The Enormous Room

by e. e. cummings

  “Six Cent Six!”

  everyone cried. Surplice stamped with wrath and mortification. “C’est dommage” Monsieur Auguste said gently beside me. “C’est un bon-homme,le pauvre,il ne faut pas l’em-merd-er.”

  “Look behind you!”

  somebody yelled. Surplice wheeled,exactly like a kitten trying to catch its own tail,and provoked thunders of laughter. Nor could anything at once more pitiful and ridiculous,more ludicrous and horrible,be imagined.

  “On your coat! Look on your jacket!”

  Surplice bent backward,staring over his left then his right shoulder,pulled at his jacket first one way then the other—thereby making his improvised tail to wag which sent The Enormous Room into spasms of merriment—finally caught sight of the incriminating appendage,pulled his coat to the left,seized the paper,tore it off,threw it fiercely down,and stamped madly on the crumpled 606;spluttering and blustering and waving his arms;slavering like a mad dog. Then he faced the most prominently vociferous corner and muttered thickly and crazily

  “Wuhwuhwuhwuhwuh...”

  Then he strode rapidly to his paillasse and lay down;in which position I caught him,a few minutes later,smiling and even chuckling...very happy...as only an actor is happy whose efforts have been greeted with universal applause...

  In addition to being called “Syph’lis” he was popularly known as “Chaude Pisse,the Pole”. If there is anything particularly terrifying about prisons,or at least imitations of prisons such as La Ferté,it is possibly the utter obviousness with which( quite unknown to themselves )the prisoners demonstrate willy-nilly certain fundamental psychological laws. The case of Surplice is a very exquisite example : everyone,of course,is afraid of les maladies vénériennes—accordingly all pick an individual( of whose inner life they know and desire to know nothing,whose external appearance satisfies the mind à propos what is foul and disgusting )and,having tacitly agreed upon this individual as a Symbol of all that is evil,proceed to heap insults upon him and enjoy his very natural discomfiture...but I shall remember Surplice on his both knees sweeping sacredly together the spilled sawdust from a spittoon-box knocked over by the heel of the omnipotent planton;and smiling as he smiled at la messe when Monsieur le Curé told him that there was always Hell...

  He told us one day a great and huge story of an important incident in his life,as follows:

  “monsieur,réformé moi—oui monsieur—réformé—travaille,beaucoup de monde,maison,très haute,troisième étage,tout le monde,planches,en haut—planches pas bonnes—chancelle,tout”—(here he began to stagger and rotate before us )“commence à tomber,tombe,tombe,tout,tous,vingt-sept hommes-briques-planches-brouettes-tous—dix mètres—zuhzuhzuhzuhzuhPOOM!—tout le monde blessé,tout le monde tué,pas moi,réformé—oui monsieur”—and he smiled,rubbing his head foolishly. Twenty-seven men,bricks,planks and wheelbarrows. Ten metres. Bricks and planks. Men and wheelbarrows...

  Also he told us,one night,in his gentle,crazy,shrugging voice,that once upon a time he played the fiddle with a big woman in Alsace-Lorraine for fifty francs a night;“c’est la misère”—adding quietly,I can play well,I can play anything,I can play n’importe quoi.

  Which I suppose and guess I scarcely believed—until one afternoon a man brought up a harmonica which he had purchased en ville;and the man tried it;and everyone tried it;and it was perhaps the cheapest instrument and the poorest that money can buy,even in the fair country of France;and everyone was disgusted—but,about six o’clock in the evening,a voice came from behind the last experimenter;a timid hasty voice

  “monsieur,monsieur,permettez?”

  the last experimenter turned and to his amazement saw Chaude Pisse the Pole,whom everyone had( of course )forgotten—

  The man tossed the harmonica on the table with a scornful look( a menacingly scornful look )at the object of universal execration;and turned his back. Surplice,trembling from the summit of his filthy and beautiful head to the naked soles of his filthy and beautiful feet,covered the harmonica delicately and surely with one shaking paw;seated himself with a surprisingly deliberate and graceful gesture;closed his eyes,upon whose lashes there were big filthy tears...

  ...and suddenly

  He put the harmonica softly upon the table. He rose. He went quickly to his paillasse. He neither moved nor spoke nor responded to the calls for more music,to the cries of “Bis!”—“Bien joué!”—“Allez!”—“Vas-y!” He was crying,quietly and carefully,to himself...quietly and carefully crying,not wishing to annoy anyone...hoping that people could not see that Their Fool had temporarily failed in his part.

  The following day he was up as usual before anyone else,hunting for chewed cigarette-ends on the spitty slippery floor of The Enormous Room;ready for insult,ready for ridicule,for buffets,for curses.

  Alors—

  one evening,some days after everyone who was fit for la commission had enjoyed the privilege of examination by that inexorable and delightful body—one evening very late,in fact just before lumières éteintes,a strange planton arrived in The Enormous Room and hurriedly read a list of five names,adding

  “demain partir de bonne heure”

  and shut the door behind him. Surplice was,as usual,very interested,enormously interested. So were we : for the names respectively belonged to Monsieur Auguste,Monsieur Pet-airs,The Wanderer,Surplice and The Spoonman. These men had been judged. These men were going to Précigné. These men would be prisonniers pour la durée de la guerre.

  I have already told how Monsieur Pet-airs sat with the frantically weeping Wanderer writing letters,and sniffing with his big red nose,and saying from time to time : “Be a man,Demestre,don’t cry,crying does no good.”—Monsieur Auguste was ­broken-hearted. We did our best to cheer him;we gave him a sort of Last Supper at our bedside,we heated some red wine in the tin-cup and he drank with us. We presented him with certain tokens of our love and friendship,including—I remember—a huge cheese...and then,before us,trembling with excitement,stood Surplice—

  We asked him to sit down. The onlookers( there were always onlookers at every function,however personal,which involved Food or Drink )scowled and laughed. Le con,Surplice,chaude pisse—how could he sit with men and gentlemen? Surplice sat down gracefully and lightly on one of our beds,taking extreme care not to strain the somewhat capricious mechanism thereof;sat very proudly;erect;modest but unfearful. We offered him a cup of wine. A kind of huge convulsion gripped,for an instant,fiercely his entire face : then he said in a whisper of sheer and unspeakable wonderment,leaning a little toward us without in any way suggesting that the question might have an affirmative answer,

  “pour moi,monsieur?”

  We smiled at him and said “Prenez,monsieur.” His eyes opened. I have never seen eyes since. He remarked quietly,extending one hand with majestic delicacy

  “Merci,monsieur.”

  ...Before he left B gave him some socks and I presented him with a flannel shirt,which he took softly and slowly and simply and otherwise not as an American would take a million dollars.

  “I will not forget you” he said to us,as if in his own country he were a more than great king...and I think I know where that country is,I think I know this;I,who never knew Surplice,know.

  For he has the territory of harmonicas,the acres of flutes,the meadows of clarinets,the domain of violins. And God says : Why did they put you in prison? What did you do to the people? “I made them dance and they put me in prison. The soot-people hopped;and to twinkle like sparks on a chimney-back and I made 80 francs every dimanche,and beer and wine,and to eat well. Maintenant...c’est fini...Et tout de suite”( gesture of cutting himself in two )“la tête.” And He says : O you who put the jerk into joys,come up hither. There’s a man up here called Christ who like violins.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Jean Le Nègre

  On a certain day,the ringing of the bell and accompanying rush of men to the window facing the entrance gate was supplemented by a
n unparalleled volley of enthusiastic exclamations in all the languages of La Ferté-Macé—provoking in me a certainty that the queen of fair women had arrived. This certainty thrillingly withered when I heard the cry : “Il y a un noir!” Fritz was at the best peep-hole,resisting successfully the onslaughts of a dozen fellow-prisoners,and of him I demanded in English,“Who’s come?”—“Oh a lot of girls” he yelled,“and there’s a NIGGER too”—hereupon writhing with laughter.

  I attempted to get a look,but in vain;for by this at least two dozen men were at the peep-hole,fighting and gesticulating and slapping each other’s backs with joy. However,my curiosity was not long in being answered. I heard on the stairs the sound of mounting feet,and knew that a couple of plantons would before many minutes arrive at the door with their new prey. So did everyone else—and from the farthest beds uncouth figures sprang and rushed to the door,eager for the first glimpse of the nouveau : which was very significant,as the ordinary procedure on arrival of prisoners was for everybody to rush to his own bed and stand guard over it.

  Even as the plantons fumbled with the locks I heard the inimitable unmistakable divine laugh of a negro. The door opened at last. Entered a beautiful pillar of black strutting muscle topped with a tremendous display of the whitest teeth on earth. The muscle bowed politely in our direction,the grin remarked musically;“Bo’jour,tou’l’monde”;then came a cascade of laughter. Its effect on the spectators was instantaneous : they roared and danced with joy. “Comment vous appelez-vous?” was fired from the hubbub.—“J’m’appelle Jean,moi” the muscle rapidly answered with sudden solemnity,proudly gazing to left and right as if expecting a challenge to this statement : but when none appeared,it relapsed as suddenly into laughter—as if hugely amused at itself and everyone else including a little and tough boy,whom I had not previously noted although his entrance had coincided with the muscle’s.

  Thus into the misère of La Ferté-Macé stepped lightly and proudly Jean Le Nègre.

  Of all the fine people in La Ferté,Monsieur Jean( “le noir” as he was entitled by his enemies )swaggers in my memory as the finest.

  Jean Le Nègre

  Jean’s first act was to complete the distribution( begun,he announced,among the plantons who had escorted him upstairs )of two pockets full of Cubebs. Right and left he gave them up to the last,remarking carelessly “J’ne veux,moi.”

  Après la soupe( which occurred a few minutes after le noir’s entry )B and I and the greater number of prisoners descended to the cour for our afternoon promenade. The Cook spotted us immediately and desired us to “catch water”;which we did,three cartfuls of it,earning our usual café sucré. On quitting the cuisine after this delicious repast( which as usual mitigated somewhat the effects of the swill that was our official nutriment )we entered the cour. And we noticed at once a well-made figure standing conspicuously by itself,and poring with extraordinary intentness over the pages of a London Daily Mail which it was holding upside-down. The reader was culling choice bits of news of a highly sensational nature,and exclaiming from time to time—“Est-ce vrai! V’là,le roi d’Angleterre est malade. Quelque chose!—Comment? La reine aussi? Bon Dieu! Qu’est-ce que c’est?—Mon père est mort! Merde!—Eh,b’en! La guerre est finie. Bon.”—It was Jean Le Nègre,playing a little game with Himself to beguile the time.

  When we had mounted à la chamber,two or three tried to talk with this extraordinary personage in French;at which he became very superior and announced : “J’suis anglais,moi. Parlez anglais. Comprends pas français,moi.” At this a crowd escorted him over to B and me—anticipating great deeds in the English language. Jean looked at us critically and said “Vous parlez anglais? Moi parlez anglais.”—“We are Americans,and speak English” I answered.—“Moi anglais” Jean said. “Mon père,capitaine de gendarmerie,Londres. Comprends pas français,moi. SPEE-Kingliss”—he laughed all over himself.

  At this display of English on Jean’s part the English-speaking Hollanders began laughing. “The son of a bitch is crazy” one said.

  And from that moment B and I got on famously with Jean.

  His mind was a child’s. His use of language was sometimes exalted fibbing,sometimes the purely picturesque. He courted above all the sound of words,more or less disdaining their meaning. He told us immediately( in pidgin French )that he was born without a mother because his mother died when he was born,that his father was( first )sixteen( then )sixty years old,that his father gagnait cinq cent francs par jour( later,par année ),that he was born in London and not in England,that he was in the French army and had never been in any army.

  He did not,however,contradict himself in one statement : “Les français sont des cochons”—to which we heartily agreed,and which won him the approval of the Hollanders.

  The next day I had my hands full acting as interpreter for “le noir qui comprend pas français”. I was summoned from the cour to elucidate a great grief which Jean had been unable to explain to the Gestionnaire. I mounted with a planton to find Jean in hysterics;speechless;his eyes starting out of his head. As nearly as I could make out,Jean had had sixty francs when he arrived,which money he had given to a planton upon his arrival,the planton having told Jean that he would deposit the money with the Gestionnaire in Jean’s name( Jean could not write ). The planton in question who looked particularly innocent denied this charge upon my explaining Jean’s version;while the Gestionnaire puffed and grumbled,disclaiming any connection with the alleged theft and protesting sonorously that he was hearing about Jean’s sixty francs for the first time. The Gestionnaire shook his thick piggish finger at the book wherein all financial transactions were to be found—from the year one to the present year,month,day hour and minute( or words to that effect ). “Mais c’est pas là” he kept repeating stupidly. The Surveillant was uh-ahing at a great rate and attempting to pacify Jean in French. I myself was somewhat fearful for Jean’s sanity and highly indignant at the planton. The matter ended with the planton’s being sent about his business;simultaneously with Jean’s dismissal to the cour,whither I accompanied him. My best efforts to comfort Jean in this matter were quite futile. Like a child who had been unjustly punished he was inconsolable. Great tears welled in his eyes. He kept repeating “sees-tee franc—planton voleur”,and—absolutely like a child who in anguish calls itself by the name which has been given itself by grown-ups—“steel Jean munee.” To no avail I called the planton a menteur,a voleur,a fils de chienne and various other names. Jean felt the wrong itself too keenly to be interested in my denunciation of the mere agent through whom injustice had( as it happened )been consummated.

  But—again like an inconsolable child who weeps his heart out when no human comfort avails and wakes the next day without an apparent trace of the recent grief—Jean Le Nègre,in the course of the next twenty-four hours,had completely recovered his normal buoyancy of spirit. The sees-tee franc were gone. A wrong had been done. But that was yesterday. Today—

  and he wandered up and down,joking,laughing,singing

  “après la guerre finit”...

  In the cour Jean was the mecca of all female eyes. Handkerchiefs were waved to him;phrases of the most amorous nature greeted his every appearance. To all these demonstrations he by no means turned a deaf ear;on the contrary. Jean was irrevocably vain. He boasted of having been enormously popular with the girls wherever he went and of having never disdained their admiration. In Paris one day—(and thus it happened that we discovered why le gouvernement français had arrested Jean)—

  One afternoon,having rien à faire,and being flush( owing to his success as a thief,of which vocation he made a great deal,adding as many ciphers to the amounts as fancy dictated )Jean happened to cast his eyes in a store window where were displayed all possible appurtenances for the militaire. Vanity was rooted deeply in Jean’s soul. The uniform of an English captain met his eyes. Without a moment’s hesitation he entered the store,bought the entire uniform inc
luding leather puttees and belt( of the latter purchase he was especially proud ),and departed. The next store contained a display of medals of all descriptions. It struck Jean at once that a uniform would be incomplete without medals. He entered this store,bought one of every decoration—not forgetting the Colonial,nor yet the Belgian Cross( which on account of its size and colour particularly appealed to him)—and went to his room. There he adjusted the decorations on the chest of his blouse,donned the uniform,and sallied importantly forth to capture Paris.

  Everywhere he met with success. He was frantically pursued by women of all stations from les putains to les princesses. The police salaamed to him. His arm was wearied with the returning of innumerable salutes. So far did his medals carry him that,although on one occasion a gendarme dared to arrest him for beating-in the head of a fellow English officer( who being a mere lieutenant,should not have objected to Captain Jean’s stealing the affections of his lady ),the sergent de gendarmerie before whom Jean was arraigned on a charge of attempting to kill refused to even hear the evidence,and dismissed the case with profuse apologies to the heroic Captain. “ ‘Le gouvernement français,Monsieur,extends to you through me its profound apology for the insult which your honour has received.’ Ils sont des cochons,les français” said Jean,and laughed throughout his entire body.

  Having had the most blue-blooded ladies of the capital cooing upon his heroic chest,having completely beaten up with the full support of the law whosoever of lesser rank attempted to cross his path or refused him the salute—having had “great fun” saluting generals on les grands boulevards and being in turn saluted( “tous les généraux,tous,salute me,Jean have more medel”),and this state of affairs having lasted for about three months—Jean began to be very bored( “me très ennuyé”). A fit of temper( “me très fâché” )arising from this ennui led to a rixe with the police,in consequence of which( Jean,though outnumbered three to one,having almost killed one of his assailants )our hero was a second time arrested. This time the authorities went so far as to ask the heroic captain to what branch of the English army he was at present attached;to which Jean first replied “parle pas français,moi” and immediately after announced that he was a Lord of the Admiralty,that he had committed robberies in Paris to the tune of sees meel-i-own franc,that he was a son of the Lord Mayor of London by the Queen,that he had lost a leg in Algeria,and that the French were cochons. All of which assertions being duly disproved,Jean was remanded to La Ferté for psychopathic observation and safe keeping on the technical charge of wearing an English officer’s uniform.