The Enormous Room Read online

  Or,his worn eyes dwelling benignantly upon my duffle-bag,he warns me( in a low voice )of Prussian Blue.

  “Did you notice the portrait hanging in the bureau of the Surveillant?” Count Bragard inquired one day. “That’s a pretty piece of work,Mr. Cummings. Notice it when you get a chance. The green mustache,particularly fine. School of Cézanne.”—“Really?” I said in surprise.—“Yes,indeed” Count Bragard said,extracting his tiredlooking hands from his tiredlooking trousers with a cultured gesture. “Fine young fellow painted that,I knew him. Disciple of the master. Very creditable piece of work.”—“Did you ever see Cézanne?” I ventured.—“Bless you,yes,scores of times” he answered almost pityingly.—“What did he look like?” I asked,with great curiosity.—“Look like? His appearance,you mean?” Count Bragard seemed at a loss. “Why he was not extraordinary looking. I don’t know how you could describe him. Very difficult in English. But you know a phrase we have in French,‘l’air pesant’;I don’t think there’s anything in English for it;il avait l’air pesant,Cézanne,if you know what I mean.

  “I should work,I should not waste my time” the Count would say almost weepingly. “But it’s no use,my things aren’t here. And I’m getting old too;couldn’t concentrate in this stinking hole of a place you know.”

  I did some hasty drawings of Monsieur Pet-airs washing and rubbing his bald head with a great towel in the dawn. The R.A. caught me in the act and came over shortly after,saying “Let me see them.” In some perturbation( the subject being a particular friend of his )I showed one drawing. “Very good,in fact excellent”;the R.A. smiled whimsically. “You have a real talent for caricature,Mr. Cummings,and you should exercise it. You really got Peters. Poor Peters,he’s a fine fellow,you know;but this business of living in the muck and filth,c’est malheureux. Besides,Peters is an old man. It’s a dirty bloody shame,that’s what it is. A bloody shame that all of us here should be forced to live like pigs with this scum!

  “I tell you what,Mr. Cummings” he said with something like fierceness,his weary eyes flashing,“I’m getting out of here shortly,and when I do get out( I’m just waiting for my papers to be sent on by the English consul )I’ll not forget my friends. We’ve lived together and suffered together and I’m not a man to forget it. This hideous mistake is nearly cleared up,and when I go free I’ll do anything for you and Mr. B—. Anything I can do for you I’d be only too glad to do it. If you want me to buy you paints when I’m in Paris,nothing would give me more pleasure. I know French as well as I know my own language”( he most certainly did )“and whereas you might be cheated,I’ll get you everything you need à bon marché. Because you see they know me there,and I know just where to go. Just give me the money for what you need and I’ll get you the best there is in Paris for it. You needn’t worry”—I was protesting that it would be too much trouble—“my dear fellow,it’s no trouble to do a favour for a friend.”

  And to B and myself ensemble he declared,with tears in his eyes,“I have some marmalade at my house in Paris;real marmalade,not the sort of stuff you buy these days. We know how to make it. You can’t get an idea how delicious it is. In big crocks”—the Count said simply—“well,that’s for you boys.” We protested that he was too kind. “Nothing of the sort” he said,with a delicate smile. “I have a son in the English army” and his face clouded with worry,“and we send him some now and then,and he’s crazy about it. I know what it means to him. And you shall share in it too. I’ll send you six crocks.” Then,suddenly looking at us with a pleasant expression,“By Jove” the Count said “do you like whiskey? Real Bourbon whiskey? I see by your look that you know what it is. But you never tasted anything like this. Do you know London?” I said no,as I had said once before. “Well,that’s a pity” he said,“for if you did you’d know this bar. I know the bar-keeper well,known him for thirty years. There’s a picture of mine hanging in his place. Look at it when you’re in London,drop in to — Street,you’ll find the place,anyone will tell you where it is. This fellow would do anything for me. And now I’ll tell you what I’ll do : you fellows give me whatever you want to spend and I’ll get you the best whiskey you ever tasted. It’s his own private stock,you understand. I’ll send it on to you—God knows you need it in this place. I wouldn’t do this for anyone else,you understand” and he smiled kindly,“but we’ve been prisoners together,and we understand each other,and that’s enough for gentlemen. I won’t forget you.” He drew himself up. “I shall write” he said slowly and distinctly,“to Vanderbilt about you. I shall tell him it’s a dirty bloody shame that two young Americans,gentlemen born,should be in this foul place. He’s a man who’s quick to act. He’ll not tolerate a thing like this—an outrage,a bloody outrage,upon two of his own countrymen. We shall see what happens then.”

  It was during this period that Count Bragard lent us for our personal use his greatest treasure,a water-glass. “I don’t need it” he said simply and pathetically.

  Now,as I have said,a change in our relations came.

  It came at the close of one soggy damp raining afternoon. For this entire hopeless grey afternoon Count Bragard and B promenaded The Enormous Room. Bragard wanted the money—for the whiskey and the paints. The marmalade and the letter to Vanderbilt were,of course,gratis. Bragard was leaving us. Now was the time to give him money for what we wanted him to buy in Paris and London. I spent my time rushing about,falling over things,upsetting people,making curious and secret signs to B—which signs,being interpreted,meant Be careful!—But there was no need of telling B this particular thing. When the planton announced la soupe a fiercely weary face strode by me en route to his paillasse and his spoon. I knew that B had been careful. A minute later he joined me,and told me as much...

  On the way downstairs we ran into the Surveillant. Bragard stepped from the ranks and poured upon the Surveillant a torrent of French,of which the substance was : you told them not to give me anything. The Surveillant smiled and bowed and wound and unwound his hands behind his back and denied anything of the sort.

  It seems that B had heard that the kindly nobleman wasn’t going to Paris at all.

  Moreover,Monsieur Pet-airs had said to B something about Count Bragard being a suspicious personage—Monsieur Pet-airs,the R.A.’s best friend.

  Moreover,as I have said,Count Bragard had been playing up to the poor Spanish Whoremaster to beat the band. Every day had he sat on a little stool beside the roly-poly millionaire,and written from dictation letter after letter in French—with which language the roly-poly was sadly unfamiliar....And when next day Count Bragard took back his treasure of treasures,his personal water-glass,remarking briefly that he needed it once again,I was not surprised. And when,a week or so later,he left—I was not surprised to have Mexique come up to us and placidly remark

  “I give dat feller five francs. Tell me he send me overcoat,very good overcoat. But say : Please no tell anybody come from me. Please tell everybody your family send it.” And with a smile “I t’ink dat feller fake.”

  Nor was I surprised to see,some weeks later,the poor Spanish Whoremaster rending his scarce hair as he lay in bed of a morning. And Mexique said with a smile

  “Dat feller give dat English feller one hundred franc. Now he sorry.”

  All of which meant merely that Count Bragard should have spelt his name,not Bra-,but with an l.

  And I wonder to this day that the only letter of mine which ever reached America and my doting family should have been posted by this highly entertaining personage en ville,whither he went as a trusted inhabitant of La Ferté to do a few necessary errands for himself;whither he returned with a good deal of colour in his cheeks and a good deal of vin rouge in his guts;going and returning with Tommy,the planton who brought him The Daily Mail every day until Bragard couldn’t afford it,after which either B and I or Jean Le Nègre took it off Tommy’s hands—Tommy for whom we had a delightful name which I sincerely regret being unable to tell,Tommy who was an Englishman for all his French pla
nton’s uniform and worshipped the ground on which the Count stood,Tommy who looked like a boiled lobster and had tears in his eyes when he escorted his idol back to captivity....Mirabile dictu,so it was.

  Well,such was the departure of a great man from among us.

  And now,just to restore the reader’s faith in human nature,let me mention an entertaining incident which occurred during the latter part of my stay at La Ferté-Macé. Our society had been gladdened—or at any rate galvanized—by the biggest single contribution in its history;the arrival simultaneously of six purely extraordinary persons,whose names alone should be of more than general interest : The Magnifying Glass,The Trick Raincoat Sheeney,The Messenger Boy,The Hat,The Alsatian,The Whitebearded Raper and His Son. In order to give the aforesaid reader an idea of the situation created by these arrivés,which situation gives the entrance of the Washing-Machine Man—the entertaining incident,in other words—its full and unique flavor,I must perforce sketch briefly each member of a truly imposing group. Let me say at once that,so terrible an impression did the members make,each inhabitant of The Enormous Room rushed at break-neck speed to his paillasse;where he stood at bay,assuming as frightening an attitude as possible. The Enormous Room was full enough already in all conscience. Between sixty and seventy paillasses,with their inhabitants and in nearly every case baggage,occupied it so completely as scarcely to leave room for le poêle at the further end and the card-table in the centre. No wonder we were struck with terror upon seeing the six nouveaux. Judas immediately protested to the planton who brought them up that there were no places,getting a roar in response and the door slammed in his face to boot. But the reader is not to imagine that it was the number alone of the arrivals which inspired fear and distrust—their appearance was enough to shake anyone’s sanity. I do protest that never have I experienced a feeling of more profound distrust than upon this occasion;distrust of humanity in general and in particular of the following individuals:

  First,an old man shabbily dressed in a shiny frock coat,upon whose peering and otherwise very aged face a pair of dirty spectacles rested. The first thing he did,upon securing a place,was to sit upon his paillasse in a professorial manner,tremulously extract a journal from his left coat pocket,tremblingly produce a large magnifying-glass from his upper right vest pocket,and forget everything. Subsequently,I discovered him promenading the room with an enormous expenditure of feeble energy,taking tiny steps flat-footedly and leaning in when he rounded a corner as if he were travelling at a terrific speed. He suffered horribly from rheumatism,could scarcely move after a night on the floor,and must have been at least sixty-seven years old.

  Second,a palish foppish undersized prominent-nosed creature who affected a deep musical voice and the cut of whose belted raincoat gave away his profession—he was a pimp,and proud of it,and immediately upon his arrival boasted thereof,and manifested altogether as disagreeable a species of bullying vanity as I ever( save in the case of The Fighting Sheeney )encountered. He got his from Jean Le Nègre,as the reader will learn later.

  Third,a super-Western-Union-Messenger type of ancient-youth,extraordinarily unhandsome if not positively ugly. He had a weak pimply grey face,was clad in a brownish uniform,puttees( on pipe-stem calves ),and a Messenger Boy cap. Upon securing a place he instantly went to the card-table,seated himself hurriedly,pulled out a batch of blanks,and wrote a telegram to( I suppose )himself. Then he returned to his paillasse,lay down with apparently supreme contentment,and fell asleep.

  Fourth,a tiny old man who looked like a caricature of an East-Side second-hand clothes dealer—having a long beard,a long worn and dirty coat reaching just to his ankles,and a small hat on his head. The very first night his immediate neighbor complained that “Le Chapeau”( as he was christened by The Zulu )was guilty of fleas. A great tempest ensued immediately. A planton was hastily summoned. He arrived,heard the case,inspected The Hat( who lay on his paillasse with his derby on,his hand far down the neck of his shirt,scratching busily and protesting occasionally his entire innocence ),uttered( being the Black Holster )an oath of disgust,and ordered The Frog to “couper les cheveux de suite et la barbe aussi;après il va au bain,le vieux.” The Frog approached and gently requested The Hat to seat himself upon a chair—the better of two chairs boasted by The Enormous Room. The Frog,successor to The Barber,brandished his scissors. The Hat lay and scratched. “Allez,Nom de Dieu” the planton roared. The poor Hat arose trembling,assumed a praying attitude;and began to talk in a thick and sudden manner. “Asseyez-vous là,tête de cochon.” The pitiful Hat obeyed,clutching his derby to his head in both withered hands. Take off your hat,you son of a bitch,the planton yelled. I don’t want to,the tragic Hat whimpered. BANG! The derby hit the floor,bounded upward and lay still. Proceed,the planton thundered to The Frog;who regarded him with a perfectly inscrutable expression on his extremely keen face,then turned to his subject,snickered with the scissors,and fell to. Locks ear-long fell in crisp succession. Pete The Shadow,standing beside the barber,nudged me;and I looked;and I beheld upon the floor the shorn locks rising and curling with movement of their own....”Now for the beard” said the Black Holster.—“No,no,Monsieur,s’il vous plaît,pas ma barbe,monsieur” The Hat wept,trying to kneel.—“Ta gueule or I’ll cut your throat” the planton replied amiably;and The Frog,after another look,obeyed. And lo,the beard squirmed gently upon the floor,alive with a rhythm of its own;squirmed and curled crisply as it lay...When The Hat was utterly shorn,he was bathed and became comparatively unremarkable,save for the worn long coat which he clutched about him,shivering. And he borrowed five francs of me twice,and paid me punctually each time when his own money arrived,and presented me with chocolate into the bargain,tipping his hat quickly and bowing( as he always did whenever he addressed anyone). Poor Old Hat,B and I and The Zulu were the only men at La Ferté who liked you.

  Fifth,a fat jolly decently dressed man.—He had been to a camp where everyone danced,because an entire ship’s crew was interned there,and the crew were enormously musical,and the captain( having sold his ship )was rich and tipped the Director regularly;so everyone danced night and day,and the crew played,for the crew had brought their music with them.—He had a way of borrowing the paper( Le Matin )which we bought from one of the lesser plantons who went to the town and got the Matin there;borrowing it before we had read it—by the sunset. And his favorite observations were

  “C’est un mauvais pays. Sale temps.”

  Fifth and sixth,a vacillating staggering decrepit creature with wildish white beard and eyes,who had been arrested—incredibly enough—for “rape”. With him his son,a pleasant youth quiet of demeanor,inquisitive of nature,with whom we sometimes conversed on the subject of the English army.

  Such were the individuals whose concerted arrival taxed to its utmost the capacity of The Enormous Room. And now for my incident—

  Which incident is not peculiarly remarkable,but may( as I hope )serve to revive the reader’s trust in humanity—

  In the doorway,one day shortly after the arrival of the gentlemen mentioned,quietly stood a well-dressed handsomely ­middle-aged man,with a sensitive face culminating in a groomed Van Dyck beard. I thought for a moment that the Mayor of Orne,or whatever his title is had dropped in for an informal inspection of The Enormous Room. Thank God,I said to myself,it has never looked so chaotically filthy since I have had the joy of inhabiting it. And sans blague,The Enormous Room was in a state of really supreme disorder;shirts were thrown everywhere,a few twine clothes-lines supported various pants handkerchiefs and stockings,the poêle was surrounded by a gesticulating group of nearly undressed prisoners,the stink was actually sublime.

  As the door closed behind him,the handsome man moved slowly and vigorously up The Enormous Room. His eyes were as big as turnips. His neat felt hat rose with the rising of his hair. His mouth opened in a gesture of unutterable astonishment. His knees trembled with surprise and terror,the creases of his trousers quivering. His hands lifte
d themselves slowly outward and upward till they reached the level of his head;moved inward till they grasped his head : and were motionless. In a deep awe-struck resonant voice he exclaimed simply and sincerely

  “Nom de nom de nom de nom de nom de DIEU!”

  Which introduces the reader to The Washing-Machine Man,a Hollander,owner of a store at Brest where he sold the highly utile contrivances which gave him his name. He,as I remember,had been charged with aiding and abetting in the case of escaping Holland deserters—but I know a better reason for his arrest : undoubtedly le gouvernement français caught him one day in the act of inventing a super-washing-machine,in fact a White-washing-machine,for the private use of the Kaiser and His Family...

  Which brings us,if you please,to the first Delectable Mountain.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Wanderer

  One day somebody and I were “catching water” for Monsieur the Chef.

  “Catching water” was ordinarily a mixed pleasure. It consisted,as I have mentioned,in the combined pushing and pulling of a curiously primitive two-wheeled cart over a distance of perhaps three hundred yards to a kind of hydrant situated in a species of square upon which the mediaeval structure known as Porte( or Camp )de Triage faced stupidly and threateningly. A planton always escorted the catchers through a big door,between the stone wall,which backed the men’s cour,and the end of the building itself or in other words the canteen. The ten-foot stone wall was,like every other stone wall connected with La Ferté,topped with three feet of barbed-wire. The door by which we exited with the water-wagon to the street outside was at least eight feet high,adorned with several large locks. One pushing behind,one pulling in the shafts,we rushed the wagon over a sort of threshold or sill and into the street;and were immediately yelled at by the planton,who commanded us to stop until he had locked the door aforesaid. We waited until told to proceed;then yanked and shoved the reeling vehicle up the street to our right,that is to say along the wall of the building,but on the outside. All this was pleasant and astonishing. To feel oneself,however temporarily,outside the eternal walls in a street connected with a rather selfish and placid looking little town( whereof not more than a dozen houses were visible )gave the prisoner an at once silly and uncanny sensation,much like the sensation one must get when he starts to skate for the first time in a dozen years or so. The street met two others in a moment,and here was a very flourishing sumach bush( as I guess )whose berries shocked the stunned eye with a savage splash of vermilion. Under this colour one discovered the Mecca of water-catchers in the form of an iron contrivance operating by means of a stubby lever which,when pressed down,yielded grudgingly a spout of whiteness. The contrivance was placed in sufficiently close proximity to a low wall so that one of the catchers might conveniently sit on the wall and keep the water spouting with a continuous pressure of his foot,while the other catcher manipulated a tin pail with telling effect. Having filled the barrel which rode on the two wagon-wheels,we turned it with some difficulty and started it down the street with the tin pail on top;the man in the shafts leaning back with all his might to offset a certain velocity promoted by the down-grade,while the man behind tugged helpingly at the barrel itself. On reaching the door we skewed the machine skillfully to the left,thereby bringing it to a complete standstill,and waited for the planton to unlock the locks;which done,we rushed it violently over the threshold,turned left,still running,and came to a final stop in front of the cuisine. Here stood three enormous wooden tubs. We backed the wagon around;then one man opened a spigot in the rear of the barrel,and at the same time the other elevated the shafts in a clever manner,inducing the jet d’eau to hit one of the tubs. One tub filled,we switched the stream wittily to the next. To fill the three tubs( they were not always all of them empty )required as many as six or eight delightful trips. After which one entered the cuisine and got his well-earned reward—coffee with sugar.