The Enormous Room by E. E. Cummings (best way to read ebooks .txt) 📕

of my hand plus a queer little row of sores, the latter having proceeded to adorn that part of my face which was trying hard to be graced with a moustache. I recall that Monsieur Ree-chard decreed a bain for B., which bain meant immersion in a large tin tub partially filled with not quite lukewarm water. I, on the contrary, obtained a speck of zinc ointment on a minute piece of cotton, and considered myself peculiarly fortunate. Which details cannot possibly offend the reader’s aesthetic sense to a greater degree than have already certain minutiae connected with the sanitary arrangements of The Directeur’s little home for homeless boys and girls⁠—therefore I will not trouble to beg the reader’s pardon; but will proceed with my story proper or improper.

“Mais qu’est-ce que vous avez,” 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.

“But why are you so sad?” he asked.

“I suppose I miss my friend,” I ventured.

“Mais⁠—mais⁠—” he puffed and panted like a very old and fat person trying to persuade a bicycle to climb a hill⁠—“mais⁠—vous avez de la chance!”

“I suppose I have,” I said without enthusiasm.

“Mais⁠—mais⁠—parfaitement⁠—vous avez de la chance⁠—uh-ah⁠—uh-ah⁠—parce que⁠—comprenez-vous⁠—votre camarade⁠—ah-ah⁠—a attrapé prison!”

“Uh-ah!” I said wearily.

“Whereas,” continued Monsieur, “you haven’t. You ought to be extraordinarily thankful and particularly happy!”

“I should rather have gone to prison with my friend,” 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 “l’autre américain” alias myself. Dimly, through a fog of disinterested inapprehension, I realized that⁠—with the exception of the plantons and, of course, Apollyon⁠—everyone 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 Cook⁠—there was nothing too good for me at this time. I asked the latter’s 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 chef’s 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 doll⁠—taken out occasionally and played with and put back into its house and told to go to sleep.⁠ ⁠…

One afternoon I was lying on my couch, thinking of the usual Nothing, when a sharp cry sung through The Enormous Room:

“Il tombe de la neige⁠—Noël! Noël!”

I sat up. The Guard Champêtre was at the nearest window, dancing a little horribly and crying:

“Noël! Noël!”

I went to another window and looked out. Sure enough. Snow was falling, gradually and wonderfully falling, silently falling through the thick soundless Autumn.⁠ ⁠… 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.⁠ ⁠… The Guard Champêtre’s 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, Noël, Noël. I watched the snow. After a long time I returned to my bunk and I lay down, closing my eyes; feeling the snow’s minute and crisp touch falling gently and exquisitely, falling perfectly and suddenly, through the thick soundless autumn of my imagination.⁠ ⁠…

“L’américain! L’américain!”

Someone is speaking to me.

“Le petit belge avec le bras cassé est là-bas, à la porte, il veut parler.⁠ ⁠…”

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.⁠ ⁠…

Through the locked door I heard a nervous whisper: “Dis à l’américain que je veux parler avec lui.”⁠—“Me voici” I said.

“Put your ear to the keyhole, M’sieu’ Jean,” said the Machine-Fixer’s voice. The voice of the little Machine-Fixer, tremendously excited. I obey⁠—“Alors. Qu’est-ce que c’est, mon ami?”

“M’sieu’ Jean! Le Directeur va vous appeler tout de suite! You must get ready instantly! Wash and shave, eh? He’s going to call you right away. And don’t forget! Oloron! You will ask to go to Oloron Sainte Marie, where you can paint! Oloron Sainte Marie, Basse Pyrenées! N’oubliez pas, M’sieu’ Jean! Et dépêchez-vous!”

“Merci bien, mon ami!”⁠—I 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