The Enormous Room, E. E. Cummings [beautiful books to read txt] 📗

promenade in the cour while somebody else was suffering in the Room of Sorrow. It was, in fact, rather thrilling.

The afternoon of this day we were all up in The Enormous Room when la commission suddenly entered with Apollyon strutting and lisping behind it, explaining, and poo-poohing, and graciously waving his thick wicked arms.

Everyone in The Enormous Room leaped to his feet, removing as he did so his hat⁠—with the exception of les deux américains, who kept theirs on, and The Zulu, who couldn’t find his hat and had been trying for some time to stalk it to its lair. La commission reacted interestingly to the Enormous Room: the captain of gendarmes looked soggily around and saw nothing with a good deal of contempt; the scented soap squinted up his face and said, “Faugh!” or whatever a French bourgeois avocat says in the presence of a bad smell (la commission was standing by the door and consequently close to the cabinet); but the little redhead kite-flying gentleman looked actually horrified.

“Is there in the room anyone of Austrian nationality?”

The Silent Man stepped forward quietly.

“Why are you here?”

“I don’t know,” The Silent Man said, with tears in his eyes.

“Nonsense! You’re here for a very good reason and you know what it is and you could tell it if you wished, you imbecile, you incorrigible, you criminal,” Apollyon shouted; then, turning to the avocat and the redheaded little gentleman, “He is a dangerous alien, he admits it, he has admitted it⁠—Don’t you admit it, eh? Eh?” he roared at The Silent Man, who fingered his black cap without raising his eyes or changing in the least the simple and supreme dignity of his poise. “He is incorrigible,” said (in a low snarl) The Directeur. “Let us go, gentlemen, when you have seen enough.” But the redheaded man, as I recollect, was contemplating the floor by the door, where six pails of urine solemnly stood, three of them having overflowed slightly from time to time upon the reeking planks.⁠ ⁠… And The Directeur was told that les hommes should have a tin trough to urinate into, for the sake of sanitation; and that this trough should be immediately installed, installed without delay⁠—“O yes, indeed, sirs,” Apollyon simpered, “a very good suggestion; it shall be done immediately: yes, indeed. Do let me show you the⁠—it’s just outside⁠—” and he bowed them out with no little skill. And the door slammed behind Apollyon and the Three Wise Men.

This, as I say, must have occurred toward the last of November.

For a week we waited.

Fritz, having waited months for a letter from the Danish consul in reply to the letters which he, Fritz, wrote every so often and sent through le bureau⁠—meaning the sécrétaire⁠—had managed to get news of his whereabouts to said consul by unlawful means; and was immediately, upon reception of this news by the consul, set free and invited to join a ship at the nearest port. His departure (than which a more joyous I have never witnessed) has been already mentioned in connection with the third Delectable Mountain, as has been the departure for Précigne of Pom Pom and Harree ensemble. Bill the Hollander, Monsieur Pet-airs, Mexique, The Wanderer, the little Machine-Fixer, Pete, Jean le Nègre, The Zulu and Monsieur Auguste (second time) were some of our remaining friends who passed the commission with us. Along with ourselves and these fine people were judged gentlemen like the Trick Raincoat and the Fighting Sheeney. One would think, possibly, that Justice⁠—in the guise of the Three Wise Men⁠—would have decreed different fates, to (say) The Wanderer and The Fighting Sheeney. Au contraire. As I have previously remarked, the ways of God and of the good and great French Government are alike inscrutable.

Bill the Hollander, whom we had grown to like, whereas at first we were inclined to fear him, Bill the Hollander who washed some towels and handkerchiefs and what-nots for us and turned them a bright pink, Bill the Hollander who had tried so hard to teach The Young Pole the lesson which he could only learn from The Fighting Sheeney, left us about a week after la commission. As I understand it, they decided to send him back to Holland under guard in order that he might be jailed in his native land as a deserter. It is beautiful to consider the unselfishness of le gouvernement français in this case. Much as le gouvernement français would have liked to have punished Bill on its own account and for its own enjoyment, it gave him up⁠—with a Christian smile⁠—to the punishing clutches of a sister or brother government: without a murmur denying itself the incense of his sufferings and the music of his sorrows. Then too it is really inspiring to note the perfect collaboration of la justice française and la justice hollandaise in a critical moment of the world’s history. Bill certainly should feel that it was a great honour to be allowed to exemplify this wonderful accord, this exquisite mutual understanding, between the punitive departments of two nations superficially somewhat unrelated⁠—that is, as regards customs and language. I fear Bill didn’t appreciate the intrinsic usefulness of his destiny. I seem to remember that he left in a rather Gottverdummerish condition. Such is ignorance.

Poor Monsieur Pet-airs came out of the commission looking extraordinarily épaté. Questioned, he averred that his penchant for inventing force-pumps had prejudiced ces messieurs in his disfavour; and shook his poor old head and sniffed hopelessly. Mexique exited in a placidly cheerful condition, shrugging his shoulders and remarking:

“I no do nut’ing. Dese fellers tell me wait few days, after you go free,” whereas Pete looked white and determined and said little⁠—except in Dutch to the Young Skipper and his mate; which pair