“Put your baggage in here” quoth an angry voice. “No you will not take anything but one blanket in your cell,understand.” In French. Evidently the head of the house speaking. I obeyed. A corpulent soldier importantly led me to my cell. My cell is two doors away from the monkey-angel,on the same side. The high boy-voice,centralized in a torrentlike halo of stretchings,followed my back. The head himself unlocked a lock. I marched coldly in. The fat soldier locked and chained my door. Four feet went away. I felt in my pocket,finding four cigarettes. I am sorry I did not give these also to the monkey—to the angel. Lifted my eyes,and saw my own harp.
CHAPTER THREE
A Pilgrim’s Progress
Through the bars I looked into that little and dirty lane whereby I had entered;in which a sentinel,gun on shoulder,and with a huge revolver strapped at his hip,monotonously moved. On my right was an old wall overwhelmed with moss. A few growths stemmed from its crevices. Their leaves are of a refreshing colour. I felt singularly happy,and carefully throwing myself on the bare planks sang one after another all the French songs which I had picked up in my stay at the ambulance;sang La Madelon,sang AVec avEC DU,and Les Galiots Sont Lourds Dans L’Sac—concluding with an inspired rendering of La Marseillaise,at which the guard( who had several times stopped his round in what I choose to interpret as astonishment )grounded arms and swore appreciatively. Various officials of the jail passed by me and my lusty songs;I cared no whit. Two or three conferred,pointing in my direction,and I sang a little louder for the benefit of their perplexity. Finally out of voice I stopped.
It was twilight.
As I lay on my back luxuriously I saw through the bars of my twice padlocked door a boy and a girl about ten years old. I saw them climb on the wall and play together,obliviously and exquisitely,in the darkening air. I watched them for many minutes;till the last moment of light failed;till they and the wall itself dissolved in a common mystery,leaving only the bored silhouette of the soldier moving imperceptibly and wearily against a still more gloomy piece of autumn sky.
At last I knew that I was very thirsty;and leaping up began to clamour at my bars. “Quelque chose à boire,s’il vous plaît.” After a long debate with the sergeant of guards who said very angrily : “Give it to him”,a guard took my request and disappeared from view,returning with a more heavily armed guard and a tin cup full of water. One of these gentry watched the water and me,while the other wrestled with the padlocks. The door being minutely opened,one guard and the water painfully entered. The other guard remained at the door,gun in readiness. The water was set down,and the enterer assumed a perpendicular position which I thought merited recognition;accordingly I said “Merci” politely,without getting up from the planks. Immediately he began to deliver a sharp lecture on the probability of my using the tin cup to saw my way out;and commended haste in no doubtful terms. I smiled,asked pardon for my inherent stupidity( which speech seemed to anger him )and guzzled the so-called water without looking at it,having learned something from Noyon. With a long and dangerous look at their prisoner the gentlemen of the guard withdrew,using inconceivable caution in the relocking of the door.
I laughed and fell asleep.
After( as I judged )four minutes of slumber,I was awakened by at least six men standing over me. The darkness was intense,it was extraordinarily cold. I glared at them and tried to understand what new crime I had committed. One of the six was repeating : “Get up,you are going away. Quatre heures.” After several attempts I got up. They formed a circle around me;and together we marched a few steps to a sort of store-room,where my great sac small sac and overcoat were handed to me. A rather agreeably voiced guard then handed me a half-cake of chocolat,saying( but with a tolerable grimness )“Vous en aurez besoin,croyez-moi.” I found my stick,at which “piece of furniture” they amused themselves a little until I showed its use,by catching the ring at the mouth of my sac in the curved end of the stick and swinging the whole business unaided on my back. Two new guards—or rather gendarmes—were now officially put in charge of my person;and the three of us passed down the lane,much to the interest of the sentinel,to whom I bade a vivid and unreturned adieu. I can see him perfectly as he stares stupidly at us,a queer shape in the gloom,before turning on his heel.
Toward the very station whereat,some hours since,I had disembarked with the Belgian deserter and my former escorts,we moved. I was stiff with cold and only half awake,but peculiarly thrilled. The gendarmes on either side moved grimly,without speaking;or returning monosyllables to my few questions. Yes,we were to take the train. I was going somewhere,then? “B’en sûr”—“Where?”—“You will know in time.”
After a few minutes we reached the station,which I failed to recognize. The yellow flares of lamps,huge and formless in the night mist,some figures moving to and fro on a little platform,a rustle of conversation : everything seemed ridiculously suppressed,beautifully abnormal,deliciously insane. Every figure was wrapped with its individual ghostliness;a number of ghosts each out on his own promenade,yet each for some reason selecting this unearthly patch of the world,this putrescent and uneasy gloom. Even my guards talked in whispers. “Watch him,I’ll see about the train.” So one went off into the mist. I leaned dizzily against the wall nearest me( having plumped down my baggage )and stared,into the darkness at my elbow,filled with talking shadows. I recognized officiers anglais wandering helplessly up and down,supported with their sticks;French lieutenants talking to each other here and there;the extraordinary sense-bereft station-master at a distance looking like a cross between a jumping-jack and a goblin;knots of permissionnaires cursing wearily or joking hopelessly with one another or stalking back and forth with imprecatory gesticulations. “C’est d’la blague. Sais-tu,il n’y a plus de trains?”—“Le conducteur est mort,j’connais sa sœur.”—“J’suis foutu mon vieux.”—“Nous sommes tous perdus,dis-donc.”—“Quelle heure?”—“Mon cher,il n’y a plus d’heures,le gouvernement français les défend.” Suddenly burst out of the loquacious opacity a dozen handfuls of algériens,their feet swaggering with fatigue,their eyes burning apparently by themselves—faceless in the equally black mist. By threes and fives they assaulted the goblin who wailed and shook his withered fist in their faces. There was no train. It had been taken away by the French government. “How do I know how the poilus can get back to their regiments on time? Of course you’ll all of you be deserters,but is it my fault?”( I thought of my friend,the Belgian,at this moment lying in a pen at the prison which I had just quitted by some miracle )...One of these fine people from uncivilized ignorant unwarlike Algeria was drunk and knew it,as did two of his very fine friends who announced that as there was no train he should have a good sleep at a farmhouse hard by,which farmhouse one of them claimed to espy through the impenetrable night. The drunk was accordingly escorted into the dark,his friends’ abrupt steps correcting his own large slovenly procedure out of earshot.... Some of the Black People sat down near me,and smoked. Their vast gentle hands lay noisily about their knees.
The departed gendarme returned,with a bump,out of the mist. The train for Paris would arrive de suite. We were just in time,our movements had so far been very creditable. All was well. It was cold,eh?
Then with the ghastly miniature roar of an insane toy the train for Paris came fumbling cautiously into the station....
We boarded it,due caution being taken that I should not escape. As a matter of fact I held up the would-be passengers for nearly a minute by my unaided attempts to boost my uncouth baggage aboard. Then my captors and I blundered heavily into a compartment in which an Englishman and two French women were seated. My gendarmes established themselves on either side of the door,a process which woke up the Anglo-Saxon and caused a brief gap in the low talk of the women. Jolt—we were off.
I find myself with a française on my left and an anglais on my right. The latter has already uncomprehendingly subsided into sleep. The former( a woman of about thirty )is talking pleasantly to
her friend,whom I face. She must have been very pretty before she put on the black. Her friend is also a veuve. How pleasantly they talk,of la guerre,of Paris,of the bad service;talk in agreeably modulated voices,leaning a little forward to each other,not wishing to disturb the dolt at my right. The train tears slowly on. Both the gendarmes are asleep,one with his hand automatically grasping the handle of the door. Lest I escape. I try all sorts of positions for I find myself very tired. The best is to put my cane between my legs and rest my chin on it;but even that is uncomfortable,for the Englishman has writhed all over me by this time and is snoring creditably. I look him over;an Etonian,as I guess. Certain well-bred-well-fedness. Except for the position—well,c’est la guerre. The women are speaking softly. “And do you know,my dear,that they had raids again in Paris? My sister wrote me.”—“One has excitement always in a great city,my dear”—
bump,slowing down. BUMPBUMP.
It is light outside. One sees the world. There is a world still,the gouvernement français has not taken it away,and the air must be beautifully cool. In the compartment it is hot. The gendarmes smell worst. I know how I smell. What polite women.
“Enfin,nous voilà.” My guards awoke and yawned pretentiously. Lest I should think they had dozed off. It is Paris.
Some permissionnaires cried “Paris.” The woman across from me said “Paris,Paris.” A great shout came up from every insane drowsy brain that had traveled with us—a fierce and beautiful cry,which went the length of the train....Paris where one forgets,Paris which is Pleasure,Paris in whom our souls live,Paris the beautiful,Paris enfin.
The Englishman woke up and said heavily to me “I say,where are we?”—“Paris” I answered,walking carefully on his feet as I made my baggage-laden way out of the compartment. It was Paris.
My guards hurried me through the station. One of them( I saw for the first time )was older than the other,and rather handsome with his Van Dyck blackness of curly beard. He said that it was too early for the metro,it was closed. We should take a car. It would bring us to the other Gare from which our next train left. We should hurry. We emerged from the station and its crowds of crazy men. We boarded a car marked something. The conductress,a strong pink-cheeked rather beautiful girl in black,pulled my baggage in for me with a gesture which filled all of me with joy. I thanked her,and she smiled at me. The car moved along through the morning.
We descended from it. We started off on foot. The car was not the right car. We would have to walk to the station. I was faint and almost dead from weariness and I stopped when my overcoat had fallen from my benumbed arm for the second time : “How far is it?” The older gendarme returned briefly “Vingt minutes.” I said to him “Will you help me carry these things?” He thought,and told the younger to carry my small sack filled with papers. The latter grunted “C’est défendu.” We went a little farther,and I broke down again. I stopped dead,and said “I can’t go any farther.” It was obvious to my escorts that I couldn’t,so I didn’t trouble to elucidate. Moreover I was past elucidation.
The older stroked his beard. “Well” he said,“would you care to take a fiacre?” I merely looked at him. “If you wish to call a fiacre,I will take out of your money which I have here and which I must not give you the necessary sum,and make a note of it,subtracting from the original amount a sufficiency for our fare to the Gare. In that case we will not walk to the Gare,we will in fact ride.” “S’il vous plaît” was all I found to reply to this eloquence.
Several libres fiacres had gone by during the peroration of the law,and no more seemed to offer themselves. After some minutes,however,one appeared and was duly hailed. Nervously( he was shy in the big city )the older asked if the cocher knew where the Gare was. “Laquelle?” demanded the cocher angrily. And when he was told—“Naturellement je connais,pourquoi pas?”—we got in;I being directed to sit in the middle,and my two bags and fur coat piled on top of us all.
So we drove through the streets in the freshness of the full morning,the streets full of few divine people who stared at me and nudged one another,the streets of Paris...the drowsy ways wakening at the horse’s hoofs,the people lifting their faces to stare.
We arrived at the Gare,and I recognized it vaguely. Was it D’Orléans? We dismounted,and the tremendous transaction of the fare was apparently very creditably accomplished by the older. The cocher gave me a look and remarked whatever it is Paris cochers remark to Paris fiacre-horses,pulling dully at the reins. We entered the station and I collapsed comfortably on a bench;the younger,seating himself with enormous pomposity at my side,adjusted his tunic with a purely feminine gesture expressive at once of pride and nervousness. Gradually my vision gained in focus. The station has a good many people in it. The number increases momently. A great many are girls. I am in a new world—a world of chic femininity. My eyes devour the inimitable details of costume,the inexpressible nuances of pose,the indescribable démarche of the midinette. They hold themselves differently. They have even a little bold colour here and there on skirt or blouse or hat. They are not talking about la guerre. Incredible. They appear very beautiful,these Parisiennes.
And simultaneously with my appreciation of the crisp persons about me comes the hitherto unacknowledged appreciation of my uncouthness. My chin tells my hand of a good quarter inch of beard,every hair of it stiff with dirt. I can feel the dirt-pools under my eyes. My hands are rough with dirt. My uniform is smeared and creased in a hundred thousand directions. My puttees and shoes are prehistoric in appearance....
My first request was permission to visit the vespasienne. The younger didn’t wish to assume any unnecessary responsibilities;I should wait till the older returned. There he was now. I might ask him. The older benignly granted my petition,nodding significantly to his fellow-guard,by whom I was accordingly escorted to my destination and subsequently back to my bench. When we got back the gendarmes held a consultation of terrific importance;in substance,the train which should be leaving at that moment( six-something )did not run today. We should therefore wait for the next train,which leaves at twelve-something-else. Then the older surveyed me,and said almost kindly “How would you like a cup of coffee?”—“Much” I replied sincerely enough.—“Come with me” he commanded,resuming instantly his official manner. “And you”( to the younger )“watch his baggage.”
Of all the very beautiful women whom I had seen the most very beautiful was the large circular lady who sold a cup of perfectly hot and genuine coffee for deux sous just on the brink of the station,chatting cheerfully with her many customers. Of all the drinks I ever drank,hers was the most sacredly delicious. She wore,I remember,a tight black dress in which enormous and benignant breasts bulged and sank continuously. I lingered over my tiny cup,watching her swift big hands,her round nodding face,her large sudden smile. I drank two coffees,and insisted that my money should pay for our drinks. Of all the treating which I shall ever do,the treating of my captor will stand unique in pleasure. Even he half appreciated the sense of humor involved;though his dignity did not permit a visible acknowledgement thereof.
Madame la vendeuse de café,I shall remember you for more than a little while.
Having thus consummated breakfast,my guardian suggested a wall. Agreed. I felt I had the strength of ten because the coffee was pure. Moreover it would be a novelty me promener sans 150-odd pounds of baggage. We set out.
As we walked easily and leisurely the by this time well peopled rues of the vicinity,my guard indulged himself in pleasant conversation. Did I know Paris much? He knew it all. But he had not been in Paris for several( eight was it? )years. It was a fine place,a large city to be sure. But always changing. I had spent a month in Paris while waiting for my uniform and my assignment to a section sanitaire? And my friend was with me? H-mmm-mm.
A perfectly typical runt of a Paris bull eyed us. The older saluted him with infinite respect,the respect of a shabby rube deacon for a well-dressed burglar. They exchanged a few well-chosen words,in French of course. �
��What ya got there?”—“An American.”—“What’s wrong with him?”—“H-mmm”—mysterious shrug of the shoulders followed by a whisper in the ear of the city thug. The latter contented himself with “Ha-aaa”—plus a look at me which was meant to wipe me off the earth’s face( I pretended to be studying the morning meanwhile). Then we moved on,followed by ferocious stares from the Paris bull. Evidently I was getting to be more of a criminal every minute;I should probably be shot tomorrow,not( as I had assumed erroneously )the day after. I drank the morning with renewed vigor,thanking heaven for the coffee,Paris;and feeling complete confidence in myself. I should make a great speech( in Midi French). I should say to the firing squad “Gentlemen,c’est d’la blague,tu sais? Moi,je connais la sœur du conducteur”....They would ask me when I preferred to die. I should reply “Pardon me,you wish to ask me when I prefer to become immortal?” I should answer “What matter? Ça m’est égal,parce qu’il n’y a plus d’heures—le gouvernement français les défend.”
My laughter surprised the older considerably. He would have been more astonished had I yielded to the well-nigh irrepressible inclination,which at the moment suffused me,to clap him heartily upon the back.
Everything was blague. The cocher,the café,the police,the morning,and least and last the excellent French government.
We had walked for a half hour or more. My guide and protector now inquired of an ouvrier the location of the boucheries? “There is one right in front of you” he was told. Sure enough,not a block away. I laughed again. It was eight years all right.
The older bought a great many things in the next five minutes : saucisse,fromage,pain,chocolat,pinard rouge. A bourgeoise with an unagreeable face and suspicion of me written in headlines all over her mouth served us with quick hard laconicisms of movement. I hated her and consequently refused my captor’s advice to buy a little of everything( on the ground that it would be a long time till the next meal ),contenting myself with a cake of chocolate—rather bad chocolate,but nothing to what I was due to eat during the next three months. Then we retraced our steps,arriving at the station after several mistakes and inquiries to find the younger faithfully keeping guard over my two sacs and overcoat.
The Enormous Room Page 5
