a man who asked “Shah-kay-spare, who is Shah-kay-spare?” that Mr. S. was the Homer of the English-speaking peoples⁠—which remark, to my surprise, appeared to convey a very definite idea to the questioner and sent him away perfectly satisfied. Most of the timeless time I spent promenading in the rain and sleet with Jean le Nègre, or talking with Mexique, or exchanging big gifts of silence with The Zulu. For Oloron⁠—I did not believe in it, and I did not particularly care. If I went away, good; if I stayed, so long as Jean and The Zulu and Mexique were with me, good. “M’en fous pas mal,” pretty nearly summed up my philosophy.

At least the Surveillant let me alone on the Soi-Même topic. After my brief visit to Satan I wallowed in a perfect luxury of dirt. And no one objected. On the contrary everyone (realizing that the enjoyment of dirt may be made the basis of a fine art) beheld with something like admiration my more and more uncouth appearance. Moreover, by being dirtier than usual I was protesting in a (to me) very satisfactory way against all that was neat and tidy and bigoted and solemn and founded upon the anguish of my fine friends. And my fine friends, being my fine friends, understood. Simultaneously with my arrival at the summit of dirtiness⁠—by the calendar, as I guess, December the twenty-first⁠—came the Black Holster into The Enormous Room and with an excited and angry mien proclaimed loudly:

“L’américain! Allez chez le Directeur. De suite.”

I protested mildly that I was dirty.

“N’importe. Allez avec moi,” and down I went to the amazement of everyone and the great amazement of myself. “By Jove! wait till he sees me this time,” I remarked half-audibly.⁠ ⁠…

The Directeur said nothing when I entered.

The Directeur extended a piece of paper, which I read.

The Directeur said, with an attempt at amiability: “Alors, vous allez sortir.”

I looked at him in eleven-tenths of amazement. I was standing in the bureau de Monsieur le Directeur du Camp de Triage de la Ferté Macé, Orne, France, and holding in my hand a slip of paper which said that if there was a man named Edward E. Cummings he should report immediately to the American Embassy, Paris, and I had just heard the words:

“Well, you are going to leave.”

Which words were pronounced in a voice so subdued, so constrained, so mild, so altogether ingratiating, that I could not imagine to whom it belonged. Surely not to the Fiend, to Apollyon, to the Prince of Hell, to Satan, to Monsieur le Directeur du Camp de Triage de la Ferté Macé⁠—

“Get ready. You will leave immediately.”

Then I noticed the Surveillant. Upon his face I saw an almost smile. He returned my gaze and remarked:

“Uh-ah, uh-ah, Oui.”

“That’s all,” the Directeur said. “You will call for your money at the bureau of the Gestionnaire before leaving.”

“Go and get ready,” the Fencer said, and I certainly saw a smile.⁠ ⁠…

“I? Am? Going? To? Paris?” somebody who certainly wasn’t myself remarked in a kind of whisper.

“Parfaitement.”⁠—Pettish. Apollyon. But how changed. Who the devil is myself? Where in Hell am I? What is Paris⁠—a place, a somewhere, a city, life; (to live: infinitive. Present first singular: I live. Thou livest). The Directeur. The Surveillant. La Ferté Macé, Orne, France. “Edward E. Cummings will report immediately.” Edward E. Cummings. The Surveillant. A piece of yellow paper. The Directeur. A necktie. Paris. Life. Liberté. La liberté. “La Liberté!” I almost shouted in agony.

“Dépêchez-vous. Savez-vous, vous allez partir de suite. Cet après-midi. Pour Paris.”

I turned, I turned so suddenly as almost to bowl over the Black Holster, Black Holster and all; I turned toward the door, I turned upon the Black Holster, I turned into Edward E. Cummings, I turned into what was dead and is now alive, I turned into a city, I turned into a dream⁠—

I am standing in The Enormous Room for the last time. I am saying goodbye. No, it is not I who am saying goodbye. It is in fact somebody else, possibly myself. Perhaps myself has shaken hands with a little