THE ENORMOUS ROOM

by

E. E. CUMMINGS

 * * * * *

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

 INTRODUCTION

 I. I BEGIN A PILGRIMAGE

 II. EN ROUTE

 III. A PILGRIM'S PROGRESS

 IV. LE NOUVEAU

 V. A GROUP OF PORTRAITS

 VI. APOLLYON

 VII. AN APPROACH TO THE DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS

VIII. THE WANDERER

 IX. ZOO-LOO

 X. SURPLICE

 XI. JEAN LE NÈGRE

 XII. THREE WISE MEN

XIII. I SAY GOOD-BYE TO LA MISÈRE

 * * * * *

INTRODUCTION

"FOR THIS MY SON WAS DEAD, AND IS ALIVE AGAIN; HE WAS LOST; AND ISFOUND. "

He was lost by the Norton-Harjes Ambulance Corps. 

He was officially dead as a result of official misinformation. 

He was entombed by the French Government. 

It took the better part of three months to find him and bring him back tolife--with the help of powerful and willing friends on both sides of theAtlantic. The following documents tell the story:

 104 Irving Street, Cambridge, December 8, 1917. 

 President Woodrow Wilson, White House, Washington, D. C. 

 Mr. President:

 It seems criminal to ask for a single moment of your time. But I am strongly advised that it would be more criminal to delay any longer calling to your attention a crime against American citizenship in which the French Government has persisted for many weeks--in spite of constant appeals made to the American Minister at Paris; and in spite of subsequent action taken by the State Department at Washington, on the initiative of my friend, Hon. ----. 

 The victims are two American ambulance drivers, Edward Estlin Cummings of Cambridge, Mass. , and W---- S---- B----.... 

 More than two months ago these young men were arrested, subjected to many indignities, dragged across France like criminals, and closely confined in a Concentration Camp at La Ferté Macé; where, according to latest advices they still remain--awaiting the final action of the Minister of the Interior upon the findings of a Commission which passed upon their cases as long ago as October 17. 

 Against Cummings both private and official advices from Paris state that there is no charge whatever. He has been subjected to this outrageous treatment solely because of his intimate friendship with young B----, whose sole crime is--so far as can be learned--that certain letters to friends in America were misinterpreted by an over-zealous French censor. 

 It only adds to the indignity and irony of the situation to say that young Cummings is an enthusiastic lover of France and so loyal to the friends he has made among the French soldiers, that even while suffering in health from his unjust confinement, he excuses the ingratitude of the country he has risked his life to serve by calling attention to the atmosphere of intense suspicion and distrust that has naturally resulted from the painful experience which France has had with foreign emissaries. 

 Be assured, Mr. President, that I have waited long--it seems like ages--and have exhausted all other available help before venturing to trouble you. 

 1. After many weeks of vain effort to secure effective action by the American Ambassador at Paris, Richard Norton of the Norton-Harjes Ambulance Corps to which the boys belonged, was completely discouraged, and advised me to seek help here. 

 2. The efforts of the State Department at Washington resulted as follows:

 i. A cable from Paris saying that there was no charge against Cummings and intimating that he would speedily be released. 

 ii. A little later a second cable advising that Edward Estlin Cummings had sailed on the Antilles and was reported lost. 

 iii. A week later a third cable correcting this cruel error and saying the Embassy was renewing efforts to locate Cummings--apparently still ignorant even of the place of his confinement. 

 After such painful and baffling experiences, I turn to you--burdened though I know you to be, in this world crisis, with the weightiest task ever laid upon any man. 

 But I have another reason for asking this favor. I do not speak for my son alone; or for him and his friend alone. My son has a mother--as brave and patriotic as any mother who ever dedicated an only son to a great cause. The mothers of our boys in France have rights as well as the boys themselves. My boy's mother had a right to be protected from the weeks of horrible anxiety and suspense caused by the inexplicable arrest and imprisonment of her son. My boy's mother had a right to be spared the supreme agony caused by a blundering cable from Paris saying that he had been drowned by a submarine. (An error which Mr. Norton subsequently cabled that he had discovered six weeks before. ) My boy's mother and all American mothers have a right to be protected against all needless anxiety and sorrow. 

 Pardon me, Mr. President, but if I were President and your son were suffering such prolonged injustice at the hands of France; and your son's mother had been needlessly kept in Hell as many weeks as my boy's mother has--I would do something to make American citizenship as sacred in the eyes of Frenchmen as Roman citizenship was in the eyes of the ancient world. Then it was enough to ask the question, "Is it lawful to scourge a man that is a Roman, and uncondemned?" Now, in France, it seems lawful to treat like a condemned criminal a man that is an American, uncondemned and admittedly innocent!

 Very respectfully, EDWARD CUMMINGS

This letter was received at the White House. Whether it was received withsympathy or with silent disapproval is still a mystery. A Washingtonofficial, a friend in need and a friend indeed in these tryingexperiences, took the precaution to have it delivered by messenger. Otherwise, fear that it had been "lost in the mail" would have addedanother twinge of uncertainty to the prolonged and exquisite torturesinflicted upon parents by alternations of misinformation and officialsilence. Doubtless the official stethoscope was on the heart of the worldjust then; and perhaps it was too much to expect that even a post-cardwould be wasted on private heart-aches. 

In any event this letter told where to look for the missingboys--something the French government either could not or would notdisclose, in spite of constant pressure by the American Embassy at Parisand constant efforts by my friend Richard Norton, who was head of theNorton-Harjes Ambulance organization from which they had been abducted. 

Release soon followed, as narrated in the following letter to Major ----of the staff of the Judge Advocate General in Paris. 

 February 20, 1921. 

 My dear ----

 Your letter of January 30th, which I have been waiting for with great interest ever since I received your cable, arrived this morning. My son arrived in New York on January 1st. He was in bad shape physically as a result of his imprisonment: very much under weight, suffering from a bad skin infection which he had acquired at the concentration camp. However, in view of the extraordinary facilities which the detention camp offered for acquiring dangerous diseases, he is certainly to be congratulated on having escaped with one of the least harmful. The medical treatment at the camp was quite in keeping with the general standards of sanitation there; with the result that it was not until he began to receive competent surgical treatment after his release and on board ship that there was much chance of improvement. A month of competent medical treatment here seems to have got rid of this painful reminder of official hospitality. He is, at present, visiting friends in New York. If he were here, I am sure he would join with me and with his mother in thanking you for the interest you have taken and the efforts you have made. 

 W---- S---- B---- is, I am happy to say, expected in New York this week by the S. S. Niagara. News of his release and subsequently of his departure came by cable. What you say about the nervous strain under which he was living, as an explanation of the letters to which the authorities objected, is entirely borne out by first-hand information. The kind of badgering which the youth received was enough to upset a less sensitive temperament. It speaks volumes for the character of his environment that such treatment aroused the resentment of only one of his companions, and that even this manifestation of normal human sympathy was regarded as "suspicious. " If you are right in characterizing B----'s condition as more or less hysterical, what shall we say of the conditions which made possible the treatment which he and his friend received? I am glad B---- wrote the very sensible and manly letter to the Embassy, which you mention. After I have had an opportunity to converse with him, I shall be in better position to reach a conclusion in regard to certain matters about which I will not now express an opinion. 

 I would only add that I do not in the least share your complacency in regard to the treatment which my son received. The very fact that, as you say, no charges were made and that he was detained on suspicion for many weeks after the Commission passed on his case and reported to the Minister of the Interior that he ought to be released, leads me to a conclusion exactly opposite to that which you express. It seems to me impossible to believe that any well-ordered government would fail to acknowledge such action to have been unreasonable. Moreover, "detention on suspicion" was a small part of what actually took place. To take a single illustration, you will recall that after many weeks' persistent effort to secure information, the Embassy was still kept so much in the dark about the facts, that it cabled the report that my son had embarked on The Antilles and was reported lost. And when convinced of that error, the Embassy cabled that it was renewing efforts to locate my son. Up to that moment, it would appear that the authorities had not even condescended to tell the United States Embassy where this innocent American citizen was confined; so that a mistaken report of his death was regarded as an adequate explanation of his disappearance. If I had accepted this report and taken no further action, it is by no means certain that he would not be dead by this time. 

 I am free to say, that in my opinion no self-respecting government could allow one of its own citizens, against whom there has been no accusation brought, to be subjected to such prolonged indignities and injuries by a friendly government without vigorous remonstrance. I regard it as a patriotic duty, as well as a matter of personal self-respect, to do what I can to see that such remonstrance is made. I still think too highly both of my own government and of the government of France to believe that such an untoward incident will fail to receive the serious attention it deserves. If I am wrong, and American citizens must expect to suffer such indignities and injuries at the hands of other governments without any effort at remonstrance and redress by their own government, I believe the public ought to know the humiliating truth. It will make interesting reading. It remains for my son to determine what action he will take. 

 I am glad to know your son is returning. I am looking forward with great pleasure to conversing with him. 

 I cannot adequately express my gratitude to you and to other friends for the sympathy and assistance I have received. If any expenses have been incurred on my behalf or on behalf of my son, I beg you to give me the pleasure of reimbursing you. At best, I must always remain your debtor. 

 With best wishes, Sincerely yours, EDWARD CUMMINGS

I yield to no one in enthusiasm for the cause of France. Her cause wasour cause and the cause of civilization; and the tragedy is that it tookus so long to find it out. I would gladly have risked my life for her, asmy son risked his and would have risked it again had not the departure ofhis regiment overseas been stopped by the armistice. 

France was beset with enemies within as well as without. Some of the"suspects" were members of her official household. Her Minister ofInterior was thrown into prison. She was distracted with fear. Herexistence was at stake. Under such circumstances excesses were sure to becommitted. But it is precisely at such times that American citizens mostneed and are most entitled to the protection of their own government. 

EDWARD CUMMINGS

 * * * * *

THE ENORMOUS ROOM

I

I BEGIN A PILGRIMAGE

In October, 1917, we had succeeded, my friend B. And I, in dispensingwith almost three of our six months' engagement as Voluntary Drivers, Sanitary Section 21, Ambulance Norton Harjes, American Red Cross, and atthe moment which subsequent experience served to capitalize, had justfinished the unlovely job of cleaning and greasing (_nettoyer_ is theproper word) the own private flivver of the chief of section, a gentlemanby the convenient name of Mr. A. To borrow a characteristic-cadence fromOur Great President: the lively satisfaction which we might be suspectedof having derived from the accomplishment of a task so important in thesaving of civilization from the clutches of Prussian tyranny was in somedegree inhibited, unhappily, by a complete absence of cordial relationsbetween the man whom fate had placed over us and ourselves. Or, to usethe vulgar American idiom, B. And I and Mr. A. Didn't get on well. Wewere in fundamental disagreement as to the attitude which we, Americans, should uphold toward the poilus in whose behalf we had volunteeredassistance, Mr. A. Maintaining "you boys want to keep away from thosedirty Frenchmen" and "we're here to show those bastards how they dothings in America, " to which we answered by seizing every opportunity forfraternization. Inasmuch as eight "dirty Frenchmen" were attached to thesection in various capacities (cook, provisioner, chauffeur, mechanician, etc. ) and the section itself was affiliated with a branch of the Frencharmy, fraternization was easy. Now when he saw that we had not theslightest intention of adopting his ideals, Mr. A. (together with the_sous-lieutenant_ who acted as his translator--for the chief's knowledgeof the French language, obtained during several years' heroic service, consisted for the most part in "_Sar var_, " "_Sar marche_, " and "_Deetdonk moan vieux_") confined his efforts to denying us the privilege ofacting as drivers, on the ground that our personal appearance was adisgrace to the section. In this, I am bound to say, Mr. A. Was butsustaining the tradition conceived originally by his predecessor, a Mr. P. , a Harvard man, who until his departure from Vingt-et-Un succeeded inmaking life absolutely miserable for B. And myself. Before leaving thispainful subject I beg to state that, at least as far as I was concerned, the tradition had a firm foundation in my own predisposition foruncouthness plus what _Le Matin_ (if we remember correctly) cleverlynicknamed _La Boue Héroïque_. 

Having accomplished the _nettoyage_ (at which we were by this timeadepts, thanks to Mr. A. 's habit of detailing us to wash any car whichits driver and _aide_ might consider too dirty a task for their ownhands) we proceeded in search of a little water for personal use. B. Speedily finished his ablutions. I was strolling carelessly and solo fromthe cook-wagon toward one of the two tents--which protestingly housedsome forty huddling Americans by night--holding in my hand an historic_morceau de chocolat_, when a spick, not to say span, gentleman in asuspiciously quiet French uniform allowed himself to be driven up to the_bureau_, by two neat soldiers with tin derbies, in a Renault whosepainful cleanliness shamed my recent efforts. This must be a general atleast, I thought, regretting the extremely undress character of myuniform, which uniform consisted of overalls and a cigarette. 

Having furtively watched the gentleman alight and receive a ceremoniouswelcome from the chief and the aforesaid French lieutenant whoaccompanied the section for translatory reasons, I hastily betook myselfto one of the tents, where I found B. Engaged in dragging all hisbelongings into a central pile of frightening proportions. He wassurrounded by a group of fellow-heroes who hailed my coming withconsiderable enthusiasm. "Your bunky's leaving" said somebody. "Going toParis" volunteered a man who had been trying for three months to getthere. "Prison you mean" remarked a confirmed optimist whost dispositionhad felt the effects of French climate. 

Albeit confused by the eloquence of B. 's unalterable silence, Iimmediately associated his present predicament with the advent of themysterious stranger, and forthwith dashed forth, bent on demanding fromone of the tin-derbies the high identity and sacred mission of thispersonage. I knew that with the exception of ourselves everyone in thesection had been given his seven days' leave--even two men who hadarrived later than we and whose turn should, consequently, have comeafter ours. I also knew that at the headquarters of the Ambulance, _7 rueFrançois Premier_, was Monsieur Norton, the supreme head of the NortonHarjes fraternity, who had known my father in other days. Putting two andtwo together I decided that this potentate had sent an emissary to Mr. A. To demand an explanation of the various and sundry insults andindignities to which I and my friend had been subjected, and moreparticularly to secure our long-delayed permission. Accordingly I was inhigh spirits as I rushed toward the _bureau_. 

I didn't have to go far. The mysterious one, in conversation with_monsieur le sous-lieutenant_, met me half-way. I caught the words: "AndCummings" (the first and last time that my name was correctly pronouncedby a Frenchman), "where is he?"

"Present, " I said, giving a salute to which neither of them paid theslightest attention. 

"Ah yes" impenetrably remarked the mysterious one in positively sanitaryEnglish. "You shall put all your baggage in the car, at once"--then, totin-derby-the-first, who appeared in an occult manner at his master'selbow--"Go with him, get his baggage, at once. "

My things were mostly in the vicinity of the _cuisine_, where lodged the_cuisinier, mechanician, menusier_, etc. , who had made room for me (someten days since) on their own initiative, thus saving me the humiliationof sleeping with nineteen Americans in a tent which was always two-thirdsfull of mud. Thither I led the tin-derby, who scrutinised everything withsurprising interest. I threw _mes affaires_ hastily together (includingsome minor accessories which I was going to leave behind, but which thet-d bade me include) and emerged with a duffle-bag under one arm and abed-roll under the other, to encounter my excellent friends, the "dirtyFrenchmen, " aforesaid. They all popped out together from one door, looking rather astonished. Something by way of explanation as well asfarewell was most certainly required, so I made a speech in my bestFrench:

"Gentlemen, friends, comrades--I am going away immediately and shall beguillotined tomorrow. "

--"Oh hardly guillotined I should say, " remarked t-d, in a voice whichfroze my marrow despite my high spirits; while the cook and carpentergaped audibly and the mechanician clutched a hopelessly smashedcarburetor for support. 

One of the section's _voitures_, a F. I. A. T. , was standing ready. GeneralNemo sternly forbade me to approach the Renault (in which B. 's baggagewas already deposited) and waved me into the F. I. A. T. , bed, bed-roll andall; whereupon t-d leaped in and seated himself opposite me in a positionof perfect unrelaxation, which, despite my aforesaid exultation atquitting the section in general and Mr. A. In particular, impressed me asbeing almost menacing. Through the front window I saw my friend driveaway with t-d Number 2 and Nemo; then, having waved hasty farewell to all_les Américains_ that I knew--three in number--and having exchangedaffectionate greetings with Mr. A. (who admitted he was very sorry indeedto lose us), I experienced the jolt of the clutch--and we were off inpursuit. 

Whatever may have been the forebodings inspired by t-d Number 1'sattitude, they were completely annihilated by the thrilling joy which Iexperienced on losing sight of the accursed section and its asinineinhabitants--by the indisputable and authentic thrill of going somewhereand nowhere, under the miraculous auspices of someone and no one--ofbeing yanked from the putrescent banalities of an official non-existenceinto a high and clear adventure, by a _deus ex machina_ in a grey-blueuniform, and a couple of tin derbies. I whistled and sang and cried to my_vis-à-vis_: "By the way, who is yonder distinguished gentleman who hasbeen so good as to take my friend and me on this little promenade?"--towhich, between lurches of the groaning F. I. A. T. , t-d replied awesomely, clutching at the window for the benefit of his equilibrium: "Monsieur leMinistre de Sureté de Noyon. "

Not in the least realizing what this might mean, I grinned. A responsivegrin, visiting informally the tired cheeks of my _confrère_, ended byfrankly connecting his worthy and enormous ears which were squeezed intooblivion by the oversize _casque_. My eyes, jumping from those ears, liton that helmet and noticed for the first time an emblem, a sort offlowering little explosion, or hair-switch rampant. It seemed to me veryjovial and a little absurd. 

"We're on our way to Noyon, then?"

T-d shrugged his shoulders. 

Here the driver's hat blew off. I heard him swear, and saw the hatsailing in our wake. I jumped to my feet as the F. I. A. T. Came to a suddenstop, and started for the ground--then checked my flight in mid-air andlanded on the seat, completely astonished. T-d's revolver, which hadhopped from its holster at my first move, slid back into its nest. Theowner of the revolver was muttering something rather disagreeable. Thedriver (being an American of Vingt-et-Un) was backing up instead ofretrieving his cap in person. My mind felt as if it had been thrownsuddenly from fourth into reverse. I pondered and said nothing. 

On again--faster, to make up for lost time. On the correct assumptionthat t-d does not understand English the driver passes the time of daythrough the minute window:

"For Christ's sake, Cummings, what's up?"

"You got me, " I said, laughing at the delicate naiveté of the question. 

"Did y' do something to get pinched?"

"Probably, " I answered importantly and vaguely, feeling a new dignity. 

"Well, if you didn't, maybe B---- did. "

"Maybe, " I countered, trying not to appear enthusiastic. As a matter offact I was never so excited and proud. I was, to be sure, a criminal!Well, well, thank God that settled one question for good and all--no more_Section Sanitaire_ for me! No more Mr. A. And his daily lectures oncleanliness, deportment, etc. ! In spite of myself I started to sing. Thedriver interrupted:

"I heard you asking the tin lid something in French. Whadhesay?"

"Said that gink in the Renault is the head cop of Noyon, " I answered atrandom. 

"GOODNIGHT. Maybe we'd better ring off, or you'll get in wrong with"--heindicated t-d with a wave of his head that communicated itself to the carin a magnificent skid; and t-d's derby rang out as the skid pitched t-dthe length of the F. I. A. T. 

"You rang the bell then, " I commented--then to t-d: "Nice car for thewounded to ride in, " I politely observed. T-d answered nothing.... 

Noyon. 

We drive straight up to something which looks unpleasantly like a feudaldungeon. The driver is now told to be somewhere at a certain time, andmeanwhile to eat with the Head Cop, who may be found just around thecorner--(I am doing, the translating for t-d)--and, oh yes, it seems thatthe Head Cop has particularly requested the pleasure of thisdistinguished American's company at _déjeuner_. 

"Does he mean me?" the driver asked innocently. 

"Sure, " I told him. 

Nothing is said of B. Or me. 

Now, cautiously, t-d first and I a slow next, we descend. The F. I. A. T. Rumbles off, with the distinguished one's backward-glaring head poked outa yard more or less and that distinguished face so completely surrenderedto mystification as to cause a large laugh on my part. 

"You are hungry?"

It was the erstwhile-ferocious speaking. A criminal, I remembered, issomebody against whom everything he says and does is very cleverly madeuse of. After weighing the matter in my mind for some moments I decidedat all cost to tell the truth, and replied:

"I could eat an elephant. "

Hereupon t-d lead me to the Kitchen Itself, set me to eat upon a stool, and admonished the cook in a fierce voice:

"Give this great criminal something to eat in the name of the FrenchRepublic!"

And for the first time in three months I tasted Food. 

T-d seated himself beside me, opened a huge jack-knife, and fell to, after first removing his tin derby and loosening his belt. 

One of the pleasantest memories connected with that irrevocable meal isof a large, gentle, strong woman who entered in a hurry, and seeing mecried out:

"What is it?"

"It's an American, my mother, " t-d answered through fried potatoes. 

"Why is he here?" the woman touched me on the shoulder, and satisfiedherself that I was real. 

"The good God is doubtless acquainted with the explanation, " said t-dpleasantly. "Not myself being the--"

"Ah, _mon pauvre_" said this very beautiful sort of woman. "You are goingto be a prisoner here. Everyone of the prisoners has a _marraine_, do youunderstand? I am their _marraine_. I love them and look after them. Well, listen: I will be your _marraine_, too. "

I bowed and looked around for something to pledge her in. T-d waswatching. My eyes fell on a huge glass of red pinard. "Yes, drink, " saidmy captor, with a smile. I raised my huge glass. 

"_A la santé de ma marraine charmante!_"

--This deed of gallantry quite won the cook (a smallish, agile Frenchman)who shovelled several helps of potatoes on my already empty plate. Thetin derby approved also: "That's right, eat, drink, you'll need it laterperhaps. " And his knife guillotined another delicious hunk of whitebread. 

At last, sated with luxuries, I bade adieu to my _marraine_ and allowedt-d to conduct me (I going first, as always) upstairs and into a littleden whose interior boasted two mattresses, a man sitting at the table, and a newspaper in the hands of the man. 

"_C'est un Américain_, " t-d said by way of introduction. The newspaperdetached itself from the man who said: "He's welcome indeed: makeyourself at home, Mr. American"--and bowed himself out. My captorimmediately collapsed on one mattress. 

I asked permission to do the same on the other, which favor was sleepilygranted. With half-shut eyes my Ego lay and pondered: the delicious mealit had just enjoyed; what was to come; the joys of being a great criminal... Then, being not at all inclined to sleep, I read _Le Petit Parisien_quite through, even to _Les Voies Urinaires. _

Which reminded me--and I woke up t-d and asked: "May I visit the_vespasienne_?"

"Downstairs, " he replied fuzzily, and readjusted his slumbers. 

There was no one moving about in the little court. I lingered somewhat onthe way upstairs. The stairs were abnormally dirty. When I reentered, t-dwas roaring to himself. I read the journal through again. It must havebeen about three o'clock. 

Suddenly t-d woke up, straightened and buckled his personality, andmurmured: "It's time, come on. "

_Le bureau de_ Monsieur le Ministre was just around the corner, as itproved. Before the door stood the patient F. I. A. T. I was ceremoniouslyinformed by t-d that we would wait on the steps. 

Well! Did I know any more?--the American driver wanted to know. 

Having proved to my own satisfaction that my fingers could still roll apretty good cigarette, I answered: "No, " between puffs. 

The American drew nearer and whispered spectacularly: "Your friend isupstairs. I think they're examining him. "

T-d got this; and though his rehabilitated dignity had accepted the"makin's" from its prisoner, it became immediately incensed:

"That's enough, " he said sternly. 

And dragged me _tout-à-coup_ upstairs, where I met B. And his t-d comingout of the _bureau_ door. B. Looked peculiarly cheerful. "I think we'regoing to prison all right, " he assured me. 

Braced by this news, poked from behind by my t-d, and waved on frombefore by M. Le Ministre himself, I floated vaguely into a very washed, neat, business-like and altogether American room of modest proportions, whose door was immediately shut and guarded on the inside by my escort. 

Monsieur le Ministre said:

"Lift your arms. "

Then he went through my pockets. He found cigarettes, pencils, ajack-knife and several francs. He laid his treasures on a clean table andsaid: "You are not allowed to keep these. I shall be responsible. " Thenhe looked me coldly in the eye and asked if I had anything else?

I told him that I believed I had a handkerchief. 

He asked me: "Have you anything in your shoes?"

"My feet, " I said, gently. 

"Come this way, " he said frigidly, opening a door which I had notremarked. I bowed in acknowledgment of the courtesy, and entered roomnumber 2. 

I looked into six eyes which sat at a desk. 

Two belonged to a lawyerish person in civilian clothes, with a boredexpression, plus a moustache of dreamy proportions with which the ownerconstantly imitated a gentleman ringing for a drink. Two appertained to asplendid old dotard (a face all ski-jumps and toboggan slides), on whoseprotruding chest the rosette of the Legion pompously squatted. Numbersfive and six had reference to Monsieur, who had seated himself before Ihad time to focus my slightly bewildered eyes. 

Monsieur spoke sanitary English, as I have said. 

"What is your name?"--"Edward E. Cummings. "

--"Your second name?"--"E-s-t-l-i-n, " I spelled it for him. --"How do yousay that?"--I didn't understand. --"How do you say your name?"--"Oh, " Isaid; and pronounced it. He explained in French to the moustache that myfirst name was Edouard, my second "A-s-tay-l-ee-n, " and my third"Kay-umm-ee-n-gay-s"--and the moustache wrote it all down. Monsieur thenturned to me once more:

"You are Irish?"--"No, " I said, "American. "--"You are Irish byfamily?"--"No, Scotch. "--"You are sure that there was never an Irishmanin your parents?"--"So far as I know, " I said, "there never was anIrishman there. "--"Perhaps a hundred years back?" he insisted. --"Not achance, " I said decisively. But Monsieur was not to be denied: "Your nameit is Irish?"--"Cummings is a very old Scotch name, " I told him fluently, "it used to be Comyn. A Scotchman named The Red Comyn was killed byRobert Bruce in a church. He was my ancestor and a very well-knownman. "--"But your second name, where have you got that?"--"From anEnglishman, a friend of my father. " This statement seemed to produce avery favorable impression in the case of the rosette, who murmured: "_Unami de son père, un Anglais, bon!_" several times. Monsieur, quiteevidently disappointed, told the moustache in French to write down that Idenied my Irish parentage; which the moustache did. 

"What does your father in America?"--"He is a minister of the gospel, " Ianswered. "Which church?"--"Unitarian. " This puzzled him. After a momenthe had an inspiration: "That is the same as a Free Thinker?"--I explainedin French that it wasn't and that _mon père_ was a holy man. At lastMonsieur told the moustache to write: Protestant; and the moustacheobediently did so. 

From this point on our conversation was carried on in French, somewhat tothe chagrin of Monsieur, but to the joy of the rosette and with theapproval of the moustache. In answer to questions, I informed them that Iwas a student for five years at Harvard (expressing great surprise thatthey had never heard of Harvard), that I had come to New York and studiedpainting, that I had enlisted in New York as _conducteur voluntaire_, embarking for France shortly after, about the middle of April. 

Monsieur asked: "You met B---- on the _paquebot_?" I said I did. 

Monsieur glanced significantly around. The rosette nodded a number oftimes. The moustache rang. 

I understood that these kind people were planning to make me out theinnocent victim of a wily villain, and could not forbear a smile. _C'estrigoler_, I said to myself; they'll have a great time doing it. 

"You and your friend were together in Paris?" I said "yes. " "How long?""A month, while we were waiting for our uniforms. "

A significant look by Monsieur, which is echoed by his _confrères_. 

Leaning forward Monsieur asked coldly and carefully: "What did you do inParis?" to which I responded briefly and warmly: "We had a good time. "

This reply pleased the rosette hugely. He wagged his head till I thoughtit would have tumbled off. Even the mustache seemed amused. Monsieur leMinistre de la Sureté de Noyon bit his lip. "Never mind writing thatdown, " he directed the lawyer. Then, returning to the charge:

"You had a great deal of trouble with Lieutenant A. ?"

I laughed outright at this complimentary nomenclature. "Yes, we certainlydid. "

He asked: "Why?"--so I sketched "Lieutenant" A. In vivid terms, makinguse of certain choice expressions with which one of the "dirty Frenchmen"attached to the section, a Parisien, master of argot, had furnished me. My phraseology surprised my examiners, one of whom (I think themoustache) observed sarcastically that I had made good use of my time inParis. 

Monsieur le Ministre asked: Was it true (a) that B. And I were alwaystogether and (b) preferred the company of the attached Frenchmen to thatof our fellow-Americans?--to which I answered in the affirmative. Why? hewanted to know. So I explained that we felt that the more French we knewand the better we knew the French the better for us; expatiating a bit onthe necessity for a complete mutual understanding of the Latin andAnglo-Saxon races if victory was to be won. 

Again the rosette nodded with approbation. 

Monsieur le Ministre may have felt that he was losing his case, for heplayed his trump card immediately: "You are aware that your friend haswritten to friends in America and to his family very bad letters. " "I amnot, " I said. 

In a flash I understood the motivation of Monsieur's visit to_Vingt-et-Un_: the French censor had intercepted some of B. 's letters, and had notified Mr. A. And Mr. A. 's translator, both of whom hadthankfully testified to the bad character of B. And (wishing verynaturally to get rid of both of us at once) had further averred that wewere always together and that consequently I might properly be regardedas a suspicious character. Whereupon they had received instructions tohold us at the section until Noyon could arrive and take charge--henceour failure to obtain our long-overdue permission. 

"Your friend, " said Monsieur in English, "is here a short while ago. Iask him if he is up in the aeroplane flying over Germans will he drop thebombs on Germans and he say no, he will not drop any bombs on Germans. "

By this falsehood (such it happened to be) I confess that I wasnonplussed. In the first place, I was at the time innocent ofthird-degree methods. Secondly, I remembered that, a week or so since, B. , myself and another American in the section had written aletter--which, on the advice of the _sous-lieutenant_ who accompanied_Vingt-et-Un_ as translator, we had addressed to the Under-Secretary ofState in French Aviation--asking that inasmuch as the American Governmentwas about to take over the Red Cross (which meant that all the SanitarySections would be affiliated with the American, and no longer with theFrench, Army) we three at any rate might be allowed to continue ourassociation with the French by enlisting in l'Esquadrille Lafayette. Oneof the "dirty Frenchmen" had written the letter for us in the finestlanguage imaginable, from data supplied by ourselves. 

"You write a letter, your friend and you, for French aviation?"

Here I corrected him: there were three of us; and why didn't he have thethird culprit arrested, might I ask? But he ignored this littledigression, and wanted to know: Why not American aviation?--to which Ianswered: "Ah, but as my friend has so often said to me, the French areafter all the finest people in the world. "

This double-blow stopped Noyon dead, but only for a second. 

"Did your friend write this letter?"--"No, " I answered truthfully. --"Whodid write it?"--"One of the Frenchmen attached to the section. "--"What ishis name?"--"I'm sure I don't know, " I answered; mentally swearing that, whatever might happen to me the scribe should not suffer. "At my urgentrequest, " I added. 

Relapsing into French, Monsieur asked me if I would have any hesitationin dropping bombs on Germans? I said no, I wouldn't. And why did Isuppose I was fitted to become aviator? Because, I told him, I weighed135 pounds and could drive any kind of auto or motorcycle. (I hoped hewould make me prove this assertion, in which case I promised myself thatI wouldn't stop till I got to Munich; but no. )

"Do you mean to say that my friend was not only trying to avoid servingin the American Army but was contemplating treason as well?" I asked. 

"Well, that would be it, would it not?" he answered coolly. Then, leaningforward once more, he fired at me: "Why did you write to an official sohigh?"

At this I laughed outright. "Because the excellent _sous-lieutenant_ whotranslated when Mr. Lieutenant A. Couldn't understand advised us to doso. "

Following up this _sortie_, I addressed the mustache: "Write this down inthe testimony--that I, here present, refuse utterly to believe that myfriend is not as sincere a lover of France and the French people as anyman living!--Tell him to write it, " I commanded Noyon stonily. But Noyonshook his head, saying: "We have the very best reason for supposing yourfriend to be no friend of France. " I answered: "That is not my affair. Iwant my opinion of my friend written in; do you see?" "That'sreasonable, " the rosette murmured; and the moustache wrote it down. 

"Why do you think we volunteered?" I asked sarcastically, when thetestimony was complete. 

Monsieur le Ministre was evidently rather uncomfortable. He writhed alittle in his chair, and tweaked his chin three or four times. Therosette and the moustache were exchanging animated phrases. At lastNoyon, motioning for silence and speaking in an almost desperate tone, demanded:

"_Est-ce-que vous détestez les boches?_"

I had won my own case. The question was purely perfunctory. To walk outof the room a free man I had merely to say yes. My examiners were sure ofmy answer. The rosette was leaning forward and smiling encouragingly. Themoustache was making little _ouis_ in the air with his pen. And Noyon hadgiven up all hope of making me out a criminal. I might be rash, but I wasinnocent; the dupe of a superior and malign intelligence. I wouldprobably be admonished to choose my friends more carefully next time andthat would be all.... 

Deliberately, I framed the answer:

"_Non. J'aime beaucoup les français. _"

Agile as a weasel, Monsieur le Ministre was on top of me: "It isimpossible to love Frenchmen and not to hate Germans. "

I did not mind his triumph in the least. The discomfiture of the rosettemerely amused me. The surprise of the moustache I found very pleasant. 

Poor rosette! He kept murmuring desperately: "Fond of his friend, quiteright. Mistaken of course, too bad, meant well. "

With a supremely disagreeable expression on his immaculate face thevictorious minister of security pressed his victim with regainedassurance: "But you are doubtless aware of the atrocities committed bythe boches?"

"I have read about them, " I replied very cheerfully. 

"You do not believe?"

"_Ça ce peut. _"

"And if they are so, which of course they are" (tone of profoundconviction) "you do not detest the Germans?"

"Oh, in that case, of course anyone must detest them, " I averred withperfect politeness. 

And my case was lost, forever lost. I breathed freely once more. All mynervousness was gone. The attempt of the three gentlemen sitting beforeme to endow my friend and myself with different fates had irrevocablyfailed. 

At the conclusion of a short conference I was told by Monsieur:

"I am sorry for you, but due to your friend you will be detained a littlewhile. "

I asked: "Several weeks?"

"Possibly, " said Monsieur. 

This concluded the trial. 

Monsieur le Ministre conducted me into room number 1 again. "Since I havetaken your cigarettes and shall keep them for you, I will give you sometobacco. Do you prefer English or French?"

Because the French (_paquet bleu_) are stronger and because he expectedme to say English, I said "French. "

With a sorrowful expression Noyon went to a sort of bookcase and tookdown a blue packet. I think I asked for matches, or else he had givenback the few which he found on my person. 

Noyon, t-d and the grand criminal (alias I) now descended solemnly to theF. I. A. T. The more and more mystified _conducteur_ conveyed us a shortdistance to what was obviously a prison-yard. Monsieur le Ministrewatched me descend my voluminous baggage. 

This was carefully examined by Monsieur at the _bureau_, of the prison. Monsieur made me turn everything topsy-turvy and inside out. Monsieurexpressed great surprise at a huge shell: where did I get it?--I said aFrench soldier gave it to me as a souvenir. --And several _têtesd'obus_?--also souvenirs, I assured him merrily. Did Monsieur suppose Iwas caught in the act of blowing up the French Government, or whatexactly?--But here are a dozen sketch-books, what is in them?--Oh, Monsieur, you flatter me: drawings. --Of fortifications? Hardly; ofpoilus, children, and other ruins. --Ummmm. (Monsieur examined thedrawings and found that I had spoken the truth. ) Monsieur puts all thesetrifles into a small bag, with which I had been furnished (in addition tothe huge duffle-bag) by the generous Red Cross. Labels them (in French):"Articles found in the baggage of Cummings and deemed _inutile_ to thecase at hand. " This leaves in the duffle-bag aforesaid: my fur coat, which I brought from New York; my bed and blankets and bed-roll, mycivilian clothes, and about twenty-five pounds of soiled linen. "You maytake the bed-roll and the folding bed into your cell"--the rest of my_affaires_ would remain in safe keeping at the _bureau_. 

"Come with me, " grimly croaked a lank turnkey creature. 

Bed-roll and bed in hand, I came along. 

We had but a short distance to go; several steps in fact. I remember weturned a corner and somehow got sight of a sort of square near theprison. A military band was executing itself to the stolid delight ofsome handfuls of ragged _civiles_. My new captor paused a moment; perhapshis patriotic soul was stirred. Then we traversed an alley with lockeddoors on both sides, and stopped in front of the last door on the right. A key opened it. The music could still be distinctly heard. 

The opened door showed a room, about sixteen feet short and four feetnarrow, with a heap of straw in the further end. My spirits had beensteadily recovering from the banality of their examination; and it waswith a genuine and never-to-be-forgotten thrill that I remarked, as Icrossed what might have been the threshold: "_Mais, on est bien ici_. "

A hideous crash nipped the last word. I had supposed the whole prison tohave been utterly destroyed by earthquake, but it was only my doorclosing.... 

II

EN ROUTE

I put the bed-roll down. I stood up. 

I was myself. 

An uncontrollable joy gutted me after three months of humiliation, ofbeing bossed and herded and bullied and insulted. I was myself and my ownmaster. 

In this delirium of relief (hardly noticing what I did) I inspected thepile of straw, decided against it, set up my bed, disposed the roll onit, and began to examine my cell. 

I have mentioned the length and breadth. The cell was ridiculously high;perhaps ten feet. The end with the door in it was peculiar. The door wasnot placed in the middle of this end, but at one side, allowing for ahuge iron can waist-high which stood in the other corner. Over the doorand across the end, a grating extended. A slit of sky was always visible. 

Whistling joyously to myself, I took three steps which brought me to thedoor-end. The door was massively made, all of iron or steel I shouldthink. It delighted me. The can excited my curiosity. I looked over theedge of it. At the bottom reposefully lay a new human turd. 

I have a sneaking mania for wood-cuts, particularly when used toillustrate the indispensable psychological crisis of some outwornromance. There is in my possession at this minute a masterful depictionof a tall, bearded, horrified man who, clad in an anonymous rig of goatskins, with a fantastic umbrella clasped weakly in one huge paw, bends toexamine an indication of humanity in the somewhat cubist wildernesswhereof he had fancied himself the owner.... 

It was then that I noticed the walls. Arm-high they were covered withdesigns, mottos, pictures. The drawing had all been done in pencil. Iresolved to ask for a pencil at the first opportunity. 

There had been Germans and Frenchmen imprisoned in this cell. On theright wall, near the door-end, was a long selection from Goethe, laboriously copied. Near the other end of this wall a satiric landscapetook place. The technique of this landscape frightened me. There werehouses, men, children. And there were trees. I began to wonder what atree looks like, and laughed copiously. 

The back wall had a large and exquisite portrait of a German officer. 

The left wall was adorned with a yacht, flying a number 13. "My belovedboat" was inscribed in German underneath. Then came a bust of a Germansoldier, very idealized, full of unfear. After this, a masterfulcrudity--a doughnut-bodied rider, sliding with fearful rapidity down theacute backbone of a totally transparent sausage-shaped horse, who wasmoving simultaneously in five directions. The rider had a boredexpression as he supported the stiff reins in one fist. His further legassisted in his flight. He wore a German soldier's cap and was smoking. Imade up my mind to copy the horse and rider at once, so soon, that is, asI should have obtained a pencil. 

Last, I found a drawing surrounded by a scrolled motto. The drawing was apotted plant with four blossoms. The four blossoms were elaborately dead. Their death was drawn with a fearful care. An obscure deliberation wasexposed in the depiction of their drooping petals. The pot tottered verycrookedly on a sort of table, as near as I could see. All around ran afunereal scroll. I read: "My farewell to my beloved wife, Gaby. " A fiercehand, totally distinct from the former, wrote in proud letters above:"Punished for desertion. Six years of prison--military degradation. "

It must have been five o'clock. Steps. A vast cluttering of the exteriorof the door--by whom? Whang opens the door. Turnkey-creature extending apiece of chocolate with extreme and surly caution. I say "_Merci_" andseize chocolate. Klang shuts the door. 

I am lying on my back, the twilight does mistily bluish miracles throughthe slit over the whang-klang. I can just see leaves, meaning tree. 

Then from the left and way off, faintly, broke a smooth whistle, coollike a peeled willow-branch, and I found myself listening to an air fromPetroushka, Petroushka, which we saw in Paris at the _Châtelet, mon amiet moi_.... 

The voice stopped in the middle--and I finished the air. This codecontinued for a half-hour. 

It was dark. 

I had laid a piece of my piece of chocolate on the window-sill. As I layon my back a little silhouette came along the sill and ate that piece ofa piece, taking something like four minutes to do so. He then looked atme, I then smiled at him, and we parted, each happier than before. 

My _cellule_ was cool, and I fell asleep easily. 

(Thinking of Paris. )

... Awakened by a conversation whose vibrations I clearly felt throughthe left wall:

Turnkey-creature: "What?"

A moldly moldering molish voice, suggesting putrifying tracts andorifices, answers with a cob-webbish patience so far beyond despair as tobe indescribable: "_La soupe_. "

"Well, the soup, I just gave it to you, Monsieur Savy. "

"Must have a little something else. My money is _chez le directeur_. Please take my money which is _chez le directeur_ and give me anythingelse. "

"All right, the next time I come to see you to-day I'll bring you asalad, a nice salad, Monsieur. "

"Thank you, Monsieur, " the voice moldered. 

Klang!!--and says the turnkey-creature to somebody else; while turningthe lock of Monsieur Savy's door; taking pains to raise his voice so thatMonsieur Savy will not miss a single word through the slit over MonsieurSavy's whang-klang:

"That old fool! Always asks for things. When supposest thou will herealize that he's never going to get anything?"

Grubbing at my door. Whang!

The faces stood in the doorway, looking me down. The expression of thefaces identically turnkeyish, i. E. , stupidly gloating, ponderously andimperturbably tickled. Look who's here, who let that in?

The right body collapsed sufficiently to deposit a bowl just inside. 

I smiled and said: "Good morning, sirs. The can stinks. "

They did not smile and said: "Naturally. " I smiled and said: "Please giveme a pencil. I want to pass the time. " They did not smile and said:"Directly. "

I smiled and said: "I want some water, if you please. "

They shut the door, saying "Later. "

Klang and footsteps. 

I contemplate the bowl which contemplates me. A glaze of greenish greaseseals the mystery of its content, I induce two fingers to penetrate theseal. They bring me up a flat sliver of cabbage and a large, hard, thoughtful, solemn, uncooked bean. To pour the water off (it is warmishand sticky) without committing a nuisance is to lift the cover off _ÇaPue_. I did. 

Thus leaving beans and cabbage-slivers. Which I ate hurryingly, fearing aventral misgiving. 

I pass a lot of time cursing myself about the pencil, looking at mywalls, my unique interior. 

Suddenly I realize the indisputable grip of nature's humorous hand. Oneevidently stands on _Ça Pue_ in such cases. Having finished, panting withstink, I tumble on the bed and consider my next move. 

The straw will do. Ouch, but it's Dirty. --Several hours elapse.... 

Steps and fumble. Klang. Repetition of promise to Monsieur Savy, etc. 

Turnkeyish and turnkeyish. Identical expression. One body collapsessufficiently to deposit a hunk of bread and a piece of water. 

"Give your bowl. "

I gave it, smiled and said: "Well, how about that pencil?"

"Pencil?" T-c looked at T-c. 

They recited then the following word: "To-morrow. " Klang and footsteps. 

So I took matches, burnt, and with just 60 of them wrote the first stanzaof a ballade. To-morrow I will write the second. Day after to-morrow thethird. Next day the refrain. After--oh, well. 

My whistling of Petroushka brought no response this evening. 

So I climbed on _Ça Pue_, whom I now regarded with complete friendliness;the new moon was unclosing sticky wings in dusk, a far noise from nearthings. 

I sang a song the "dirty Frenchmen" taught us, _mon ami et moi_. The songsays _Bon soir, Madame de la Lune_.... I did not sing out loud, simplybecause the moon was like a mademoiselle, and I did not want to offendthe moon. My friends: the silhouette and _la lune_, not counting _ÇaPue_, whom I regarded almost as a part of me. 

Then I lay down, and heard (but could not see the silhouette eatsomething or somebody) ... And saw, but could not hear, the incense of_Ça Pue_ mount gingerly upon the taking air of twilight. 

The next day. --Promise to M. Savy. Whang. "My pencil?"--"You don't needany pencil, you're going away. "--"When?"--"Directly. "--"Howdirectly?"--"In an hour or two: your friend has already gone before. Getready. "

Klang and steps. 

Everyone very sore about me. I should worry, however. 

One hour, I guess. 

Steps. Sudden throwing of door open. Pause. 

"Come out, American. "

As I came out, toting bed and bed-roll, I remarked: "I'm sorry to leaveyou, " which made T-c furiously to masticate his insignificant moustache. 

Escorted to _bureau_, where I am turned over to a very fat _gendarme_. 

"This is the American. " The v-f-g eyed me, and I read my sins in hisporklike orbs. "Hurry, we have to walk, " he ventured sullenly andcommandingly. 

Himself stooped puffingly to pick up the segregated sack. And I placed mybed, bed-roll, blankets and ample _pélisse_ under one arm, my 150-oddpound duffle-bag under the other; then I paused. Then I said, "Where's mycane?"

The v-f-g hereat had a sort of fit, which perfectly became him. 

I repeated gently: "When I came to the _bureau_ I had a cane. "

"I don't give a damn about your cane, " burbled my new captor frothily, his pink evil eyes swelling with wrath. 

"I'm staying, " I replied calmly, and sat down on a curb, in the midst ofmy ponderous trinkets. 

A crowd of _gendarmes_ gathered. One didn't take a cane with one toprison (I was glad to know where I was bound, and thanked thiscommunicative gentleman); or criminals weren't allowed canes; or whereexactly did I think I was, in the Tuileries? asks a rube movie-coppersonage. 

"Very well, gentlemen, " I said. "You will allow me to tell yousomething. " (I was beet-colored. ) "In America that sort of thing isn'tdone. "

This haughty inaccuracy produced an astonishing effect, namely, theprestidigitatorial vanishment of the v-f-g. The v-f-g's numerous_confrères_ looked scared and twirled their whiskers. 

I sat on the curb and began to fill a paper with something which I foundin my pockets, certainly not tobacco. 

Splutter-splutter-fizz-Poop--the v-f-g is back, with my oak-branch in hisraised hand, slithering opprobria and mostly crying: "Is that huge pieceof wood what you call a cane? It is, is it? What? How? What the--, " soon. 

I beamed upon him and thanked him, and explained that a "dirty Frenchman"had given it to me as a souvenir, and that I would now proceed. 

Twisting the handle in the loop of my sack, and hoisting the vast parcelunder my arm, I essayed twice to boost it on my back. This to theaccompaniment of HurryHurryHurryHurryHurryHurryHurry.... The third time Isweated and staggered to my feet, completely accoutred. 

Down the road. Into the _ville_. Curious looks from a few pedestrians. Adriver stops his wagon to watch the spider and his outlandish fly. Ichuckled to think how long since I had washed and shaved. Then I nearlyfell, staggered on a few steps, and set down the two loads. 

Perhaps it was the fault of a strictly vegetarian diet. At any rate, Icouldn't move a step farther with my bundles. The sun sent the sweatalong my nose in tickling waves. My eyes were blind. 

Hereupon I suggested that the v-f-g carry part of one of my bundles withme, and received the answer: "I am doing too much for you as it is. No_gendarme_ is supposed to carry a prisoner's baggage. "

I said then: "I'm too tired. "

He responded: "You can leave here anything you don't care to carryfurther; I'll take care of it. "

I looked at the _gendarme_. I looked several blocks through him. My lipdid something like a sneer. My hands did something like fists. 

At this crisis along comes a little boy. May God bless all males betweenseven and ten years of age in France!

The _gendarme_ offered a suggestion, in these words: "Have you any changeabout you?" He knew, of course, that the sanitary official's first acthad been to deprive me of every last cent. The _gendarme's_ eyes werefine. They reminded me of ... Never mind. "If you have change, " said he, "you might hire this kid to carry some of your baggage. " Then he lit apipe which was made in his own image, and smiled fattily. 

But herein the v-f-g had bust his milk-jug. There is a slit of a pocketmade in the uniform of his criminal on the right side, and completelycovered by the belt which his criminal always wears. His criminal hadthus outwitted the gumshoe fraternity. 

The _gosse_ could scarcely balance my smaller parcel, but managed afterthree rests to get it to the station platform; here I tipped himsomething like two cents (all I had) which, with dollar-big eyes, he tookand ran. 

A strongly-built, groomed _apache_ smelling of cologne and onions greetedmy v-f-g with that affection which is peculiar to _gendarmes_. On me hestared cynically, then sneered frankly. 

With a little tooty shriek the funny train tottered in. My captors hadtaken pains to place themselves at the wrong end of the platform. Nowthey encouraged me to HurryHurryHurry. 

I managed to get under the load and tottered the length of the train to acar especially reserved. There was one other criminal, abeautifully-smiling, shortish man, with a very fine blanket wrapped in awater-proof oilskin cover. We grinned at each other (the most cordialsalutation, by the way, that I have ever exchanged with a human being)and sat down opposite one another--he, plus my baggage which he helped melift in, occupying one seat; the _gendarme_-sandwich, of which I formedthe _pièce de résistance_, the other. 

The engine got under way after several feints; which pleased the Germansso that they sent several scout planes right over the station, train, us_et tout_. All the French anticraft guns went off together for the sakeof sympathy; the guardians of the peace squinted cautiously from theirrespective windows, and then began a debate on the number of the enemywhile their prisoners smiled at each other appreciatively. 

"_Il fait chaud_, " said this divine man, prisoner, criminal, or what not, as he offered me a glass of wine in the form of a huge tin cup overflowedfrom the canteen in his slightly unsteady and delicately made hand. He isa Belgian. Volunteered at beginning of war. Permission at Paris, overstayed by one day. When he reported to his officer, the latterannounced that he was a deserter--I said to him, "It is funny. It isfunny I should have come back, of my own free will, to my company. Ishould have thought that being a deserter I would have preferred toremain in Paris. " The wine was terribly cold, and I thanked my divinehost. 

Never have I tasted such wine. 

They had given me a chunk of war-bread in place of blessing when I leftNoyon. I bit into it with renewed might. But the divine man across fromme immediately produced a sausage, half of which he laid simply upon myknee. The halving was done with a large keen poilu's knife. 

I have not tasted a sausage since. 

The pigs on my either hand had by this time overcome their respectiveinertias and were chomping cheek-murdering chunks. They had quite alayout, a regular picnic-lunch elaborate enough for kings or evenpresidents. The v-f-g in particular annoyed me by uttering alternatechompings and belchings. All the time he ate he kept his eyes half-shut;and a mist overspread the sensual meadows of his coarse face. 

His two reddish eyes rolled devouringly toward the blanket in itswaterproof roll. After a huge gulp of wine he said thickly (for his hugemoustache was crusted with saliva-tinted half-moistened shreds of food), "You will have no use for that _machine là-bas_. They are going to takeeverything away from you when you get there, you know. I could use itnicely. I have wanted such a piece of rubber for a great while, in orderto make me a raincoat. Do you see?" (Gulp. Swallow. )

Here I had an inspiration. I would save the blanket-cover by drawingthese brigands' attention to myself. At the same time I would satisfy myinborn taste for the ridiculous. "Have you a pencil?" I said. "Because Iam an artist in my own country, and will do your picture. "

He gave me a pencil. I don't remember where the paper came from. I posedhim in a pig-like position, and the picture made him chew his moustache. The apache thought it very droll. I should do his picture, too, at once. I did my best; though protesting that he was too beautiful for my pencil, which remark he countered by murmuring (as he screwed his moustacheanother notch), "Never mind, you will try. " Oh, yes, I would try allright, all right. He objected, I recall, to the nose. 

By this time the divine "deserter" was writhing with joy. "If you please, Monsieur, " he whispered radiantly, "it would be too great an honor, butif you could--I should be overcome.... "

Tears (for some strange reason) came into my eyes. 

He handled his picture sacredly, criticised it with precision and care, finally bestowed it in his inner pocket. Then we drank. It happened thatthe train stopped and the _apache_ was persuaded to go out and get hisprisoner's canteen filled. Then we drank again. 

He smiled as he told me he was getting ten years. Three years at solitaryconfinement was it, and seven working in a gang on the road? That wouldnot be so bad. He wished he was not married, had not a little child. "Thebachelors are lucky in this war"--he smiled. 

Now the gendarmes began cleaning their beards, brushing their stomachs, spreading their legs, collecting their baggage. The reddish eyes, littleand cruel, woke from the trance of digestion and settled with positiveferocity on their prey. "You will have no use.... "

Silently the sensitive, gentle hands of the divine prisoner undid theblanket-cover. Silently the long, tired, well-shaped arms passed itacross to the brigand at my left side. With a grunt of satisfaction thebrigand stuffed it in a large pouch, taking pains that it should notshow. Silently the divine eyes said to mine: "What can we do, wecriminals?" And we smiled at each other for the last time, the eyes andmy eyes. 

A station. The _apache_ descends. I follow with my numerous _affaires_. The divine man follows me--the v-f-g him. 

The blanket-roll containing my large fur-coat got more and more unrolled;finally I could not possibly hold it. 

It fell. To pick it up I must take the sack off my back. 

Then comes a voice, "allow me if you please, monsieur"--and the sack hasdisappeared. Blindly and dumbly I stumble on with the roll; and so atlength we come into the yard of a little prison; and the divine man bowedunder my great sack.... I never thanked him. When I turned, they'd takenhim away, and the sack stood accusingly at my feet. 

Through the complete disorder of my numbed mind flicker jabbings ofstrange tongues. Some high boy's voice is appealing to me in Belgian, Italian, Polish, Spanish and--beautiful English. "Hey, Jack, give me acigarette, Jack.... "

I lift my eyes. I am standing in a tiny oblong space. A sort of court. All around, two-story wooden barracks. Little crude staircases lead up todoors heavily chained and immensely padlocked. More like ladders thanstairs. Curious hewn windows, smaller in proportion than the slits in adoll's house. Are these faces behind the slits? The doors bulgeincessantly under the shock of bodies hurled against them from within. The whole dirty _nouveau_ business about to crumble. 

Glance one. 

Glance two: directly before me. A wall with many bars fixed across oneminute opening. At the opening a dozen, fifteen, grins. Upon the barshands, scraggy and bluishly white. Through the bars stretching of leanarms, incessant stretchings. The grins leap at the window, handsbelonging to them catch hold, arms belonging to the hands stretch in mydirection ... An instant; the new grins leap from behind and knock offthe first grins which go down with a fragile crashing like glass smashed:hands wither and break, arms streak out of sight, sucked inward. 

In the huge potpourri of misery a central figure clung, shaken butundislodged. Clung like a monkey to central bars. Clung like an angel toa harp. Calling pleasantly in a high boyish voice: "O Jack, give me acigarette. "

A handsome face, dark, Latin smile, musical fingers strong. 

I waded suddenly through a group of gendarmes (they stood around mewatching with a disagreeable curiosity my reaction to this). Strodefiercely to the window. 

Trillions of hands. 

Quadrillions of itching fingers. 

The angel-monkey received the package of cigarettes politely, disappearing with it into howling darkness. I heard his high boy's voicedistributing cigarettes. Then he leaped into sight, poised gracefullyagainst two central bars, saying "Thank you, Jack, good boy" ... "Thanks, _merci_, _gracias_ ... " a deafening din of gratitude reeked from within. 

"Put your baggage in here, " quoth an angry voice. "No, you will not takeanything but one blanket in your cell, understand. " In French. Evidentlythe head of the house speaking. I obeyed. A corpulent soldier importantlylead me to my cell. My cell is two doors away from the monkey-angel, onthe same side. The high boy-voice, centralized in a torrent-like halo ofstretchings, followed my back. The head himself unlocked a lock. Imarched coldly in. The fat soldier locked and chained my door. Four feetwent away. I felt in my pocket, finding four cigarettes. I am sorry I didnot give these also to the monkey--to the angel. Lifted my eyes and sawmy own harp. 

III

A PILGRIM'S PROGRESS

Through the bars I looked into that little and dirty lane whereby I hadentered; in which a sentinel, gun on shoulder, and with a huge revolverstrapped at his hip, monotonously moved. On my right was an old walloverwhelmed with moss. A few growths stemmed from its crevices. Theirleaves were of a refreshing colour. I felt singularly happy, andcarefully throwing myself on the bare planks sang one after another allthe French songs which I had picked up in my stay at the ambulance; sangLa Madelon, sang AVec avEC DU, and Les Galiots Sont Lourds DansSac--concluding with an inspired rendering of La Marseillaise, at whichthe guard (who had several times stopped his round in what I choose tointerpret as astonishment) grounded arms and swore appreciatively. Various officials of the jail passed by me and my lusty songs; I cared nowhit. Two or three conferred, pointing in my direction, and I sang alittle louder for the benefit of their perplexity. Finally out of voice Istopped. 

It was twilight. 

As I lay on my back luxuriously, I saw through the bars of my twicepadlocked door a boy and a girl about ten years old. I saw them climb onthe wall and play together, obliviously and exquisitely, in the darkeningair. I watched them for many minutes; till the last moment of lightfailed; till they and the wall itself dissolved in a common mystery, leaving only the bored silhouette of the soldier moving imperceptibly andwearily against a still more gloomy piece of autumn sky. 

At last I knew that I was very thirsty; and leaping up began to clamor atmy bars. "Something to drink, please. " After a long debate with thesergeant of guards who said very angrily: "Give it to him, " a guard tookmy request and disappeared from view, returning with a more heavily armedguard and a tin cup full of water. One of these gentry watched the waterand me, while the other wrestled with the padlock. The door beingminutely opened, one guard and the water painfully entered. The otherguard remained at the door, gun in readiness. The water was set down, andthe enterer assumed a perpendicular position which I thought meritedrecognition; accordingly I said "_Merci_" politely, without getting upfrom the planks. Immediately he began to deliver a sharp lecture on theprobability of my using the tin cup to saw my way out; and commendedhaste in no doubtful terms. I smiled, asked pardon for my inherentstupidity (which speech seemed to anger him) and guzzled the so-calledwater without looking at it, having learned something from Noyon. With along and dangerous look at their prisoner, the gentlemen of the guardwithdrew, 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 leastsix men standing over me. The darkness was intense, it wasextraordinarily cold. I glared at them and tried to understand what newcrime I had committed. One of the six was repeating: "Get up, you aregoing away. Four o'clock. " After several attempts I got up. They formed acircle around me; and together we marched a few steps to a sort ofstoreroom, where my great sack, small sack, and overcoat were handed tome. A rather agreeably voiced guard then handed me a half-cake ofchocolate, saying (but with a tolerable grimness): "You'll need it, believe me. " I found my stick, at which "piece of furniture" they amusedthemselves a little until I showed its use, by catching the ring at themouth of my sack in the curved end of the stick and swinging the wholebusiness unaided on my back. Two new guards--or rather _gendarmes_--werenow officially put in charge of my person; and the three of us passeddown the lane, much to the interest of the sentinel, to whom I bade avivid and unreturned adieu. I can see him perfectly as he stares stupidlyat us, a queer shape in the gloom, before turning on his heel. 

Toward the very station whereat some hours since I had disembarked withthe Belgian deserter and my former escorts, we moved. I was stiff withcold and only half awake, but peculiarly thrilled. The gendarmes oneither side moved grimly, without speaking; or returning monosyllables tomy few questions. Yes, we were to take the train. I was going somewhere, then? "_B'en sure. _"--"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, somefigures 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 individualghostliness; a number of ghosts each out on his own promenade, yet eachfor some reason selecting this unearthly patch of the world, thisputrescent and uneasy gloom. Even my guards talked in whispers. "Watchhim, I'll see about the train. " So one went off into the mist. I leaneddizzily against the wall nearest me (having plumped down my baggage) andstared into the darkness at my elbow, filled with talking shadows. Irecognized _officiers anglais_ wandering helplessly up and down, supported with their sticks; French lieutenants talking to each otherhere and there; the extraordinary sense-bereft station master at adistance looking like a cross between a jumping-jack and a goblin; knotsof _permissionaires_ cursing wearily or joking hopelessly with oneanother or stalking back and forth with imprecatory gesticulations. "It'sa joke, too, you know, there are no more trains?"--"The conductor isdead. I know his sister. "--"Old chap, I am all in. "--"Say, we are alllost. "--"What time is it?"--"My dear fellow, there is no more time, theFrench Government forbids it. " Suddenly burst out of the loquaciousopacity a dozen handfuls of Algeriens, their feet swaggering withfatigue, their eyes burning, apparently by themselves--faceless in theequally black mist. By threes and fives they assaulted the goblin whowailed and shook his withered fist in their faces. There was no train. Ithad been taken away by the French Government. "How do I know how thepoilus can get back to their regiments on time? Of course you'll all ofyou be deserters, but is it my fault?" (I thought of my friend, theBelgian, at this moment lying in a pen at the prison which I had justquitted by some miracle. ) ... One of these fine people from uncivilized, ignorant, unwarlike Algeria was drunk and knew it, as did two of his veryfine friends who announced that as there was no train he should have agood sleep at a farmhouse hard by, which farmhouse one of them claimed toespy through the impenetrable night. The drunk was accordingly escortedinto the dark, his friends' abrupt steps correcting his own largeslovenly procedure out of earshot.... Some of the Black People sat downnear me and smoked. Their enormous faces, wads of vital darkness, swoonedwith fatigue. Their vast gentle hands lay noisily about their knees. 

The departed _gendarme_ returned, with a bump, out of the mist. The trainfor Paris would arrive _de suite_. We were just in time, our movement hadso far been very creditable. All was well. It was cold, eh?

Then with the ghastly miniature roar of an insane toy the train for Pariscame fumbling into the station.... 

We boarded it, due caution being taken that I should not escape. As amatter of fact I held up the would-be passengers for nearly a minute bymy unaided attempts to boost my uncouth baggage aboard. Then my captorsand I blundered heavily into a compartment in which an Englishman and twoFrench women were seated. My _gendarmes_ established themselves on eitherside of the door, a process which woke up the Anglo-Saxon and caused abrief 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 Iface. She must have been very pretty before she put on the black. Herfriend is also a _veuve_. How pleasantly they talk, of _la guerre_, ofParis, of the bad service; talk in agreeably modulated voices, leaning alittle forward to each other, not wishing to disturb the dolt at myright. The train tears slowly on. Both the _gendarmes_ are asleep, onewith his hand automatically grasping the handle of the door. Lest Iescape. I try all sorts of positions, for I find myself very tired. Thebest is to put my cane between my legs and rest my chin on it; but eventhat is uncomfortable, for the Englishman has writhed all over me by thistime 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 laguerre_. The women are speaking softly. "And do you know, my dear, thatthey had raids again in Paris? My sister wrote me. "--"One has excitementalways in a great city, my dear. "--

Bump, slowing down. BUMP--BUMP. 

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 bebeautifully cool. In the compartment it is hot. The _gendarmes_ smellworst. I know how I smell. What polite women. 

"_Enfin, nous voilà. _" My guards awoke and yawned pretentiously. Lest Ishould think they had dozed off. It is Paris. 

Some _permissionaires_ cried "Paris. " The woman across from me said"Paris, Paris. " A great shout came up from every insane drowsy brain thathad travelled with us--a fierce and beautiful cry, which went the lengthof the train.... Paris, where one forgets, Paris, which is Pleasure, Paris, in whom our souls live, Paris, the beautiful, Paris at last. 

The Englishman woke up and said heavily to me: "I say, where arewe?"--"Paris, " I answered, walking carefully on his feet as I made mybaggage-laden way out of the compartment. It was Paris. 

My guards hurried me through the station. One of them (I saw for thefirst time) was older than the other, and rather handsome with his VanDyck 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 theother station from which our next train left. We should hurry. We emergedfrom the station and its crowds of crazy men. We boarded a car markedsomething. The conductress, a strong, pink-cheeked, rather beautiful girlin black, pulled my baggage in for me with a gesture which filled all ofme with joy. I thanked her, and she smiled at me. The car moved alongthrough the morning. 

We descended from it. We started off on foot. The car was not the rightcar. We would have to walk to the station. I was faint and almost deadfrom weariness and I stopped when my overcoat had fallen from my benumbedarm for the second time: "How far is it?" The older _gendarme_ returnedbriefly, "Twenty minutes. " I said to him: "Will you help me carry thesethings?" He thought, and told the younger to carry my small sack filledwith papers. The latter grunted, "_C'est défendu. _" We went a littlefarther, and I broke down again. I stopped dead, and said: "I can't goany farther. " It was obvious to my escorts that I couldn't, so I didn'ttrouble to elucidate. Moreover, I was past elucidation. 

The older stroked his beard. "Well, " he said, "would you care to take acab?" I merely looked at him. "If you wish to call a cab, I will take outof your money, which I have here and which I must not give to you, thenecessary sum, and make a note of it, subtracting from the originalamount a sufficiency for our fare to the Gare. In that case we will notwalk to the Gare, we will in fact ride. " "Please, " was all I found toreply to this eloquence. 

Several empty cabs had gone by during the peroration of the law, and nomore seemed to offer themselves. After some minutes, however, oneappeared and was duly hailed. Nervously (he was shy in the big city) theolder asked if the driver knew where the Gare was. "_Quelle?_" demandedthe _cocher_ angrily. And when he was told--"Of course, I know, why not?"We got in; I being directed to sit in the middle, and my two bags and furcoat piled on top of us all. 

So we drove through the streets in the freshness of the full morning, thestreets full of a few divine people who stared at me and nudged oneanother, the streets of Paris ... The drowsy ways wakening at the horses'hoofs, the people lifting their faces to stare. 

We arrived at the Gare, and I recognized it vaguely. Was it D'Orléans? Wedismounted, and the tremendous transaction of the fare was apparentlyvery creditably accomplished by the older. The _cocher_ gave me a lookand remarked whatever it is Paris drivers remark to Paris cab horses, pulling dully at the reins. We entered the station and I collapsedcomfortably on a bench; the younger, seating himself with enormouspomposity at my side, adjusted his tunic with a purely feminine gestureexpressive at once of pride and nervousness. Gradually my vision gainedin focus. The station has a good many people in it. The number increasesmomently. A great many are girls. I am in a new world--a world of _chic_femininity. My eyes devour the inimitable details of costume, theinexpressible nuances of pose, the indescribable _démarche_ of the_midinette_. They hold themselves differently. They have even a littlebold color here and there on skirt or blouse or hat. They are not talkingabout La Guerre. Incredible. They appear very beautiful, theseParisiennes. 

And simultaneously with my appreciation of the crisp persons about mecomes the hitherto unacknowledged appreciation of my uncouthness. My chintells my hand of a good quarter inch of beard, every hair of it stiffwith dirt. I can feel the dirt-pools under my eyes. My hands are roughwith dirt. My uniform is smeared and creased in a hundred thousanddirections. My puttees and shoes are prehistoric in appearance.... 

My first request was permission to visit the _vespasienne_. The youngerdidn't wish to assume any unnecessary responsibilities; I should waittill the older returned. There he was now. I might ask him. The olderbenignly granted my petition, nodding significantly to his fellow-guard, by whom I was accordingly escorted to my destination and subsequentlyback to my bench. When we got back the _gendarmes_ held a consultation ofterrific importance; in substance, the train which should be leaving atthat moment (six something) did not run to-day. We should therefore waitfor the next train, which leaves at twelve-something-else. Then the oldersurveyed me and said almost kindly: "How would you like a cup ofcoffee?"--"Much, " I replied sincerely enough. --"Come with me, " hecommanded, resuming instantly his official manner. "And you" (to theyounger) "watch his baggage. "

Of all the very beautiful women whom I had seen the most very beautifulwas the large and circular lady who sold a cup of perfectly hot andgenuine coffee for two cents, just on the brink of the station, chattingcheerfully with her many customers. Of all the drinks I ever drank, herswas the most sacredly delicious. She wore, I remember, a tight blackdress in which enormous and benignant breasts bulged and sankcontinuously. I lingered over my tiny cup, watching her swift big hands, her round nodding face, her large sudden smile. I drank two coffees, andinsisted that my money should pay for our drinks. Of all the treatingwhich I shall ever do, the treating of my captor will stand unique inpleasure. Even he half appreciated the sense of humor involved; thoughhis dignity did not permit a visible acknowledgment thereof. 

_Madame la vendeuse de café_, I shall remember you for more than a littlewhile. 

Having thus consummated breakfast, my guardian suggested a walk. Agreed. I felt I had the strength of ten because the coffee was pure. Moreover itwould be a novelty to _me promener sans_ l50-odd pounds of baggage. Weset out. 

As we walked easily and leisurely the by this time well peopled streetsof the vicinity, my guard indulged himself in pleasant conversation. DidI know Paris much? He knew it all. But he had not been in Paris forseveral (eight was it?) years. It was a fine place, a large city to besure. But always changing. I had spent a month in Paris while waiting formy uniform and my assignment to a _section sanitaire_? And my friend waswith me? H-mmm-mm. 

A perfectly typical runt of a Paris bull eyed us. The older saluted himwith infinite respect, the respect of a shabby rube deacon for awell-dressed burglar. They exchanged a few well-chosen words, in Frenchof course. "What ya got there?"--"An American. "--"What's wrong withhim?"--"H-mmm" mysterious shrug of the shoulders followed by a whisper inthe 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'sface (I pretended to be studying the morning meanwhile). Then we movedon, followed by ferocious stares from the Paris bull. Evidently I wasgetting to be more of a criminal every minute; I should probably be shotto-morrow, not (as I had assumed erroneously) the day after. I drank themorning with renewed vigor, thanking heaven for the coffee, Paris; andfeeling complete confidence in myself. I should make a great speech (inMidi French). I should say to the firing squad: "Gentlemen, _c'est de lablague, tu sais? Moi, je connais la soeur du conducteur. _" ... They wouldask me when I preferred to die. I should reply, "Pardon me, you wish toask me when I prefer to become immortal?" I should answer: "What matter?It's all the same to me, because there isn't any more time--the FrenchGovernment forbids it. "

My laughter surprised the older considerably. He would have been moreastonished 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 driver, 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 nowinquired of a workingman the location of the _boucheries_? "There is oneright in front of you, " he was told. Sure enough, not a block away. Ilaughed again. It was eight years all right. 

The older bought a great many things in the next five minutes: sausage, cheese, bread, chocolate, _pinard rouge_. A _bourgeoise_ with anunagreeable face and suspicion of me written in headlines all over hermouth served us with quick hard laconicisms of movement. I hated her andconsequently refused my captor's advice to buy a little of everything (onthe ground that it would be a long time till the next meal), contentingmyself with a cake of chocolate--rather bad chocolate, but nothing towhat I was due to eat during the next three months. Then we retraced oursteps, arriving at the station after several mistakes and inquiries, tofind the younger faithfully keeping guard over my two _sacs_ andovercoat. 

The older and I sat down, and the younger took his turn at promenading. Igot up to buy a Fantasio at the stand ten steps away, and the olderjumped up and escorted me to and from it. I think I asked him what hewould read? and he said "Nothing. " Maybe I bought him a journal. So wewaited, eyed by everyone in the Gare, laughed at by the officers andtheir _marraines_, pointed at by sinewy dames and decrepit_bonhommes_--the centre of amusement for the whole station. In spite ofmy reading I felt distinctly uncomfortable. Would it never be Twelve?Here comes the younger, neat as a pin, looking fairly sterilized. He sitsdown on my left. Watches are ostentatiously consulted. It is time. _Enavant. _ I sling myself under my bags. 

"Where are we going now?" I asked the older. Curling the tips of hismustachios, he replied, "Mah-say. "

Marseilles! I was happy once more. I had always wanted to go to thatgreat port of the Mediterranean, where one has new colors and strangecustoms, and where the people sing when they talk. But how extraordinaryto have come to Paris--and what a trip lay before us. I was much muddledabout the whole thing. Probably I was to be deported. But why fromMarseilles? Where was Marseilles anyway? I was probably all wrong aboutits location. Who cared, after all? At least we were leaving thepointings and the sneers and the half-suppressed titters.... 

Two fat and respectable _bonhommes_, the two _gendarmes_, and I, made upone compartment. The former talked an animated stream, the guards and Iwere on the whole silent. I watched the liquidating landscape and dozedhappily. The _gendarmes_ dozed, one at each door. The train rushed lazilyacross the earth, between farmhouses, into fields, along woods ... Thesunlight smacked my eye and cuffed my sleepy mind with colour. 

I was awakened by a noise of eating. My protectors, knife in hand, wereconsuming their meat and bread, occasionally tilting their _bidons_ onhigh and absorbing the thin streams which spurted therefrom. I tried alittle chocolate. The _bonhommes_ were already busy with their repast. The older gendarme watched me chewing away at the chocolate, thencommanded, "Take some bread. " This astonished me, I confessed, beyondanything which had heretofore occurred. I gazed mutely at him, wonderingwhether the _gouvernement français_ had made away with his wits. He hadrelaxed amazingly: his cap lay beside him, his tunic was unbuttoned, heslouched in a completely undisciplined posture--his face seemed to havebeen changed for a peasant's, it was almost open in expression and almostcompletely at ease. I seized the offered hunk, and chewed vigorously onit. Bread was bread. The older appeared pleased with my appetite; hisface softened still more, as he remarked: "Bread without wine doesn'ttaste good, " and proffered his _bidon_. I drank as much as I dared, andthanked him: "_Ca va mieux. _" The _pinard_ went straight to my brain, Ifelt my mind cuddled by a pleasant warmth, my thoughts became investedwith a great contentment. The train stopped; and the younger sprang out, carrying the empty canteens of himself and his comrade. When they and hereturned, I enjoyed another cup. From that moment till we reached ourdestination at about eight o'clock the older and I got on extraordinarilywell. When the gentlemen descended at their station he waxed almostfamiliar. I was in excellent spirits; rather drunk; extremely tired. Nowthat the two guardians and myself were alone in the compartment, thecuriosity which had hitherto been stifled by etiquette and pride ofcapture came rapidly to light. Why was I here, anyway? I seemed wellenough to them. --Because my friend had written some letters, I toldthem. --But I had done nothing myself?--I explained that we used to betogether all the time, _mon ami et moi_; that was the only reason which Iknew of. --It was very funny to see how this explanation improved matters. The older in particular was immensely relieved. --I would without doubt, he said, be set free immediately upon my arrival. The French governmentdidn't keep people like me in prison. --They fired some questions aboutAmerica at me, to which I imaginatively replied. I think I told theyounger that the average height of buildings in America was nine hundredmetres. He stared and shook his head doubtfully, but I convinced him inthe end. Then in my turn I asked questions, the first being: Where was myfriend?--It seems that my friend had left Gré (or whatever it was) themorning of the day I had entered it. --Did they know where my friend wasgoing?--They couldn't say. They had been told that he was verydangerous. --So we talked on and on: How long had I studied French? Ispoke very well. Was it hard to learn English?--

Yet when I climbed out to relieve myself by the roadside one of them wasat my heels. 

Finally watches were consulted, tunics buttoned, hats donned. I was toldin a gruff voice to prepare myself; that we were approaching the end ofour journey. Looking at the erstwhile participants in conversation, Iscarcely knew them. They had put on with their caps a positive ferocityof bearing. I began to think that I had dreamed the incidents of thepreceding hours. 

We descended at a minute, dirty station which possessed the air of havingbeen dropped by mistake from the bung of the _gouvernement français_. Theolder sought out the station master, who having nothing to do was takinga siesta in a miniature waiting-room. The general countenance of theplace was exceedingly depressing; but I attempted to keep up my spiritswith the reflection that after all all this was but a junction, and thatfrom here we were to take a train for Marseilles herself. The name of thestation, Briouse, I found somewhat dreary. And now the older returnedwith the news that our train wasn't running today, and that the nexttrain didn't arrive till early morning and should we walk to Marseilles?I could check my great _sac_ and overcoat. The small _sac_ I should carryalong--it was only a step, after all. 

With a glance at the desolation of Briouse I agreed to the stroll. It wasa fine night for a little promenade; not too cool, and with a promise ofa moon stuck into the sky. The _sac_ and coat were accordingly checked bythe older; the station master glanced at me and haughtily grunted (havinglearned that I was an American); and my protectors and I set out. 

I insisted that we stop at the first café and have some wine on me. Tothis my escorts agreed, making me go ten paces ahead of them, and waitinguntil I was through before stepping up to the bar--not from politeness, to be sure, but because (as I soon gathered) _gendarmes_ were not any toopopular in this part of the world, and the sight of two _gendarmes_ witha prisoner might inspire the habitués to attempt a rescue. Furthermore, on leaving the café (a desolate place if I ever saw one, with a fearful_patronne_) I was instructed sharply to keep close to them but on noaccount to place myself between them, there being sundry villagers to beencountered before we struck the highroad for Marseilles. Thanks to theirforethought and my obedience the rescue did not take place, nor did ourparty excite even the curiosity of the scarce and soggy inhabitants ofthe unlovely town of Briouse. 

The highroad won, all of us relaxed considerably. The _sac_ full ofsuspicious letters which I bore on my shoulder was not so light as I hadthought, but the kick of the Briouse _pinard_ thrust me forward at a goodclip. The road was absolutely deserted; the night hung loosely around it, here and there tattered by attempting moonbeams. I was somewhat sorry tofind the way hilly, and in places bad underfoot; yet the unknownadventure lying before me, and the delicious silence of the night (inwhich our words rattled queerly like tin soldiers in a plush-lined box)boosted me into a condition of mysterious happiness. We talked, the olderand I, of strange subjects. As I suspected, he had been not always a_gendarme_. He had seen service among the Arabs. He had always likedlanguages and had picked up Arabian with great ease--of this he was veryproud. For instance--the Arabian way of saying "Give me to eat" was this;when you wanted wine you said so and so; "Nice day" was something else. He thought I could pick it up inasmuch as I had done so creditably withFrench. He was absolutely certain that English was much easier to learnthan French, and would not be moved. Now what was the American languagelike? I explained that it was a sort of Argot-English. When I gave himsome phrases he was astonished--"It sounds like English!" he cried, andretailed his stock of English phrases for my approval. I tried hard toget his intonation of the Arabian, and he helped me on the difficultsounds. America must be a strange place, he thought.... 

After two hours walking he called a halt, bidding us rest. We all layflat on the grass by the roadside. The moon was still battling withclouds. The darkness of the fields on either side was total. I crawled onhands and knees to the sound of silver-trickling water and found a littlespring-fed stream. Prone, weight on elbows, I drank heavily of itsperfect blackness. It was icy, talkative, minutely alive. 

The older presently gave a perfunctory "_alors_"; we got up; I hoisted mysuspicious utterances upon my shoulder, which recognized the renewal ofhostilities with a neuralgic throb. I banged forward with bigger andbigger feet. A bird, scared, swooped almost into my face. Occasionallysome night-noise pricked a futile, minute hole in the enormous curtain ofsoggy darkness. Uphill now. Every muscle thoroughly aching, headspinning, I half-straightened my no longer obedient body; and jumped:face to face with a little wooden man hanging all by itself in a grove oflow trees. 

--The wooden body, clumsy with pain, burst into fragile legs withabsurdly large feet and funny writhing toes; its little stiff arms madeabrupt cruel equal angles with the road. About its stunted loins clung aponderous and jocular fragment of drapery. On one terribly brittleshoulder the droll lump of its neckless head ridiculously lived. Therewas in this complete silent doll a gruesome truth of instinct, a successof uncanny poignancy, an unearthly ferocity of rectangular emotion. 

For perhaps a minute the almost obliterated face and mine eyed oneanother in the silence of intolerable autumn. 

Who was this wooden man? Like a sharp black mechanical cry in the spongyorganism of gloom stood the coarse and sudden sculpture of his torment;the big mouth of night carefully spurted the angular actual language ofhis martyred body. I had seen him before in the dream of some mediaevalsaint, with a thief sagging at either side, surrounded with crisp angels. Tonight he was alone; save for myself, and the moon's minute flowerpushing between slabs of fractured cloud. 

I was wrong, the moon and I and he were not alone.... A glance up theroad gave me two silhouettes at pause. The _gendarmes_ were waiting. Imust hurry to catch up or incur suspicions by my sloth. I hastenedforward, with a last look over my shoulder ... The wooden man waswatching us. 

When I came abreast of them, expecting abuse, I was surprised by theolder's saying quietly "We haven't far to go, " and plunging forwardimperturbably into the night. 

Nor had we gone a half hour before several dark squat forms confrontedus: houses. I decided that I did not like houses--particularly as now myguardian's manner abruptly changed; once more tunics were buttoned, holsters adjusted, and myself directed to walk between and keep always upwith the others. Now the road became thoroughly afflicted with houses, houses not, however, so large and lively as I had expected from my dreamsof Marseilles. Indeed we seemed to be entering an extremely small andrather disagreeable town. I ventured to ask what its name was. "Mah-say"was the response. By this I was fairly puzzled. However the street led usto a square, and I saw the towers of a church sitting in the sky; betweenthem the round, yellow, big moon looked immensely and peacefullyconscious ... No one was stirring in the little streets, all the houseswere keeping the moon's secret. 

We walked on. 

I was too tired to think. I merely felt the town as a unique unreality. What was it? I knew--the moon's picture of a town. These streets withtheir houses did not exist, they were but a ludicrous projection of themoon's sumptuous personality. This was a city of Pretend, created by thehypnotism of moonlight. --Yet when I examined the moon she too seemed buta painting of a moon and the sky in which she lived a fragile echo ofcolour. If I blew hard the whole shy mechanism would collapse gently witha neat soundless crash. I must not, or lose all. 

We turned a corner, then another. My guides conferred concerning thelocation of something, I couldn't make out what. Then the older nodded inthe direction of a long dull dirty mass not a hundred yards away, which(as near as I could see) served either as a church or a tomb. Toward thiswe turned. All too soon I made out its entirely dismal exterior. Greylong stone walls, surrounded on the street side by a fence of ampleproportions and uniformly dull colour. Now I perceived that we madetoward a gate, singularly narrow and forbidding, in the grey long wall. No living soul appeared to inhabit this desolation. 

The older rang at the gate. A _gendarme_ with a revolver answered hisring; and presently he was admitted, leaving the younger and myself towait. And now I began to realize that this was the _gendarmerie_ of thetown, into which for safe-keeping I was presently to be inducted for thenight. My heart sank, I confess, at the thought of sleeping in thecompany of that species of humanity which I had come to detest beyondanything in hell or on earth. Meanwhile the doorman had returned with theolder, and I was bidden roughly enough to pick up my baggage and march. Ifollowed my guides down a corridor, up a staircase, and into a dark, small room where a candle was burning. Dazzled by the light and dizziedby the fatigue of my ten or twelve mile stroll, I let my baggage go; andleaned against a convenient wall, trying to determine who was now mytormentor. 

Facing me at a table stood a man of about my own height, and, as I shouldjudge, about forty years old. His face was seedy sallow and long. He hadbushy semi-circular eyebrows which drooped so much as to reduce his eyesto mere blinking slits. His cheeks were so furrowed that they leanedinward. He had no nose, properly speaking, but a large beak ofpreposterous widthlessness, which gave his whole face the expression offalling gravely downstairs, and quite obliterated the unimportant chin. His mouth was made of two long uncertain lips which twitched nervously. His cropped black hair was rumpled; his blouse, from which hung a croixde guerre, unbuttoned; and his unputteed shanks culminated inbed-slippers. In physique he reminded me a little of Ichabod Crane. Hisneck was exactly like a hen's: I felt sure that when he drank he musttilt his head back as hens do in order that the liquid may run theirthroats. But his method of keeping himself upright, together with certainspasmodic contractions of his fingers and the nervous "uh-ah, uh-ah"which punctuated his insecure phrases like uncertain commas, combined tooffer the suggestion of a rooster; a rather moth-eaten rooster, whichtook itself tremendously seriously and was showing off to an imaginarygroup of admiring hens situated somewhere in the background of hisconsciousness. 

"_Vous êtes, uh-ah, l'Am-é-ri-cain?_"

"_Je suis Américain_, " I admitted. 

"_Eh-bi-en uh-ah uh-ah_--We were expecting you. " He surveyed me withgreat interest. 

Behind this seedy and restless personage I noted his absolute likeness, adorning one of the walls. The rooster was faithfully depicted à laRembrandt at half-length in the stirring guise of a fencer, foil in hand, and wearing enormous gloves. The execution of this masterpiece leftsomething to be desired; but the whole betokened a certain spirit andverve, on the part of the sitter, which I found difficulty in attributingto the being before me. 

"_Vous êtes uh-ah KEW-MANGZ?_"

"What?" I said, completely baffled by this extraordinary dissyllable. 

"_Comprenez vous fran-çais?_"

"_Un peu. _"

"_Bon. Alors, vous vous ap-pel-lez KEW MANGZ, m'est-ce pas? EdouardKEW-MANGZ?_"

"Oh, " I said, relieved, "yes. " It was really amazing, the way he writhedaround the G. 

"_Comment ça se prononce en anglais?_"

I told him. 

He replied benevolently, somewhat troubled "uh-ah uh-ah uh-ah--why areyou here, KEW-MANGZ?"

At this question I was for one moment angrier than I had ever before beenin all my life. Then I realized the absurdity of the situation, andlaughed. --"_Sais pas_. "

The questionnaire continued:

"You were in the Red Cross?"--"Surely, in the Norton HarjesAmbulance, Section Sanitaire Vingt-et-Un. "--"You had a friendthere?"--"Naturally. "--"_Il a écrit, votre ami, des bêtises, n'est cepas?_"--"So they told me. _N'en sais rien. _"--"What sort of person wasyour friend?"--"He was a magnificent person, always _très gentil_ withme. "--(With a queer pucker the fencer remarked) "Your friend got you intoa lot of trouble, though. "--(To which I replied with a broad grin)"_N'importe_, we are _camarades_. "

A stream of puzzled uh-ahs followed this reply. The fencer, or rooster orwhatever he might be, finally, picking up the lamp and the lock, said:"_Alors, viens avec moi, KEW-MANGZ. _" I started to pick up the _sac_, buthe told me it would be kept in the office (we being in the office). Isaid I had checked a large _sac_ and my fur overcoat at Briouse, and heassured me they would be sent on by train. He now dismissed the_gendarmes_, who had been listening curiously to the examination. As Iwas conducted from the bureau I asked him point-blank: "How long am I tostay here?"--to which he answered "_Oh, peutêtre un jour, deux jours, jene sais pas. _"

Two days in a _gendarmerie_ would be enough, I thought. We marched out. 

Behind me the bedslippered rooster uhahingly shuffled. In front of meclumsily gamboled the huge imitation of myself. It descended the terriblyworn stairs. It turned to the right and disappeared.... 

We were standing in a chapel. 

The shrinking light which my guide held had become suddenly minute; itwas beating, senseless and futile, with shrill fists upon a thickenormous moisture of gloom. To the left and right through lean oblongs ofstained glass burst dirty burglars of moonlight. The clammy stupiddistance uttered dimly an uncanny conflict--the mutterless tumbling ofbrutish shadows. A crowding ooze battled with my lungs. My nostrilsfought against the monstrous atmospheric slime which hugged a sweetunpleasant odour. Staring ahead, I gradually disinterred the pale carrionof the darkness--an altar, guarded with the ugliness of unlit candles, onwhich stood inexorably the efficient implements for eating God. 

I was to be confessed, then, of my guilty conscience, before retiring? Itboded well for the morrow. 

... The measured accents of the fencer: "_Prenez votre paillasse. _" Iturned. He was bending over a formless mass in one corner of the room. The mass stretched halfway to the ceiling. It was made ofmattress-shapes. I pulled at one--burlap, stuffed with prickly straw. Igot it on my shoulder. "_Alors. _" He lighted me to the door-way by whichwe had entered. (I was somewhat pleased to leave the place. )

Back, down a corridor, up more stairs; and we were confronted by a smallscarred pair of doors from which hung two of the largest padlocks I hadever seen. Being unable to go further, I stopped: he produced a huge ringof keys. Fumbled with the locks. No sound of life: the keys rattled inthe locks with surprising loudness; the latter, with an evil grace, yielded--the two little miserable doors swung open. 

Into the square blackness I staggered with my _paillasse_. There was noway of judging the size of the dark room which uttered no sound. In frontof me was a pillar. "Put it down by that post, and sleep there fortonight, in the morning _nous allons voir_" directed the fencer. "Youwon't need a blanket, " he added; and the doors clanged, the light andfencer disappeared. 

I needed no second invitation to sleep. Fully dressed, I fell on my_paillasse_ with a weariness which I have never felt before or since. ButI did not close my eyes: for all about me there rose a sea of mostextraordinary sound... The hitherto empty and minute room became suddenlyenormous: weird cries, oaths, laughter, pulling it sideways and backward, extending it to inconceivable depth and width, telescoping it tofrightful nearness. From all directions, by at least thirty voices ineleven languages (I counted as I lay Dutch, Belgian, Spanish, Turkish, Arabian, Polish, Russian, Swedish, German, French--and English) atdistances varying from seventy feet to a few inches, for twenty minutes Iwas ferociously bombarded. Nor was my perplexity purely aural. About fiveminutes after lying down, I saw (by a hitherto unnoticed speck of lightwhich burned near the doors which I had entered) two extraordinarylooking figures--one a well-set man with a big, black beard, the other aconsumptive with a bald head and sickly moustache, both clad only intheir knee-length chemises, hairy legs naked, feet bare--wander down theroom and urinate profusely in the corner nearest me. This actaccomplished, the figures wandered back, greeted with a volley ofejaculatory abuse from the invisible co-occupants of my newsleeping-apartment; and disappeared in darkness. 

I remarked to myself that the _gendarmes_ of this _gendarmerie_ werepeculiarly up in languages, and fell asleep. 

IV

LE NOUVEAU

_"Vous ne voulez pas de café?"_

The threatening question recited in a hoarse voice woke me like a shot. Sprawled half on and half off my _paillasse_, I looked suddenly up into ajuvenile pimply face with a red tassel bobbing in its eyes. A boy in aBelgian uniform was stooping over me. In one hand a huge pail a thirdfull of liquid slime. I said fiercely: "_Au contraire, je veux bien. _"And collapsed on the mattress. 

"_Pas de quart, vous?_" the face fired at me. 

"_Comprends pas_, " I replied, wondering what on earth the words meant. 

"English?"

"American. "

At this moment a tin cup appeared mysteriously out of the gloom and wasrapidly filled from the pail, after which operation the tassel remarked:"Your friend here" and disappeared. 

I decided I had gone completely crazy. 

The cup had been deposited near me. Not daring to approach it, I boostedmy aching corpse on one of its futile elbows and gazed blankly around. Myeyes, wading laboriously through a dark atmosphere, a darkness gruesomelytactile, perceived only here and there lively patches of vibratinghumanity. My ears recognised English, something which I took to below-German and which was Belgian, Dutch, Polish, and what I guessed to beRussian. 

Trembling with this chaos, my hand sought the cup. The cup was not warm;the contents, which I hastily gulped, were not even tepid. The taste wasdull, almost bitter, clinging, thick, nauseating. I felt a renewedinterest in living as soon as the deathful swallow descended to myabdomen, very much as a suicide who changes his mind after the fataldose. I decided that it would be useless to vomit. I sat up. I lookedaround. 

The darkness was rapidly going out of the sluggish stinking air. I wassitting on my mattress at one end of a sort of room, filled with pillars;ecclesiastical in feeling. I already perceived it to be of enormouslength. My mattress resembled an island: all around it on the floor atdistances varying from a quarter of an inch to ten feet (whichconstituted the limit of distinct vision) reposed startling identities. There was blood in some of them. Others consisted of a rind of blueishmatter sustaining a core of yellowish froth. From behind me a chunk ofhurtling spittle joined its fellows. I decided to stand up. 

At this moment, at the far end of the room, I seemed to see anextraordinary vulture-like silhouette leap up from nowhere. It rushed alittle way in my direction crying hoarsely "_Corvée d'eau!_"--stopped, bent down at what I perceived to be a _paillasse_ like mine, jerked whatwas presumably the occupant by the feet, shook him, turned to the next, and so on up to six. As there seemed to be innumerable _paillasses_, laidside by side at intervals of perhaps a foot with their heads to the wallon three sides of me, I was wondering why the vulture had stopped at six. On each mattress a crude imitation of humanity, wrapped ear-high in itsblanket, lay and drank from a cup like mine and spat long and high intothe room. The ponderous reek of sleepy bodies undulated toward me fromthree directions. I had lost sight of the vulture in a kind of insaneconfusion which arose from the further end of the room. It was as if hehad touched off six high explosives. Occasional pauses in the minutelycrazy din were accurately punctuated by exploding bowels; to the greatamusement of innumerable somebodies, whose precise whereabouts the gloomcarefully guarded. 

I felt that I was the focus of a group of indistinct recumbents who weretalking about me to one another in many incomprehensible tongues. Inoticed beside every pillar (including the one beside which I hadinnocently thrown down my mattress the night before) a good sized pail, overflowing with urine, and surrounded by a large irregular puddle. Mymattress was within an inch of the nearest puddle. What I took to be aman, an amazing distance off, got out of bed and succeeded in locatingthe pail nearest to him after several attempts. Ten invisible recumbentsyelled at him in six languages. 

All at once a handsome figure rose from the gloom at my elbow. I smiledstupidly into his clear hardish eyes. And he remarked pleasantly:

"Your friend's here, Johnny, and wants to see you. "

A bulge of pleasure swooped along my body, chasing aches and numbness, mymuscles danced, nerves tingled in perpetual holiday. 

B. Was lying on his camp-cot, wrapped like an Eskimo in a blanket whichhid all but his nose and eyes. 

"Hello, Cummings, " he said smiling. "There's a man here who is a friendof Vanderbilt and knew Cézanne. "

I gazed somewhat critically at B. There was nothing particularly insaneabout him, unless it was his enthusiastic excitement, which might almostbe attributed to my jack-in-the-box manner of arriving. He said: "Thereare people here who speak English, Russian, Arabian. There are the finestpeople here! Did you go to Gré? I fought rats all night there. Huge ones. They tried to eat me. And from Gré to Paris? I had three gendarmes allthe way to keep me from escaping, and they all fell asleep. "

I began to be afraid that I was asleep myself. "Please be frank, " Ibegged. "Strictly _entre nous_: am I dreaming, or is this a bug-house?"

B. Laughed, and said: "I thought so when I arrived two days ago. When Icame in sight of the place a lot of girls waved from the window andyelled at me. I no sooner got inside than a queer looking duck whom Itook to be a nut came rushing up to me and cried: 'Too late forsoup!'--This is Campe de Triage de la Ferté Macé, Orne, France, and allthese fine people were arrested as spies. Only two or three of them canspeak a word of French, and that's _soupe!_"

I said, "My God, I thought Marseilles was somewhere on the MediterraneanOcean, and that this was a _gendarmerie_. "

"But this is M-a-c-é. It's a little mean town, where everybody snickersand sneers at you if they see you're a prisoner. They did at me. "

"Do you mean to say we're _espions_ too?"

"Of course!" B. Said enthusiastically. "Thank God! And in to stay. Everytime I think of the _section sanitaire_, and A. And his thugs, and thewhole rotten red-taped Croix Rouge, I have to laugh. Cummings, I tell youthis is the finest place on earth!"

A vision of the Chef de la section Sanitaire Ving-et-Un passed through mymind. The doughy face. Imitation-English-officer swagger. Large calves, squeaking puttees. The daily lecture: "I doughno what's th'matter withyou fellers. You look like nice boys. Well-edjucated. But you're so dirtyin your habits. You boys are always kickin' because I don't put you on acar together. I'm ashamed to do it, that's why. I doughtwanta give thissection a black eye. We gotta show these lousy Frenchmen what Americansare. We gotta show we're superior to 'em. Those bastards doughno what abath means. And you fellers are always hangin' 'round, talkin' with themdirty frog-eaters that does the cookin' and the dirty work 'round here. How d'you boys expect me to give you a chance? I'd like to put youfellers on a car, I wanta see you boys happy. But I don't dare to, that'swhy. If you want me to send you out, you gotta shave and look neat, and_keep away from them dirty Frenchmen_. We Americans are over here tolearn them lousy bastards something. "

I laughed for sheer joy. 

A terrific tumult interrupted my mirth. "_Par ici!_"--"Get out of the wayyou damn Polak!"--"M'sieu, M'sieu!"--"Over here!"--"_Maisnon!_"--"_Gott-ver-dummer!_" I turned in terror to see my _paillasse_ inthe clutches of four men who were apparently rending it in as manydirections. 

One was a clean-shaven youngish man with lively eyes, alert and muscular, whom I identified as the man who had called me "Johnny. " He had hold of acorner of the mattress and was pulling against the possessor of theopposite corner: an incoherent personage enveloped in a buffoonery ofamazing rags and patches, with a shabby head on which excited wisps ofdirty hair stood upright in excitement, and the tall, ludicrous, extraordinary, almost noble figure of a dancing bear. A third corner ofthe _paillasse_ was rudely grasped by a six-foot combination of yellowhair, red hooligan face, and sky-blue trousers; assisted by theundersized tasseled mucker in Belgian uniform, with a pimply rogue's mugand unlimited impertinence of diction, who had awakened me by demandingif I wanted coffee. Albeit completely dazed by the uncouth vocal fracas, I realised in some manner that these hostile forces were contending, notfor the possession of the mattress, but merely for the privilege ofpresenting the mattress to myself. 

Before I could offer any advice on this delicate topic, a childish voicecried emphatically beside my ear: "Put the mattress here! What are youtrying to do? There's no use destroy-ing a mat-tress!"--at the samemoment the mattress rushed with cobalt strides in my direction, propelledby the successful efforts of the Belgian uniform and the hooligan visage, the clean-shaven man and the incoherent bear still desperately clutchingtheir respective corners; and upon its arrival was seized with surprisingstrength by the owner of the child's voice--a fluffy little gnome-shapedman with a sensitive face which had suffered much--and indignantlydeposited beside B. 's bed in a space mysteriously cleared for itsreception. The gnome immediately kneeled upon it and fell to carefullysmoothing certain creases caused by the recent conflict, exclaimingslowly syllable by syllable: "Mon Dieu. Now, that's better, you mustn'tdo things like that. " The clean-shaven man regarded him loftily withfolded arms, while the tassel and the trousers victoriously inquired if Ihad a cigarette?--and upon receiving one apiece (also the gnome, and theclean-shaven man, who accepted his with some dignity) sat down withoutmuch ado on B. 's bed--which groaned ominously in protest--and hungrilyfired questions at me. The bear meanwhile, looking as if nothing hadhappened, adjusted his ruffled costume with a satisfied air and (calmlygazing into the distance) began with singularly delicate fingers to stuffa stunted and ancient pipe with what appeared to be a mixture of wood andmanure. 

I was still answering questions, when a gnarled voice suddenlythreatened, over our head: "Broom? You. Everybody. Clean. _Surveillant_says. Not me, no?"--I started, expecting to see a parrot. 

It was the silhouette. 

A vulture-like figure stood before me, a demoralised broom clenched inone claw or fist: it had lean legs cased in shabby trousers, muscularshoulders covered with a rough shirt open at the neck, knotted arms, anda coarse insane face crammed beneath the visor of a cap. The faceconsisted of a rapid nose, droopy moustache, ferocious watery small eyes, a pugnacious chin, and sunken cheeks hideously smiling. There wassomething in the ensemble at once brutal and ridiculous, vigorous andpathetic. 

Again I had not time to speak; for the hooligan in azure trousers hurledhis butt at the bear's feet, exclaiming: "There's another for you, Polak!"--jumped from the bed, seized the broom, and poured upon thevulture a torrent of _Gott-ver-dummers_, to which the latter repliedcopiously and in kind. Then the red face bent within a few inches of myown, and for the first time I saw that it had recently been young--"I sayI do your sweep for you" it translated pleasantly. I thanked it; and thevulture, exclaiming: "Good. Good. Not me. _Surveillant. _ Harree does itfor everybody. Hee, hee"--rushed off, followed by Harree and the tassel. Out of the corner of my eye I watched the tall, ludicrous, extraordinary, almost proud figure of the bear stoop with quiet dignity, the musicalfingers close with a singular delicacy upon the moist indescribableeighth-of-an-inch of tobacco. 

I did not know that this was a Delectable Mountain.... 

The clean-shaven man (who appeared to have been completely won over byhis smoke), and the fluffy gnome, who had completed the arrangement of my_paillasse_, now entered into conversation with myself and B. ; theclean-shaven one seating himself in Harree's stead, the gnome declining(on the grounds that the bed was already sufficiently loaded) to occupythe place left vacant by the tassel's exit, and leaning against the drab, sweating, poisonous wall. He managed, however, to call our attention tothe shelf at B. 's head which he himself had constructed, and promised mea similar luxury _toute de suite_. He was a Russian, and had a wife and_gosse_ in Paris. "My name is Monsieur Au-guste, at your service"--andhis gentle pale eyes sparkled. The clean-shaven talked distinct andabsolutely perfect English. His name was Fritz. He was a Norwegian, astoker on a ship. "You mustn't mind that feller that wanted you to sweep. He's crazy. They call him John the Baigneur. He used to be the bathman. Now he's _Maître de Chambre_. They wanted me to take it--I said, 'F----it, I don't want it. ' Let him have it. That's no kind of a job, everyonecomplaining and on top of you morning till night. 'Let them that wantsthe job take it' I said. That crazy Dutchman's been here for two years. They told him to get out and he wouldn't, he was too fond of the booze"(I jumped at the slang) "and the girls. They took it away from John andgive it to that little Ree-shar feller, that doctor. That was a swell jobhe had, _baigneur_, too. All the bloody liquor you can drink and a girlevery time you want one. He ain't never had a girl in his life, thatRee-shar feller. " His laughter was hard, clear, cynical. "That Pompom, the little Belgian feller was just here, he's a great one for the girls. He and Harree. Always getting _cabinot_. I got it twice myself since Ibeen here. "

All this time the enormous room was filling gradually with dirty light. In the further end six figures were brooming furiously, yelling to eachother in the dust like demons. A seventh, Harree, was loping to and frosplashing water from a pail and enveloping everything and everybody in aponderous and blasphemous fog of _Gott-ver-dummers_. Along three sides(with the exception, that is, of the nearer end, which boasted the soledoor) were laid, with their lengths at right angles to the wall, atintervals of three or four feet, something like forty _paillasses_. Oneach, with half a dozen exceptions (where the occupants had not yetfinished their coffee or were on duty for the _corvée_) lay the headlessbody of a man smothered in its blanket, only the boots showing. 

The demons were working towards our end of the room. Harree had got hisbroom and was assisting. Nearer and nearer they came; converging, theyunited their separate heaps of filth in a loudly stinking single mound atthe door. Brooms were stacked against the wall in the corner. The menstrolled back to their mattresses. 

Monsieur Auguste, whose French had not been able to keep pace withFritz's English, saw his chance, and proposed "now that the Room is allclean, let us go take a little walk, the three of us. " Fritz understoodperfectly, and rose, remarking as he fingered his immaculate chin "Well, I guess I'll take a shave before the bloody _planton_ comes"--andMonsieur Auguste, B. , and I started down the room. 

It was in shape oblong, about 80 feet by 40, unmistakably ecclesiasticalin feeling; two rows of wooden pillars, spaced at intervals of fifteenfeet, rose to a vaulted ceiling 25 or 30 feet above the floor. As youstood with your back to the door, and faced down the room, you had in thenear right-hand corner (where the brooms stood) six pails of urine. Onthe right-hand long wall, a little beyond the angle of this corner, a fewboards, tacked together in any fashion to make a two-sided screen fourfeet in height, marked the position of a _cabinet d'aisance_, composed ofa small coverless tin pail identical with the other six, and a board ofthe usual design which could be placed on the pail or not as desired. Thewooden floor in the neighborhood of the booth and pails was of a darkcolour, obviously owing to the continual overflow of their contents. 

The right-hand long wall contained something like ten large windows, ofwhich the first was commanded by the somewhat primitive cabinet. Therewere no other windows in the remaining walls; or they had been carefullyrendered useless. In spite of this fact, the inhabitants had contrived acouple of peep-holes--one in the door-end and one in the left-hand longwall; the former commanding the gate by which I had entered, the latter aportion of the street by which I had reached the gate. The blocking ofall windows on three sides had an obvious significance: _les hommes_ werenot supposed to see anything which went on in the world without; _leshommes_ might, however, look their fill on a little washing-shed, on acorner of what seemed to be another wing of the building, and on a bleaklifeless abject landscape of scrubby woods beyond--which constituted theview from the ten windows on the right. The authorities had miscalculateda little in one respect: a merest fraction of the barb-wire pen whichbegan at the corner of the above-mentioned building was visible fromthese windows, which windows (I was told) were consequently thronged byfighting men at the time of the girl's promenade. A _planton_, I was alsotold, made it his business, by keeping _les femmes_ out of this corner oftheir _cour_ at the point of the bayonet to deprive them of the sight oftheir admirers. In addition, it was dry bread or _cabinot_ for any ofeither sex who were caught communicating with each other. Moreover thepromenades of the men and the women occurred at roughly speaking the samehour, so that a man or woman who remained upstairs on the chance ofgetting a smile or a wave from his or her girl or lover lost thepromenade thereby.... 

We had in succession gazed from the windows, crossed the end of the room, and started down the other side, Monsieur Auguste marching betweenus--when suddenly B. Exclaimed in English "Good morning! How are youtoday?" And I looked across Monsieur Auguste, anticipating another Harreeor at least a Fritz. What was my surprise to see a spare majestic figureof manifest refinement, immaculately apparelled in a crisp albeitcollarless shirt, carefully mended trousers in which the remains of acrease still lingered, a threadbare but perfectly fitting swallow-tailcoat, and newly varnished (if somewhat ancient) shoes. Indeed for thefirst time since my arrival at La Ferté I was confronted by a perfecttype: the apotheosis of injured nobility, the humiliated victim ofperfectly unfortunate circumstances, the utterly respectable gentlemanwho had seen better days. There was about him, moreover, somethingirretrievably English, nay even pathetically Victorian--it was as if apage of Dickens was shaking my friend's hand. "Count Bragard, I want youto meet my friend Cummings"--he saluted me in modulated and courteousaccents of indisputable culture, gracefully extending his pale hand. "Ihave heard a great deal about you from B. , and wanted very much to meetyou. It is a pleasure to find a friend of my friend B. , someone congenialand intelligent in contrast to these swine"--he indicated the room with agesture of complete contempt. "I see you were strolling. Let us take aturn. " Monsieur Auguste said tactfully, "I'll see you soon, friends, " andleft us with an affectionate shake of the hand and a sidelong glance ofjealousy and mistrust at B. 's respectable friend. 

"You're looking pretty well today, Count Bragard, " B. Said amiably. 

"I do well enough, " the Count answered. "It is a frightful strain--you ofcourse realise that--for anyone who has been accustomed to the decencies, let alone the luxuries, of life. This filth"--he pronounced the word withindescribable bitterness--"this herding of men like cattle--they treat usno better than pigs here. The fellows drop their dung in the very roomwhere they sleep. What is one to expect of a place like this? _Ce n'estpas une existence_"--his French was glib and faultless. 

"I was telling my friend that you knew Cézanne, " said B. "Being an artisthe was naturally much interested. "

Count Bragard stopped in astonishment, and withdrew his hands slowly fromthe tails of his coat. "Is it possible!" he exclaimed, in greatagitation. "What an astonishing coincidence! I am myself a painter. Youperhaps noticed this badge"--he indicated a button attached to his leftlapel, and I bent and read the words: On War Service. "I always wear it, "he said with a smile of faultless sorrow, and resumed his walk. "Theydon't know what it means here, but I wear it all the same. I was aspecial representative for The London Sphere at the front in this war. Idid the trenches and all that sort of thing. They paid me well; I gotfifteen pounds a week. And why not? I am an R. A. My specialty was horses. I painted the finest horses in England, among them the King's own entryin the last Derby. Do you know London?" We said no. "If you are ever inLondon, go to the" (I forget the name) "Hotel--one of the best in town. It has a beautiful large bar, exquisitely furnished in the very besttaste. Anyone will tell you where to find the ----. It has one of mypaintings over the bar: "Straight-jacket" (or some such name) "theMarquis of ----'s horse, who won last time the race was run. I was inAmerica in 1910. You know Cornelius Vanderbilt perhaps? I painted some ofhis horses. We were the best of friends, Vanderbilt and I. I got handsomeprices, you understand, three, five, six thousand pounds. When I left, hegave me this card--I have it here somewhere--" he again stopped, soughtin his breastpocket a moment, and produced a visiting card. On one side Iread the name "Cornelius Vanderbilt"--on the other, in boldhandwriting--"to my very dear friend Count F. A. De Bragard" and a date. "He hated to have me go. "

I was walking in a dream. 

"Have you your sketch-books and paints with you? What a pity. I am alwaysintending to send to England for mine, but you know--one can't paint in aplace like this. It is impossible--all this dirt and these filthypeople--it stinks! Ugh!"

I forced myself to say: "How did you happen to come here?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "How indeed, you may well ask! I cannot tellyou. It must have been some hideous mistake. As soon as I got here Ispoke to the Directeur and to the Surveillant. The Directeur said he knewnothing about it; the Surveillant told me confidentially that it was amistake on the part of the French government; that I would be outdirectly. He's not such a bad sort. So I am waiting; every day I expectorders from the English government for my release. The whole thing ispreposterous. I wrote to the Embassy and told them so. As soon as I setfoot outside this place, I shall sue the French government for tenthousand pounds for the loss of time it has occasioned me. Imagine it--Ihad contracts with countless members of The Lords--and the war came. ThenI was sent to the front by The Sphere--and here I am, every day costingme dear, rotting away in this horrible place. The time I have wasted herehas already cost me a fortune. "

He paused directly in front of the door and spoke with solemnity: "A manmight as well be dead. "

Scarcely had the words passed his lips when I almost jumped out of myskin, for directly before us on the other side of the wall arose the verynoise which announced to Scrooge the approach of Marley's ghost--a dismalclanking and rattling of chains. Had Marley's transparent figure walkedstraight through the wall and up to the Dickensian character at my side, I would have been less surprised than I was by what actually happened. 

The doors opened with an uncanny bang and in the bang stood a fragileminute queer figure, remotely suggesting an old man. The chiefcharacteristic of the apparition was a certain disagreeable nudity whichresulted from its complete lack of all the accepted appurtenances andprerogatives of old age. Its little stooping body, helpless and brittle, bore with extraordinary difficulty a head of absurd largeness, yet whichmoved on the fleshless neck with a horrible agility. Dull eyes sat in theclean-shaven wrinkles of a face neatly hopeless. At the knees a pair ofhands hung, infantile in their smallness. In the loose mouth a tinycigarette had perched and was solemnly smoking itself. 

Suddenly the figure darted at me with a spiderlike entirety. 

I felt myself lost. 

A voice said mechanically from the vicinity of my feet: "_II vous fautprendre la douche_"--I stared stupidly. The spectre was poised before me;its averted eyes contemplated the window. "Take your bath, " it added asan afterthought, in English--"Come with me. " It turned suddenly. Ithurried to the doorway. I followed. Its rapid deadly doll-like hands shutand skillfully locked the doors in a twinkling. "Come, " its voice said. 

It hurried before me down two dirty flights of narrow mutilated stairs. It turned left, and passed through an open door. 

I found myself in the wet sunless air of morning. 

To the right it hurried, following the wall of the building. I pursued itmechanically. At the corner, which I had seen from the window upstairs, the barbed-wire fence eight feet in height began. The thing paused, produced a key and unlocked a gate. The first three or four feet of wireswung inward. He entered. I after him. 

In a flash the gate was locked behind me, and I was following along awall at right angles to the first. I strode after the thing. A momentbefore I had been walking in a free world: now I was again a prisoner. The sky was still over me, the clammy morning caressed me; but walls ofwire and stone told me that my instant of freedom had departed. I was infact traversing a lane no wider than the gate; on my left, barbed-wireseparated me from the famous _cour_ in which _les femmes se promenent_--arectangle about 50 feet deep and 200 long, with a stone wall at thefurther end of it and otherwise surrounded by wire;--on my right, greysameness of stone, the _ennui_ of the regular and the perpendicular, theponderous ferocity of silence.... 

I had taken automatically some six or eight steps in pursuit of thefleeing spectre when, right over my head, the grey stone curdled with afemale darkness; the hard and the angular softening in a putrescentexplosion of thick wriggling laughter. I started, looked up, andencountered a window stuffed with four savage fragments of crowding Face:four livid, shaggy disks focussing hungrily; four pair of uncouth eyesrapidly smouldering; eight lips shaking in a toothless and viscoustitter. Suddenly above and behind these terrors rose a single horror ofbeauty--a crisp vital head, a young ivory, actual face, a night of firm, alive, icy hair, a white, large, frightful smile. 

... The thing was crying two or three paces in front of me: "Come!" Theheads had vanished as by magic. 

I dived forward; followed through a little door in the wall into a roomabout fifteen feet square, occupied by a small stove, a pile of wood, anda ladder. He plunged through another even smaller door, into a bleakrectangular place, where I was confronted on the left by a large tin bathand on the right by ten wooden tubs, each about a yard in diameter, setin a row against the wall. "Undress" commanded the spectre. I did so. "Gointo the first one. " I climbed into the tub. "You shall pull the string, "the spectre said, hurriedly throwing his cigarette into a corner. Istared upward, and discovered a string dangling from a kind of reservoirover my head: I pulled: and was saluted by a stabbing crash of icy water. I leaped from the tub. "Here is your napkin. Make dry yourself"--hehanded me a piece of cloth a little bigger than a handkerchief. "Hurree. "I donned my clothes, wet and shivering and altogether miserable. "Good. Come now!" I followed him, through the room with the stove, into thebarbed-wire lane. A hoarse shout rose from the yard--which was filledwith women, girls, children, and a baby or two. I thought I recognisedone of the four terrors who had saluted me from the window, in a girl of18 with a soiled slobby body huddling beneath its dingy dress; her bonyshoulders stifled in a shawl upon which excremental hair limply spouted;a huge empty mouth; and a red nose, sticking between the bluish cheeksthat shook with spasms of coughing. Just inside the wire a figurereminiscent of Gré, gun on shoulder, revolver on hip, moved monotonously. 

The apparition hurried me through the gate, and along the wall into thebuilding, where instead of mounting the stairs he pointed down a long, gloomy corridor with a square of light at the end of it, saying rapidly, "Go to the promenade"--and vanished. 

With the laughter of the Five still ringing in my ears, and no very clearconception of the meaning of existence, I stumbled down the corridor;bumping squarely into a beefy figure with a bull's neck and the familiarrevolver who demanded furiously: "What are you doing there? _Nom deDieu!_"--"_Pardon. Les douches_, " I answered, quelled by thecollision. --He demanded in wrathy French "Who took you to thedouches?"--For a moment I was at a complete loss--then Fritz's remarkabout the new _baigneur_ flashed through my mind: "Ree-shar" I answeredcalmly. --The bull snorted satisfactorily. "Get into the _cour_ and hurryup about it" he ordered. --"_C'est par là?_" I inquired politely. --Hestared at me contemptuously without answering; so I took it upon myselfto use the nearest door, hoping that he would have the decency not toshoot me. I had no sooner crossed the threshold when I found myself oncemore in the welcome air; and not ten paces away I espied B. Peacefullylounging, with some thirty others, within a _cour_ about one quarter thesize of the women's. I marched up to a little dingy gate in thebarbed-wire fence, and was hunting for the latch (as no padlock was inevidence) when a scared voice cried loudly "_Qu'est ce que vous faiteslà!_" and I found myself stupidly looking into a rifle. B. , Fritz, Harree, Pompom, Monsieur Auguste, The Bear, and the last but not leastCount de Bragard immediately informed the trembling _planton_ that I wasa _Nouveau_ who had just returned from the _douches_ to which I had beenescorted by Monsieur Reeshar, and that I should be admitted to the _cour_by all means. The cautious watcher of the skies was not, however, to befooled by any such fol-de-rol and stood his ground. Fortunately at thispoint the beefy _planton_ yelled from the doorway "Let him in, " and I wasaccordingly let in, to the gratification of my friends, and against thebetter judgment of the guardian of the _cour_, who muttered somethingabout having more than enough to do already. 

I had not been mistaken as to the size of the men's yard: it wascertainly not more than twenty yards deep and fifteen wide. By thedistinctness with which the shouts of _les femmes_ reached my ears Iperceived that the two _cours_ adjoined. They were separated by a stonewall ten feet in height, which I had already remarked (while _en route_to _les douches_) as forming one end of the _cour des femmes_. The men's_cour_ had another stone wall slightly higher than the first, and whichran parallel to it; the two remaining sides, which were property ends, were made by the familiar barbed-wire. 

The furniture of the _cour_ was simple: in the middle of the further end, a wooden sentry-box was placed just inside the wire; a curiouscontrivance, which I discovered to be a sister to the booth upstairs, graced the wall on the left which separated the two _cours_, whilefurther up on this wall a horizontal iron bar projected from the stone ata height of seven feet and was supported at its other end by a woodenpost, the idea apparently being to give the prisoners a little taste ofgymnastics; a minute wooden shed filled the right upper corner and servedsecondarily as a very partial shelter for the men and primarily as astable for an extraordinary water-wagon, composed of a wooden barrel ontwo wheels with shafts which would not possibly accommodate anythinglarger than a diminutive donkey (but in which I myself was to walk notinfrequently, as it proved); parallel to the second stone wall, but at asafe distance from it, stretched a couple of iron girders serving as abarbarously cold seat for any unfortunate who could not remain on hisfeet the entire time; on the ground close by the shed lay amusementdevices numbers two and three--a huge iron cannon-ball and the six-footiron axle of a departed wagon--for testing the strength of the prisonersand beguiling any time which might lie heavily on their hands after theyhad regaled themselves with the horizontal bar; and finally, a dozenmangy apple-trees, fighting for their very lives in the angry soil, proclaimed to all the world that the _cour_ itself was in reality a_verger_. 

 "Les pommiers sont pleins de pommes; Allons au verger, Simone.... "

A description of the _cour_ would be incomplete without an enumeration ofthe manifold duties of the _planton_ in charge, which were as follows: toprevent the men from using the horizontal bar, except for chinning, sinceif you swung yourself upon it you could look over the wall into thewomen's _cour_; to see that no one threw anything over the wall into said_cour_; to dodge the cannon-ball which had a mysterious habit of takingadvantage of the slope of the ground and bounding along at a prodigiousrate of speed straight for the sentry-box; to watch closely anyone whoinhabited the _cabinet d'aisance_, lest he should make use of it to vaultover the wall; to see that no one stood on the girders, for a similarreason; to keep watch over anyone who entered the shed; to see thateveryone urinated properly against the wall in the general vicinity ofthe cabinet; to protect the apple-trees into which well-aimed pieces ofwood and stone were continually flying and dislodging the sacred fruit;to mind that no one entered or exited by the gate in the upper fencewithout authority; to report any signs, words, tokens, or otherimmoralities exchanged by prisoners with girls sitting in the windows ofthe women's wing (it was from one of these windows that I had recentlyreceived my salutation), also names of said girls, it being forbidden toexhibit any part of the female person at a window while the males were onpromenade; to quell all fights and especially to prevent people fromusing the wagon axle as a weapon of defense or offense; and last, to keepan eye on the sweeper when he and his wheelbarrow made use of a secondarygate situated in the fence at the further end, not far from thesentry-box, to dump themselves. 

Having acquainted me with the various _défendus_ which limited theactivities of a man on promenade, my friends proceeded to enliven theotherwise somewhat tedious morning by shattering one after another allrules and regulations. Fritz, having chinned himself fifteen times, suddenly appeared astride of the bar, evoking a reprimand; Pompom bowledthe _planton_ with the cannon-ball, apologising in profuse and vileFrench; Harree the Hollander tossed the wagon-axle lightly half thelength of the _cour_, missing The Bear by an inch; The Bear bided histime and cleverly hurled a large stick into one of the holy trees, bringing to the ground a withered apple for which at least twenty peoplefought for several minutes; and so on. The most open gestures wereindulged in for the benefit of several girls who had braved the officialwrath and were enjoying the morning at their windows. The girders wereused as a race-track. The beams supporting the shed-roof were shinned. The water-wagon was dislocated from its proper position. The cabinet andurinal were misused. The gate was continually admitting and emittingpersons who said they were thirsty, and must get a drink at a tub ofwater which stood around the corner. A letter was surreptitiously thrownover the wall into the _cour des femmes_. 

The _planton_ who suffered all these indignities was a solemn youth withwise eyes situated very far apart in a mealy expressionless elipse offace, to the lower end of which clung a piece of down, exactly like afeather sticking to an egg. The rest of him was fairly normal with theexception of his hands, which were not mates; the left being considerablylarger, and made of wood. 

I was at first somewhat startled by this eccentricity; but soon learnedthat with the exception of two or three, who formed the _Surveillant's_permanent staff and of whom the beefy one was a shining example, all the_plantons_ were supposed to be unhealthy; they were indeed the disabledwhom _le gouvernement français_ sent from time to time to La Ferté andsimilar institutions for a little outing, and as soon as they hadrecovered their health under these salubrious influences they wereshipped back to do their bit for world-safety, democracy, freedom, etc. , in the trenches. I also learned that, of all the ways of attaining_cabinot_, by far the simplest was to apply to a _planton_, particularlyto a permanent _planton_, say the beefy one (who was reputed to bepeculiarly touchy on this point) the term _embusqué_. This method neverfailed. To its efficacy many of the men and more of the girls (by whomthe _plantons_, owing to their habit of taking advantage of the weakersex at every opportunity, were even more despised) attested by notinfrequent spasms of consumptive coughing, which could be plainly heardfrom the further end of one _cour_ to the other. 

In a little over two hours I learned an astonishing lot about La Fertéitself: it was a co-educational receiving station whither were sent fromvarious parts of France (a) males suspected of espionage and (b) femalesof a well-known type found in the zone of the armies. It was pointed outto me that the task of finding such members of the human race was _pasdifficile:_ in the case of the men, any foreigner would do provided hiscountry was neutral (e. G. Holland); as for the girls, inasmuch as thearmies of the Allies were continually retreating, the _zone des armées_(particularly in the case of Belgium) was always including new cities, whose _petites femmes_ became automatically subject to arrest. It was notto be supposed that all the women of La Ferté were _putains_: there werea large number of respectable women, the wives of prisoners, who mettheir husbands at specified times on the floor below the men's quarters, whither man and woman were duly and separately conducted by _plantons_. In this case no charges had been preferred against the women; they werevoluntary prisoners, who had preferred to freedom this living inproximity to their husbands. Many of them had children; some babies. Inaddition there were certain _femmes honnettes_ whose nationality, as inthe case of the men, had cost them their liberty; Marguerite thewasherwoman, for example, was a German. 

La Ferté Macé was not properly speaking a prison, but a Porte orDetention Camp: that is to say, persons sent to it were held for aCommission, composed of an official, a lawyer, and a captain of_gendarmes_, which inspected the Camp and passed upon each case in turnfor the purpose of determining the guiltiness of the suspected party. Ifthe latter were found guilty by the Commission, he or she was sent off toa regular prison camp for the duration of the war; if not guilty, he orshe was (in theory) set free. The Commission came to La Ferté once everythree months. It should be added that there were prisoners who had passedthe Commission, two, three, four, and even five times, without anyappreciable result; there were _prisonierès_ who had remained in La Fertéa year, and even eighteen months. 

The authorities at La Ferté consisted of the _Directeur_, or generaloverlord, the _Surveillant_, who had the _plantons_ (orderlies) under himand was responsible to the _Directeur_ for the administration of thecamp, and the _Gestionnaire_ (who kept the accounts). As assistant, the_Surveillant_ had a mail clerk who acted as translator on occasion. Twicea week the camp was visited by a regular French army doctor (_médecinmajor_) who was supposed to prescribe in severe cases and to give thewomen venereal inspection at regular intervals. The daily routine ofattending to minor ailments and injuries was in the hands of MonsieurRee-shar (Richard), who knew probably less about medicine than any manliving and was an ordinary prisoner like all of us, but whose impeccableconduct merited cosy quarters. A sweeper was appointed from time to timeby the _Surveillant_, acting for the _Directeur_, from the inhabitants ofLa Ferté; as was also a cook's assistant. The regular cook was a fixture, and a Boche like the other fixtures, Marguerite and Richard. This factmight seem curious were it not that the manner, appearance and actions ofthe _Directeur_ himself proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was allwhich the term Boche could possibly imply. 

"He's a son-of-a-bitch, " B. Said heartily. "They took me up to him when Icame two days ago. As soon as he saw me he bellowed: '_Imbécile etinchrétien!_'; then he called me a great lot of other things, includingShame of my country, Traitor to the sacred cause of Liberty, Contemptiblecoward and Vile sneaking spy. When he got all through I said 'I don'tunderstand French. ' You should have seen him then. "

Separation of the sexes was enforced, not, it is true, with success, butwith a commendable ferocity. The punishments for both men and girls weredry bread and _cabinot_. 

"What on earth is _cabinot?_" I demanded. 

There were various _cabinots_: each sex had its regular _cabinot_, andthere were certain extra ones. B. Knew all about them from Harree andPompom, who spent nearly all their time in the _cabinot_. They were roomsabout nine feet square and six feet high. There was no light and nofloor, and the ground (three were on the ground floor) was always wet andoften a good many inches under water. The occupant on entering wassearched for tobacco, deprived of his or her mattress and blanket, andinvited to sleep on the ground on some planks. One didn't need to write aletter to a member of the opposite sex to get _cabinot_, or even to calla _planton embusqué_--there was a woman, a foreigner, who, instead ofsending a letter to her embassy through the bureau (where all letterswere read by the mail clerk to make sure that they said nothingdisagreeable about the authorities or conditions of La Ferté) tried tosmuggle it outside, and got twenty-eight days of _cabinot_. She hadpreviously written three times, handing the letters to the _Surveillant_, as per regulations, and had received no reply. Fritz, who had no idea whyhe was arrested and was crazy to get in touch with his embassy, hadlikewise written several letters, taking the utmost care to state thefacts only and always handing them in; but he had never received a wordin return. The obvious inference was that letters from a foreigner to hisembassy were duly accepted by the _Surveillant_ (Warden), but rarely, ifever, left La Ferté. 

B. And I were conversing merrily àpropos the God-sent miracle of ourescape from Vingt-et-Un, when a benign-faced personage of about fiftywith sparse greyish hair and a Benjamin Franklin expression appeared onthe other side of the fence, from the direction of the door through whichI had passed after bumping the beefy bull. "_Planton_" it cried heavilyto the wooden-handed one, "Two men to go get water. " Harree and Pompomwere already at the gate with the archaic water-wagon, the former pushingfrom behind and the latter in the shafts. The guardian of the _cour_walked up and opened the gate for them, after ascertaining that another_planton_ was waiting at the corner of the building to escort them ontheir mission. A little way from the _cour_, the stone wall (which formedone of its boundaries and which ran parallel to the other stone walldividing the two _cours_) met the prison building; and here was a hugedouble door, twice padlocked, through which the waterseekers passed on tothe street. There was a sort of hydrant up the street a few hundredyards, I was told. The cook (Benjamin F. , that is) required from three tosix wagonfuls of water twice a day, and in reward for the labour involvedin its capture was in the habit of giving a cup of coffee to the captors. I resolved that I would seek water at the earliest opportunity. 

Harree and Pompom had completed their third and final trip and returnedfrom the kitchen, smacking their lips and wiping their mouths with thebacks of their hands. I was gazing airily into the muddy sky, when a roarissued from the door-way:

"_Monter les hommes!_" or "Send the men up!"

It was the beefy-necked. We filed from the _cour_, through the door, pasta little window which I was told belonged to the kitchen, down the clammycorridor, up the three flights of stairs, to the door of The EnormousRoom. Padlocks were unlocked, chains rattled, and the door thrown open. We entered. The Enormous Room received us in silence. The door wasslammed and locked behind us by the _planton_, whom we could heardescending the gnarled and filthy stairs. 

In the course of a half-hour, which time, as I was informed, intervenedbetween the just-ended morning promenade and the noon meal which was thenext thing on the program, I gleaned considerable information concerningthe daily schedule of La Ferté. A typical day was divided byplanton-cries as follows:

"_Café_, " "_Corvée d'eau_, " "_Nettoyage de Chambre_, " "_Monter lesHommes_, " "_A la soupe les hommes_. "

The most terrible cry of all, and which was not included in the regularprogram of planton-cries, consisted of the words:

"_Aux douches les hommes_"--when all, sick, dead and dying not excepted, descended to the baths. Although _les douches_ came only once in 15 days, such was the terror they inspired that it was necessary for the _planton_to hunt under mattresses for people who would have preferred deathitself. 

Upon remarking that _corvée d'eau_ must be excessively disagreeable, Iwas informed that it had its bright side, viz. , that in going to and fromthe sewer one could easily exchange a furtive signal with the women whoalways took pains to be at their windows at that moment. Influencedperhaps by this, Harree and Pompom were in the habit of doing theirfriends' _corvées_ for a consideration. The girls, I was furtherinstructed, had their _corvée_ (as well as their meals) just after themen; and the miraculous stupidity of the _plantons_ had been known toresult in the coincidence of the two. 

At this point somebody asked me how I had enjoyed my shower?

I was replying in terms of unmeasured opprobrium when I was interruptedby that gruesome clanking and rattling which announced the opening of thedoor. A moment later it was thrown wide, and the beefy-neck stood in thedoorway, a huge bunch of keys in his paw, and shouted:

"_A la soupe les hommes. _"

The cry was lost in a tremendous confusion, a recklessthither-and-hithering of humanity, everyone trying to be at the door, spoon in hand, before his neighbour. B. Said calmly, extracting his ownspoon from beneath his mattress on which we were seated: "They'll giveyou yours downstairs and when you get it you want to hide it or it'll bepinched"--and in company with Monsieur Bragard, who had refused themorning promenade, and whose gentility would not permit him to hurry whenit was a question of such a low craving as hunger, we joined the dancingroaring throng at the door. I was not too famished myself to beunimpressed by the instantaneous change which had come over The EnormousRoom's occupants. Never did Circe herself cast upon men so bestial anenchantment. Among these faces convulsed with utter animalism I scarcelyrecognised my various acquaintances. The transformation produced by the_planton's_ shout was not merely amazing; it was uncanny, and not alittle thrilling. These eyes bubbling with lust, obscene grins sproutingfrom contorted lips, bodies unclenching and clenching in unctuousgestures of complete savagery, convinced me by a certain insane beauty. Before the arbiter of their destinies some thirty creatures, hideous andauthentic, poised, cohering in a sole chaos of desire; a fluent andnumerous cluster of vital inhumanity. As I contemplated this ferociousand uncouth miracle, this beautiful manifestation of the sinister alchemyof hunger, I felt that the last vestige of individualism was aboututterly to disappear, wholly abolished in a gambolling and wallowingthrob. 

The beefy-neck bellowed:

"Are you all here?"

A shrill roar of language answered. He looked contemptuously around him, upon the thirty clamouring faces each of which wanted to eathim--puttees, revolver and all. Then he cried:

"_Allez, descendez. _"

Squirming, jostling, fighting, roaring, we poured slowly through thedoorway. Ridiculously. Horribly. I felt like a glorious microbe in hugeabsurd din irrevocably swathed. B. Was beside me. A little ahead MonsieurAuguste's voice protested. Count Bragard brought up the rear. 

When we reached the corridor nearly all the breath was knocked out of me. The corridor being wider than the stairs allowed me to inhale and lookaround. B. Was yelling in my ear:

"Look at the Hollanders and the Belgians! They're always ahead when itcomes to food!"

Sure enough: John the Bathman, Harree and Pompom were leading thisextraordinary procession. Fritz was right behind them, however, andpressing the leaders hard. I heard Monsieur Auguste crying in his child'svoice:

"If every-body goes slow-er we will ar-rive soon-er. You mustn't act likethat!"

Then suddenly the roar ceased. The mêlée integrated. We were marching inorderly ranks. B. Said:

"The Surveillant!"

At the end of the corridor, opposite the kitchen window, there was aflight of stairs. On the third stair from the bottom stood (teetering alittle slowly back and forth, his lean hands joined behind him andtwitching regularly, a kepi tilted forward on his cadaverous head so thatits visor almost hid the weak eyes sunkenly peering from under droopyeyebrows, his pompous rooster-like body immaculately attired in a shinyuniform, his puttees sleeked, his cross polished)--The Fencer. There wasa renovated look about him which made me laugh. Also his pose wasludicrously suggestive of Napoleon reviewing the armies of France. 

Our column's first rank moved by him. I expected it to continue aheadthrough the door and into the open air, as I had myself done in goingfrom _les douches_ to _le cour;_ but it turned a sharp right and thensharp left, and I perceived a short hall, almost hidden by the stairs. Ina moment I had passed The Fencer myself and entered the hall. In anothermoment I was in a room, pretty nearly square, filled with rows ofpillars. On turning into the hall the column had come almost to astandstill. I saw that the reason for this slowing-down lay in the factthat on entering the room every man in turn passed a table and received apiece of bread from the chef. When B. And I came opposite the table thedispenser of bread smiled pleasantly and nodded to B. , then selected alarge hunk and pushed it rapidly into B. 's hands with an air of doingsomething which he shouldn't. B. Introduced me, whereupon the smile andselection was repeated. 

"He thinks I'm a German, " B. Explained in a whisper, "and that you are aGerman too. " Then aloud, to the cook: "My friend here needs a spoon. Hejust got here this morning and they haven't given him one. "

The excellent person at the bread table hereupon said to me: "You shallgo to the window and say I tell you to ask for spoon and you will catchone spoon"--and I broke through the waiting line, approached thekitchen-window, and demanded of a roguish face within:

"A spoon, please. "

The roguish face, which had been singing in a high faint voice to itself, replied critically but not unkindly:

"You're a new one?"

I said that I was, that I had arrived late last night. 

It disappeared, reappeared, and handed me a tin spoon and cup, saying:

"You haven't a cup?"--"No" I said. 

"Here. Take this. Quick. " Nodding in the direction of the Surveillant, who was standing all this time on the stairs behind me. 

I had expected from the cook's phrase that something would be thrown atme which I should have to catch, and was accordingly somewhat relieved atthe true state of affairs. On re-entering the _salle à manger_ I wasgreeted by many cries and wavings, and looking in their directionperceived everybody uproariously seated at wooden benches which wereplaced on either side of an enormous wooden table. There was a tiny gapon one bench where a place had been saved for me by B. , with theassistance of Monsieur Auguste, Count Bragard, Harree and several otherfellow-convicts. In a moment I had straddled the bench and was occupyingthe gap, spoon and cup in hand, and ready for anything. 

The din was perfectly terrific. It had a minutely large quality. Here andthere, in a kind of sonal darkness, solid sincere unintelligible absurdwisps of profanity heavily flickered. Optically the phenomenon wasequally remarkable: seated waggingly swaying corpselike figures, swaggering, pounding with their little spoons, roaring, hoarse, unkempt. Evidently Monsieur le Surveillant had been forgotten. All at once theroar bulged unbearably. The roguish man, followed by the _chef_ himself, entered with a suffering waddle, each of them bearing a huge bowl ofsteaming something. At least six people immediately rose, gesturing andimploring: "_Ici_"--"_Mais non, ici_"--"_Mettez par ici_"--

The bearers plumped their burdens carefully down, one at the head of thetable and one in the middle. The men opposite the bowls stood up. Everyman seized the empty plate in front of him and shoved it into hisneighbour's hand; the plates moved toward the bowls, were filled amiduncouth protestations and accusations--"_Mettez plus que ça_"--"_C'estpas juste, alors_"--"_Donnez-moi encore de pommes_"--"_Nom de Dieu, il n'y a pas assez_"--"_Cochon, qu'est-ce qu'il veut?_"--"_Shutup_"--"_Gott-ver-dummer_"--and returned one by one. As each man receivedhis own, he fell upon it with a sudden guzzle. 

Eventually, in front of me, solemnly sat a faintly-smoking urine-colouredcircular broth, in which soggily hung half-suspended slabs of raw potato. Following the example of my neighbours, I too addressed myself to _LaSoupe_. I found her luke-warm, completely flavourless. I examined thehunk of bread. It was almost bluish in colour; in taste mouldy, slightlysour. "If you crumb some into the soup, " remarked B. , who had beenstudying my reactions from the corner of his eye, "they both tastebetter. " I tried the experiment. It was a complete success. At least onefelt as if one were getting nourishment. Between gulps I smelled thebread furtively. It smelled rather much like an old attic in which kitesand other toys gradually are forgotten in a gentle darkness. 

B. And I were finishing our soup together when behind and somewhat to theleft there came the noise of a lock being manipulated. I turned and sawin one corner of the _salle à manger_ a little door, shakingmysteriously. Finally it was thrown open, revealing a sort of minute barand a little closet filled with what appeared to be groceries andtobacco; and behind the bar, standing in the closet, a husky, competent-looking lady. "It's the canteen, " B. Said. We rose, spoon inhand and breadhunk stuck on spoon, and made our way to the lady. I had, naturally, no money; but B. Reassured me that before the day was over Ishould see the Gestionnaire and make arrangements for drawing on thesupply of ready cash which the _gendarmes_ who took me from Gré hadconfided to The Surveillant's care; eventually I could also draw on myaccount with Norton-Harjes in Paris; meantime he had _quelques sous_which might well go into chocolate and cigarettes. The large lady had apleasant quietness about her, a sort of simplicity, which made meextremely desirous of complying with B. 's suggestion. Incidentally I wasfeeling somewhat uncertain in the region of the stomach, due to theunique quality of the lunch which I had just enjoyed, and I brightened atthe thought of anything as solid as chocolate. Accordingly we purchased(or rather B. Did) a _paquet jaune_ and a cake of something which was notMeunier. And the remaining _sous_ we squandered on a glass apiece of redacrid _pinard_, gravely and with great happiness pledging the hostess ofthe occasion and then each other. 

With the exception of ourselves hardly anyone patronized the canteen, noting which I felt somewhat conspicuous. When, however, Harree Pompomand John the Bathman came rushing up and demanded cigarettes my fearswere dispelled. Moreover the _pinard_ was excellent. 

"Come on! Arrange yourselves!" the bull-neck cried hoarsely as the fiveof us were lighting up; and we joined the line of fellow-prisoners withtheir breads and spoons, gaping, belching, trumpeting fraternally, by thedoorway. 

"_Tout le monde en haut!_" this _planton_ roared. 

Slowly we filed through the tiny hall, past the stairs (empty now oftheir Napoleonic burden), down the corridor, up the creaking gnarled dampflights, and (after the inevitable pause in which the escort rattledchains and locks) into The Enormous Room. 

This would be about ten thirty. 

Just what I tasted, did, smelled, saw, and heard, not to mention touched, between ten thirty and the completion of the evening meal (otherwise thefour o'clock soup) I am quite at a loss to say. Whether it was that glassof _pinard_ (plus, or rather times, the astonishing exhaustion bequeathedme by my journey of the day before) which caused me to enter temporarilythe gates of forgetfulness, or whether the sheer excitement attendantupon my ultra-novel surroundings proved too much for an indispensablepart of my so-called mind--I do not in the least know. I am fairlycertain that I went on afternoon promenade. After which I must surelyhave mounted to await my supper in The Enormous Room. Whence (after thedue and proper interval) I doubtless descended to the clutches of _LaSoupe Extraordinaire_ ... Yes, for I perfectly recall the cry which mademe suddenly to re-enter the dimension of distinctness ... And by Jove Ihad just finished a glass of _pinard_ ... Somebody must have treated me... We were standing together, spoon in hand ... When we heard--

"_A la promenade_, " ... We issued _en queue_, firmly grasping our spoonsand bread, through the dining-room door. Turning right we were emitted, by the door opposite the kitchen, from the building itself into the openair. A few steps and we passed through the little gate in the barbed wirefence of the _cour_. 

Greatly refreshed by my second introduction to the canteen, and with thedigestion of the somewhat extraordinary evening meal apparently assured, I gazed almost intelligently around me. Count Bragard had declined theevening promenade in favour of The Enormous Room, but I perceived in thecrowd the now familiar faces of the three Hollanders--John, Harree andPompom--likewise of The Bear, Monsieur Auguste, and Fritz. In the courseof the next hour I had become, if not personally, at least opticallyacquainted with nearly a dozen others. 

Somewhat overawed by the animals Harree and Pompom (but neverthelessmanaging to overawe a goodly portion of his fellow-captives) anextraordinary human being paced the _cour_. On gazing for the first timedirectly at him I experienced a feeling of nausea. A figure inclined tocorpulence, dressed with care, remarkable only above the neck--and thenwhat a head! It was large, and had a copious mop of limp hair combed backfrom the high forehead--hair of a disagreeable blond tint, dutch-cutbehind, falling over the pinkish soft neck almost to the shoulders. Inthis pianist's or artist's hair, which shook en masse when the ownerwalked, two large and outstanding and altogether brutal white ears triedto hide themselves. The face, a cross between classic Greek and Jew, hada Reynard expression, something distinctly wily and perfectlydisagreeable. An equally with the hair blond moustache--or rathermustachios projectingly important--waved beneath the prominent nostrils, and served to partially conceal the pallid mouth, weak and large, whoselips assumed from time to time a smile which had something almost foetalabout it. Over the even weaker chin was disposed a blond goatee. Thecheeks were fatty. The continually perspiring forehead exhibitedinnumerable pinkish pock-marks. In conversing with a companion this beingemitted a disgusting smoothness, his very gestures were oily like hisskin. He wore a pair of bloated wristless hands, the knuckles lost infat, with which he smoothed the air from time to time. He was speakinglow and effortless French, completely absorbed in the developing ideaswhich issued fluently from his mustachios. About him there clung an auraof cringing. His hair whiskers and neck looked as if they were trick neckwhiskers and hair, as if they might at any moment suddenly disintegrate, as if the smoothness of his eloquence alone kept them in place. 

We called him Judas. 

Beside him, clumsily keeping the pace but not the step, was a tallisheffeminate person whose immaculate funereal suit hung loosely upon anaged and hurrying anatomy. He wore a big black cap on top of his haggardand remarkably clean-shaven face, the most prominent feature of which wasa red nose, which sniffed a little now and then as if its owner wassuffering from a severe cold. This person emanated age, neatness anddespair. Aside from the nose which compelled immediate attention, hisface consisted of a few large planes loosely juxtaposed and registeringpathos. His motions were without grace. He had a certain refinement. Hecould not have been more than forty-five. There was worry on every inchof him. Possibly he thought that he might die. B. Said "He's a Belgian, afriend of Count Bragard, his name is Monsieur Pet-airs. " From time totime Monsieur Pet-airs remarked something delicately and pettishly in agentle and weak voice. His adam's-apple, at such moments, jumped about ina longish slack wrinkled skinny neck which was like the neck of a turkey. To this turkey the approach of Thanksgiving inspired dread. From time totime M. Pet-airs looked about him sidewise as if he expected to see ahatchet. His hands were claws, kind, awkward and nervous. They twitched. The bony and wrinkled things looked as if they would like to closequickly upon a throat. 

B. Called my attention to a figure squatting in the middle of the _cour_with his broad back against one of the more miserable trees. This figurewas clothed in a remarkably picturesque manner: it wore a darksombrero-like hat with a large drooping brim, a bright red gipsy shirt ofsome remarkably fine material with huge sleeves loosely falling, andbaggy corduroy trousers whence escaped two brown, shapely, naked feet. Onmoving a little I discovered a face--perhaps the handsomest face that Ihave ever seen, of a gold brown color, framed in an amazingly large andbeautiful black beard. The features were finely formed and almost fluent, the eyes soft and extraordinarily sensitive, the mouth delicate and firmbeneath a black moustache which fused with the silky and wonderfuldarkness falling upon the breast. The face contained a beauty and dignitywhich, as I first saw it, annihilated the surrounding tumult without aneffort. Around the carefully formed nostrils there was something almostof contempt. The cheeks had known suns of which I might not think. Thefeet had travelled nakedly in countries not easily imagined. Seatedgravely in the mud and noise of the _cour_, under the pitiful andscraggly _pommier_ ... Behind the eyes lived a world of completestrangeness and silence. The composure of the body was graceful andJovelike. This being might have been a prophet come out of a countrynearer to the sun. Perhaps a god who had lost his road and allowedhimself to be taken prisoner by _le gouvernement français_. At least aprince of a dark and desirable country, a king over a gold-skinned peoplewho would return when he wished to his fountains and his houris. Ilearned upon inquiry that he travelled in various countries with a horseand cart and his wife and children, selling bright colours to the womenand men of these countries. As it turned out, he was one of theDelectable Mountains; to discover which I had come a long and difficultway. Wherefore I shall tell you no more about him for the present, exceptthat his name was Joseph Demestre. 

We called him The Wanderer. 

I was still wondering at my good luck in occupying the same miserableyard with this exquisite personage when a hoarse, rather thick voiceshouted from the gate: "_L'américain!_"

It was a _planton_, in fact the chief _planton_ for whom all ordinary_plantons_ had unutterable respect and whom all mere men unutterablyhated. It was the _planton_ into whom I had had the distinguished honourof bumping shortly after my visit to _le bain_. 

The Hollanders and Fritz were at the gate in a mob, all shouting "Which"in four languages. 

This _planton_ did not deign to notice them. He repeated roughly"_L'américain. _" Then, yielding a point to their frenzied entreaties: "Lenouveau. "

B. Said to me "Probably he's going to take you to the Gestionnaire. You're supposed to see him when you arrive. He's got your money and willkeep it for you, and give you an allowance twice a week. You can't drawmore than 20 francs. I'll hold your bread and spoon. "

"Where the devil is the American?" cried the _planton_. 

"Here I am. "

"Follow me. "

I followed his back and rump and holster through the little gate in thebarbed wire fence and into the building, at which point he commanded"Proceed. "

I asked "Where?"

"Straight ahead" he said angrily. 

I proceeded. "Left!" he cried. I turned. A door confronted me. "_Entrez_, " he commanded. I did. An unremarkable looking gentleman in aFrench uniform, sitting at a sort of table. "_Monsieur le médecin, lenouveau. _" The doctor got up. "Open your shirt. " I did. "Take down yourpants. " I did. "All right. " Then, as the _planton_ was about to escort mefrom the room: "English?" he asked with curiosity. "No" I said, "American. " "_Vraiment_"--he contemplated me with attention. "SouthAmerican are you?" "United States" I explained. "_Vraiment_"--he lookedcuriously at me, not disagreeably in the least. "_Pourquoi vous êtesici?_" "I don't know" I said smiling pleasantly, "except that my friendwrote some letters which were intercepted by the French censor. " "Ah, " heremarked. "_C'est tout. _"

And I departed. "Proceed!" cried the Black Holster. I retraced my steps, and was about to exit through the door leading to the _cour_, when "Stop!_Nom de Dieu!_ Proceed!"

I asked "Where?" completely bewildered. 

"Up, " he said angrily. 

I turned to the stairs on the left, and climbed. 

"Not so fast there, " he roared behind me. 

I slowed up. We reached the landing. I was sure that the Gestionnaire wasa very fierce man--probably a lean slight person who would rush at mefrom the nearest door saying "Hands up" in French, whatever that may be. The door opposite me stood open. I looked in. There was the Surveillantstanding, hands behind back, approvingly regarding my progress. I wasasking myself, Should I bow? when a scurrying and a tittering made melook left, along a dark and particularly dirty hall. Women's voices ... Ialmost fell with surprise. Were not those shadows' faces peering a littleboldly at me from doors? How many girls were there--it sounded as ifthere were a hundred--

"_Qu'est-ce que vous faites_, " etc. , and the _planton_ gave me a goodshove in the direction of another flight of stairs. I obliginglyascended; thinking of the Surveillant as a spider, elegantly poised inthe centre of his nefarious web, waiting for a fly to make too manystruggles.... 

At the top of this flight I was confronted by a second hall. A shut doorindicated the existence of a being directly over the Surveillant's holyhead. Upon this door, lest I should lose time in speculating, was inample letters inscribed:

GESTIONNAIRE

I felt unutterably lost. I approached the door. I even started to pushit. 

"_Attends, Nom de Dieu. _" The _planton_ gave me another shove, faced thedoor, knocked twice, and cried in accents of profound respect: "Monsieurle Gestionnaire"--after which he gazed at me with really supremecontempt, his neat pig-like face becoming almost circular. 

I said to myself: This Gestionnaire, whoever he is, must be a veryterrible person, a frightful person, a person utterly without mercy. 

From within a heavy, stupid, pleasant voice lazily remarked:

"_Entrez. _"

The _planton_ threw the door open, stood stiffly on the threshold, andgave me the look which _plantons_ give to eggs when _plantons_ are alittle hungry. 

I crossed the threshold, trembling with (let us hope) anger. 

Before me, seated at a table, was a very fat personage with a black skullcap perched upon its head. Its face was possessed of an enormous nose, onwhich pince-nez precariously roosted; otherwise the face was large, whiskered, very German and had three chins. Extraordinary creature. Itsbelly, as it sat, was slightly dented by the table-top, on whichtable-top rested several enormous tomes similar to those employed by therecording angel on the Day of Judgment, an inkstand or two, innumerablepens and pencils, and some positively fatal looking papers. The personwas dressed in worthy and semi-dismal clothes amply cut to afford apromenade for the big stomach. The coat was of that extremely thin blackmaterial which occasionally is affected by clerks and dentists and moreoften by librarians. If ever I looked upon an honest German jowl, or evenupon a caricature thereof, I looked upon one now. Such a round fat redpleasant beer-drinking face as reminded me only and immediately of hugemeerschaum pipes, Deutsche Verein mottos, sudsy seidels of Wurtzburger, and Jacob Wirth's (once upon a time) brachwurst. Such pinlike pink merryeyes as made me think of Kris Kringle himself. Such extraordinarily hugereddish hands as might have grasped six seidels together in the DeutscheKüchen on 13th street. I gasped with pleasurable relief. 

Monsieur le Gestionnaire looked as if he was trying very hard, with theaid of his beribboned glasses and librarian's jacket (not to mention avery ponderous gold watch-chain and locket that were supported by hiscopious equator) to appear possessed of the solemnity necessarilyemanating from his lofty and responsible office. This solemnity, however, met its Waterloo in his frank and stupid eyes, not to say his trilogy ofcheerful chins--so much so that I felt like crying "Wie gehts!" andcracking him on his huge back. Such an animal! A contented animal, abulbous animal; the only living hippopotamus in captivity, fresh from theNile. 

He contemplated me with a natural, under the circumstances, curiosity. Heeven naively contemplated me. As if I were hay. My hay-coloured headperhaps pleased him, as a hippopotamus. He would perhaps eat me. Hegrunted, exposing tobacco-yellow tusks, and his tiny eyes twittered. Finally he gradually uttered, with a thick accent, the followingextremely impressive dictum:

"_C'est l'américain. _"

I felt much pleased, and said "_Oui, j'suis américain, Monsieur. _"

He rolled half over backwards in his creaking chair with wonderment atsuch an unexpected retort. He studied my face with a puzzled air, appearing slightly embarrassed that before him should stand _l'américain_and that _l'américain_ should admit it, and that it should all be sowonderfully clear. I saw a second dictum, even more profound than thefirst, ascending from his black vest. The chain and fob trembled withanticipation. I was wholly fascinated. What vast blob of wisdom wouldfind its difficult way out of him? The bulbous lips wiggled in a pleasantsmile. 

"_Voo parlez français. _"

This was delightful. The _planton_ behind me was obviously angered by thecongenial demeanour of Monsieur le Gestionnaire, and rasped with his bootupon the threshold. The maps to my right and left, maps of France, mapsof the Mediterranean, of Europe, even, were abashed. A little anaemic andhumble biped whom I had not previously noted, as he stood in one cornerwith a painfully deferential expression, looked all at once relieved. Iguessed, and correctly guessed, that this little thing was the translatorof La Ferté. His weak face wore glasses of the same type as thehippopotamus', but without a huge black ribbon. I decided to give him atremor; and said to the hippo "_Un peu, Monsieur_, " at which the littlething looked sickly. 

The hippopotamus benevolently remarked "_Voo parlez bien_, " and hisglasses fell off. He turned to the watchful _planton_:

"_Voo poovez aller. Je vooz appelerai. _"

The watchful _planton_ did a sort of salute and closed the door afterhim. The skullcapped dignitary turned to his papers and began mouthingthem with his huge hands, grunting pleasantly. Finally he found one, andsaid lazily:

"_De quelle endroit que vooz êtes?_"

"_De Massachusetts_, " said I. 

He wheeled round and stared dumbly at the weak faced one, who looked at acomplete loss, but managed to stammer simperingly that it was a part ofthe United States. 

"UH. " The hippopotamus said. 

Then he remarked that I had been arrested, and I agreed that I had beenarrested. 

Then he said "Have you got any money?" and before I could answerclambered heavily to his feet and, leaning over the table before which Istood, punched me gently. 

"Uh, " said the hippopotamus, sat down, and put on his glasses. 

"I have your money here, " he said. "You are allowed to draw a little fromtime to time. You may draw 20 francs, if you like. You may draw it twicea week. "

"I should like to draw 20 francs now" I said, "in order to buy somethingat the canteen. "

"You will give me a receipt, " said the hippopotamus. "You want to draw 20francs now, quite so. " He began, puffing and grunting, to makehandwriting of a peculiarly large and somewhat loose variety. 

The weak face now stepped forward, and asked me gently: "Hugh er a merrycan?"--so I carried on a brilliant conversation in pidgeon English aboutmy relatives and America until interrupted by

"Uh. "

The hip had finished. 

"Sign your name, here, " he said, and I did. He looked about in one of thetomes and checked something opposite my name, which I enjoyed seeing inthe list of inmates. It had been spelled, erased, and re-spelled severaltimes. 

Monsieur le Gestionnaire contemplated my signature. Then he looked up, smiled and nodded recognition to someone behind me. I turned. There stood(having long since noiselessly entered) The Fencer Himself, nervouslyclasping and unclasping his hands behind his back and regarding me withapproval, or as a keeper regards some rare monkey newly forwarded fromits habitat by Hagenbeck. 

The hippo pulled out a drawer. He found, after hunting, some notes. Hecounted two off, licking his big thumb with a pompous gesture, and havingrecounted them passed them heavily to me. I took them as a monkey takes acocoanut. 

"Do you wish?"--the Gestionnaire nodded toward me, addressing the Fencer. 

"No, no" the Fencer said bowingly. "I have talked to him already. "

"Call that _planton!_" cried Monsieur le Gestionnaire, to the littlething. The little thing ran out dutifully and called in a weak voice"_Planton!_"

A gruff but respectful "_Oui_" boomed from below-stairs. In a moment the_planton_ of _plantons_ had respectfully entered. 

"The promenade being over, you can take him to the men's room, " said theSurveillant, as the Hippo (immensely relieved and rather proud ofhimself) collapsed in his creaking chair. 

Feeling like a suit-case in the clutches of a porter, I obedientlypreceded my escort down two flights, first having bowed to thehippopotamus and said "_Merci_"--to which courtesy the Hippo paid noattention. As we went along the dank hall on the ground floor, Iregretted that no whispers and titters had greeted my descent. Probablythe furious _planton_ had seen to it that _les femmes_ kept their roomsin silence. We ascended the three flights at the farther end of thecorridor, the _planton_ of all _plantons_ unlocked and unbolted the doorat the top landing, and I was swallowed by The Enormous Room. 

I made for B. , in my excitement allowing myself to wave the bank-notes. Instantly a host had gathered at my side. On my way to my bed--a distanceof perhaps thirty feet--I was patted on the back by Harree, Pompom andBathhouse John, congratulated by Monsieur Auguste, and saluted by Fritz. Arriving, I found myself the centre of a stupendous crowd. People who hadpreviously had nothing to say to me, who had even sneered at my unwashedand unshaven exterior, now addressed me in terms of more than politeinterest. Judas himself stopped in a promenade of the room, eyed me amoment, hastened smoothly to my vicinity, and made a few oily remarks ofa pleasant nature. Simultaneously by Monsieur Auguste Harree and Fritz Iwas advised to hide my money and hide it well. There were people, youknow ... Who didn't hesitate, you understand.... I understood, and to thevast disappointment of the clamorous majority reduced my wealth to itslowest terms and crammed it in my trousers, stuffing several trifles of abulky nature on top of it. Then I gazed quietly around with a William S. Hart expression calculated to allay any undue excitement. One by one thecurious and enthusiastic faded from me, and I was left with the few whomI already considered my friends; with which few B. And myself proceededto wile away the time remaining before _Lumières Éteintes_. 

Incidentally, I exchanged (in the course of the next two hours) aconsiderable mass of two legged beings for a number of extremelyinteresting individuals. Also, in that somewhat limited period of time, Igained all sorts of highly enlightening information concerning the lives, habits and likes of half a dozen of as fine companions as it has everbeen my luck to meet or, so far as I can now imagine, ever will be. Inprison one learns several million things--if one is _l'américain_ from_Mass-a-chu-setts_. When the ominous and awe-inspiring rattle on thefurther side of the locked door announced that the captors were come tobid the captives good night, I was still in the midst of conversation andhad been around the world a number of times. At the clanking sound ourlittle circle centripetally disintegrated, as if by sheer magic; and Iwas left somewhat dizzily to face a renewal of reality. 

The door shot wide. The _planton's_ almost indistinguishable figure inthe doorway told me that the entire room was dark. I had not noticed thedarkness. Somebody had placed a candle (which I recalled having seen on atable in the middle of the room when I looked up once or twice during theconversation) on a little shelf hard by the cabinet. There had been menplaying at cards by this candle--now everybody was quietly reposing uponthe floor along three sides of The Enormous Room. The _planton_ entered. Walked over to the light. Said something about everybody being present, and was answered by a number of voices in a more or less profaneaffirmative. Strutted to and fro, kicked the cabinet, flashed an electrictorch, and walked up the room examining each _paillasse_ to make sure ithad an occupant. Crossed the room at the upper end. Started down on myside. The white circle was in my eyes. The _planton_ stopped. I staredstupidly and wearily into the glare. The light moved all over me and mybed. The rough voice behind the glare said:

"_Vous êtes le nouveau?_"

Monsieur Auguste, from my left, said quietly:

"_Oui, c'est le nouveau. _"

The holder of the torch grunted, and (after pausing a second at B. 's bedto inspect a picture of perfect innocence) banged out through the doorwhich whanged to behind him and another _planton_, of whose presence Ihad been hitherto unaware. A perfect symphony of "_Bonne nuits_" "_Dormezbiens_" and other affectionate admonitions greeted the exeunt of theauthorities. They were advised by various parts of the room in diverstongues to dream of their wives, to be careful of themselves in bed, toavoid catching cold, and to attend to a number of personal wants beforeretiring. The symphony gradually collapsed, leaving me sitting in a stateof complete wonderment, dead tired and very happy, upon my _paillasse_. 

"I think I'll turn in" I said to the neighbouring darkness. 

"That's what I'm doing" B. 's voice said. 

"By God" I said, "this is the finest place I've ever been in my life. "

"It's the finest place in the world" said B. 's voice. 

"Thank Heaven, we're out of A. 's way and the ---- _Section Sanitaire_, " Igrunted as I placed my boots where a pillow might have been imagined. 

"Amen" B. 's voice said. 

"If you put your shoes un-der your mat-tress" Monsieur Auguste's voicesaid, "you'll sleep well. "

I thanked him for the suggestion, and did so. I reclined in an ecstasy ofhappiness and weariness. There could be nothing better than this. Tosleep. 

"Got a _gottverdummer_ cigarette?" Harree's voice asked of Fritz. 

"No bloody fear, " Fritz's voice replied coolly. 

Snores had already begun in various keys at various distances in variousdirections. The candle flickered a little; as if darkness and itself werestruggling to the death, and darkness were winning. 

"I'll get a chew from John" Harree's voice said. 

Three or four _paillasses_ away, a subdued conversation was proceeding. Ifound myself listening sleepily. 

"_Et puis_, " a voice said, "_je suis reformé.... _"

V. 

A GROUP OF PORTRAITS

With the reader's permission I beg, at this point of my narrative, toindulge in one or two extrinsic observations. 

In the preceding pages I have described my Pilgrim's Progress from theSlough of Despond, commonly known as Section Sanitaire Vingt-et-Un (thenlocated at Germaine) through the mysteries of Noyon, Gré and Paris to thePorte de Triage de La Ferté Macé, Orne. With the end of my first day as acertified inhabitant of the latter institution a definite progression isbrought to a close. Beginning with my second day at La Ferté a new periodopens. This period extends to the moment of my departure and includes thediscovery of The Delectable Mountains, two of which--The Wanderer and Ishall not say the other--have already been sighted. It is like a vastgrey box in which are laid helter-skelter a great many toys, each ofwhich is itself completely significant apart from the always unchangingtemporal dimension which merely contains it along with the rest. I makethis point clear for the benefit of any of my readers who have not hadthe distinguished privilege of being in jail. To those who have been injail my meaning is at once apparent; particularly if they have had thehighly enlightening experience of being in jail with a perfectlyindefinite sentence. How, in such a case, could events occur and beremembered otherwise than as individualities distinct from Time Itself?Or, since one day and the next are the same to such a prisoner, wheredoes Time come in at all? Obviously, once the prisoner is habituated tohis environment, once he accepts the fact that speculation as to when hewill regain his liberty cannot possibly shorten the hours of hisincarceration and may very well drive him into a state of unhappiness(not to say morbidity), events can no longer succeed each other: whateverhappens, while it may happen in connection with some other perfectlydistinct happenings, does not happen in a scale of temporalpriorities--each happening is self-sufficient, irrespective of minutes, months and the other treasures of freedom. 

It is for this reason that I do not purpose to inflict upon the reader adiary of my alternative aliveness and non-existence at La Ferté--notbecause such a diary would unutterably bore him, but because the diary ortime method is a technique which cannot possibly do justice totimelessness. I shall (on the contrary) lift from their grey box atrandom certain (to me) more or less astonishing toys; which may or maynot please the reader, but whose colours and shapes and textures are apart of that actual Present--without future and past--whereof they aloneare cognizant who--so to speak--have submitted to an amputation of theworld. 

I have already stated that La Ferté was a Porte de Triage--that is tosay, a place where suspects of all varieties were herded by _legouvernement français_ preparatory to their being judged as to theirguilt by a Commission. If the Commission found that they were wickedpersons or dangerous persons, or undesirable persons, or puzzlingpersons, or persons in some way insusceptible of analysis, they were sentfrom La Ferté to a "regular" prison, called Précigne, in the province ofSarthe. About Précigne the most awful rumors were spread. It waswhispered that it had a huge moat about it, with an infinity of barbedwire fences thirty-feet high, and lights trained on the walls all nightto discourage the escape of prisoners. Once in Précigne you were "in" forgood and all, _pour la durée de la guerre_, which _durée_ was a subjectof occasional and dismal speculation--occasional for reasons, as I havementioned, of mental health; dismal for unreasons of diet, privation, filth, and other trifles. La Ferté was, then, a stepping stone either tofreedom or to Précigne. But the excellent and inimitable and altogetherbenignant French Government was not satisfied with its own generosity inpresenting one merely with Précigne--beyond that lurked a _cauchemar_called by the singularly poetic name: Isle de Groix. A man who went toIsle de Groix was done. 

As the Surveillant said to us all, leaning out of a littlish window, andto me personally upon occasion--

"You are not prisoners. Oh, no. No indeed, I should say not. Prisonersare not treated like this. You are lucky. "

I had _de la chance_ all right, but that was something which the _pauvre_M. Surveillant wot altogether not of. As for my fellow-prisoners, I amsorry to say that he was--it seems to my humble personality--quite wrong. For who was eligible to La Ferté? Anyone whom the police could find inthe lovely country of France (a) who was not guilty--of treason (b) whocould not prove that he was not guilty of treason. By treason I refer toany little annoying habits of independent thought or action which _entemps de guerre_ are put in a hole and covered over, with the somewhatnaïve idea that from their cadavers violets will grow, whereof theperfume will delight all good men and true and make such worthy citizensforget their sorrows. Fort Leavenworth, for instance, emanates even now aperfume which is utterly delightful to certain Americans. Just how manyLa Fertés France boasted (and for all I know may still boast) God Himselfknows. At least, in that Republic, amnesty has been proclaimed, or so Ihear. --But to return to the Surveillants remark. 

_J'avais de la chance. _ Because I am by profession a painter and awriter. Whereas my very good friends, all of them deeply suspiciouscharacters, most of them traitors, without exception lucky to have theuse of their cervical vertebrae, etc. , etc. , could (with a fewexceptions) write not a word and read not a word; neither could they_faire la photographie_ as Monsieur Auguste chucklingly called it (atwhich I blushed with pleasure): worst of all, the majority of these darkcriminals who had been caught in nefarious plots against the honour ofFrance were totally unable to speak French. Curious thing. Often Ipondered the unutterable and inextinguishable wisdom of the police, who--undeterred by facts which would have deceived less astuteintelligences into thinking that these men were either too stupid or toosimple to be connoisseurs of the art of betrayal--swooped upon theirhelpless prey with that indescribable courage which is the prerogative ofpolicemen the world over, and bundled it into the La Fertés of thatmighty nation upon some, at least, of whose public buildings it seems tome that I remember reading:

Liberté. 

Egalité. 

Fraternité. 

And I wondered that France should have a use for Monsieur Auguste, whohad been arrested (because he was a Russian) when his fellow munitionworkers struck and whose wife wanted him in Paris because she was hungryand because their child was getting to look queer and white. MonsieurAuguste, that desperate ruffian exactly five feet tall who--when he couldnot keep from crying (one must think about one's wife or even one's childonce or twice, I merely presume, if one loves them--"_et ma femme esttrès gen-tille, elle est fran-çaise et très belle, très, très belle, vraiment; elle n'est fas comme moi, un pet-it homme laide, ma femme estgrande et belle, elle sait bien lire et é-crire, vraiment; et notre fils... Vous dev-ez voir notre pet-it fils.... _")--used to start up and cryout, taking B. By one arm and me by the other, "_Allons, mes amis! Chan-tons 'Quackquackquack_. '"

Whereupon we would join in the following song, which Monsieur Auguste hadtaught us with great care, and whose renditions gave him unspeakabledelight:

 "_Un canard, déployant chez elle (Quackquackquack) Il disait à sa canard fidèle (Quackquackquack) Il disait (Quackquackquack) Il faisait (Quackquackquack) Quand_" (spelling mine) "_finirons nos desseins, Quack. Quack. Quack. Quack. "

I suppose I will always puzzle over the ecstasies of That Wonderful Duck. And how Monsieur Auguste, the merest gnome of a man, would bend backwardsin absolute laughter at this song's spirited conclusion upon a note solow as to wither us all. 

Then, too, the Schoolmaster. 

A little fragile old man. His trousers were terrifically too big for him. When he walked (in an insecure and frightened way) his trousers did themost preposterous wrinkles. If he leaned against a tree in the _cour_, with a very old and also fragile pipe in his pocket--the stem (whichlooked enormous in contrast to the owner) protruding therefrom--histhree-sizes too big collar would leap out so as to make his wizened neckappear no thicker than the white necktie which flowed upon his two-sizestoo big shirt. He always wore a coat which reached below his knees, whichcoat, with which knees, perhaps someone had once given him. It had hugeshoulders which sprouted, like wings, on either side of his elbows whenhe sat in The Enormous Room quietly writing at a tiny three-legged table, a very big pen walking away with his weak bony hand. His too big cap hada little button on top which looked like the head of a nail; andsuggested that this old doll had once lost its poor grey head and hadbeen repaired by means of tacking its head upon its neck, where it shouldbe and properly belonged. Of what hideous crime was this being suspected?By some mistake he had three moustaches, two of them being eyebrows. Heused to teach school in Alsace-Lorraine, and his sister is there. Inspeaking to you his kind face is peacefully reduced to triangles. And histie buttons on every morning with a Bang! And off he goes; led about byhis celluloid collar, gently worried about himself, delicately worriedabout the world. At eating time he looks sidelong as he stuffs soup intostiff lips. There are two holes where cheeks might have been. Lessonshide in his wrinkles. Bells ding in the oldness of eyes. Did he, by anychance, tell the children that there are such monstrous things as peaceand good will ... A corrupter of youth, no doubt ... He is altogetherincapable of anger, wholly timid and tintinabulous. And he had alwayswanted so much to know--if there were wild horses in America?

Yes, probably the Schoolmaster was a notorious seditionist. The all-wiseFrench Government has its ways, which like the ways of God are wonderful. 

I had almost forgot The Bear--number two, not to be confused with theseeker of cigarette-ends. A big, shaggy person, a farmer, talked about"_mon petit jardin_, " an anarchist, wrote practically all the time (tothe gentle annoyance of The Schoolmaster) at the queer-legged table;wrote letters (which he read aloud with evident satisfaction to himself)addressing "my confrères", stimulating them to even greater efforts, telling them that the time was ripe, that the world consisted ofbrothers, etc. I liked The Bear. He had a sincerity which, if somewhatstartlingly uncouth, was always definitely compelling. His French itselfwas both uncouth and startling. I hardly think he was a dangerous bear. Had I been the French Government I should have let him go berrying, as abear must and should, to his heart's content. Perhaps I liked him bestfor his great awkward way of presenting an idea--he scooped it out of itsenvironment with a hearty paw in a way which would have delighted anyonesave _le gouvernement français_. He had, I think, VIVE LA LIBERTÉ

tattooed in blue and green on his big hairy chest. A fine bear. A bearwhom no twitchings at his muzzle nor any starvation nor yet any beatingcould ever teach to dance ... But then, I am partial to bears. Of coursenone of this bear's letters ever got posted--Le Directeur was not thatsort of person; nor did this bear ever expect that they would goelsewhere than into the official waste-basket of La Ferté, which meansthat he wrote because he liked to; which again means that he wasessentially an artist--for which reason I liked him more than a little. He lumbered off one day--I hope to his brier-patch, and to his children, and to his _confrères_, and to all things excellent and livable andhighly desirable to a bruin. 

The Young Russian and The Barber escaped while I was enjoying my littlevisit at Orne. The former was an immensely tall and very strong boy ofnineteen or under; who had come to our society by way of solitaryconfinement, bread and water for months, and other reminders that to erris human, etc. Unlike Harree, whom, if anything, he exceeded in strength, he was very quiet. Everyone let him alone. I "caught water" in the townwith him several times and found him an excellent companion. He taught methe Russian numerals up to ten, and was very kind to my struggles over 10and 9. He picked up the cannon-ball one day and threw it so hard that thewall separating the men's _cour_ from the _cour des femmes_ shook, and apiece of stone fell off. At which the cannon-ball was taken away from us(to the grief of its daily wielders, Harree and Fritz) by four perspiring_plantons_, who almost died in the performance of their highly patrioticduty. His friend, The Barber, had a little shelf in The Enormous Room, all tricked out with an astonishing array of bottles, atomizers, tonics, powders, scissors, razors and other deadly implements. It has always beena _mystère_ to me that our captors permitted this array of obviouslydangerous weapons when we were searched almost weekly for knives. Had Inot been in the habit of using B. 's safety razor I should probably havebecome better acquainted with The Barber. It was not his price, nor yethis technique, but the fear of contamination which made me avoid theseinstruments of hygiene. Not that I shaved to excess. On the contrary, theSurveillant often, nay bi-weekly (so soon as I began drawing certainfrancs from Norton Harjes) reasoned with me upon the subject ofappearance; saying that I was come of a good family, and I had enjoyed(unlike my companions) an education, and that I should keep myself neatand clean and be a shining example to the filthy and ignorant--addingslyly that the "hospital" would be an awfully nice place for me and myfriend to live, and that there we could be by ourselves like gentlemenand have our meals served in the room, avoiding the _salle a manger_;moreover, the food would be what we liked, delicious food, especiallycooked ... All (quoth the Surveillant with the itching palm of a GrandCentral Porter awaiting his tip) for a mere trifle or so, which if Iliked I could pay him on the spot--whereat I scornfully smiled, beinginhibited by a somewhat selfish regard for my own welfare from kickinghim through the window. To The Barber's credit be it said: he never oncesolicited my trade, although the Surveillant's "_Soi-même_" (oneself)lectures (as B. And I referred to them) were the delight of our numerousfriends and must, through them, have reached his alert ears. He was agood-looking quiet man of perhaps thirty, with razor-keen eyes--andthat's about all I know of him except that one day The Young Russian andThe Barber, instead of passing from the _cour_ directly to the building, made use of a little door in an angle between the stone wall and thekitchen; and that to such good effect that we never saw them again. Norwere the ever-watchful guardians of our safety, the lion-hearted_plantons_, aware of what had occurred until several hours after; despitethe fact that a ten-foot wall had been scaled, some lesser obstructionsvanquished, and a run in the open made almost (one unpatriotically mindedmight be tempted to say) before their very eyes. But then--who knows? Maynot the French Government deliberately have allowed them to escape, after--through its incomparable spy system--learning that The Barber andhis young friend were about to attempt the life of the Surveillant withan atomizer brim-full of T. N. T. ? Nothing could after all be more highlyprobable. As a matter of fact a couple of extra-fine razors (presented bythe _Soi-même_-minded Surveillant to the wily coiffeur in the interestsof public health) as well as a knife which belonged to the kitchen andhad been lent to The Barber for the purpose of peeling potatoes--hehaving complained that the extraordinary safety-device with which, onalternate days, we were ordinarily furnished for that purpose, was aninsult to himself and his profession--vanished into the rather thick airof Orne along with The Barber _lui-même_. I remember him perfectly in TheEnormous Room, cutting apples deliberately with his knife and sharingthem with the Young Russian. The night of the escape--in order to keep upour morale--we were helpfully told that both refugees had been snitchede'er they had got well without the limits of the town, and been remandedto a punishment consisting among other things, in _travaux forcés àperpetuité--verbum sapientibus_, he that hath ears, etc. Also a nightlyinspection was instituted; consisting of our being counted thrice by a_planton_, who then divided the total by three and vanished. 

_Soi-même_ reminds me of a pleasant spirit who graced our little companywith a good deal of wit and elegance. He was called by B. And myself, after a somewhat exciting incident which I must not describe, but ratheroutline, by the agreeable title of Même le Balayeur. Only a few daysafter my arrival the incident in question happened. It seems (I was in_la cour_ promenading for the afternoon) that certain more virileinhabitants of The Enormous Room, among them Harree and Pom Pom _bienentendu_, declined to _se promener_ and kept their habitat. Now this wasin fulfilment of a little understanding with three or more girls--such asCelina, Lily and Renée--who, having also declined the promenade, managedin the course of the afternoon to escape from their quarters on thesecond floor, rush down the hall and upstairs, and gain that landing onwhich was the only and well-locked door to The Enormous Room. The nextact of this little comedy (or tragedy, as it proved for the participants, who got _cabinot_ and _pain sec_--male and female alike--for numerousdays thereafter) might well be entitled "Love will find a way. " Just howthe door was opened, the lock picked, etc. , from the inside is (ofcourse) a considerable mystery to anyone possessing a limitedacquaintance with the art of burglary. Anyway it was accomplished, andthat in several fifths of a second. Now let the curtain fall, and thereader be satisfied with the significant word "Asbestos, " which is partof all first-rate performances. 

The Surveillant, I fear, distrusted his _balayeur_. _Balayeurs_ werealways being changed because _balayeurs_ were (in shameful contrast tothe _plantons_) invariably human beings. For this deplorable reason theyinevitably carried notes to and fro between _les hommes_ and _lesfemmes_. Upon which ground the _balayeur_ in this case--a well-knitkeen-eyed agile man, with a sense of humour and sharp perception of men, women and things in particular and in general--was called before the barof an impromptu court, held by M. Le Surveillant in The Enormous Roomafter the promenade. I shall not enter in detail into the nature of thecharges pressed in certain cases, but confine myself to quoting the closeof a peroration which would have done Demosthenes credit:

"_Même le balayeur a tiré un coup!_"

The individual in question mildly deprecated M. Le Surveillant's opinion, while the audience roared and rocked with laughter of a somewhatferocious sort. I have rarely seen the Surveillant so pleased withhimself as after producing this _bon mot_. Only fear of his superior, theogre-like Directeur, kept him from letting off entirely all concerned inwhat after all (from the European point of view) was an essentially humanproceeding. As nobody could prove anything about Même, he was not lockedup in a dungeon; but he lost his job of sweeper--which was quite as bad, I am sure, from his point of view--and from that day became a commoninhabitant of The Enormous Room like any of the rest of us. 

His successor, Garibaldi, was a corker. 

How the Almighty French Government in its Almighty Wisdom ever foundGaribaldi a place among us is more than I understand or ever will. He wasa little tot in a faded blue-grey French uniform; and when he perspiredhe pushed a _kepi_ up and back from his worried forehead which a lock ofheavy hair threateningly overhung. As I recollect Garibaldi's terriblydifficult, not to say complicated, lineage, his English mother hadpresented him to his Italian father in the country of France. Howeverthis trilogy may be, he had served at various times in the Italian, French and English armies. As there was (unless we call GaribaldiItalian, which he obviously was not) nary a subject of King Ponzi orCarruso or whatever be his name residing at La Ferté Macé, Garibaldi wasin the habit of expressing himself--chiefly at the card table, be itsaid--in a curious language which might have been mistaken for French. ToB. And me he spoke an equally curious language, but a perfectlyrecognizable one, i. E. , Cockney Whitechapel English. He showed us aperfectly authentic mission-card which certified that his family hadreceived a pittance from some charitable organisation situated in theWhitechapel neighbourhood, and that, moreover, they were in the habit ofreceiving this pittance; and that, finally, their claim to such pittancewas amply justified by the poverty of their circumstances. Beyond thisvaluable certificate, Garibaldi (which everyone called him) attainedgreat incoherence. He had been wronged. He was always beingmisunderstood. His life had been a series of mysterious tribulations. Ifor one have the merest idea that Garibaldi was arrested for the theft ofsome peculiarly worthless trifle, and sent to the Limbo of La Ferté as apenance. This merest idea is suggested by something which happened whenThe Clever Man instituted a search for his missing knife--but I mustintroduce The Clever Man to my reader before describing that ratherbeguiling incident. 

Conceive a tall, well-dressed, rather athletic, carefully kept, clean andneat, intelligent, not for a moment despondent, altogether superior man, fairly young (perhaps twenty-nine) and quite bald. He wins enough everynight at _banque_ to enable him to pay the less fortunate to perform his_corvée d'eau_ for him. As a consequence he takes his vile coffee in bedevery morning, then smokes a cigarette or two lazily, then drops off fora nap, and gets up about the middle of the morning promenade. Uponarising he strops a razor of his own (nobody knows how he gets away witha regular razor), carefully lathers his face and neck--while gazing intoa rather classy mirror which hangs night and day over his head, above alittle shelf on which he displays at such times a complete toiletoutfit--and proceeds to annihilate the inconsiderable growth of beardwhich his mirror reveals to him. Having completed the annihilation, heperforms the most extensive ablutions per one of the three or four pailswhich The Enormous Room boasts, which pail is by common consent dedicatedto his personal and exclusive use. All this time he has been singingloudly and musically the following sumptuously imaginative ditty:

 "mEEt me tonIght in DREAmland, UNder the SIL-v'ry mOOn, meet me in DREAmland, sweet dreamy DREAmland-- there all my DRE-ams come trUE. "

His English accent is excellent. He pronounces his native language, whichis the language of the Hollanders, crisply and firmly. He is not given toGottverdummering. In addition to Dutch and English he speaks Frenchclearly and Belgian distinctly. I daresay he knows half a dozen languagesin all. He gives me the impression of a man who would never be at a loss, in whatever circumstances he might find himself. A man capable ofextricating himself from the most difficult situation; and that with thegreatest ease. A man who bides his time; and improves the present byseparating, one after one, his monied fellow-prisoners from theirbanknotes. He is, by all odds, the coolest player that I ever watched. Nothing worries him. If he loses two hundred francs tonight, I am sure hewill win it and fifty in addition tomorrow. He accepts opponents withoutdistinction--the stupid, the wily, the vain, the cautious, the desperate, the hopeless. He has not the slightest pity, not the least fear. In oneof my numerous notebooks I have this perfectly direct paragraph:

 Card table: 4 stares play banque with 2 cigarettes (1 dead) & A pipe the clashing faces yanked by a leanness of one candle bottle-stuck (Birth of X) (where sits The Clever Man who pyramids, ) sings (mornings) "Meet Me... "

which specimen of telegraphic technique, being interpreted, means: Judas, Garibaldi, and The Holland Skipper (whom the reader will meet _desuite_)--Garibaldi's cigarette having gone out, so greatly is heabsorbed--play _banque_ with four intent and highly focussed individualswho may or may not be The Schoolmaster, Monsieur Auguste, The Barber, andMême; with The Clever Man (as nearly always) acting as banker. The candleby whose somewhat uncorpulent illumination the various physiognomies areyanked into a ferocious unity is stuck into the mouth of a bottle. Thelighting of the whole, the rhythmic disposition of the figures, constructa sensuous integration suggestive of The Birth of Christ by one of theOld Masters. The Clever Man, having had his usual morning warble, isextremely quiet. He will win, he pyramids--and he pyramids because he hasthe cash and can afford to make every play a big one. All he needs is therake of a _croupier_ to complete his disinterested and wholly nervelesspoise. He is a born gambler, is The Clever Man--and I dare say that toplay cards in time of war constituted a heinous crime and I am certainthat he played cards before he arrived at La Ferté; moreover, I supposethat to win at cards in time of war is an unutterable crime, and I knowthat he has won at cards before in his life--so now we have a perfectlygood and valid explanation of the presence of The Clever Man in ourmidst. The Clever Man's chief opponent was Judas. It was a real pleasureto us whenever of an evening Judas sweated and mopped and sweated andlost more and more and was finally cleaned out. 

But The Skipper, I learned from certain prisoners who escorted thebaggage of The Clever Man from The Enormous Room when he left us one day(as he did for some reason, to enjoy the benefits of freedom), paid themastermind of the card table 150 francs at the gate--poor Skipper! uponwhose vacant bed lay down luxuriously the Lobster, immediately to bewheeled fiercely all around The Enormous Room by the Guard Champêtre andJudas, to the boisterous plaudits of _tout le monde_--but I started totell about the afternoon when the master-mind lost his knife; and tell itI will forthwith. B. And I were lying prone upon our respective bedswhen--presto, a storm arose at the further end of The Enormous Room. Welooked, and beheld The Clever Man, thoroughly and efficiently angry, addressing, threatening and frightening generally a constantly increasinggroup of fellow-prisoners. After dismissing with a few sharp linguisticcracks of the whip certain theories which seemed to be advanced by thebolder auditors with a view to palliating, persuading and tranquilizinghis just wrath, he made for the nearest _paillasse_, turned ittopsy-turvy, slit it neatly and suddenly from stem to stem with ajack-knife, banged the hay about, and then went with careful hastethrough the pitifully minute baggage of the _paillasse's_ owner. Silencefell. No one, least of all the owner, said anything. From this bed TheClever Man turned to the next, treated it in the same fashion, searchedit thoroughly, and made for the third. His motions were those of aperfectly oiled machine. He proceeded up the length of the room, varyinghis procedure only by sparing an occasional mattress, throwing_paillasses_ about, tumbling _sacs_ and boxes inside out; his facesomewhat paler than usual but otherwise immaculate and expressionless. B. And I waited with some interest to see what would happen to ourbelongings. Arriving at our beds he paused, seemed to consider a moment, then, not touching our _paillasses_ proper, proceeded to open our dufflebags and hunt half-heartedly, remarking that "somebody might have put itin;" and so passed on. "What in hell is the matter with that guy?" Iasked of Fritz, who stood near us with a careless air, some scorn andconsiderable amusement in his eyes. "The bloody fool's lost his knife, "was Fritz's answer. After completing his rounds The Clever Man searchedalmost everyone except ourselves and Fritz, and absolutely subsided onhis own _paillasse_ muttering occasionally "if he found it" what he'd do. I think he never did find it. It was a "beautiful" knife, John theBaigneur said. "What did it look like?" I demanded with some curiosity. "It had a naked woman on the handle" Fritz said, his eyes sharp withamusement. 

And everyone agreed that it was a great pity that The Clever Man had lostit, and everyone began timidly to restore order and put his personalbelongings back in place and say nothing at all. 

But what amused me was to see the little tot in a bluish-grey Frenchuniform, Garibaldi, who--about when the search approached his_paillasse_--suddenly hurried over to B. (his perspiring forehead moreperspiring than usual, his _kepi_ set at an angle of insanity) andhurriedly presented B. With a long-lost German silver folding camp-knife, purchased by B. From a fellow-member of Vingt-et-Un who was known to usas "Lord Algie"--a lanky, effeminate, brittle, spotless creature who wasen route to becoming an officer and to whose finicky tastes thefat-jowled A. Tirelessly pandered, for, doubtless, financialconsiderations--which knife according to the trembling and altogethermiserable Garibaldi had "been found" by him that day in the _cour_; whichwas eminently and above all things curious, as the treasure had been lostweeks before. 

Which again brings us to the Skipper, whose elaborate couch has alreadybeen mentioned--he was a Hollander and one of the strongest, most gentleand altogether most pleasant of men, who used to sit on the water-wagonunder the shed in the _cour_ and smoke his pipe quietly of an afternoon. His stocky even tightly-knit person, in its heavy-trousers and jerseysweater, culminated in a bronzed face which was at once as kind and firma piece of supernatural work as I think I ever knew. His voice wasagreeably modulated. He was utterly without affectation. He had threesons. One evening a number of _gendarmes_ came to his house and told himthat he was arrested, "so my three sons and I threw them all out of thewindow into the canal. "

I can still see the opening smile, squared kindness of cheeks, eyes likecool keys--his heart always with the Sea. 

The little Machine-Fixer (_le petit bonhomme avec le bras cassé_ as hestyled himself, referring to his little paralysed left arm) was soperfectly different that I must let you see him next. He was slightlytaller than Garibaldi, about of a size with Monsieur Auguste. He andMonsieur Auguste together were a fine sight, a sight which made me feelthat I came of a race of giants. I am afraid it was more or less asgiants that B. And I pitied the Machine-Fixer--still this was not reallyour fault, since the Machine-Fixer came to us with his troubles much as avery minute and helpless child comes to a very large and omnipotent one. And God knows we did not only pity him, we liked him--and if we could insome often ridiculous manner assist the Machine-Fixer I think we nearlyalways did. The assistance to which I refer was wholly spiritual; sincethe minute Machine-Fixer's colossal self-pride eliminated any possibilityof material assistance. What we did, about every other night, was toentertain him (as we entertained our other friends) _chez nous_; that isto say, he would come up late every evening or every other evening, afterhis day's toil--for he worked as co-sweeper with Garibaldi and he was atremendous worker; never have I seen a man who took his work so seriouslyand made so much of it--to sit, with great care and very respectfully, upon one or the other of our beds at the upper end of The Enormous Room, and smoke a black small pipe, talking excitedly and strenuously andfiercely about _La Misère_ and himself and ourselves, often crying alittle but very bitterly, and from time to time striking matches with ashort angry gesture on the sole of his big, almost square boot. Hislittle, abrupt, conscientious, relentless, difficult self lived always ina single dimension--the somewhat beautiful dimension of Sorrow. He was aBelgian, and one of two Belgians in whom I have ever felt the least orslightest interest; for the Machine-Fixer might have been a Polak or anIdol or an Esquimo so far as his nationality affected his soul. By andlarge, that was the trouble--the Machine-Fixer had a soul. Put thebracelets on an ordinary man, tell him he's a bad egg, treat him rough, shove him into the jug or its equivalent (you see I have regard alwaysfor M. Le Surveillant's delicate but no doubt necessary distinctionbetween La Ferté and Prison), and he will become one of three animals--arabbit, that is to say timid; a mole, that is to say stupid; or a hyena, that is to say Harree the Hollander. But if, by some fatal, someincomparably fatal accident, this man has a soul--ah, then we have andtruly have most horribly what is called in La Ferté Macé by those whohave known it: _La Misère_. Monsieur Auguste's valiant attempts atcheerfulness and the natural buoyancy of his gentle disposition in aslight degree protected him from _La Misère_. The Machine-Fixer was lost. By nature he was tremendously sensible, he was the very apotheosis of_l'ame sensible_ in fact. His sensibilité made him shoulder not only theinexcusable injustice which he had suffered but the incomparable andoverwhelming total injustice which everyone had suffered and wassuffering en masse day and night in The Enormous Room. His woes, had theynot sprung from perfectly real causes, might have suggested a persecutioncomplex. As it happened there was no possible method of relievingthem--they could be relieved in only one way: by Liberty. Not simply byhis personal liberty, but by the liberation of every singlefellow-captive as well. His extraordinarily personal anguish could not beselfishly appeased by a merely partial righting, in his own case, of theWrong--the ineffable and terrific and to be perfectly avenged Wrong--doneto those who ate and slept and wept and played cards within thatabominable and unyielding Symbol which enclosed the immutable vileness ofour common life. It was necessary, for its appeasement, that a shaft ofbright lightning suddenly and entirely should wither the human andmaterial structures which stood always between our filthy and pitifulselves and the unspeakable cleanness of Liberty. 

B. Recalls that the little Machine-Fixer said or hinted that he had beeneither a socialist or an anarchist when he was young. So that isdoubtless why we had the privilege of his society. After all, it ishighly improbable that this poor socialist suffered more at the hands ofthe great and good French government than did many a ConscientiousObjector at the hands of the great and good American government;or--since all great governments are _per se_ good and vice versa--thandid many a man in general who was cursed with a talent for thinkingduring the warlike moments recently passed; during, that is to say, anepoch when the g. And g. Nations demanded of their respective peoples theexact antithesis to thinking; said antitheses being vulgarly calledBelief. Lest which statement prejudice some members of the AmericanLegion in disfavour of the Machine-Fixer or rather of myself--awfulthought--I hasten to assure everyone that the Machine-Fixer was a highlymoral person. His morality was at times almost gruesome; as when he gotstarted on the inhabitants of the women's quarters. Be it understood thatthe Machine-Fixer was human, that he would take a letter--provided heliked the sender--and deliver it to the sender's _adorée_ without amurmur. That was simply a good deed done for a friend; it did not implythat he approved of the friend's choice, which for strictly moral reasonshe invariably and to the friend's very face violently deprecated. To thislittle man of perhaps forty-five, with a devoted wife waiting for him inBelgium (a wife whom he worshipped and loved more than he worshipped andloved anything in the world, a wife whose fidelity to her husband andwhose trust and confidence in him echoed in the letters which--when wethree were alone--the little Machine-Fixer tried always to read to us, never getting beyond the first sentence or two before he broke down andsobbed from his feet to his eyes), to such a little person his reactionto _les femmes_ was more than natural. It was in fact inevitable. 

Women, to him at least, were of two kinds and two kinds only. There were_les femmes honnêtes_ and there were _les putains_. In La Ferté, heinformed us--and as _balayeur_ he ought to have known whereof hespoke--there were as many as three ladies of the former variety. One ofthem he talked with often. She told him her story. She was a Russian, ofa very fine education, living peacefully in Paris up to the time that shewrote to her relatives a letter containing the following treasonablesentiment:

"_Je mennuie pour les neiges de Russie. _"

The letter had been read by the French censor, as had B. 's letter; andher arrest and transference from her home in Paris to La Ferté Macépromptly followed. She was as intelligent as she was virtuous and hadnothing to do with her frailer sisters, so the Machine-Fixer informed uswith a quickly passing flash of joy. Which sisters (his little foreheadknotted itself and his big bushy eyebrows plunged together wrathfully)were wicked and indecent and utterly despicable disgraces to theirsex--and this relentless Joseph fiercely and jerkily related how only theday before he had repulsed the painfully obvious solicitations of aMadame Potiphar by turning his back, like a good Christian, upontemptation and marching out of the room, broom tightly clutched invirtuous hand. 

"_M'sieu Jean_" (meaning myself) "_savez-vous_"--with a terrific gesturewhich consisted in snapping his thumbnail between his teeth--"_CA PUE!_"

Then he added: "And what would my wife say to me if I came home to herand presented her with that which this creature had presented to me? Theyare animals, " cried the little Machine-Fixer; "all they want is a man. They don't care who he is; they want a man. But they won't get me!" Andhe warned us to beware. 

Especially interesting, not to say valuable, was the Machine-Fixer'stestimony concerning the more or less regular "inspections" (which wereheld by the very same doctor who had "examined" me in the course of myfirst day at La Ferté) for _les femmes_; presumably in the interest ofpublic safety. _Les femmes_, quoth the Machine-Fixer, who had been manytimes an eye-witness of this proceeding, lined up talking and laughingand--crime of crimes--smoking cigarettes, outside the bureau of M. LeMédecin Major. "_Une femme entre. Elle se lève les jupes jusqu'au mentonet se met sur le banc. Le médecin major la regarde. Il dit de suite 'Bon. C'est tout. ' Elle sort. Une autre entre. La même chose. 'Bon. C'estfini'.... M'sieu' Jean: prenez garde!_"

And he struck a match fiercely on the black, almost square boot whichlived on the end of his little worn trouser-leg, bending his small bodyforward as he did so, and bringing the flame upward in a violent curve. The flame settled on his little black pipe, his cheeks sucked until theymust have met, and a slow unwilling noise arose, and with the return ofhis cheeks a small colorless wisp of possibly smoke came upon theair. --"That's not tobacco. Do you know what it is? It's wood! And I sithere smoking wood in my pipe when my wife is sick with worrying.... _M'sieu! Jean_"--leaning forward with jaw protruding and a oneness ofbristly eyebrows, "_Ces grande messieurs qui ne foutent 'pas mal si l'onCREVE de faim, savez-vous ils croient chacun qu'il est Le Bon DieuLUI-Même. Et M'sieu' Jean, savez-vous, ils sont tous_"--leaning right inmy face, the withered hand making a pitiful fist of itself--"_ils. Sont. Des. CRAPULES!_"

And his ghastly and toylike wizened and minute arm would try to make apass at their lofty lives. O _gouvernement français_, I think it was notvery clever of you to put this terrible doll in La Ferté; I should haveleft him in Belgium with his little doll-wife if I had been You; for whengovernments are found dead there is always a little doll on top of them, pulling and tweaking with his little hands to get back the microscopicknife which sticks firmly in the quiet meat of their hearts. 

One day only did I see him happy or nearly happy--when a Belgian baronessfor some reason arrived, and was bowed and fed and wined by thedelightfully respectful and perfectly behaved Official Captors--"and Iknow of her in Belgium, she is a great lady, she is very powerful and sheis generous; I fell on my knees before her, and implored her in the nameof my wife and _Le Bon Dieu_ to intercede in my behalf; and she has madea note of it, and she told me she would write the Belgian King and I willbe free in a few weeks, FREE!"

The little Machine-Fixer, I happen to know, did finally leave LaFerté--for Précigne. 

... In the kitchen worked a very remarkable person. Who wore _sabots_. And sang continuously in a very subdued way to himself as he stirred thehuge black kettles. We, that is to say, B. And I, became acquainted withAfrique very gradually. You did not know Afrique suddenly. You becamecognisant of Afrique gradually. You were in the _cour_, staring at oozeand dead trees, when a figure came striding from the kitchen lifting itsbig wooden feet after it rhythmically, unwinding a particoloured scarffrom its waist as it came, and singing to itself in a subdued manner ajocular, and I fear, unprintable ditty concerning Paradise. The figureentered the little gate to the _cour_ in a business-like way, unwindingcontinuously, and made stridingly for the cabinet situated up against thestone wall which separated the promenading sexes--dragging behind it onthe ground a tail of ever-increasing dimensions. The cabinet reached, tail and figure parted company; the former fell inert to the limitlessmud, the latter disappeared into the contrivance with a Jack-in-the-boxrapidity. From which contrivance the continuing ditty

"_le 'paradis est une maison.... _"

--Or again, it's a lithe pausing poise, intensely intelligent, certainlysensitive, delivering dryingly a series of sure and rapid hints thatpenetrate the fabric of stupidity accurately and whisperingly; dealingone after another brief and poignant instupidities, distinct anduncompromising, crisp and altogether arrowlike. The poise has a cigarettein its hand, which cigarette it has just pausingly rolled from materialfurnished by a number of carefully saved butts (whereof Afrique's pocketsare invariably full). Its neither old nor young, but rather keen facehoards a pair of greyish-blue witty eyes, which face and eyes aredirected upon us through the open door of a little room. Which littleroom is in the rear of the _cuisine_; a little room filled with theinexpressibly clean and soft odour of newly cut wood. Which wood we arepretending to split and pile for kindling. As a matter of fact we areenjoying Afrique's conversation, escaping from the bleak and profoundlymuddy _cour_, and (under the watchful auspices of the Cook, who playssentinel) drinking something approximating coffee with somethingapproximating sugar therein. All this because the Cook thinks we'reboches and being the Cook and a boche _lui-même_ is consequentlypeculiarly concerned for our welfare. 

Afrique is talking about _les journaux_, and to what prodigious painsthey go to not tell the truth; or he is telling how a native stole up onhim in the night armed with a spear two metres long, once on a time in acertain part of the world; or he is predicting that the Germans willmarch upon the French by way of Switzerland; or he is teaching us tocount and swear in Arabic; or he is having a very good time in the Midias a tinker, sleeping under a tree outside of a little town.... 

Afrique's is an alert kind of mind, which has been and seen and observedand penetrated and known--a bit there, somewhat here, chiefly everywhere. Its specialty being politics, in which case Afrique has had theinestimable advantage of observing without being observed--until LaFerté; whereupon Afrique goes on uninterruptedly observing, recognisingthat a significant angle of observation has been presented to him gratis. _Les journaux_ and politics in general are topics upon which Afrique cansay more, without the slightest fatigue, than a book as big as my twothumbs. 

"Why yes, they got water, and then I gave them coffee, " Monsieur, or moreproperly Mynheer _le chef_, is expostulating; the _planton_ is stupidlyprotesting that we are supposed to be upstairs; Afrique is busilystirring a huge black pot, winking gravely at us and singing softly

 "_Le bon Dieu, Soûl comme un cochon.... _"

VI

APOLLYON

The inhabitants of The Enormous Room whose portraits I have attempted inthe preceding chapter, were, with one or two exceptions, inhabiting atthe time of my arrival. Now the thing which above all things made deathworth living and life worth dying at La Ferté Macé was the kinetic aspectof that institution; the arrivals, singly or in groups, of _nouveaux_ ofsundry nationalities whereby our otherwise more or less simple existencewas happily complicated, our putrescent placidity shaken by a fortunateviolence. Before, however, undertaking this aspect I shall attempt torepresent for my own benefit as well as the reader's certain more obviouselements of that stasis which greeted the candidates for disintegrationupon their admittance to our select, not to say distinguished, circle. Or: I shall describe, briefly, Apollyon and the instruments of his power, which instruments are three in number: Fear, Women and Sunday. 

By Apollyon I mean a very definite fiend. A fiend who, secluded in thesumptuous and luxurious privacy of his own personal _bureau_ (which as arule no one of lesser rank than the Surveillant was allowed, so far as Imight observe--and I observed--to enter) compelled to the unimaginablemeanness of his will by means of the three potent instruments in questionall within the sweating walls of La Ferté--that was once upon a timehuman. I mean a very complete Apollyon, a Satan whose word is dreadfulnot because it is painstakingly unjust, but because it isincomprehensibly omnipotent. I mean, in short, Monsieur le Directeur. 

I shall discuss first of all Monsieur le Directeur's most obvious weapon. 

Fear was instilled by three means into the erstwhile human entities whosepresence at La Ferté gave Apollyon his job. The three means were: throughhis subordinates, who being one and all fearful of his power directedtheir energies to but one end--the production in ourselves of a similaremotion; through two forms of punishment, which supplied saidsubordinates with a weapon over any of us who refused to find room forthis desolating emotion in his heart of hearts; and, finally, throughdirect contact with his unutterable personality. 

Beneath the Demon was the Surveillant. I have already described theSurveillant. I wish to say, however, that in my opinion the Surveillantwas the most decent official at La Ferté. I pay him this tribute gladlyand honestly. To me, at least, he was kind: to the majority he wasinclined to be lenient. I honestly and gladly believe that theSurveillant was incapable of that quality whose innateness, in the caseof his superior, rendered that gentleman a (to my mind) perfectrepresentative of the Almighty French Government: I believe that theSurveillant did not enjoy being cruel, that he was not absolutely withoutpity or understanding. As a personality I therefore pay him my respects. I am myself incapable of caring whether, as a tool of the Devil, he willfind the bright firelight of Hell too warm for him or no. 

Beneath the Surveillant were the Secretaire, Monsieur Richard, the Cook, and the _plantons_. The first I have described sufficiently, since he wasan obedient and negative--albeit peculiarly responsible--cog in themachine of decomposition. Of Monsieur Richard, whose portrait is includedin the account of my first day at La Ferté, I wish to say that he had avery comfortable room of his own filled with primitive and otherwiseimposing medicines; the walls of this comfortable room being beauteouslyadorned by some fifty magazine covers representing the female form inevery imaginable state of undress, said magazine-covers being takenchiefly from such amorous periodicals as _Le Sourire_ and that oldstand-by of indecency, _La Vie Parisienne_. Also Monsieur Richard kept apot of geraniums upon his window-ledge, which haggard and aged-lookingsymbol of joy he doubtless (in his spare moments) peculiarly enjoyedwatering. The Cook is by this time familiar to my reader. I beg to saythat I highly approve of The Cook; exclusive of the fact that the coffee, which went up to The Enormous Room _tous les matins_, was made every daywith the same grounds plus a goodly injection of checkerberry--for thesimple reason that the Cook had to supply our captors and especiallyApollyon with real coffee, whereas what he supplied to _les hommes_ madeno difference. The same is true of sugar: our morning coffee, in additionto being a water-thin, black, muddy, stinking liquid, contained not thesmallest suggestion of sweetness, whereas the coffee which went to theofficials--and the coffee which B. And I drank in recompense for"catching water"--had all the sugar you could possibly wish for. The poorCook was fined one day as a result of his economies, subsequent to aunited action on the part of the fellow-sufferers. It was a day when agent immaculately dressed appeared--after duly warning the Fiend that hewas about to inspect the Fiend's ménage--an, I think, public official ofOrne. Judas (at the time _chef de chambre_) supported by the sole andunique indignation of all his fellow-prisoners save two or three out ofwhom Fear had made rabbits or moles, early carried the pail (which bycommon agreement not one of us had touched that day) downstairs, alongthe hall, and up one flight--where he encountered the Directeur, Surveillant and Handsome Stranger all amicably and pleasantly conversing. Judas set the pail down; bowed; and begged, as spokesman for the unitedmale gender of La Ferté Macé, that the quality of the coffee be examined. "We won't any of us drink it, begging your pardon, Messieurs, " he claimsthat he said. What happened then is highly amusing. The _petit balayeur_, an eye-witness of the proceeding, described it to me as follows:

"The Directeur roared '_COMMENT?_' He was horribly angry. '_Oui, Monsieur_, ' said the _maitre de chambre_ humbly--'_Pourquoi?_' thunderedthe Directeur. --'Because it's undrinkable, ' the _maitre de chambre_ saidquietly. --'Undrinkable? Nonsense!' cried the Directeur furiously. --'Be sogood as to taste it, Monsieur le Directeur. '--'_I_ taste it? Why should Itaste it? The coffee is perfectly good, plenty good for you men. This isridiculous--'--'Why don't we all taste it?' suggested the Surveillantingratiatingly. --'Why, yes, ' said the Visitor mildly. --'Taste it? Ofcourse not. This is ridiculous and I shall punish--'--'I should like, ifyou don't mind, to try a little, ' the Visitor said. --'Oh, well, ofcourse, if you like, ' the Directeur mildly agreed. 'Give me a cup of thatcoffee, you!'--'With pleasure, sir, ' said the _maitre de chambre. _ TheDirecteur--M'sieu' Jean, you would have burst laughing--seized the cup, lifted it to his lips, swallowed with a frightful expression (his eyesalmost popping out of his head) and cried fiercely, 'DELICIOUS!' TheSurveillant took a cupful; sipped; tossed the coffee away, looking as ifhe had been hit in the eyes, and remarked, 'Ah. ' The _maitre dechambre_--M'sieu' Jean he is clever--scooped the third cupful from thebottom of the pail, and very politely, with a big bow, handed it to theVisitor; who took it, touched it to his lips, turned perfectly green, andcried out 'Impossible!' M'sieu' Jean, we all thought--the Directeur andthe Surveillant and the _maitre de chambre_ and myself--that he was goingto vomit. He leaned against the wall a moment, quite green; thenrecovering said faintly--'The Kitchen. ' The Directeur looked very nervousand shouted, trembling all over, 'Yes, indeed! We'll see the cook aboutthis perfectly impossible coffee. I had no idea that my men were gettingsuch coffee. It's abominable! That's what it is, an outrage!'--And theyall tottered downstairs to The Cook; and M'sieu Jean, they searched thekitchen; and what do you think? They found ten pounds of coffee andtwelve pounds of sugar all neatly hidden away, that The Cook had beensaving for himself out of our allowance. He's a beast, the Cook!"

I must say that, although the morning coffee improved enormously for asmuch as a week, it descended afterwards to its original level ofexcellence. 

The Cook, I may add, officiated three times a week at a little table tothe left as you entered the dining-room. Here he stood, and threw ateveryone (as everyone entered) a hunk of the most extraordinary meatwhich I have ever had the privilege of trying to masticate--it could notbe tasted. It was pale and leathery. B. And myself often gave ours awayin our hungriest moments; which statement sounds as if we were generousto others, whereas the reason for these donations was that we couldn'teat, let alone stand the sight of this staple of diet. We had to do ourdonating on the sly, since the _chef_ always gave us choice pieces and wewere anxious not to hurt the _chef's_ feelings. There was a good deal ofspasmodic protestation _apropos la viande_, but the Cook always bulliedit down--nor was the meat his fault; since, from the miserable carcaseswhich I have often seen carried into the kitchen from without, the Cookhad to select something which would suit the meticulous stomach of theLord of Hell, as also the less meticulous digestive organs of hisminions; and it was only after every _planton_ had got a piece of viandeto his plantonic taste that the captives, female and male, came in forconsideration. 

On the whole, I think I never envied the Cook his strange and difficult, not to say gruesome, job. With the men en masse he was bound to beunpopular. To the good-will of those above he was necessarily more orless a slave. And on the whole, I liked the Cook very much, as didB. --for the very good and sufficient reason that he liked us both. 

About the _plantons_ I have something to say, something which it gives mehuge pleasure to say. I have to say, about the _plantons_, that as abunch they struck me at the time and will always impress me as the nextto the lowest species of human organism; the lowest, in my experiencedestimation, being the _gendarme_ proper. The _plantons_ were, with oneexception--he of the black holster with whom I collided on the firstday--changed from time to time. Again with this one exception, they were(as I have noted) apparently disabled men who were enjoying a vacationfrom the trenches in the lovely environs of Orne. Nearly all of them werewitless. Every one of them had something the matter with him physicallyas well. For instance, one _planton_ had a large wooden hand. Another waspossessed of a long unmanageable left leg made, as nearly as I coulddiscover, of tin. A third had a huge glass eye. 

These peculiarities of physique, however, did not inhibit the _plantons_from certain essential and normal desires. On the contrary. The_plantons_ probably realised that, in competition with the male world atlarge, their glass legs and tin hands and wooden eyes would not stand aChinaman's chance of winning the affection and admiration of the fairsex. At any rate they were always on the alert for opportunities totriumph over the admiration and affection of _les femmes_ at La Ferté, where their success was not endangered by competition. They had the bulgeon everybody; and they used what bulge they had to such good advantagethat one of them, during my stay, was pursued with a revolver by theirsergeant, captured, locked up and shipped off for court-martial on thecharge of disobedience and threatening the life of a superior officer. Hehad been caught with the goods--that is to say, in the girl's_cabinot_--by said superior: an incapable, strutting, undersized, bepimpled person in a bright uniform who spent his time assuming theposes of a general for the benefit of the ladies; of his admiration forwhom and his intentions toward whom he made no secret. By all means oneof the most disagreeable petty bullies whom I ever beheld. This arrest ofa _planton_ was, so long as I inhabited La Ferté, the only case in whichabuse of the weaker sex was punished. That attempts at abuse werefrequent I know from allusions and direct statements made in the letterswhich passed by way of the sweeper from the girls to their captiveadmirers. I might say that the senders of these letters, whom I shallattempt to portray presently, have my unmitigated and unqualifiedadmiration. By all odds they possessed the most terrible vitality andbravery of any human beings, women or men, whom it has ever been myextraordinary luck to encounter, or ever will be (I am absolutely sure)in this world. 

The duties of the _plantons_ were those simple and obvious duties whichonly very stupid persons can perfectly fulfill, namely: to take turnsguarding the building and its inhabitants; not to accept bribes, whetherin the form of matches, cigarettes or conversation, from their prisoners;to accompany anyone who went anywhere outside the walls (as didoccasionally the _balayeurs_, to transport baggage; the men who did_corvée_; and the catchers of water for the cook, who proceeded as far asthe hydrant situated on the outskirts of the town--a momentous distanceof perhaps five hundred feet); and finally to obey any and all ordersfrom all and any superiors without thinking. _Plantons_ weresupposed--but only supposed--to report any schemes for escaping whichthey might overhear during their watch upon _les femmes et les hommes enpromenade_. Of course they never overheard any, since the leastintelligent of the watched was a paragon of wisdom by comparison with thewatchers. B. And I had a little ditty about _plantons_, of which I canquote (unfortunately) only the first line and refrain:

 "A _planton_ loved a lady once (Cabbages and cauliflowers!)"

It was a very fine song. In concluding my remarks upon _plantons_ I must, in justice to my subject, mention the three prime plantonic virtues--theywere (1) beauty, as regards face and person and bearing, (2) chivalry, asregards women, (3) heroism, as regards males. 

The somewhat unique and amusing appearance of the _plantons_ rathermilitated against than served to inculcate Fear--it was therefore notwonderful that they and the desired emotion were supported by twostrictly enforced punishments, punishments which were meted out withequal and unflinching severity to both sexes alike. The less undesirablepunishment was known as _pain sec_--which Fritz, shortly after myarrival, got for smashing a window-pane by accident; and which Harree andPom Pom, the incorrigibles, were getting most of the time. Thispunishment consisted in denying to the culprit all nutriment save twostone-hard morsels of dry bread per diem. The culprit's intimate friends, of course, made a point of eating only a portion of their own morsels ofsoft, heavy, sour bread (we got two a day, with each _soupe_) andpresenting the culprit with the rest. The common method of getting _painsec_ was also a simple one--it was for a man to wave, shout or make othersigns audible or visual to an inhabitant of the women's quarters; and, for a girl, to be seen at her window by the Directeur at any time duringthe morning and afternoon promenades of the men. The punishment forsending a letter to a girl might possibly be _pain sec_, but was moreoften--I pronounce the word even now with a sinking of the heart, thoughcuriously enough I escaped that for which it stands--_cabinot_. 

There were (as already mentioned) a number of _cabinots_, sometimesreferred to as _cachots_ by persons of linguistic propensities. To repeatmyself a little: at least three were situated on the ground floor; andthese were used whenever possible in preference to the one or onesupstairs, for the reason that they were naturally more damp and chill anddark and altogether more dismal and unhealthy. Dampness and cold wereconsiderably increased by the substitution, for a floor, of two or threeplanks resting here and there in mud. I am now describing what my eyessaw, not what was shown to the inspectors on their rare visits to theDirecteur's little shop for making criminals. I know what theseoccasional visitors beheld, because it, too, I have seen with my owneyes: seen the two _balayeurs_ staggering downstairs with a bed(consisting of a high iron frame, a huge mattress of delicious thickness, spotless sheets, warm blankets, and a sort of quilt neatly folded overall); seen this bed placed by the panting sweepers in the thoroughlycleaned and otherwise immaculate _cabinot_ at the foot of the stairs andopposite the kitchen, the well-scrubbed door being left wide open. I sawthis done as I was going to dinner. While the men were upstairsrecovering from _la soupe_, the gentleman-inspectors were inviteddownstairs to look at a specimen of the Directeur's kindness--a kindnesswhich he could not restrain even in the case of those who were guilty ofsome terrible wrong. (The little Belgian with the Broken Arm, alias theMachine-Fixer, missed not a word nor a gesture of all this; and describedthe scene to me with an indignation which threatened his sanity. ) Then, while _les hommes_ were in the _cour_ for the afternoon, the sweeperswere rushed to The Enormous Room, which they cleaned to beat the bandwith the fear of Hell in them; after which, the Directeur led his amiableguests leisurely upstairs and showed them the way the men kept theirquarters; kept them without dictation on the part of the officials, sofond were they of what was to them one and all more than a delightfultemporary residence--was in fact a home. From The Enormous Room theprocession wended a gentle way to the women's quarters (scrubbed andswept in anticipation of their arrival) and so departed; conscious--nodoubt--that in the Directeur France had found a rare specimen ofwhole-hearted and efficient generosity. 

Upon being sentenced to _cabinot_, whether for writing an interceptedletter, fighting, threatening a _planton_, or committing some minoroffense for the _n_th time, a man took one blanket from his bed, carriedit downstairs to the _cachot_, and disappeared therein for a night ormany days and nights as the case might be. Before entering he wasthoroughly searched and temporarily deprived of the contents of hispockets, whatever they might include. It was made certain that he had nocigarettes nor tobacco in any other form upon his person, and no matches. The door was locked behind him and double and triple locked--to judge bythe sound--by a _planton_, usually the Black Holster, who on suchoccasions produced a ring of enormous keys suggestive of a burlesquejailer. Within the stone walls of his dungeon (into which a beam of lightno bigger than a ten-cent piece, and in some cases no light at all, penetrated) the culprit could shout and scream his or her heart out if heor she liked, without serious annoyance to His Majesty King Satan. Iwonder how many times, en route to _la soupe_ or The Enormous Room orpromenade, I have heard the unearthly smouldering laughter of girls or ofmen entombed within the drooling greenish walls of La Ferté Macé. A dozentimes, I suppose, I have seen a friend of the entombed stoop adroitly andshove a cigarette or a piece of chocolate under the door, to the girls orthe men or the girl or man screaming, shouting, and pommeling faintlybehind that very door--but, you would say by the sound, a good part of amile away.... Ah well, more of this later, when we come to _les femmes_on their own account. 

The third method employed to throw Fear into the minds of his captiveslay, as I have said, in the sight of the Captor Himself. And this was byfar the most efficient method. 

He loved to suddenly dash upon the girls when they were carrying theirslops along the hall and downstairs, as (in common with the men) they hadto do at least twice every morning and twice every afternoon. The_corvée_ of girls and men were of course arranged so as not to coincide;yet somehow or other they managed to coincide on the average about once aweek, or if not coincide, at any rate approach coincidence. On suchoccasions, as often as not under the _planton's_ very stupid nose, a kissor an embrace would be stolen--provocative of much fierce laughter andsome scurrying. Or else, while the moneyed captives (including B. AndCummings) were waiting their turn to enter the bureau de M. LeGestionnaire, or even were ascending the stairs with a _planton_ behindthem, en route to Mecca, along the hall would come five or six womenstaggering and carrying huge pails full to the brim of everyone knewwhat; five or six heads lowered, ill-dressed bodies tense with effort, free arms rigidly extended from the shoulder downward and outward in aplane at right angles to their difficult progress and thereby helping tobalance the disconcerting load--all embarrassed, some humiliated, othersdesperately at ease--along they would come under the steady sensual gazeof the men, under a gaze which seemed to eat them alive ... And then oneof them would laugh with the laughter which is neither pitiful norterrible, but horrible.... 

And BANG! would a door fly open, and ROAR! a well-dressed animal aboutfive feet six inches in height, with prominent cuffs and a sportive tie, the altogether decently and neatly clothed thick-built figure squirmingfrom top to toe with anger, the large head trembling and white-facedbeneath a flourishing mane of coarse blackish bristly perhaps hair, thearm crooked at the elbow and shaking a huge fist of pinkishwell-manicured flesh, the distinct, cruel, brightish eyes sprouting fromtheir sockets under bushily enormous black eyebrows, the big, weak, coarse mouth extended almost from ear to ear, and spouting invective, thesoggily brutal lips clinched upward and backward, showing the hugehorse-like teeth to the froth-shot gums--

And I saw once a little girl eleven years old scream in terror and dropher pail of slops, spilling most of it on her feet; and seize it in aclutch of frail child's fingers, and stagger, sobbing and shaking, pastthe Fiend--one hand held over her contorted face to shield her from theAwful Thing of Things--to the head of the stairs, where she collapsed, and was half-carried, half-dragged by one of the older ones to the floorbelow while another older one picked up her pail and lugged this and herown hurriedly downward. 

And after the last head had disappeared, Monsieur le Directeur continuedto rave and shake and tremble for as much as ten seconds, his shoebrushmane crinkling with black anger--then, turning suddenly upon _les hommes_(who cowered up against the wall as men cower up against a material thingin the presence of the supernatural) he roared and shook his pinkish fistat us till the gold stud in his immaculate cuff walked out upon the wadof clenching flesh:

"AND YOU--TAKE CARE--IF I CATCH YOU WITH THE WOMEN AGAIN I'LL STICK YOUIN CABINOT FOR TWO WEEKS, ALL--ALL OF YOU--"

for as much as half a minute; then turning his round-shouldered big backsuddenly he adjusted his cuffs, muttering PROSTITUTES and WHORES andDIRTY FILTH OF WOMEN, crammed his big fists into his trousers, pulled inhis chin till his fattish jowl rippled along the square jaws, panted, grunted, very completely satisfied, very contented, rather proud ofhimself, took a strutting stride or two in his expensive shiny boots, andshot all at once through the open door which he SLAMMED after him. 

Apropos the particular incident described for purposes of illustration, Iwish to state that I believe in miracles: the miracle being that I didnot knock the spit-covered mouthful of teeth and jabbering brutishoutthrust jowl (which certainly were not farther than eighteen inchesfrom me) through the bullneck bulging in its spotless collar. For thereare times when one almost decides not to merely observe ... Besideswhich, never in my life before had I wanted to kill, to thoroughlyextinguish and to entirely murder. Perhaps ... Some day.... Unto God Ihope so. 

Amen. 

Now I will try to give the reader a glimpse of the Women of La FertéMacé. 

The little Machine-Fixer as I said in the preceding chapter, divided theminto Good and Bad. He said there were as much as three Good ones, ofwhich three he had talked to one and knew her story. Another of the threeGood Women obviously was Margherite--a big, strong female who didwashing, and who was a permanent resident because she had been carelessenough to be born of German parents. I think I spoke with number three onthe day I waited to be examined by the Commission--a Belgian girl, whom Ishall mention later along with that incident. Whereat, by process ofelimination, we arrive at _les putains_, whereof God may know how manythere were at La Ferté, but I certainly do not. To _les putains_ ingeneral I have already made my deep and sincere bow. I should like tospeak here of four individuals. They are Celina, Lena, Lily, Renée. 

Celina Tek was an extraordinarily beautiful animal. Her firm girl's bodyemanated a supreme vitality. It was neither tall nor short, its movementsnor graceful nor awkward. It came and went with a certain sexualvelocity, a velocity whose health and vigour made everyone in La Fertéseem puny and old. Her deep sensual voice had a coarse richness. Herface, dark and young, annihilated easily the ancient and greyish walls. Her wonderful hair was shockingly black. Her perfect teeth, when shesmiled, reminded you of an animal. The cult of Isis never worshipped amore deep luxurious smile. This face, framed in the night of its hair, seemed (as it moved at the window overlooking the _cour des femmes_)inexorably and colossally young. The body was absolutely and fearlesslyalive. In the impeccable and altogether admirable desolation of La Fertéand the Normandy Autumn Celina, easily and fiercely moving, was akinesis. 

The French Government must have already recognized this; it called herincorrigible. 

Lena, also a Belgian, always and fortunately just missed being a typewhich in the American language (sometimes called "Slang") has a definitenomenclature. Lena had the makings of an ordinary broad, and yet, thanksto _La Misère_, a certain indubitable personality became graduallyrescued. A tall hard face about which was loosely pitched somehay-coloured hair. Strenuous and mutilated hands. A loose, raucous way oflaughing, which contrasted well with Celina's definite gurgling titter. Energy rather than vitality. A certain power and roughness about herlaughter. She never smiled. She laughed loudly and obscenely and always. A woman. 

Lily was a German girl, who looked unbelievably old, wore white, or oncewhite dresses, had a sort of drawling scream in her throat besides athick deadly cough, and floundered leanly under the eyes of men. Upon theskinny neck of Lily a face had been set for all the world to look uponand be afraid. The face itself was made of flesh green and almostputrescent. In each cheek a bloody spot. Which was not rouge, but theflower which consumption plants in the cheek of its favourite. A facevulgar and vast and heavy-featured, about which a smile was alwaysflopping uselessly. Occasionally Lily grinned, showing severalmonstrously decayed and perfectly yellow teeth, which teeth usually weresmoking a cigarette. Her bluish hands were very interestingly dead; thefingers were nervous, they lived in cringing bags of freckled skin, theymight almost be alive. 

She was perhaps eighteen years old. 

Renée, the fourth member of the circle, was always well-dressed andsomehow _chic_. Her silhouette had character, from the waved coiffure tothe enormously high heels. Had Renée been able to restrain a perfectlytoothless smile she might possibly have passed for a _jeune gonzesse_. She was not. The smile was ample and black. You saw through it into theback of her neck. You felt as if her life was in danger when she smiled, as it probably was. Her skin was not particularly tired. But Renée wasold, older than Lena by several years; perhaps twenty-five. Also aboutRenée there was a certain dangerous fragility, the fragility of unhealth. And yet Renée was hard, immeasurably hard. And accurate. Her exactmovements were the movements of a mechanism. Including her voice, whichhad a purely mechanical timbre. She could do two things with this voiceand two only--screech and boom. At times she tried to chuckle and almostfell apart. Renée was in fact dead. In looking at her for the first time, I realised that there may be something stylish about death. 

This first time was interesting in the extreme. It was Lily's birthday. We looked out of the windows which composed one side of the otherwisewindowless Enormous Room; looked down, and saw--just outside the wall ofthe building--Celina, Lena, Lily and a new girl who was Renée. They wereall individually intoxicated, Celina was joyously tight. Renée wasstiffly bunnied. Lena was raucously pickled. Lily, floundering andstaggering and tumbling and whirling was utterly soused. She was alltricked out in an erstwhile dainty dress, white, and with ribbons. Celina(as always) wore black. Lena had on a rather heavy striped sweater andskirt. Renée was immaculate in tight-fitting satin or something of thesort; she seemed to have somehow escaped from a doll's house overnight. About the group were a number of _plantons_, roaring with laughter, teasing, insulting, encouraging, from time to time attempting to embracethe ladies. Celina gave one of them a terrific box on the ear. The mirthof the others was redoubled. Lily spun about and fell down, moaning andcoughing, and screaming about her fiancée in Belgium: what a handsomeyoung fellow he was, how he had promised to marry her... Shouts ofenjoyment from the _plantons_. Lena had to sit down or else fall down, soshe sat down with a good deal of dignity, her back against the wall, andin that position attempted to execute a kind of dance. _Les Plantons_rocked and applauded. Celina smiled beautifully at the men who werestaring from every window of The Enormous Room and, with a supremeeffort, went over and dragged Renée (who had neatly and accurately foldedup with machine-like rapidity in the mud) through the doorway and intothe house. Eventually Lena followed her example, capturing Lily en route. The scene must have consumed all of twenty minutes. The _plantons_ wereso mirth-stricken that they had to sit down and rest under thewashing-shed. Of all the inhabitants of The Enormous Room, Fritz andHarree and Pom Pom and Bathhouse John enjoyed it most. I should includeJan, whose chin nearly rested on the window-sill with the little bodybelonging to it fluttering in an ugly interested way all the time. ThatBathhouse John's interest was largely cynical is evidenced by the remarkswhich he threw out between spittings--"_Une section mesdames!_" "_A lagare!_" "_Aux armes tout le monde!_" etc. With the exception of theseenthusiastic watchers, the other captives evidenced vagueamusement--excepting Count Bragard who said with lofty disgust that itwas "no better than a bloody knocking 'ouse, Mr. Cummings" and MonsieurPet-airs whose annoyance amounted to agony. Of course these twain were, comparatively speaking, old men.... 

The four female incorrigibles encountered less difficulty in attaining_cabinot_ than any four specimens of incorrigibility among _les hommes_. Not only were they placed in dungeon vile with a frequency which amountedto continuity; their sentences were far more severe than those handed outto the men. Up to the time of my little visit to La Ferté I hadinnocently supposed that in referring to women as "the weaker sex" a manwas strictly within his rights. La Ferté, if it did nothing else for myintelligence, rid it of this overpowering error. I recall, for example, aperiod of sixteen days and nights spent (during my stay) by the womanLena in the _cabinot_. It was either toward the latter part of October orthe early part of November that this occurred, I will not be sure which. The dampness of the Autumn was as terrible, under normal conditions--thatis to say in The Enormous Room--as any climatic eccentricity which I haveever experienced. We had a wood-burning stove in the middle of the room, which antiquated apparatus was kept going all day to the vast discomfortof eyes and noses not to mention throats and lungs--the pungent smokefilling the room with an atmosphere next to unbreathable, but toleratedfor the simple reason that it stood between ourselves and death. For evenwith the stove going full blast the wall never ceased to sweat and eventrickle, so overpowering was the dampness. By night the chill was tomyself--fortunately bedded at least eighteen inches from the floor andsleeping in my clothes; bed-roll, blankets, and all, under and over meand around me--not merely perceptible but desolating. Once my bed broke, and I spent the night perforce on the floor with only my mattress underme; to awake finally in the whitish dawn perfectly helpless withrheumatism. Yet with the exception of my bed and B. 's bed and a woodenbunk which belonged to Bathhouse John, every _paillasse_ lay directly onthe floor; moreover the men who slept thus were three-quarters of themmiserably clad, nor had they anything beyond their light-weightblankets--whereas I had a complete outfit including a big fur coat, whichI had taken with me (as previously described) from the _SectionSanitaire_. The morning after my night spent on the floor I pondered, having nothing to do and being unable to move, upon the subject of myphysical endurance--wondering just how the men about me, many of thembeyond middle age, some extremely delicate, in all not more than five orsix as rugged constitutionally as myself, lived through the nights in TheEnormous Room. Also I recollected glancing through an open door into thewomen's quarters, at the risk of being noticed by the _planton_ in whosecharge I was at the time (who, fortunately, was stupid even for a_planton_, else I should have been well punished for my curiosity) andbeholding _paillasses_ identical in all respects with ours reposing onthe floor; and I thought, if it is marvellous that old men and sick mencan stand this and not die, it is certainly miraculous that girls ofeleven and fifteen, and the baby which I saw once being caressed out inthe women's _cour_ with unspeakable gentleness by a little _putain_ whosename I do not know, and the dozen or so oldish females whom I have oftenseen on promenade--can stand this and not die. These things I mention notto excite the reader's pity nor yet his indignation; I mention thembecause I do not know of any other way to indicate--it is no more thanindicating--the significance of the torture perpetrated under theDirecteur's direction in the case of the girl Lena. If incidentally itthrows light on the personality of the torturer I shall be gratified. 

Lena's confinement in the _cabinot_--which dungeon I have alreadyattempted to describe but to whose filth and slime no words can begin todo justice--was in this case solitary. Once a day, of an afternoon andalways at the time when all the men were upstairs after the secondpromenade (which gave the writer of this history an exquisite chance tosee an atrocity at first-hand), Lena was taken out of the _cabinot_ bythree _plantons_ and permitted a half-hour promenade just outside thedoor of the building, or in the same locality--delimited by barbed wireon one side and the washing-shed on another--made famous by the scene ofinebriety above described. Punctually at the expiration of thirty minutesshe was shoved back into the _cabinot_ by the _plantons_. Every day forsixteen days I saw her; noted the indestructible bravado of her gait andcarriage, the unchanging timbre of her terrible laughter in response tothe salutation of an inhabitant of The Enormous Room (for there were atleast six men who spoke to her daily, and took their _pain sec_ and their_cabinot_ in punishment therefor with the pride of a soldier who takesthe _medaille militaire_ in recompense for his valour); noted theincreasing pallor of her flesh, watched the skin gradually assume adistinct greenish tint (a greenishness which I cannot describe save thatit suggested putrefaction); heard the coughing to which she had alwaysbeen subject grow thicker and deeper till it doubled her up every fewminutes, creasing her body as you crease a piece of paper with yourthumb-nail, preparatory to tearing it in two--and I realised fully andirrevocably and for perhaps the first time the meaning of civilization. And I realised that it was true--as I had previously only suspected it tobe true--that in finding us unworthy of helping to carry forward thebanner of progress, alias the tricolour, the inimitable and excellentFrench government was conferring upon B. And myself--albeit with otherintent--the ultimate compliment. 

And the Machine-Fixer, whose opinion of this blond _putain_ grew andincreased and soared with every day of her martyrdom till theMachine-Fixer's former classification of _les femmes_ exploded anddisappeared entirely--the Machine-Fixer who would have fallen on hislittle knees to Lena had she given him a chance, and kissed the hem ofher striped skirt in an ecstasy of adoration--told me that Lena on beingfinally released, walked upstairs herself, holding hard to the banisterwithout a look for anyone, "having eyes as big as tea-cups. " He added, with tears in his own eyes:

"M'sieu' Jean, a woman. "

I recall perfectly being in the kitchen one day, hiding from theeagle-eye of the Black Holster and enjoying a talk on the economicconsequences of war, said talk being delivered by Afrique. As a matter offact, I was not in the _cuisine_ proper but in the little room which Ihave mentioned previously. The door into the kitchen was shut. Thesweetly soft odour of newly cut wood was around me. And all the time thatAfrique was talking I heard clearly, through the shut door and throughthe kitchen wall and through the locked door of the _cabinot_ situateddirectly across the hall from _la cuisine_, the insane gasping voice of agirl singing and yelling and screeching and laughing. Finally Iinterrupted my speaker to ask what on earth was the matter in the_cabinot?_--"_C'est la femme allemande qui s'appelle Lily_, " Afriquebriefly answered. A little later BANG went the _cabinot_ door, and ROARwent the familiar coarse voice of the Directeur. "It disturbs him, thenoise, " Afrique said. The _cabinot_ door slammed. There was silence. Heavily steps ascended. Then the song began again, a little more insanethan before; the laughter a little wilder.... "You can't stop her, "Afrique said admiringly. "A great voice Mademoiselle has, eh? So, as Iwas saying, the national debt being conditioned--"

But the experience _à propos les femmes_, which meant and will alwaysmean more to me than any other, the scene which is a little moreunbelievable than perhaps any scene that it has ever been my privilege towitness, the incident which (possibly more than any other) revealed to methose unspeakable foundations upon which are builded with infinite caresuch at once ornate and comfortable structures as _La Gloire and LePatriotisme_--occurred in this wise. 

The men, myself among them, were leaving _le cour_ for The Enormous Roomunder the watchful eye (as always) of a _planton_. As we defiled throughthe little gate in the barbed-wire fence we heard, apparently justoutside the building whither we were proceeding on our way to The GreatUpstairs, a tremendous sound of mingled screams, curses and crashings. The _planton_ of the day was not only stupid--he was a little deaf; tohis ears this hideous racket had not, as nearly as one could see, penetrated. At all events he marched us along toward the door with utmostplantonic satisfaction and composure. I managed to insert myself in thefore of the procession, being eager to witness the scene within; andreached the door almost simultaneously with Fritz, Harree and two orthree others. I forget which of us opened it. I will never forget what Isaw as I crossed the threshold. 

The hall was filled with stifling smoke; the smoke which straw makes whenit is set on fire, a peculiarly nauseous choking, whitish-blue smoke. This smoke was so dense that only after some moments could I make out, with bleeding eyes and wounded lungs, anything whatever. What I saw wasthis: five or six _plantons_ were engaged in carrying out of the nearest_cabinot_ two girls, who looked perfectly dead. Their bodies wereabsolutely limp. Their hands dragged foolishly along the floor as theywere carried. Their upward white faces dangled loosely upon their necks. Their crumpled fingers sagged in the _planton's_ arms. I recognised Lilyand Renée. Lena I made out at a little distance tottering against thedoor of the kitchen opposite the _cabinot_, her hay-coloured headdrooping and swaying slowly upon the open breast of her shirt-waist, herlegs far apart and propping with difficulty her hinging body, her handsspasmodically searching for the knob of the door. The smoke proceededfrom the open _cabinot_ in great ponderous murdering clouds. In one ofthese clouds, erect and tense and beautiful as an angel--her wildlyshouting face framed in its huge night of dishevelled hair, her deepsexual voice, hoarsely strident above the din and smoke, shoutingfiercely through the darkness--stood, triumphantly and colossally young, Celina. Facing her, its clenched, pinkish fists raised high above itssavagely bristling head in a big, brutal gesture of impotence and rageand anguish--the Fiend Himself paused quivering. Through the smoke, thegreat bright voice of Celina rose at him, hoarse and rich and sudden andintensely luxurious, quick, throaty, accurate, slaying deepness:

_SHIEZ, SI VOUS VOULEZ, SHIEZ, _

and over and beneath and around the voice I saw frightened faces of womenhanging in the smoke, some screaming with their lips apart and their eyesclosed, some staring with wide eyes; and among the women's faces Idiscovered the large, placid, interested expression of the Gestionnaireand the nervous clicking eyes of the Surveillant. And there was ashout--it was the Black Holster shouting at us as we stood transfixed--

"Who the devil brought the men in here? Get up with you where you belong, you.... "

--And he made a rush at us, and we dodged in the smoke and passed slowlyup the hall, looking behind us, speechless to a man with the admirationof Terror till we reached the further flight of stairs; and mountedslowly, with the din falling below us, ringing in our ears, beating uponour brains--mounted slowly with quickened blood and pale faces--to thepeace of The Enormous Room. 

I spoke with both _balayeurs_ that night. They told me, independently, the same story: the four incorrigibles had been locked in the _cabinotensemble_. They made so much noise, particularly Lily, that the_plantons_ were afraid the Directeur would be disturbed. Accordingly the_plantons_ got together and stuffed the contents of a _paillasse_ in thecracks around the door, and particularly in the crack under the doorwherein cigarettes were commonly inserted by friends of the entombed. This process made the _cabinot_ air-tight. But the _plantons_ were nottaking any chances on disturbing Monsieur le Directeur. They carefullylighted the _paillasse_ at a number of points and stood back to see theresults of their efforts. So soon as the smoke found its way inward thesinging was supplanted by coughing; then the coughing stopped. Thennothing was heard. Then Celina began crying out within--"Open the door, Lily and Renée are dead"--and the _plantons_ were frightened. After somedebate they decided to open the door--out poured the smoke, and in itCelina, whose voice in a fraction of a second roused everyone in thebuilding. The Black Holster wrestled with her and tried to knock her downby a blow on the mouth; but she escaped, bleeding a little, to the footof the stairs--simultaneously with the advent of the Directeur who foronce had found someone beyond the power of his weapon, Fear, someone incontact with whose indescribable Youth the puny threats of death witheredbetween his lips, someone finally completely and unutterably Alive whomthe Lie upon his slavering tongue could not kill. 

I do not need to say that, as soon as the girls who had fainted could bebrought to, they joined Lena in _pain sec_ for many days to come; andthat Celina was overpowered by six _plantons_--at the order of Monsieurle Directeur--and reincarcerated in the _cabinot_ adjoining that fromwhich she had made her velocitous exit--reincarcerated without food fortwenty-four hours. "_Mais, M'sieu' Jean_, " the Machine-Fixer saidtrembling, "_Vous savez elle est forte. _ She gave the six of them afight, I tell you. And three of them went to the doctor as a result oftheir efforts, including _le vieux_ (The Black Holster). But of coursethey succeeded in beating her up, six men upon one woman. She was beatenbadly, I tell you, before she gave in. _M'sieu' Jean, ils sont tous--lesplantons et le Directeur Lui-Même et le Surveillant et le Gestionnaire ettous--ils sont des--_" and he said very nicely what they were, and lithis little black pipe with a crisp curving upward gesture, and shook likea blade of grass. 

With which specimen of purely mediaeval torture I leave the subject ofWomen, and embark upon the quieter if no less enlightening subject ofSunday. 

Sunday, it will be recalled, was Monsieur le Directeur's third weapon. That is to say: lest the ordinarily tantalising proximity of _les femmes_should not inspire _les hommes_ to deeds which placed the doersautomatically in the clutches of himself, his subordinates, and _lapunition_, it was arranged that once a week the tantalising proximityaforesaid should be supplanted by a positively maddening approach tocoincidence. Or in other words, the men and the women for an hour or lessmight enjoy the same exceedingly small room; for purposes of course ofdevotion--it being obvious to Monsieur le Directeur that therepresentatives of both sexes at La Ferté Macé were inherently of astrongly devotional nature. And lest the temptation to err in suchmoments be deprived, through a certain aspect of compulsion, of itscomplete force, the attendance of such strictly devotional services wasmade optional. 

The uplifting services to which I refer took place in that very roomwhich (the night of my arrival) had yielded me my _paillasse_ under theSurveillant's direction. It may have been thirty feet long and twentywide. At one end was an altar at the top of several wooden stairs, with alarge candle on each side. To the right as you entered a number ofbenches were placed to accommodate _les femmes_. _Les hommes_ uponentering took off their caps and stood over against the left wall so asto leave between them and the women an alley perhaps five feet wide. Inthis alley stood the Black Holster with his _kepi_ firmly resting uponhis head, his arms folded, his eyes spying to left and right in order tointercept any signals exchanged between the sheep and goats. Those whoelected to enjoy spiritual things left the _cour_ and their morningpromenade after about an hour of promenading, while the materially mindedremained to finish the promenade; or if one declined the promenadeentirely (as frequently occurred owing to the fact that weatherconditions on Sunday were invariably more indescribable than usual) a_planton_ mounted to The Enormous Room and shouted, "_La Messe!_" severaltimes; whereat the devotees lined up and were carefully conducted to thescene of spiritual operations. 

The priest was changed every week. His assistant (whom I had theindescribable pleasure of seeing only upon Sundays) was always the same. It was his function to pick the priest up when he fell down aftertripping upon his robe, to hand him things before he wanted them, to ringa huge bell, to interrupt the peculiarly divine portions of the servicewith a squeaking of his shoes, to gaze about from time to time upon theworshippers for purposes of intimidation, and finally--most important ofall--to blow out the two big candles at the very earliest opportunity, inthe interests (doubtless) of economy. As he was a short, fattish, ancient, strangely soggy creature and as his longish black suit wassomewhat too big for him, he executed a series of profound efforts inextinguishing the candles. In fact he had to climb part way up thecandles before he could get at the flame; at which moment he looked verymuch like a weakly and fat boy (for he was obviously in his second orfourth childhood) climbing a flag-pole. At moments of leisure he abasedhis fatty whitish jowl and contemplated with watery eyes the floor infront of his highly polished boots, having first placed his ugly clubbyhands together behind his most ample back. 

Sunday: green murmurs in coldness. Surplice fiercely fearful, praying onhis bony both knees, crossing himself.... The Fake French Soldier, aliasGaribaldi, beside him, a little face filled with terror ... The Bellcranks the sharp-nosed priest on his knees ... Titter from bench ofwhores--

And that reminds me of a Sunday afternoon on our backs spent with thewholeness of a hill in Chevancourt, discovering a great apple pie, B. AndJean Stahl and Maurice le Menusier and myself; and the sun fallingroundly before us. 

--And then one _Dimanche_ a new high old man with a sharp violet face andgreen hair--"You are free, my children, to achieve immortality--_Songes, songez, donc--L'Eternité est une existence sans durée----Toujours leParadis, toujours L'Enfer_" (to the silently roaring whores) "Heaven ismade for you"--and the Belgian ten-foot farmer spat three times and wipedthem with his foot, his nose dripping; and the nigger shot a white oysterinto a far-off scarlet handkerchief--and the priest's strings came untiedand he sidled crablike down the steps--the two candles wiggle a strenuoussoftness.... 

In another chapter I will tell you about the nigger. 

And another Sunday I saw three tiny old females stumble forward, threevery formerly and even once bonnets perched upon three wizened skulls, and flop clumsily before the priest, and take the wafer hungrily intotheir leathery faces. 

VII

AN APPROACH TO THE DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS

 "Sunday (says Mr. Pound with infinite penetration) is a dreadful day, Monday is much pleasanter. Then let us muse a little space Upon fond Nature's morbid grace. "

It is a great and distinct pleasure to have penetrated and arrived uponthe outside of _La Dimanche_. We may now--Nature's morbid grace being atopic whereof the reader has already heard much and will necessarily hearmore--turn to the "much pleasanter, " the in fact "Monday, " aspect of LaFerté; by which I mean _les nouveaux_ whose arrivals and reactionsconstituted the actual kinetic aspect of our otherwise merely realNonexistence. So let us tighten our belts, (everyone used to tighten hisbelt at least twice a day at La Ferté, but for another reason--to followand keep track of his surely shrinking anatomy) seize our staffs into ourhands, and continue the ascent begun with the first pages of the story. 

One day I found myself expecting _La Soupe_ Number 1 with something likeavidity. My appetite faded, however, upon perceiving a vision en route tothe empty place at my left. It slightly resembled a tall youth not morethan sixteen or seventeen years old, having flaxen hair, a face whosewhiteness I have never seen equalled, and an expression of intensestarvation which might have been well enough in a human being but wassomewhat unnecessarily uncanny in a ghost. The ghost, floating andslenderly, made for the place beside me, seated himself suddenly andgently like a morsel of white wind, and regarded the wall before him. _Lasoupe_ arrived. He obtained a plate (after some protest on the part ofcertain members of our table to whom the advent of a newcomer meant onlythat everyone would get less for lunch), and after gazing at his portionfor a second in apparent wonderment at its size caused it gently andsuddenly to disappear. I was no sluggard as a rule, but found myselfoutclassed by minutes--which, said I to myself, is not to be worried oversince 'tis sheer vanity to compete with the supernatural. But (even as Ilugged the last spoonful of luke-warm greasy water to my lips) this ghostturned to me for all the world as if I too were a ghost, and remarkedsoftly:

"Will you lend me ten cents? I am going to buy tobacco at the canteen. "

One has no business crossing a spirit, I thought; and produced the sumcheerfully--which sum disappeared, the ghost arose slenderly andsoundlessly, and I was left with emptiness beside me. 

Later I discovered that this ghost was called Pete. 

Pete was a Hollander, and therefore found firm and staunch friends inHarree, John o' the Bathhouse and the other Hollanders. In three daysPete discarded the immateriality which had constituted the exquisitedefiniteness of his advent, and donned the garb of flesh-and-blood. Thischange was due equally to _La Soupe_ and the canteen, and to the findingof friends. For Pete had been in solitary confinement for three monthsand had had nothing to eat but bread and water during that time, havingbeen told by the jailors (as he informed us, without a trace ofbitterness) that they would shorten his sentence provided he did notpartake of _La Soupe_ during his incarceration--that is to say, _legouvernement français_ had a little joke at Pete's expense. Also he hadknown nobody during that time but the five fingers which deposited saidbread and water with conscientious regularity on the ground beside him. Being a Hollander neither of these things killed him--on the contrary, hemerely turned into a ghost, thereby fooling the excellent FrenchGovernment within an inch of its foolable life. He was a very excellentfriend of ours--I refer as usual to B. And myself--and from the day ofhis arrival until the day of his departure to Précigne along with B. Andthree others I never ceased to like and to admire him. He was naturallysensitive, extremely the antithesis of coarse (which "refined" somehowdoes not imply) had not in the least suffered from a "good, " as we say, education, and possessed an at once frank and unobstreperous personality. Very little that had happened to Pete's physique had escaped Pete's mind. This mind of his quietly and firmly had expanded in proportion as itsowner's trousers had become too big around the waist--altogether not soextraordinary as was the fact that, after being physically transformed asI have never seen a human being transformed by food and friends, Petethought and acted with exactly the same quietness and firmness as before. He was a rare spirit, and I salute him wherever he is. 

Mexique was a good friend of Pete's, as he was of ours. He had beenintroduced to us by a man we called One Eyed David, who was married andhad a wife downstairs, with which wife he was allowed to live allday--being conducted to and from her society by a _planton_. He spokeSpanish well and French passably; had black hair, bright Jewish eyes, adead-fish expression, and a both amiable and courteous disposition. OneEyed Dah-veed (as it was pronounced of course) had been in prison atNoyon during the German occupation, which he described fully and withouthyperbole--stating that no one could have been more considerate or justthan the commander of the invading troops. Dah-veed had seen with his owneyes a French girl extend an apple to one of the common soldiers as theGerman army entered the outskirts of the city: "'Take it, ' she said, 'youare tired. '--'Madame, ' answered the German soldier in French, 'thankyou'--and he looked in his pocket and found ten cents. 'No, no, ' theyoung girl said. 'I don't want any money. I give it to you with goodwill. '--'Pardon, madame, ' said the soldier, 'you must know that a Germansoldier is forbidden to take anything without paying for it. '"--Andbefore that, One Eyed Dah-veed had talked at Noyon with a barber whosebrother was an aviator with the French Army: "'My brother, ' the barbersaid to me, 'told me a beautiful story the other day. He was flying overthe lines, and he was amazed, one day, to see that the French guns werenot firing on the boches but on the French themselves. He landedprecipitously, sprang from his machine and ran to the office of thegeneral. He saluted, and cried in great excitement: "General, you arefiring on the French!" The general regarded him without interest, withoutbudging; then, he said, very simply: "They have begun, they mustfinish. " "Which is why perhaps, " said One Eyed Dah-veed, looking twoways at once with his uncorrelated eyes, "the Germans entered Noyon.... "But to return to Mexique. 

One night we had a _soirée_, as Dah-veed called it, _à propos_ a pot ofhot tea which Dah-veed's wife had given him to take upstairs, it beingdamnably damp and cold (as usual) in The Enormous Room. Dah-veed, cautiously and in a low voice, invited us to his mattress to enjoy thisextraordinary pleasure; and we accepted, B. And I, with huge joy; andsitting on Dah-veed's _paillasse_ we found somebody who turned out to beMexique--to whom, by his right name, our host introduced us with all thepoise and courtesy vulgarly associated with a French salon. 

For Mexique I cherish and always will cherish unmitigated affection. Hewas perhaps nineteen years old, very chubby, extremely good-natured; andpossessed of an unruffled disposition which extended to the most violentand obvious discomforts a subtle and placid illumination. He spokebeautiful Spanish, had been born in Mexico, and was really calledPhilippe Burgos. He had been in New York. He criticised someone forsaying "Yes" to us, one day, stating that no American said "Yes" but"Yuh"; which--whatever the reader may think--is to my mind a veryprofound observation. In New York he had worked nights as a fireman insome big building or other and slept days, and this method of seeingAmerica he had enjoyed extremely. Mexique had one day taken ship (beingcurious to see the world) and worked as chauffeur--that is to say in thestoke-hole. He had landed in, I think, Havre; had missed his ship; hadinquired something of a _gendarme_ in French (which he spoke not at all, with the exception of a phrase or two like "_quelle heure qu'il est?_");had been kindly treated and told that he would be taken to a ship _desuite_--had boarded a train in the company of two or three kind_gendarmes_, ridden a prodigious distance, got off the train finally withhigh hopes, walked a little distance, come in sight of the greyperspiring wall of La Ferté, and--"So, I ask one of them: 'Where is theShip?' He point to here and tell me, 'There is the ship. ' I say: 'This isa God Dam Funny Ship'"--quoth Mexique, laughing. 

Mexique played dominoes with us (B. Having devised a set fromcard-board), strolled The Enormous Room with us, telling of his fatherand brother in Mexico, of the people, of the customs; and--when we werein the _cour_--wrote the entire conjugation of _tengo_ in the deep mudwith a little stick, squatting and chuckling and explaining. He and hisbrother had both participated in the revolution which made Carranzapresident. His description of which affair was utterly delightful. 

"Every-body run a-round with guns" Mexique said. "And bye-and-bye no seeto shoot everybody, so everybody go home. " We asked if he had shotanybody himself. "Sure. I shoot everybody I do'no" Mexique answeredlaughing. "I t'ink every-body no hit me" he added, regarding his stockyperson with great and quiet amusement. When we asked him once what hethought about the war, he replied, "I t'ink lotta bull--, " which, uponcopious reflection, I decided absolutely expressed my own point of view. 

Mexique was generous, incapable of either stupidity or despondency, andmannered as a gentleman is supposed to be. Upon his arrival he wrotealmost immediately to the Mexican (or is it Spanish?) consul--"He know myfader in Mexico"--stating in perfect and unambiguous Spanish the factsleading to his arrest; and when I said good-bye to _La Misère_ Mexiquewas expecting a favorable reply at any moment, as indeed he had beencheerfully expecting for some time. If he reads this history I hope hewill not be too angry with me for whatever injustice it does to one ofthe altogether pleasantest companions I have ever had. My notebooks, onein particular, are covered with conjugations which bear witness toMexique's ineffable good-nature. I also have a somewhat superficialportrait of his back sitting on a bench by the stove. I wish I hadanother of Mexique out in _le jardin_ with a man who worked there who wasa Spaniard, and whom the Surveillant had considerately allowed Mexique toassist; with the perfectly correct idea that it would be pleasant forMexique to talk to someone who could speak Spanish--if not as well as he, Mexique, could, at least passably well. As it is, I must be content tosee my very good friend sitting with his hands in his pockets by thestove with Bill the Hollander beside him. And I hope it was not many daysafter my departure that Mexique went free. Somehow I feel that he wentfree ... And if I am right, I will only say about Mexique's freedom whatI have heard him slowly and placidly say many times concerning not onlythe troubles which were common property to us all but his own peculiartroubles as well. 

"That's fine. "

Here let me introduce the Guard Champêtre, whose name I have alreadytaken more or less in vain. A little, sharp, hungry-looking person who, subsequent to being a member of a rural police force (of which membershiphe seemed rather proud), had served his _patrie_--otherwise known as _LaBelgique_--in the capacity of motorcyclist. As he carried dispatches fromone end of the line to the other his disagreeably big eyes had absorbedcertain peculiarly inspiring details of civilised warfare. He had, at onetime, seen a bridge hastily constructed by _les alliés_ over the YserRiver, the cadavers of the faithful and the enemy alike being thrown inhelter-skelter to make a much needed foundation for the timbers. Thislittle procedure had considerably outraged the Guard Champêtre's sense ofdecency. The Yser, said he, flowed perfectly red for a long time. "Wewere all together: Belgians, French, English ... We Belgians did not seeany good reason for continuing the battle. But we continued. O indeed wecontinued. Do you know why?"

I said that I was afraid I didn't. 

"Because in front of us we had the German shells, behind, the Frenchmachine guns, always the French machine guns, _mon vieux_. "

"_Je ne comprends pas bien_" I said in confusion, recalling all thehighfalutin rigmarole which Americans believed--(little martyred Belgiumprotected by the allies from the inroads of the aggressor, etc. )--"whyshould the French put machine guns behind you?"

The Guard Champêtre lifted his big empty eyes nervously. The vast hollowsin which they lived darkened. His little rather hard face trembled withinitself. I thought for a second he was going to throw a fit at myfeet--instead of doing which he replied pettishly, in a sunken brightwhisper:

"To keep us going forward. At times a company would drop its guns andturn to run. Pupupupupupupupup ... " his short unlovely arms describedgently the swinging of a _mitrailleuse_ ... "finish. The Belgiansoldiers to left and right of them took the hint. If they didnot--pupupupupupup.... O we went forward. Yes. _Vive le patriotisme. _"

And he rose with a gesture which seemed to brush away these painfultrifles from his memory, crossed the end of the room with short rapidsteps, and began talking to his best friend Judas, who was at that momentengaged in training his wobbly mustachios.... Toward the close of myvisit to La Ferté the Guard Champêtre was really happy for a period oftwo days--during which time he moved in the society of a rich, intelligent, mistakenly arrested and completely disagreeable youth inbone spectacles, copious hair and spiral putees, whom B. And I partiallycontented ourselves by naming Jo Jo The Lion Faced Boy. Had the chargesagainst Jo Jo been stronger my tale would have been longer--fortunatelyfor _tout le monde_ they had no basis; and back went Jo Jo to his nativeParis, leaving the Guard Champêtre with Judas and attacks of onlyoccasionally interesting despair. 

The reader may suppose that it is about time another Delectable Mountainappeared upon his horizon. Let him keep his eyes wide open, for here onecomes.... 

Whenever our circle was about to be increased, a bell from somewhere afar(as a matter of fact the gate which had admitted my weary self to LaFerté upon a memorable night, as already has been faithfully recounted)tanged audibly--whereat up jumped the more strenuous inhabitants of TheEnormous Room and made pell-mell for the common peephole, situated at thedoor end or nearer end of our habitat and commanding a somewhatfragmentary view of the gate together with the arrivals, male and female, whom the bell announced. In one particular case the watchers appearedalmost unduly excited, shouting "four!"--"big box"--"five _gendarmes_!"and other incoherences with a loudness which predicted great things. Asnearly always, I had declined to participate in the mêlée; and was stilllying comfortably horizontal on my bed (thanking God that it had beenwell and thoroughly mended by a fellow prisoner whom we called The Frogand Le Coiffeur--a tremendously keen-eyed man with a large droopingmoustache, whose boon companion, chiefly on account of his shape andgait, we knew as The Lobster) when the usual noises attendant upon theunlocking of the door began with exceptional violence. I sat up. The doorshot open, there was a moment's pause, a series of grunting remarksuttered by two rather terrible voices; then in came four _nouveaux_ of adecidedly interesting appearance. They entered in two ranks of two each. The front rank was made up of an immensely broad shouldered hipless andconsequently triangular man in blue trousers belted with a piece ofordinary rope, plus a thick-set ruffianly personage the most prominentpart of whose accoutrements were a pair of hideous whiskers. I leaped tomy feet and made for the door, thrilled in spite of myself. By the, inthis case, shifty blue eyes, the pallid hair, the well-knit form of therope's owner I knew instantly a Hollander. By the coarse brutal featureshalf-hidden in the piratical whiskers, as well as by the heavy meanwandering eyes. I recognised with equal speed a Belgian. Upon hisshoulders the front rank bore a large box, blackish, well-made, obviouslyvery weighty, which box it set down with a grunt of relief hard by thecabinet. The rear rank marched behind in a somewhat asymmetrical manner:a young, stupid-looking, clear-complexioned fellow (obviously a farmer, and having expensive black puttees and a handsome cap with a shiny blackleather visor) slightly preceded a tall, gliding, thinnish, unjudgeablepersonage who peeped at everyone quietly and solemnly from beneath thevisor of a somewhat large slovenly cloth cap showing portions of a lean, long, incognisable face upon which sat, or rather drooped, a pair ofmustachios identical in character with those which are sometimespictorially attributed to a Chinese dignitary--in other words, themustachios were exquisitely narrow, homogeneously downward, and made ofsomething like black corn-silk. Behind _les nouveaux_ staggered four_paillasses_ motivated mysteriously by two pair of small legs belonging(as it proved) to Garibaldi and the little Machine-Fixer; who, coincidentwith the tumbling of the mattresses to the floor, perspiringly emerged tosight. 

The first thing the shifty-eyed Hollander did was to exclaim_Gottverdummer_. The first thing the whiskery Belgian did was to grab his_paillasse_ and stand guard over it. The first thing the youth in theleggings did was to stare helplessly about him, murmuring somethingwhimperingly in Polish. The first thing the fourth _nouveau_ did was payattention to anybody; lighting a cigarette in an unhurried manner as hedid so, and puffing silently and slowly as if in all the universe nothingwhatever save the taste of tobacco existed. 

A bevy of Hollanders were by this time about the triangle, asking him allat once Was he from so and so, What was in his box. How long had he beenin coming, etc. Half a dozen stooped over the box itself, and at leastthree pairs of hands were on the point of trying the lock--when suddenlywith incredible agility the unperturbed smoker shot a yard forward, landing quietly beside them; and exclaimed rapidly and briefly throughhis nose. 

"_Mang. _"

He said it almost petulantly, or as a child says "Tag! You're it. "

The onlookers recoiled, completely surprised. Whereat the frightenedyouth in black puttees sidled over and explained with a pathetic, at onceingratiating and patronising, accent. 

"He is not nasty. He's a good fellow. He's my friend. He wants to saythat it's his, that box. He doesn't speak French. "

"It's the _Gottverdummer_ Polak's box, " said the Triangular Man explodingin Dutch. "They're a pair of Polakers; and this man" (with a twist of hispale-blue eyes in the direction of the Bewhiskered One) "and I had tocarry it all the _Gottverdummer_ way to this _Gottverdummer_ place. "

All this time the incognizable _nouveau_ was smoking slowly and calmly, and looking at nothing at all with his black buttonlike eyes. Upon hisface no faintest suggestion of expression could be discovered by thehungry minds which focussed unanimously upon its almost stern contours. The deep furrows in the cardboardlike cheeks (furrows which resembledslightly the gills of some extraordinary fish, some unbreathing fish)moved not an atom. The moustache drooped in something like mechanicaltranquillity. The lips closed occasionally with a gesture at onceabstracted and sensitive upon the lightly and carefully held cigarette;whose curling smoke accentuated the poise of the head, at once alert anduninterested. 

Monsieur Auguste broke in, speaking, as I thought, Russian--and in aninstant he and the youth in puttees and the Unknowable's cigarette andthe box and the Unknowable had disappeared through the crowd in thedirection of Monsieur Auguste's _paillasse_, which was also the directionof the _paillasse_ belonging to the Cordonnier as he was sometimescalled--a diminutive man with immense mustachios of his own whopromenaded with Monsieur Auguste, speaking sometimes French but, as ageneral rule, Russian or Polish. 

Which was my first glimpse, and is the reader's, of the Zulu; he beingone of the Delectable Mountains. For which reason I shall have more tosay of him later, when I ascend the Delectable Mountains in a separatechapter or chapters; till when the reader must be content with the above, however unsatisfactory description.... 

One of the most utterly repulsive personages whom I have met in mylife--perhaps (and on second thought I think certainly) the most utterlyrepulsive--was shortly after this presented to our midst by theconsiderate French government. I refer to The Fighting Sheeney. Whetheror no he arrived after the Spanish Whoremaster I cannot say. I rememberthat Bill the Hollander--which was the name of the triangular rope-beltedman with shifty blue eyes (co-_arrivé_ with the whiskey Belgian; whichBelgian, by the way, from his not to be exaggerated brutal look, B. Andmyself called The Baby-snatcher)--upon his arrival told great tales of aSpanish millionaire with whom he had been in prison just previous to hisdiscovery of La Ferté. "He'll be here too in a couple o' days, " addedBill the Hollander, who had been fourteen years in These United States, spoke the language to a T, talked about "The America Lakes, " and wasotherwise amazingly well acquainted with The Land of The Free. And sureenough, in less than a week one of the fattest men whom I have ever laideyes on, over-dressed, much beringed and otherwise wealthy-looking, arrived--and was immediately played up to by Judas (who could smell cashalmost as far as _le gouvernement français_ could smell sedition) and, tomy somewhat surprise, by the utterly respectable Count Bragard. But mostemphatically NOT by Mexique, who spent a half-hour talking to the_nouveau_ in his own tongue, then drifted placidly over to our beds andinformed us:

"You see dat feller over dere, dat fat feller? I speak Spanish to him. Heno good. Tell me he make fifty thousand franc last year runnin'whorehouse in" (I think it was) "Brest. Son of bitch!"

"Dat fat feller" lived in a perfectly huge bed which he contrived to havebrought up for him immediately upon his arrival. The bed arrived in aknock-down state and with it a mechanician from _la ville_, who set aboutputting it together, meanwhile indulging in many glances expressive notmerely of interest but of amazement and even fear. I suppose the bed hadto be of a special size in order to accommodate the circular millionaireand being an extraordinary bed required the services of a skilledartisan--at all events, "dat fat feller's" couch put the Skipper'saltogether in the shade. As I watched the process of construction itoccurred to me that after all here was the last word in luxury--to callforth from the metropolis not only a special divan but with it a specialslave, the Slave of the Bed.... "Dat fat feller" had one of the prisonersperform his _corvée_ for him. "Dat fat feller" bought enough at thecanteen twice every day to stock a transatlantic liner for seven voyages, and never ace with the prisoners. I will mention him again àpropos theMecca of respectability, the Great White Throne of purity, Three ringsThree--alias Count Bragard, to whom I have long since introduced myreader. 

So we come, willy-nilly, to The Fighting Sheeney. 

The Fighting Sheeney arrived carrying the expensive suitcase of a livid, strangely unpleasant-looking Roumanian gent, who wore a knit sweater of astrangely ugly red hue, impeccable clothes, and an immaculate velour hatwhich must have been worth easily fifty francs. We called this gentRockyfeller. His personality might be faintly indicated by the adjectiveDisagreeable. The porter was a creature whom Ugly does not even slightlydescribe. There are some specimens of humanity in whose presence oneinstantly and instinctively feels a profound revulsion, a revulsionwhich--perhaps because it is profound--cannot be analysed. The FightingSheeney was one of these specimens. His face (or to use the good Americanidiom, his mug) was exceedingly coarse-featured and had an indefatigableexpression of sheer brutality--yet the impression which it gave could notbe traced to any particular plane or line. I can and will say, however, that this face was most hideous--perhaps that is the word--when itgrinned. When The Fighting Sheeney grinned you felt that he desired toeat you, and was prevented from eating you only by a superior desire toeat everybody at once. He and Rockyfeller came to us from, I think itwas, the Santé; both accompanied B. To Précigne. During the weeks whichThe Fighting Sheeney spent at La Ferté Macé, the non-existence of theinhabitants of The Enormous Room was rendered something more thanmiserable. It was rendered well-nigh unbearable. 

The night Rockyfeller and his slave arrived was a night to be rememberedby everyone. It was one of the wildest and strangest and most perfectlyinteresting nights I, for one, ever spent. Rockyfeller had been corralledby Judas, and was enjoying a special bed to our right at the upper end ofThe Enormous Room. At the canteen he had purchased a large number ofcandles in addition to a great assortment of dainties which he and Judaswere busily enjoying--when the _planton_ came up, counted us twice, divided by three, gave the order "_Lumières éteintes_, " and descended, locking the door behind him. Everyone composed himself for miserablesleep. Everyone except Judas, who went on talking to Rockyfeller, andRockyfeller, who proceeded to light one of his candles and begin apleasant and conversational evening. The Fighting Sheeney lay stark-nakedon a _paillasse_ between me and his lord. The Fighting Sheeney toldeveryone that to sleep stark-naked was to avoid bugs (whereof everybody, including myself, had a goodly portion). The Fighting Sheeney was, however, quieted by the _planton's_ order; whereas Rockyfeller continuedto talk and munch to his heart's content. This began to get oneverybody's nerves. Protests in a number of languages arose from allparts of The Enormous Room. Rockyfeller gave a contemptuous look aroundhim and proceeded with his conversation. A curse emanated from thedarkness. Up sprang The Fighting Sheeney, stark naked; strode over to thebed of the curser, and demanded ferociously:

"_Boxe? Vous!_"

The curser was apparently fast asleep, and even snoring. The FightingSheeney turned away disappointed, and had just reached his _paillasse_when he was greeted by a number of uproariously discourteous remarksuttered in all sorts of tongues. Over he rushed, threatened, received noresponse, and turned back to his place. Once more ten or twelve voicesinsulted him from the darkness. Once more The Fighting Sheeney made forthem, only to find sleeping innocents. Again he tried to go to bed. Againthe shouts arose, this time with redoubled violence and in greatlyincreased number. The Fighting Sheeney was at his wits' end. He strodeabout challenging everyone to fight, receiving not the slightestrecognition, cursing, reviling, threatening, bullying. The darknessalways waited for him to resume his mattress, then burst out in all sortsof maledictions upon his head and the sacred head of his lord and master. The latter was told to put out his candle, go to sleep and give the resta chance to enjoy what pleasure they might in forgetfulness of theirwoes. Whereupon he appealed to The Sheeney to stop this. The Sheeney(almost weeping) said he had done his best, that everyone was a pig, thatnobody would fight, that it was disgusting. Roars of applause. Protestsfrom the less strenuous members of our circle against the noise ingeneral: Let him have his _foutue_ candle, Shut up, Go to sleep yourself, etc. Rockyfeller kept on talking (albeit visibly annoyed by theill-breeding of his fellow-captives) to the smooth and oily Judas. Thenoise, or rather noises, increased. I was for some reason angry atRockyfeller--I think I had a curious notion that if I couldn't have alight after "_lumières éteintes_" and if my very good friends were noneof them allowed to have one, then, by God! neither should Rockyfeller. Atany rate, I passed a few remarks calculated to wither the by this time alittle nervous Übermench; got up, put on some enormous _sabots_ (which Ihad purchased from a horrid little boy whom the French Government hadarrested with his parent, for some cause unknown--which horrid little boytold me that he had "found" the _sabots_ "in a train" on the way to LaFerté) shook myself into my fur coat, and banged as noisemakingly as Iknew how over to One Eyed Dah-veed's _paillasse_, where Mexique joinedus. "It is useless to sleep, " said One Eyed Dah-veed in French andSpanish. "True, " I agreed; "therefore, let's make all the noise we can. "

Steadily the racket bulged in the darkness. Human cries, quips andprofanity had now given place to wholly inspired imitations of various, not to say sundry, animals. Afrique exclaimed--with great pleasure Irecognised his voice through the impenetrable gloom:

"Agahagahagahagahagah!"

--"perhaps, " said I, "he means a machine gun; it sounds like either thator a monkey. " The Wanderer crowed beautifully. Monsieur Auguste's bosomfriend, _le Cordonnier_, uttered an astonishing:

"Meeee-ooooooOW!"

which provoked a tornado of laughter and some applause. Mooings, chirpings, cacklings--there was a superb hen--neighings, he-hawing, roarings, bleatings, growlings, quackings, peepings, screamings, bellowings, and--something else, of course--set The Enormous Roomsuddenly and entirely alive. Never have I imagined such a menagerie ashad magically instated itself within the erstwhile soggy and dismal fourwalls of our chamber. Even such staid characters as Count Bragard set upa little bawling. Monsieur Pet-airs uttered a tiny aged crowing to myimmense astonishment and delight. The dying, the sick, the ancient, themutilated, made their contributions to the common pandemonium. And then, from the lower left darkness, sprouted one of the very finest noiseswhich ever fell on human ears--the noise of a little dog with floppy earswho was tearing after something on very short legs and carrying his veryfuzzy tail straight up in the air as he tore; a little dog who was busierthan he was wise, louder than he was big; a red-tongued, foolishbreathless, intent little dog with black eyes and a great smile andwoolly paws--which noise, conceived and executed by The Lobster, sent TheEnormous Room into an absolute and incurable hysteria. 

The Fighting Sheeney was at a standstill. He knew not how to turn. Atlast he decided to join with the insurgents, and wailed brutally anddismally. That was the last straw: Rockyfeller, who could no longer (evenby shouting to Judas) make himself heard, gave up conversation and gazedangrily about him; angrily yet fearfully, as if he expected some of thesenumerous bears, lions, tigers and baboons to leap upon him from thedarkness. His livid super-disagreeable face trembled with the flickeringcadence of the candle. His lean lips clenched with mortification andwrath. "_Vous êtes chef de chambre_, " he said fiercely to Judas--"whydon't you make the men stop this? _C'est enmerdant. _" "Ah, " replied Judassmoothly and insinuatingly--"They are only men, and boors at that; youcan't expect them to have any manners. " A tremendous group of SomethingElses greeted this remark together with cries, insults, groans andlinguistic trumpetings. I got up and walked the length of the room to thecabinet (situated as always by this time of night in a pool which was incertain places six inches deep, from which pool my _sabots_ somewhatprotected me) and returned, making as loud a clattering as I was able. Suddenly the voice of Monsieur Auguste leaped through the din in an

"_Alors! c'est as-sez. _"

The next thing we knew he had reached the window just below the cabinet(the only window, by the way, not nailed up with good long wire nails forthe sake of warmth) and was shouting in a wild, high, gentle, angry voiceto the sentinel below:

"_Plan-ton!_ It is impos-si-ble to sleep!"

A great cry: "Yes! I am coming!" floated up--every single noisedropped--Rockyfeller shot out his hand for the candle, seized it interror, blew it out as if blowing it out were the last thing he would doin this life--and The Enormous Room hung silent; enormously dark, enormously expectant.... 

BANG! Open the door. "_Alors, qui, m'appelle? Qu'est-ce qu'on a foutuici. _" And the Black Holster, revolver in hand, flashed his torch intothe inky stillness of the chamber. Behind him stood two _plantons_ whitewith fear; their trembling hands clutching revolvers, the barrels ofwhich shook ludicrously. 

"_C'est moi, plan-ton!_" Monsieur Auguste explained that no one couldsleep because of the noise, and that the noise was because "_ce monsieurlà_" would not extinguish his candle when everyone wanted to sleep. TheBlack Holster turned to the room at large and roared: "You children of_Merde_ don't let this happen again or I'll fix you every one ofyou. "--Then he asked if anyone wanted to dispute this assertion (hebrandishing his revolver the while) and was answered by peacefulsnorings. Then he said by X Y and Z he'd fix the noisemakers in themorning and fix them good--and looked for approbation to his tremblingassistants. Then he swore twenty or thirty times for luck, turned, andthundered out on the heels of his fleeing _confrères_ who almost trippedover each other in their haste to escape from The Enormous Room. Neverhave I seen a greater exhibition of bravery than was afforded by TheBlack Holster, revolver in hand, holding at bay the snoring andweaponless inhabitants of The Enormous Room. _Vive les plantons. _ Heshould have been a _gendarme_. 

Of course Rockyfeller, having copiously tipped the officials of La Fertéupon his arrival, received no slightest censure nor any hint ofpunishment for his deliberate breaking an established rule--a rule forthe breaking of which anyone of the common scum (e. G. , thank God, myself)would have got _cabinot de suite_. No indeed. Several of _les hommes_, however, got _pain sec_--not because they had been caught in an act ofvociferous protestation by the Black Holster, which they had not--butjust on principle, as a warning to the rest of us and to teach us awholesome respect for (one must assume) law and order. One and all, theyheartily agreed that it was worth it. Everyone knew, of course, that theSpy had peached. For, by Jove, even in The Enormous Room there was a manwho earned certain privileges and acquired a complete immunity frompunishment by squealing on his fellow-sufferers at each and everyopportunity. A really ugly person, with a hard knuckling face andtreacherous hands, whose daughter lived downstairs in a separate roomapart from _les putains_ (against which "dirty, " "filthy, " "whores" hecould not say enough--"Hi'd rather die than 'ave my daughter with themstinkin' 'ores, " remarked once to me this strictly moral man, in CockneyEnglish) and whose daughter (aged thirteen) was generally supposed toserve in a pleasurable capacity. One did not need to be warned againstthe Spy (as both B. And I were warned, upon our arrival)--a single lookat that phiz was enough for anyone partially either intelligent orsensitive. This phiz or mug had, then, squealed. Which everyone took as amatter of course and admitted among themselves that hanging was too goodfor him. 

But the vast and unutterable success achieved by the _Menagerie_ wasthis--Rockyfeller, shortly after, left our ill-bred society for"_l'hôpital_"; the very same "hospital" whose comforts and seclusionMonsieur le Surveillant had so dextrously recommended to B. And myself. Rockyfeller kept The Fighting Sheeney in his way, in order to defend himwhen he went on promenade; otherwise our connection with him wasdefinitely severed, his new companions being Muskowitz the Cock-eyedMillionaire, and The Belgian Song Writer--who told everyone to whom hespoke that he was a government official ("_de la blague_" cried thelittle Machine-Fixer, "_c'est un menteur!_" Adding that he knew of thisperson in Belgium and that this person was a man who wrote popularditties). Would to Heaven we had got rid of the slave as well as themaster--but unfortunately The Fighting Sheeney couldn't afford to followhis lord's example. So he went on making a nuisance of himself, tryinghard to curry favour with B. And me, getting into fights and bullyingeveryone generally. 

Also this lion-hearted personage spent one whole night shrieking andmoaning on his _paillasse_ after an injection by Monsieur Richard--forsyphilis. Two or three men were, in the course of a few days, discoveredto have had syphilis for some time. They had it in their mouths. I don'tremember them particularly, except that at least one was a Belgian. Ofcourse they and The Fighting Sheeney had been using the common dipper anddrink pail. _Le gouvernement français_ couldn't be expected to look outfor a little thing like venereal disease among prisoners: didn't it haveenough to do curing those soldiers who spent their time on permissiontrying their best to infect themselves with both gonorrhea and syphilis?Let not the reader suppose I am day-dreaming: let him rather recall thatI had had the honour of being a member of Section Sanitaire Vingt-et-Un, which helped evacuate the venereal hospital at Ham, with whoseinhabitants (in odd moments) I talked and walked and learned severalthings about _la guerre_. Let the reader--if he does not realise italready--realise that This Great War for Humanity, etc. , did not agreewith some people's ideas, and that some people's ideas made them preferto the glories of the front line the torments (I have heard my friends atHam screaming a score of times) attendant upon venereal diseases. Or asone of my aforesaid friends told me--after discovering that I was, incontrast to _les américains_, not bent upon making France discoverAmerica but rather upon discovering France and _les français_ myself:

"_Mon vieux_, it's quite simple. I go on leave. I ask to go to Paris, because there are prostitutes there who are totally diseased. I catchsyphilis, and, when possible gonorrhea also. I come back. I leave for thefront line. I am sick. The hospital. The doctor tells me: you must notsmoke or drink, then you will be cured quickly. 'Thanks, doctor!' I drinkall the time and I smoke all the time and I do not get well. I stay five, six, seven weeks. Perhaps a few months. At last, I am well. I rejoin myregiment. And now it is my turn to go on leave. I go. Again the samething. It's very pretty, you know. "

But about the syphilitics at La Ferté: they were, somewhat tardily to besure, segregated in a very small and dirty room--for a matter of, perhaps, two weeks. And the Surveillant actually saw to it that duringthis period they ate _la soupe_ out of individual china bowls. 

I scarcely know whether The Fighting Sheeney made more of a nuisance ofhimself during his decumbiture or during the period which followedit--which period houses an astonishing number of fights, rows, bullyings, etc. He must have had a light case for he was cured in no time, and oneveryone's back as usual. Well, I will leave him for the nonce; in fact, I will leave him until I come to The Young Pole, who wore black putteesand spoke of The Zulu as "_mon ami_"--the Young Pole whose troubles Iwill recount in connection with the second Delectable Mountain Itself. Iwill leave the Sheeney with the observation that he was almost as vain ashe was vicious; for with what ostentation, one day when we were in thekitchen, did he show me a post-card received that afternoon from Paris, whereon I read "Comme vous êtes beau" and promises to send more money asfast as she earned it and, hoping that he had enjoyed her last present, the signature (in a big, adoring hand)

"_Ta mome. Alice. _"

and when I had read it--sticking his map up into my face, The FightingSheeney said with emphasis:

"_No travailler moi. Femme travaille, fait la noce, tout le temps. Toujours avec officiers anglais. Gagne beaucoup, cent franc, deux centfranc, trois cent franc, toutes les nuits. Anglais riches. Femme me donnetout. Moi no travailler. Bon, eh?_"

Grateful for this little piece of information, and with his leer an inchfrom my chin, I answered slowly and calmly that it certainly was. I mightadd that he spoke Spanish by preference (according to Mexique very badSpanish); for The Fighting Sheeney had made his home for a number ofyears in Rio, and his opinion thereof may be loosely translated by theexpressive phrase, "it's a swell town. "

A charming fellow, The Fighting Sheeney. 

Now I must tell you what happened to the poor Spanish Whoremaster. I havealready noted the fact that Count Bragard conceived an immediate fondnessfor this rolypoly individual, whose belly--as he lay upon his back of amorning in bed--rose up with the sheets, blankets and quilts as much astwo feet above the level of his small, stupid head studded with chins. Ihave said that this admiration on the part of the admirable Count and R. A. For a personage of the Spanish Whoremaster's profession somewhatinterested me. The fact is, a change had recently come in our ownrelations with Vanderbilt's friend. His cordiality toward B. And myselfhad considerably withered. From the time of our arrivals the goodnobleman had showered us with favours and advice. To me, I may say, hewas even extraordinarily kind. We talked painting, for example: CountBragard folded a piece of paper, tore it in the centre of the foldededge, unfolded it carefully, exhibiting a good round hole, and remarking:"Do you know this trick? It's an English trick, Mr. Cummings, " held thepaper before him and gazed profoundly through the circular aperture at anexceptionally disappointing section of the altogether gloomy landscape, visible thanks to one of the ecclesiastical windows of The Enormous Room. "Just look at that, Mr. Cummings, " he said with quiet dignity. I looked. I tried my best to find something to the left. "No, no, straightthrough, " Count Bragard corrected me. "There's a lovely bit oflandscape, " he said sadly. "If I only had my paints here. I thought, youknow, of asking my housekeeper to send them on from Paris--but how canyou paint in a bloody place like this with all these bloody pigs aroundyou? It's ridiculous to think of it. And it's tragic, too, " he addedgrimly, with something like tears in his grey, tired eyes. 

Or we were promenading The Enormous Room after supper--the eveningpromenade in the _cour_ having been officially eliminated owing to thedarkness and the cold of the autumn twilight--and through the windows thedull bloating colours of sunset pouring faintly; and the Count stops deadin his tracks and regards the sunset without speaking for a number ofseconds. Then--"it's glorious, isn't it?" he asks quietly. I say"Glorious indeed. " He resumes his walk with a sigh, and I accompany him. "_Ce n'est pas difficile à peindre, un coucher du soleil_, it's nothard, " he remarks gently. "No?" I say with deference. "Not hard a bit, "the Count says, beginning to use his hands. "You only need three colours, you know. Very simple. " "Which colours are they?" I inquire ignorantly. "Why, you know of course, " he says surprised. "Burnt sienna, cadmiumyellow, and--er--there! I can't think of it. I know it as well as I knowmy own face. So do you. Well, that's stupid of me. "

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 moustache, particularly fine. School of Cézanne. "--"Really?" I said insurprise. --"Yes, indeed, " Count Bragard said, extracting histired-looking hands from his tired-looking trousers with a culturedgesture. "Fine young fellow painted that. I knew him. Disciple of themaster. Very creditable piece of work. "--"Did you ever see Cézanne?" Iventured. --"Bless you, yes, scores of times, " he answered almostpityingly. --"What did he look like?" I asked, with greatcuriosity. --"Look like? His appearance, you mean?" Count Bragard seemedat a loss. "Why he was not extraordinary looking. I don't know how youcould describe him. Very difficult in English. But you know a phrase wehave in French, '_l'air pésant_'; I don't think there's anything inEnglish for it; _il avait l'air pésant_, Cézanne, if you know what Imean. 

"I should work, I should not waste my time, " the Count would say almostweepingly. "But it's no use, my things aren't here. And I'm getting oldtoo; couldn't concentrate in this stinking hole of a place, you know. "

I did some hasty drawings of Monsieur Pet-airs washing and rubbing hisbald head with a great towel in the dawn. The R. A. Caught me in the actand came over shortly after, saying, "Let me see them. " In someperturbation (the subject being a particular friend of his) I showed onedrawing. "Very good, in fact, excellent, " the R. A. Smiled whimsically. "You have a real talent for caricature, Mr. Cummings, and you shouldexercise it. You really got Peters. Poor Peters, he's a fine fellow, youknow; but this business of living in the muck and filth, _c'estmalheureux_. 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 tolive 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 doget out (I'm just waiting for my papers to be sent on by the Frenchconsul) I'll not forget my friends. We've lived together and sufferedtogether and I'm not a man to forget it. This hideous mistake is nearlycleared up, and when I go free I'll do anything for you and your chum. Anything I can do for you I'd be only too glad to do it. If you want meto 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 _àbon marché_. Because you see they know me there, and I know just where togo. Just give me the money for what you need and I'll get you the bestthere is in Paris for it. You needn't worry"--I was protesting that itwould be too much trouble--"my dear fellow, it's no trouble to do afavour for a friend. "

And to B. And myself _ensemble_ he declared, with tears in his eyes, "Ihave some marmalade at my house in Paris, real marmalade, not the sort ofstuff you buy these days. We know how to make it. You can't get an ideahow delicious it is. In big crocks"--the Count said simply--"well, that'sfor 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, " andhis face clouded with worry, "and we send him some now and then, he'scrazy about it. I know what it means to him. And you shall share in ittoo. I'll send you six crocks. " Then, suddenly looking at us with apleasant expression, "By Jove!" the Count said, "do you like whiskey?Real Bourbon whiskey? I see by your look that you know what it is. Butyou never tasted anything like this. Do you know London?" I said no, as Ihad said once before. "Well, that's a pity, " he said, "for if you didyou'd know this bar. I know the barkeeper well, known him for thirtyyears. There's a picture of mine hanging in his place. Look at it whenyou're in London, drop in to ---- Street, you'll find the place, anyonewill tell you where it is. This fellow would do anything for me. And nowI'll tell you what I'll do: you fellows give me whatever you want tospend and I'll get you the best whiskey you ever tasted. It's his ownprivate stock, you understand. I'll send it on to you--God knows you needit in this place. I wouldn't do this for anyone else, you understand, "and he smiled kindly; "but we've been prisoners together, and weunderstand each other, and that's enough for gentlemen. I won't forgetyou. " 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 thatyou 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--anoutrage, a bloody outrage, upon two of his own countrymen. We shall seewhat happens then. "

It was during this period that Count Bragard lent us for our personal usehis greatest treasure, a water glass. "I don't need it, " he said simplyand pathetically. 

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

It came at the close of one soggy, damp, raining afternoon. For thisentire hopeless grey afternoon Count Bragard and B. Promenaded TheEnormous 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 wewanted him to buy in Paris and London. I spent my time rushing about, falling over things, upsetting people, making curious and secret signs toB. , which signs, being interpreted, meant be careful! But there was noneed of telling him this particular thing. When the _planton_ announced_la soupe_, a fiercely weary face strode by me en route to his mattressand his spoon. I knew that B. Had been careful. A minute later he joinedme, and told me as much.... 

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

It seems that B. Had heard that the kindly nobleman wasn't going to Parisat all. 

Moreover, Monsieur Pet-airs had said to B. Something about Count Bragardbeing 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 poorSpanish Whoremaster to beat the band. Every day had he sat on a littlestool beside the rolypoly millionaire, and written from dictation letterafter letter in French--with which language the rolypoly was sadlyunfamiliar.... And when next day Count Bragard took back his treasure oftreasures, his personal water glass, remarking briefly that he needed itonce again, I was not surprised. And when, a week or so later, he left--Iwas 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 goodovercoat. But say: Please no tell anybody come from me. Please telleverybody your family send it. " And with a smile, "I t'ink dat fellerfake. "

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

"Dat feller give dat English feller one hundred francs. 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 reachedAmerica and my doting family should have been posted by this highlyentertaining personage en ville, whither he went as a trusted inhabitantof La Ferté to do a few necessary errands for himself; whither hereturned with a good deal of colour in his cheeks and a good deal of _vinrouge_ in his guts; going and returning with Tommy, the _planton_ whobrought 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'shands--Tommy, for whom we had a delightful name which I sincerely regretbeing unable to tell, Tommy, who was an Englishman for all his French_planton'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 heescorted 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 memention an entertaining incident which occurred during the latter part ofmy stay at La Ferté Macé. Our society had been gladdened--or at any rategalvanized--by the biggest single contribution in its history; thearrival simultaneously of six purely extraordinary persons, whose namesalone should be of more than general interest: The Magnifying Glass, TheTrick Raincoat, The Messenger Boy, The Hat, The Alsatian, TheWhitebearded Raper and His Son. In order to give the reader an idea ofthe situation created by these _arrivés_, which situation gives theentrance of the Washing Machine Man--the entertaining incident, in otherwords--its full and unique flavour, I must perforce sketch briefly eachmember of a truly imposing group. Let me say at once that, so terrible animpression did the members make, each inhabitant of The Enormous Roomrushed at break-neck speed to his _paillasse_; where he stood at bay, assuming as frightening an attitude as possible. The Enormous Room wasfull enough already, in all conscience. Between sixty and seventymattresses, with their inhabitants and, in nearly every case, baggage, occupied it so completely as scarcely to leave room for _le poêle_ at thefurther end and the card table in the centre. No wonder we were struckwith terror upon seeing the six _nouveaux_. Judas immediately protestedto the _planton_ who brought them up that there were no places, getting aroar in response and the door slammed in his face to boot. But the readeris not to imagine that it was the number alone of the arrivals whichinspired fear and distrust--their appearance was enough to shake anyone'ssanity. I do protest that never have I experienced a feeling of moreprofound distrust than upon this occasion; distrust of humanity ingeneral and in particular of the following individuals:

An old man shabbily dressed in a shiny frock coat, upon whose peering andotherwise very aged face a pair of dirty spectacles rested. The firstthing he did, upon securing a place, was to sit upon his mattress in aprofessorial manner, tremulously extract a journal from his left coatpocket, tremblingly produce a large magnifying glass from his upper rightvest pocket, and forget everything. Subsequently, I discovered himpromenading the room with an enormous expenditure of feeble energy, taking tiny steps flat-footedly and leaning in when he rounded a corneras if he were travelling at terrific speed. He suffered horribly fromrheumatism, could scarcely move after a night on the floor, and must havebeen at least sixty-seven years old. 

Second, a palish, foppish, undersized, prominent-nosed creature whoaffected a deep musical voice and the cut of whose belted raincoat gaveaway his profession--he was a pimp, and proud of it, and immediately uponhis arrival boasted thereof, and manifested altogether as disagreeable aspecies of bullying vanity as I ever (save in the case of The FightingSheeney) encountered. He got his from Jean le Nègre, as the reader willlearn later. 

Third, a super-Western-Union-Messenger type of ancient-youth, extraordinarily unhandsome if not positively ugly. He had a weak pimplygrey face, was clad in a brownish uniform, puttees (on pipestem calves), and a regular Messenger Boy cap. Upon securing a place he instantly wentto the card-table, seated himself hurriedly, pulled out a batch ofblanks, and wrote a telegram to (I suppose) himself. Then he returned tohis _paillasse_, lay down with apparently supreme contentment, and fellasleep. 

Fourth, a tiny old man who looked like a caricature of an East Sidesecond-hand clothes dealer--having a long beard, a long, worn and dirtycoat reaching just to his ankles, and a small derby hat on his head. Thevery first night his immediate neighbour complained that "Le Chapeau" (ashe was christened by The Zulu) was guilty of fleas. A great tempestensued immediately. A _planton_ was hastily summoned. He arrived, heardthe case, inspected The Hat (who lay on his _paillasse_ with his derbyon, his hand far down the neck of his shirt, scratching busily andprotesting occasionally his entire innocence), uttered (being the BlackHolster) an oath of disgust, and ordered The Frog to "_couper les cheveuxde suite et la barbe aussi; après il va au bain, le vieux_. " The Frogapproached and gently requested The Hat to seat himself upon a chair--thebetter of two chairs boasted by The Enormous Room. The Frog, successor toThe Barber, brandished his scissors. The Hat lay and scratched. "_Allez, Nom de Dieu_" the _planton_ roared. The poor Hat arose trembling, assumeda praying attitude; and began to talk in a thick and sudden manner. "_Asseyez-vous là, tête de cochon_. " The pitiful Hat obeyed, clutchinghis derby to his head in both withered hands. "Take off your hat, you sonof a bitch, " the _planton_ yelled. "I don't want to, " the tragic Hatwhimpered. BANG! the derby hit the floor, bounded upward and lay still. "Proceed, " the orderly thundered to The Frog, who regarded him with aperfectly inscrutable expression on his extremely keen face, then turnedto his subject, snickered with the scissors, and fell to. Locks ear-longfell in crisp succession. Pete the Shadow, standing beside the barber, nudged me; and I looked; and I beheld upon the floor the shorn locksrising and curling with a movement of their own.... "Now for the beard, "said the Black Holster. --"No, no, _Monsieur, s'il vous plait, pas mabarbe, monsieur_"--The Hat wept, trying to kneel. --"_Ta gueule_ or I'llcut your throat, " the _planton_ replied amiably; and The Frog, afteranother 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 comparativelyunremarkable, save for the worn long coat which he clutched about him, shivering. And he borrowed five francs from me twice, and paid mepunctually each time when his own money arrived, and presented me withchocolate into the bargain, tipping his hat quickly and bowing (as healways did whenever he addressed anyone). Poor Old Hat, B. And I and theZulu were the only men at La Ferté who liked you. 

Fifth, a fat, jolly, decently dressed man. --He had been to a camp whereeveryone danced, because an entire ship's crew was interned there, andthe crew were enormously musical, and the captain (having sold his ship)was rich and tipped the Director regularly; so everyone danced night andday, and the crew played, for the crew had brought their music withthem. --He had a way of borrowing the paper (_Le Matin_) which we boughtfrom one of the lesser _plantons_ who went to the town and got _Le Matin_there; borrowing it before we had read it--by the sunset. And hisfavourite observations were:

"It's a rotten country. Dirty weather. "

Fifth and sixth, a vacillating, staggering, decrepit creature withwildish white beard and eyes, who had been arrested--incrediblyenough--for "rape. " With him his son, a pleasant youth quiet ofdemeanour, inquisitive of nature, with whom we sometimes conversed on thesubject of the English Army. 

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

In the doorway, one day shortly after the arrival of the gentlemenmentioned, quietly stood a well-dressed handsomely middle-aged man, witha sensitive face culminating in a groomed Van Dyck beard. I thought for amoment that the Mayor of Orne, or whatever his title is, had dropped infor an informal inspection of The Enormous Room. Thank God, I said tomyself, it has never looked so chaotically filthy since I have had thejoy of inhabiting it. And _sans blague_, The Enormous Room _was_ in astate of really supreme disorder; shirts were thrown everywhere, a fewtwine clothes lines supported various pants, handkerchiefs and stockings, the stove was surrounded by a gesticulating group of nearly undressedprisoners, the stink was actually sublime. 

As the door closed behind him, the handsome man moved slowly andvigorously up The Enormous Room. His eyes were as big as turnips. Hisneat felt hat rose with the rising of his hair. His mouth opened in agesture of unutterable astonishment. His knees trembled with surprise andterror, the creases of his trousers quivering. His hands liftedthemselves slowly outward and upward till they reached the level of hishead; moved inward till they grasped his head: and were motionless. In adeep 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 _utiles_ contrivanceswhich gave him his name. He, as I remember, had been charged with aidingand abetting in the case of escaping deserters--but I know a betterreason for his arrest: undoubtedly _le gouvernement français_ caught himone day in the act of inventing a super-washing machine, in fact, aWhitewashing machine, for the private use of the Kaiser and HisFamily.... 

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

VIII

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 havementioned, in the combined pushing and pulling of a curiously primitivetwo-wheeled cart over a distance of perhaps three hundred yards to a kindof hydrant situated in a species of square upon which the mediaevalstructure known as Porte (or Camp) de Triage faced stupidly andthreateningly. A _planton_ always escorted the catchers through a bigdoor, between the stone wall, which backed the men's _cour_ and the endof the building itself, or, in other words, the canteen. The ten-footstone wall was, like every other stone wall, connected with La Ferté, topped with three feet of barbed wire. The door by which we exited withthe water-wagon to the street outside was at least eight feet high, adorned with several large locks. One pushing behind, one pulling in theshafts, we rushed the wagon over a sort of threshold or sill and into thestreet; and were immediately yelled at by the _planton_, who commanded usto stop until he had locked the door. 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. Allthis was pleasant and astonishing. To feel oneself, however temporarily, outside the eternal walls in a street connected with a rather selfish andplacid looking little town (whereof not more than a dozen houses werevisible) gave the prisoner an at once silly and uncanny sensation, muchlike the sensation one must get when he starts to skate for the firsttime in a dozen years or so. The street met two others in a moment, andhere was a very nourishing sumach bush (as I guess) whose berries shockedthe stunned eye with a savage splash of vermilion. Under this colour onediscovered the Mecca of water-catchers in the form of an iron contrivanceoperating by means of a stubby lever which, when pressed down, yieldedgrudgingly a spout of whiteness. The contrivance was placed insufficiently close proximity to a low wall so that one of the catchersmight conveniently sit on the wall and keep the water spouting with acontinuous pressure of his foot, while the other catcher manipulated atin pail with telling effect. Having filled the barrel which rode on thetwo wagon wheels, we turned it with some difficulty and started it downthe street with the tin pail on top; the man in the shafts leaning backwith all his might to offset a certain velocity promoted by the downgrade, while the man behind tugged helpingly at the barrel itself. Onreaching the door we skewed the machine skillfully to the left, therebybringing it to a complete standstill, and waited for the _planton_ tounlock the locks; which done, we rushed it violently over the threshold, turned left, still running, and came to a final stop in front of thekitchen. Here stood three enormous wooden tubs. We backed the wagonaround; then one man opened a spigot in the rear of the barrel, and atthe same time the other elevated the shafts in a clever manner, inductingthe _jet d'eau_ to hit one of the tubs. One tub filled, we switched thestream wittily to the next. To fill the three tubs (they were not alwaysall of them empty) required as many as six or eight delightful trips. After which one entered the _cuisine_ and got his well-earnedreward--coffee with sugar. 

I have remarked that catching water was a mixed pleasure. The mixednessof the pleasure came from certain highly respectable citizens, and moreoften citizenesses, of _la ville_ de La Ferté Macé; who had a habit ofendowing the poor water-catchers with looks which I should not like toremember too well, at the same moment clutching whatever infants theycarried or wore or had on leash spasmodically to them. I never ceased tobe surprised by the scorn, contempt, disgust and frequently sheerferocity manifested in the male and particularly in the female faces. Allthe ladies wore, of course, black; they were wholly unbeautiful of faceor form, some of them actually repellant; not one should I, even undermore favourable circumstances, have enjoyed meeting. The first time Icaught water everybody in the town was returning from church, and aterrific sight it was. _Vive la bourgeoisie_, I said to myself, duckingthe shafts of censure by the simple means of hiding my face behind themoving water barrel. 

But one day--as I started to inform the reader--somebody and I werecatching water, and, in fact, had caught our last load, and werereturning with it down the street; when I, who was striding rapidlybehind trying to lessen with both hands the impetus of the machine, suddenly tripped and almost fell with surprise--

On the curb of the little unbeautiful street a figure was sitting, afemale figure dressed in utterly barbaric pinks and vermilions, having adark shawl thrown about her shoulders; a positively Arabian facedelimited by a bright coif of some tenuous stuff, slender golden handsholding with extraordinary delicacy what appeared to be a baby of notmore than three months old; and beside her a black-haired child ofperhaps three years and beside this child a girl of fourteen, dressedlike the woman in crashing hues, with the most exquisite face I had everknown. 

_Nom de Dieu_, I thought vaguely. Am I or am I not completely asleep? Andthe man in the shafts craned his neck in stupid amazement, and the_planton_ twirled his moustache and assumed that intrepid look which onlya _planton_ (or a _gendarme_) perfectly knows how to assume in thepresence of female beauty. 

That night The Wanderer was absent from _la soupe_, having been called byApollyon to the latter's office upon a matter of superior import. Everyone was abuzz with the news. The gypsy's wife and three children, one a baby at the breast, were outside demanding to be made prisoners. Would the Directeur allow it? They had been told a number of times by_plantons_ to go away, as they sat patiently waiting to be admitted tocaptivity. No threats, pleas nor arguments had availed. The wife said shewas tired of living without her husband--roars of laughter from all theBelgians and most of the Hollanders, I regret to say Pete included--andwanted merely and simply to share his confinement. Moreover, she said, without him she was unable to support his children! and it was betterthat they should grow up with their father as prisoners than starve todeath without him. She would not be moved. The Black Holster told her hewould use force--she answered nothing. Finally she had been admittedpending judgment. _Also sprach_, highly excited, the _balayeur_. 

"Looks like a--hoor, " was the Belgian-Dutch verdict, a verdict which wasobviously due to the costume of the lady in question almost as much as tothe untemperamental natures sojourning at La Ferté. B. And I agreed thatshe and her children were the most beautiful people we had ever seen, orwould ever be likely to see. So _la soupe_ ended, and everybody belchedand gasped and trumpeted up to The Enormous Room as usual. 

That evening, about six o'clock, I heard a man crying as if his heartwere broken. I crossed The Enormous Room. Half-lying on his _paillasse_, his great beard pouring upon his breast, his face lowered, his entirebody shuddering with sobs, lay The Wanderer. Several of the men wereabout him, standing in attitudes ranging from semi-amusement to stupidsympathy, listening to the anguish which--as from time to time he liftedhis majestic head--poured slowly and brokenly from his lips. I sat downbeside him. And he told me: "I bought him for six hundred francs, and Isold him for four hundred and fifty ... It was not a horse of this race, but of the race" (I could not catch the word) "as long as from here tothat post. I cried for a quarter of an hour just as if my child were dead... And it is seldom I weep over horses--I say: you are going, Jewel, _aur'oir et bon jour. _" ... 

The vain little dancer interrupted about "broken-down horses" ... "_Excuses donc_--this was no disabled horse, such as goes to thefront--these are some horses--pardon, whom you give eat, this, it iscolie, that, the other, it's colie--this never--he could go fortykilometres a day.... "

One of the strongest men I have seen in my life is crying because he hashad to sell his favourite horse. No wonder _les hommes_ in general arenot interested. Someone said: "Be of good cheer, Demestre, your wife andkids are well enough. "

"Yes--they are not cold; they have a bed like that" (a high gesturetoward the quilt of many colours on which we were sitting, such a quiltas I have not seen since; a feathery deepness soft to the touch as air inSpring), "which is worth three times this of mine--but _tu comprends_, it's not hot these mornings"--then he dropped his head, and lifted itagain, crying, crying. 

"_Et mes outils_, I had many--and my garments--where are they put, _où--où? Kis!_ And I had _chemises_ ... This is poor" (looking at himselfas a prince might look at his disguise)--"and like this, that--where?"

"_Si_ the wagon is not sold ... I never will stay here for _la durée dela guerre_. No--bahsht! To resume, that is why I need.... "

(more than upright in the priceless bed--the twice streaming darkness ofhis beard, his hoarse sweetness of voice--his immense perfect face anddeeply softnesses eyes--pouring voice)

"my wife sat over there, she spoke to No one and bothered Nobody--why wasmy wife taken here and shut up? Had she done anything? There is a wifewho _fait la putain_ and turns, to everyone and another, whom I bringanother tomorrow ... But a woman who loves only her husband, who waitsfor no one but her husband--"

(the tone bulged, and the eyes together)

"--_Ces cigarettes ne fument pas!_" I added an apology, having presentedhim with the package. "Why do you shell out these? They cost fifteensous, you may spend for them if you like, you understand what I'm saying?But some time when you have nothing" (extraordinary gently) "what then?Better to save for that day ... Better to buy _du tabac_ and _faire_yourself; these are made of tobacco dust. "

And there was someone to the right who was saying: "To-morrow is Sunday"... Wearily. The King, lying upon his huge quilt, sobbing now only alittle, heard:

"So--ah--he was born on a Sunday--my wife is nursing him, she gives himthe breast" (the gesture charmed) "she said to them she would not eat ifthey gave her that--that's not worth anything--meat is necessary everyday ... " he mused. I tried to go. 

"Sit there" (graciousness of complete gesture. The sheer kingliness ofpoverty. He creased the indescribably soft _couverture_ for me and I satand looked into his forehead bounded by the cube of square sliced hair. Blacker than Africa. Than imagination). 

After this evening I felt that possibly I knew a little of The Wanderer, or he of me. 

The Wanderer's wife and his two daughters and his baby lived in thewomen's quarters. I have not described and cannot describe these four. The little son of whom he was tremendously proud slept with his father inthe great quilts in The Enormous Room. Of The Wanderer's little son I maysay that he had lolling buttons of eyes sewed on gold flesh, that he hada habit of turning cart-wheels in one-third of his father's trousers, that we called him The Imp. He ran, he teased, he turned handsprings, hegot in the way, and he even climbed the largest of the scraggly trees inthe _cour_ one day. "You will fall, " Monsieur Peters (whose old eyes hada fondness for this irrepressible creature) remarked withconviction. --"Let him climb, " his father said quietly. "I have climbedtrees. I have fallen out of trees. I am alive. " The Imp shinnied like amonkey, shouting and crowing, up a lean gnarled limb--to the amazement ofthe very _planton_ who later tried to rape Celina and was caught. This_planton_ put his gun in readiness and assumed an eager attitude ofimmutable heroism. "Will you shoot?" the father inquired politely. "Indeed it would be a big thing of which you might boast all your life:I, a _planton_, shot and killed a six-year-old child in a tree. "--"_C'estenmerdant_, " the _planton_ countered, in some confusion--"he may betrying to escape. How do I know?"--"Indeed, how do you know anything?"the father murmured quietly. "It's a _mystère_. " The Imp, all at once, fell. He hit the muddy ground with a disagreeable thud. The breath wasutterly knocked out of him. The Wanderer picked him up kindly. His sonbegan, with the catching of his breath, to howl uproariously. "Serves himright, the ---- jackanapes, " a Belgian growled. --"I told you so, didn'tI?" Monsieur Petairs worringly cried: "I said he would fall out of thattree!"--"Pardon, you were right, I think, " the father smiled pleasantly. "Don't be sad, my little son, everybody falls out of trees, they're madefor that by God, " and he patted The Imp, squatting in the mud andsmiling. In five minutes The Imp was trying to scale the shed. "Come downor I fire, " the _planton_ cried nervously ... And so it was with TheWanderer's son from morning till night. "Never, " said Monsieur Pet-airswith solemn desperation, "have I seen such an incorrigible child, aperfectly incorrigible child, " and he shook his head and immediatelydodged a missile which had suddenly appeared from nowhere. 

Night after night The Imp would play around our beds, where we held courtwith our chocolate and our candles; teasing us, cajoling us, flatteringus, pretending tears, feigning insult, getting lectures from MonsieurPeters on the evil of cigarette smoking, keeping us in a state ofperpetual inquietude. When he couldn't think of anything else to do hesang at the top of his clear bright voice:

 "_C'est la guerre faut pas t'en faire_"

and turned a handspring or two for emphasis.... Mexique once cuffed himfor doing something peculiarly mischievous, and he set up a greatcrying--instantly The Wanderer was standing over Mexique, his handsclenched, his eyes sparkling--it took a good deal of persuasion toconvince the parent that his son was in error, meanwhile Mexique placidlyawaited his end ... And neither B. Nor I, despite the Imp's tormentings, could keep from laughing when he all at once with a sort of crowing cryrushed for the nearest post, jumped upon his hands, arched his back, andpoised head-downward; his feet just touching the pillar. Bare-footed, ina bright chemise and one-third of his father's trousers.... 

Being now in a class with "_les hommes mariés_" The Wanderer spent mostof the day downstairs, coming up with his little son every night to sleepin The Enormous Room. But we saw him occasionally in the _cour_; andevery other day when the dreadful cry was raised

"_Allez, tout-le-monde, 'plicher les pommes!_" and we descended, in fairweather, to the lane between the building and the _cour_, and in foul(very foul I should say) the dynosaur-coloured sweating walls of thedining-room--The Wanderer would quietly and slowly appear, along with theother _hommes mariés_, and take up the peeling of the amazingly coldpotatoes which formed the _pièce de resistance_ (in guise of _Soupe_) forboth women and men at La Ferté. And if the wedded males did not all ofthem show up for this unagreeable task, a dreadful hullabaloo wasinstantly raised--

"_LES HOMMES MARIÉS!_"

and forth would more or less sheepishly issue the delinquents. 

And I think The Wanderer, with his wife and children whom he loved asnever have I seen a man love anything in this world, was partly happy;walking in the sun when there was any, sleeping with his little boy in agreat gulp of softness. And I remember him pulling his fine beard intotwo darknesses--huge-sleeved, pink-checked chemise--walking kindly like abear--corduroy bigness of trousers, waistline always amorous ofknees--finger-ends just catching tops of enormous pockets. When he feels, as I think, partly happy, he corrects our pronunciation of the ineffableWord--saying

"_O, May-err-DE!_"

and smiles. And once Jean Le Nègre said to him as he squatted in the_cour_ with his little son beside him, his broad strong back as nearlyalways against one of the gruesome and minute _pommiers_--

"_Barbu! j'vais couper ta barbe, barbu!_" Whereat the father answeredslowly and seriously. 

"When you cut my beard you will have to cut off my head" regarding Jeanle Nègre with unspeakably sensitive, tremendously deep, peculiarly softeyes. "My beard is finer than that; you have made it too coarse, " hegently remarked one day, looking attentively at a piece of _photographie_which I had been caught in the act of perpetrating: whereat I bowed myhead in silent shame. 

"Demestre, Josef (_femme, née_ Feliska)" I read another day in theGestionnaire's book of judgment. O Monsieur le Gestionnaire, I should nothave liked to have seen those names in my book of sinners, in my album offilth and blood and incontinence, had I been you.... O little, verylittle, _gouvernement français_, and you, the great and comfortable_messieurs_ of the world, tell me why you have put a gypsy who dresseslike To-morrow among the squabbling pimps and thieves of yesterday.... 

He had been in New York one day. 

One child died at sea. 

"_Les landes_" he cried, towering over The Enormous Room suddenly onenight in Autumn, "_je les connais commes ma poche_--Bordeaux? _Je sais oùque c'est. _ Madrid? _Je sais où que c'est. _ Tolède? Seville? Naples? _Jesais où que c'est. Je les connais comme ma poche. _"

He could not read. "Tell me what it tells, " he said briefly and withoutannoyance, when once I offered him the journal. And I took pleasure intrying to do so. 

One fine day, perhaps the finest day, I looked from a window of TheEnormous Room and saw (in the same spot that Lena had enjoyed herhalf-hour promenade during confinement in the _cabinet_, as related) thewife of The Wanderer, "_née_ Feliska, " giving his baby a bath in a pail, while The Wanderer sat in the sun smoking. About the pail an absorbedgroup of _putains_ stood. Several _plantons_ (abandoning for one instanttheir plantonic demeanour) leaned upon their guns and watched. Some evensmiled a little. And the mother, holding the brownish, naked, crowingchild tenderly, was swimming it quietly to and fro, to the delight ofCelina in particular. To Celina it waved its arms greetingly. She stoopedand spoke to it. The mother smiled. The Wanderer, looking from time totime at his wife, smoked and pondered by himself in the sunlight. 

This baby was the delight of the _putains_ at all times. They used totake turns carrying it when on promenade. The Wanderer's wife, at suchmoments, regarded them with a gentle and jealous weariness. 

There were two girls, as I said. One, the littlest girl I ever saw walkand act by herself, looked exactly like a gollywog. This was because ofthe huge mop of black hair. She was very pretty. She used to sit with hermother and move her toes quietly for her own private amusement. The oldersister was as divine a creature as God in His skillful and infinitewisdom ever created. Her intensely sexual face greeted us nearly alwaysas we descended _pour la soupe_. She would come up to B. And me slenderlyand ask, with the brightest and darkest eyes in the world, "_Chocolat, M'sieu'?_"

and we would present her with a big or small, as the case might be, _morceau de chocolat_. We even called her _Chocolat_. Her skin was nearlysheer gold; her fingers and feet delicately formed: her teeth wonderfullywhite; her hair incomparably black and abundant. Her lips would haveseduced, I think, _le gouvernement français_ itself. Or any saint. 

Well.... 

_Le gouvernement français_ decided in its infinite but unskillful wisdomthat The Wanderer, being an inexpressibly bad man (guilty of who knowswhat gentleness, strength and beauty) should suffer as much as he wascapable of suffering. In other words, it decided (through its Three WiseMen, who formed the visiting Commission whereof I speak anon) that thewife, her baby, her two girls, and her little son should be separatedfrom the husband by miles and by stone walls and by barbed wire and byLaw. Or perhaps (there was a rumour to this effect) The Three Wise Mendiscovered that the father of these incredibly exquisite children was nother lawful husband. And of course, this being the case, the utterly andincomparably moral French Government saw its duty plainly; which duty wasto inflict the ultimate anguish of separation upon the sinners concerned. I know The Wanderer came from _la commission_ with tears of anger in hisgreat eyes. I know that some days later he, along with that deadly andpoisonous criminal Monsieur Auguste and that aged archtraitor MonsieurPet-airs, and that incomparably wicked person Surplice, and a raggedgentle being who one day presented us with a broken spoon which he hadfound somewhere--the gift being a purely spontaneous mark of approval andaffection--who for this reason was known as The Spoonman and the vast andimmeasurable honour of departing for Précigne _pour la durée de laguerre_. If ever I can create by some occult process of imagining a deedso perfectly cruel as the deed perpetrated in the case of JosephDemestre, I shall consider myself a genius. Then let us admit that theThree Wise Men were geniuses. And let us, also and softly, admit that ittakes a good and great government perfectly to negate mercy. And let us, bowing our minds smoothly and darkly, repeat with Monsieur leCurée--"_toujours l'enfer.... _"

The Wanderer was almost insane when he heard the judgment of _lacommission_. And hereupon I must pay my respects to Monsieur Pet-airs;whom I had ever liked, but whose spirit I had not, up to the nightpreceding The Wanderer's departure, fully appreciated. Monsieur Pet-airssat for hours at the card-table, his glasses continually fogging, censuring The Wanderer in tones of apparent annoyance for his frightfulweeping (and now and then himself sniffing faintly with his big rednose); sat for hours pretending to take dictation from Joseph Demestre, in reality composing a great letter or series of great letters to thecivil and I guess military authorities of Orne on the subject of theinjustice done to the father of four children, one a baby at the breast, now about to be separated from all he held dear and good in this world. "I appeal" (Monsieur Pet-airs wrote in his boisterously careful, not tosay elegant, script) "to your sense of mercy and of fair play and ofhonour. It is not merely an unjust thing which is being done, not merelyan unreasonable thing, it is an unnatural thing.... " As he wrote I foundit hard to believe that this was the aged and decrepit and fussing bipedwhom I had known, whom I had caricatured, with whom I had talked uponponderous subjects (a comparison between the Belgian and French citieswith respect to their location as favouring progress and prosperity, forexample); who had with a certain comic shyness revealed to me a secretscheme for reclaiming inundated territories by means of an extraordinarypump "of my invention. " Yet this was he, this was Monsieur Pet-airsLui-Même; and I enjoyed peculiarly making his complete acquaintance forthe first and only time. 

May the Heavens prosper him!

The next day The Wanderer appeared in the _cour_ walking proudly in ashirt of solid vermilion. 

He kissed his wife--excuse me, Monsieur Malvy, I should say the mother ofhis children--crying very bitterly and suddenly. 

The _plantons_ yelled for him to line up with the rest, who were waitingoutside the gate, bag and baggage. He covered his great king's eyes withhis long golden hands and went. 

With him disappeared unspeakable sunlight, and the dark keen brightstrength of the earth. 

IX

ZOO-LOO

This is the name of the second Delectable Mountain. 

Zulu is he called, partly because he looks like what I have never seen, partly because the sounds somehow relate to his personality and partlybecause they seemed to please him. 

He is, of all the indescribables I have known, definitely the mostcompletely or entirely indescribable. Then (quoth my reader) you will notattempt to describe him, I trust. --Alas, in the medium which I am nowusing a certain amount or at least quality of description is disgustinglynecessary. Were I free with a canvas and some colours ... But I am notfree. And so I will buck the impossible to the best of my ability. Which, after all, is one way of wasting your time. 

He did not come and he did not go. He drifted. 

His angular anatomy expended and collected itself with an effortlessspontaneity which is the prerogative of fairies perhaps, or at any rateof those things in which we no longer believe. But he was more. There arecertain things in which one is unable to believe for the simple reasonthat he never ceases to feel them. Things of this sort--things which arealways inside of us and, in fact, are us and which consequently will notbe pushed off or away where we can begin thinking about them--are nolonger things; they, and the us which they are, equals A Verb; an IS. TheZulu, then, I must perforce call an IS. 

In this chapter I shall pretend briefly to describe certain aspects andattributes of an IS. Which IS we have called The Zulu, who Himselfintrinsically and indubitably escapes analysis. _Allons!_

Let me first describe a Sunday morning when we lifted our heads to thefight of the stove-pipes. 

I was awakened by a roar, a human roar, a roar such as only a Hollandercan make when a Hollander is honestly angry. As I rose from the domain ofthe subconscious, the idea that the roar belonged to Bill The Hollanderbecame conviction. Bill The Hollander, alias America Lakes, slept next toThe Young Pole (by whom I refer to that young stupid-looking farmer withthat peaches-and-cream complexion and those black puttees who had formedthe rear rank, with the aid of The Zulu Himself, upon the arrival ofBabysnatcher, Bill, Box, Zulu, and Young Pole aforesaid). Now this sameYoung Pole was a case. Insufferably vain and self-confident was he. Monsieur Auguste palliated most of his conceited offensiveness on theground that he was _un garçon_; we on the ground that he was obviouslyand unmistakably The Zulu's friend. This Young Pole, I remember, had medesign upon the wall over his _paillasse_ (shortly after his arrival) avirile _soldat_ clutching a somewhat dubious flag--I made the latter fromdescriptions furnished by Monsieur Auguste and The Young Polehimself--intended, I may add, to be the flag of Poland. Underneath whichbeautiful picture I was instructed to perpetrate the flourishinginscription

"_Vive la Pologne_"

which I did to the best of my limited ability and for Monsieur Auguste'ssake. No sooner was the _photographie_ complete than The Young Pole, patriotically elated, set out to demonstrate the superiority of his raceand nation by making himself obnoxious. I will give him this credit: hewas _pas méchant_, he was, in fact, a stupid boy. The Fighting Sheeneytemporarily took him down a peg by flooring him in the nightly "_Boxe_"which The Fighting Sheeney instituted immediately upon the arrival of TheTrick Raincoat--a previous acquaintance of The Sheeney's at La Santé; thesimilarity of occupations (or non-occupation; I refer to the professionof pimp) having cemented a friendship between these two. But, for allthat The Young Pole's Sunday-best clothes were covered with filth, andfor all that his polished puttees were soiled and scratched by thesplintery floor of The Enormous Room (he having rolled well off theblanket upon which the wrestling was supposed to occur), his spirit wasdashed but for the moment. He set about cleaning and polishing himself, combing his hair, smoothing his cap--and was as cocky as ever nextmorning. In fact I think he was cockier; for he took to guying Bill TheHollander in French, with which tongue Bill was only faintly familiar andof which, consequently, he was doubly suspicious. As The Young Pole layin bed of an evening after _lumières éteintes_, he would guy his somewhatmassive neighbour in a childish almost girlish voice, shouting withlaughter when The Triangle rose on one arm and volleyed Dutch at him, pausing whenever The Triangle's good-nature threatened to approach thebreaking point, resuming after a minute or two when The Triangle appearedto be on the point of falling into the arms of Morpheus. This sort of_blague_ had gone on for several nights without dangerous results. Itwas, however, inevitable that sooner or later something would happen--andas we lifted our heads on this particular Sunday morn we were notsurprised to see The Hollander himself standing over The Young Pole, withclenched paws, wringing shoulders, and an apocalyptic face whiter thanDeath's horse. 

The Young Pole seemed incapable of realising that the climax had come. Helay on his back, cringing a little and laughing foolishly. The Zulu (whoslept next to him on our side) had, apparently, just lighted a cigarettewhich projected upward from a slender holder. The Zulu's face was asalways absolutely expressionless. His chin, with a goodly growth ofbeard, protruded tranquilly from the blanket which concealed the rest ofhim with the exception of his feet--feet which were ensconced in large, somewhat clumsy, leather boots. As The Zulu wore no socks, the Xs of therawhide lacings on his bare flesh (blue, of course, with cold) presenteda rather fascinating design. The Zulu was, to all intents and purposes, gazing at the ceiling.... 

Bill The Hollander, clad only in his shirt, his long lean muscled legsplanted far apart, shook one fist after another at the recumbent YoungPole, thundering (curiously enough in English):

"Come on you _Gottverdummer_ son-of-a-bitch of a Polak bastard and fight!Get up out o' there you Polak hoor and I'll kill you, you _Gottverdummer_bastard you! I stood enough o' your _Gottverdummer_ nonsense you_Gottverdummer_" etc. 

As Bill The Hollander's thunder crescendoed steadily, cramming the utmostcorners of The Enormous Room with _Gottverdummers_ which echoinglytelescoped one another, producing a dim huge shaggy mass of vocal anger, The Young Pole began to laugh less and less; began to plead and excuseand palliate and demonstrate--and all the while the triangular tower inits naked legs and its palpitating chemise brandished its vast fistsnearer and nearer, its ghastly yellow lips hurling cumulative volumes ofrhythmic profanity, its blue eyes snapping like fire-crackers, itsenormous hairy chest heaving and tumbling like a monstrous hunk ofsea-weed, its flat soiled feet curling and uncurling their ten sourmutilated toes. 

The Zulu puffed gently as he lay. 

Bill The Hollander's jaw, sticking into the direction of The Young Pole'shelpless gestures, looked (with the pitiless scorching face behind it)like some square house carried in the fore of a white cyclone. The Zuludepressed his chin; his eyes (poking slowly from beneath the visor of thecap which he always wore, in bed or out of it) regarded the vomitingtower with an abstracted interest. He allowed one hand delicately toescape from the blanket and quietly to remove from his lips the gentlyburning cigarette. 

"You won't eh? You bloody Polak coward!"

and with a speed in comparison to which lightning is snail-like the towerreached twice for the peaches-and-cream cheeks of the prone victim; whoset up a tragic bellowing of his own, writhed upon his somewhatdislocated _paillasse_, raised his elbows shieldingly, and started to getto his feet by way of his trembling knees--to be promptly knocked flat. Such a howling as The Young Pole set up I have rarely heard: he crawledsideways; he got on one knee; he made a dart forward--and was caughtcleanly by an uppercut, lifted through the air a yard, and spread-eagledagainst the stove which collapsed with an unearthly crash yielding aninky shower of soot upon the combatants and almost crowning The Hollandersimultaneously with three four-feet sections of pipe. The Young Pole hitthe floor, shouting, on his head, at the apogee of a neatly executedback-somersault, collapsed; rose yelling, and with flashing eyes pickedup a length of the ruined _tuyau_ which he lifted high in the air--atwhich The Hollander seized in both fists a similar piece, brought itinstantly forward and sideways with incognisable velocity and deliveredsuch an immense wallop as smoothed The Young Pole horizontally to adistance of six feet; where he suddenly landed, stove-pipe and all in acrash of entire collapse, having passed clear over The Zulu's head. TheZulu, remarking

"_Muh_"

floated hingingly to a sitting position and was saluted by

"Lie down you _Gottverdummer_ Polaker, I'll get you next. "

In spite of which he gathered himself to rise upward, catching as he didso a swish of The Hollander's pipe-length which made his cigarette leapneatly, holder and all, upward and outward. The Young Pole had by thistime recovered sufficiently to get upon his hands and knees behind theZulu; who was hurriedly but calmly propelling himself in the direction ofthe cherished cigarette-holder, which had rolled under the remains of thestove. Bill The Hollander made for his enemy, raising perpendicularly tenfeet in air the unrecognisably dented summit of the pipe which hiscolossal fists easily encompassed, the muscles in his treelike armsrolling beneath the chemise like balloons. The Young Pole with a shriekof fear climbed the Zulu--receiving just as he had compassed this humanhurdle a crack on the seat of his black pants that stood him directlyupon his head. Pivoting slightly for an instant he fell loosely at fulllength on his own _paillasse_, and lay sobbing and roaring, one elbowprotectingly raised, interspersing the inarticulations of woe with anumber of sincerely uttered "_Assez!'s_". Meanwhile The Zulu haddiscovered the whereabouts of his treasure, had driftingly resumed hisoriginal position; and was quietly inserting the also-captured cigarettewhich appeared somewhat confused by its violent aerial journey. Over TheYoung Pole stood toweringly Bill The Hollander, his shirt almost inribbons about his thick bulging neck, thundering as only Hollandersthunder

"Have you got enough you _Gottverdummer_ Polak?"

and The Young Pole, alternating nursing the mutilated pulp where his facehad been and guarding it with futile and helpless and almost infantilegestures of his quivering hands, was sobbing

"_Oui, Oui, Oui, Assez!_"

And Bill The Hollander hugely turned to The Zulu, stepping accurately tothe _paillasse_ of that individual, and demanded

"And you, you _Gottverdummer_ Polaker, do you want t' fight?"

at which The Zulu gently waved in recognition of the compliment anddelicately and hastily replied, between slow puffs

"_Mog. _"

Whereat Bill The Hollander registered a disgusted kick in The YoungPole's direction and swearingly resumed his _paillasse_. 

All this, the reader understands, having taken place in the terribly colddarkness of the half-dawn. 

That very day, after a great deal of examination (on the part of theSurveillant) of the participants in this Homeric struggle--saidexamination failing to reveal the particular guilt or the particularinnocence of either--Judas, immaculately attired in a white coat, arrivedfrom downstairs with a step ladder and proceeded with everyone'sassistance to reconstruct the original pipe. And a pretty picture Judasmade. And a pretty bum job he made. But anyway the stove-pipe drew; andeveryone thanked God and fought for places about _le poêle_. And MonsieurPet-airs hoped there would be no more fights for a while. 

One might think that The Young Pole had learned a lesson. But no. He hadlearned (it is true) to leave his immediate neighbour, America Lakes, tohimself; but that is all he had learned. In a few days he was up andabout, as full of _la blague_ as ever. The Zulu seemed at times almostworried about him. They spoke together in Polish frequently and--on TheZulu's part--earnestly. As subsequent events proved, whatever counsel TheZulu imparted was wasted upon his youthful friend. But let us turn for amoment to The Zulu himself. 

He could not, of course, write any language whatever. Two words of Frenchhe knew: they were _fromage_ and _chapeau_. The former he pronounced"grumidge. " In English his vocabulary was even more simple, consisting ofthe single word "po-lees-man. " Neither B. Nor myself understood asyllable of Polish (tho' we subsequently learned _Jin-dobri_, _nima-Zatz_, _zampni-pisk_ and _shimay pisk_, and used to delight TheZulu hugely by giving him

"_Jin-dobri, pan_"

every morning, also by asking him if he had a "_papierosa_");consequently in that direction the path of communication was to allintents shut. And withal--I say this not to astonish my reader but merelyin the interests of truth--I have never in my life so perfectlyunderstood (even to the most exquisite nuances) whatever idea anotherhuman being desired at any moment to communicate to me, as I have in thecase of The Zulu. And if I had one-third the command over the writtenword that he had over the unwritten and the unspoken--not merely that;over the unspeakable and the unwritable--God knows this history wouldrank with the deepest art of all time. 

It may be supposed that he was master of an intricate and delicate systemwhereby ideas were conveyed through signs of various sorts. On thecontrary. He employed signs more or less, but they were in every caseextraordinarily simple. The secret of his means of complete andunutterable communication lay in that very essence which I have onlydefined as an IS; ended and began with an innate and unlearnable controlover all which one can only describe as the homogeneously tactile. TheZulu, for example communicated the following facts in a very few minutes, with unspeakable ease, one day shortly after his arrival:

He had been formerly a Polish farmer, with a wife and four children. Hehad left Poland to come to France, where one earned more money. Hisfriend (The Young Pole) accompanied him. They were enjoying life placidlyin, it may have been, Brest--I forget--when one night the _gendarmes_suddenly broke into their room, raided it, turned it bottomside up, handcuffed the two arch-criminals wrist to wrist, and said "Come withus. " Neither The Zulu nor The Young Pole had the ghost of an idea whatall this meant or where they were going. They had no choice but to obey, and obey they did. Everyone boarded a train. Everyone got out. Bill TheHollander and The Babysnatcher appeared under escort, handcuffed to eachother. They were immediately re-handcuffed to the Polish delegation. Thefour culprits were hustled, by rapid stages, through several smallprisons to La Ferté Macé. During this journey (which consumed severalnights and days) the handcuffs were not once removed. The prisoners sleptsitting up or falling over one another. They urinated and defecated withthe handcuffs on, all of them hitched together. At various times theycomplained to their captors that the agony caused by the swelling oftheir wrists was unbearable--this agony, being the result ofover-tightness of the handcuffs, might easily have been relieved by oneof the _plantons_ without loss of time or prestige. Their complaints weregreeted by commands to keep their mouths shut or they'd get it worse thanthey had it. Finally they hove in sight of La Ferté and the handcuffswere removed in order to enable two of the prisoners to escort The Zulu'sbox upon their shoulders, which they were only too happy to do under thecircumstances. This box, containing not only The Zulu's personal effectsbut also a great array of cartridges, knives and heaven knows whatextraordinary souvenirs which he had gathered from God knows where, was astrong point in the disfavour of The Zulu from the beginning; and wasconsequently brought along as evidence. Upon arriving, all had beensearched, the box included, and sent to The Enormous Room. The Zulu (atthe conclusion of this dumb and eloquent recital) slipped his sleevegently above his wrist and exhibited a bluish ring, at whose persistenceupon the flesh he evinced great surprise and pleasure, winking happily tous. Several days later I got the same story from The Young Pole inFrench; but after some little difficulty due to linguisticmisunderstandings, and only after a half-hour's intensive conversation. So far as directness, accuracy and speed are concerned, between themethod of language and the method of The Zulu, there was not theslightest comparison. 

Not long after The Zulu arrived I witnessed a mystery: it was toward thesecond _soupe_, and B. And I were proceeding (our spoons in our hands) inthe direction of the door, when beside us suddenly appeared The Zulu--whotook us by the shoulders gently and (after carefully looking about him)produced from, as nearly as one could see, his right ear a twenty francnote; asking us in a few well-chosen silences to purchase with it_confiture_, _fromage_, and _chocolat_ at the canteen. He silentlyapologized for encumbering us with these errands, averring that he hadbeen found when he arrived to have no money upon him and consequentlywished to keep intact this little tradition. We were only too delightedto assist so remarkable a prestidigitator--we scarcely knew him at thattime--and _après la soupe_ we bought as requested, conveying thetreasures to our bunks and keeping guard over them. About fifteen minutesafter the _planton_ had locked everyone in, The Zulu driftingly arrivedbefore us; whereupon we attempted to give him his purchases--but hewinked and told us wordlessly that we should (if we would be so kind)keep them for him, immediately following this suggestion by a requestthat we open the marmalade or jam or whatever it might becalled--preserve is perhaps the best word. We complied with alacrity. Now(he said soundlessly), you may if you like offer me a little. We did. Nowhave some yourselves, The Zulu commanded. So we attacked the _confiture_with a will, spreading it on pieces or, rather, chunks of the brownishbread whose faintly rotten odour is one element of the life at La Fertéwhich I, for one, find it easier to remember than to forget. And next, insimilar fashion, we opened the cheese and offered some to our visitor;and finally the chocolate. Whereupon The Zulu rose up, thanked ustremendously for our gifts, and--winking solemnly--floated off. 

Next day he told us that he wanted us to eat all of the delicacies we hadpurchased, whether or not he happened to be in the vicinity. He alsoinformed us that when they were gone we should buy more until the twentyfrancs gave out. And, so generous were our appetites, it was not morethan two or three weeks later that The Zulu having discovered that oursupplies were exhausted produced from his back hair a neatly foldedtwenty franc note; wherewith we invaded the canteen with renewedviolence. About this time The Spy got busy and The Zulu, with The YoungPole for interpreter, was summoned to Monsieur le Directeur, who strippedThe Zulu and searched every wrinkle and crevice of his tranquil anatomyfor money (so The Zulu vividly informed us)--finding not a sou. The Zulu, who vastly enjoyed the discomfiture of Monsieur, cautiously extracted(shortly after this) a twenty franc note from the back of his neck, andpresented it to us with extreme care. I may say that most of his moneywent for cheese, of which The Zulu was almost abnormally fond. Nothingmore suddenly delightful has happened to me than happened, one day, whenI was leaning from the next to the last window--the last being theproperty of users of the cabinet--of The Enormous Room, contemplating themuddy expanse below, and wondering how the Hollanders had ever allowedthe last two windows to be opened. Margherite passed from the door of thebuilding proper to the little washing shed. As the sentinel's back wasturned I saluted her, and she looked up and smiled pleasantly. Andthen--a hand leapt quietly forward from the wall, just to my right; thefingers clenched gently upon one-half a newly broken cheese; the handmoved silently in my direction, cheese and all, pausing when perhaps sixinches from my nose. I took the cheese from the hand, which departed asif by magic; and a little later had the pleasure of being joined at mywindow by The Zulu, who was brushing cheese crumbs from his long slenderMandarin mustaches, and who expressed profound astonishment and equallyprofound satisfaction upon noting that I too had been enjoying thepleasures of cheese. Not once, but several times, this Excaliburappearance startled B. And me: in fact the extreme modesty andincomparable shyness of The Zulu found only in this procedure asatisfactory method of bestowing presents upon his two friends ... Iwould I could see that long hand once more, the sensitive fingers poisedupon a half-camembert; the bodiless arm swinging gently and surely with aderrick-like grace and certainty in my direction.... 

Not very long after The Zulu's arrival occurred an incident which I givewith pleasure because it shows the dauntless and indomitable, not to sayintrepid, stuff of which _plantons_ are made. The single _sceau_ whichsupplied the (at this time) sixty-odd inhabitants of The Enormous Roomwith drinking water had done its duty, shortly after our arrival from thefirst _soupe_ with such thoroughness as to leave a number of unfortunate(among whom I was one) waterless. The interval between _soupe_ andpromenade loomed darkly and thirstily before us unfortunates. As theminutes passed, it loomed with greater and greater distinctness. At theend of twenty minutes our thirst--stimulated by an especially salty doseof lukewarm water for lunch--attained truly desperate proportions. Several of the bolder thirsters leaned from the various windows of theroom and cried

"_De l'eau, planton; de l'eau, s'il vous plaît_"

upon which the guardian of the law looked up suspiciously; pausing amoment as if to identify the scoundrels whose temerity had so far got thebetter of their understanding as to lead them to address him, a_planton_, in familiar terms--and then grimly resumed his walk, gun onshoulder, revolver on hip, the picture of simple and unaffected majesty. Whereat, seeing that entreaties were of no avail, we put our seditiousand dangerous heads together and formulated a very great scheme; to wit, the lowering of an empty tin-pail about eight inches high, which tin-pailhad formerly contained confiture, which confiture had long since passedinto the guts of Monsieur Auguste, The Zulu, B. , myself, and--as TheZulu's friend--The Young Pole. Now this fiendish imitation of The OldOaken Bucket That Hung In The Well was to be lowered to the good-naturedMarguerite (who went to and fro from the door of the building to thewashing shed); who was to fill it for us at the pump situated directlyunder us in a cavernous chilly cave on the ground-floor, then rehitch itto the rope, and guide its upward beginning. The rest was in the hands ofFate. 

Bold might the _planton_ be; we were no _fainéants_. We made a littlespeech to everyone in general desiring them to lend us their belts. TheZulu, the immensity of whose pleasure in this venture cannot be evenindicated, stripped off his belt with unearthly agility--Monsieur Augustegave his, which we tongue-holed to The Zulu's--somebody else contributeda necktie--another a shoe-string--The Young Pole his scarf, of which hewas impossibly proud--etc. The extraordinary rope so constructed was nowtried out in The Enormous Room, and found to be about thirty-eight feetlong; or in other words of ample length, considering that the windowitself was only three stories above terra firma. Margherite was put onher guard by signs, executed when the _planton's_ back was turned (whichit was exactly half the time, as his patrol stretched at right angles tothe wing of the building whose third story we occupied). Having attachedthe minute bucket to one end (the stronger looking end, the end which hadmore belts and less neckties and handkerchiefs) of our improvised rope, B. , Harree, myself and The Zulu bided our time at the window--thenseizing a favourable opportunity, in enormous haste began paying out theinfernal contrivance. Down went the sinful tin-pail, safely past thewindow-ledge just below us, straight and true to the waiting hands of thefaithful Margherite--who had just received it and was on the point ofundoing the bucket from the first belt when, lo! who should come in sightaround the corner but the pimply-faced brilliantly-uniformedglitteringly-putteed _sergeant de plantons lui-même_. Such amazement asdominated his puny features I have rarely seen equalled. He stopped deadin his tracks; for one second stupidly contemplated the window, ourselves, the wall, seven neckties, five belts, three handkerchiefs, ascarf, two shoe-strings, the jam pail, and Margherite--then, wheeling, noticed the _planton_ (who peacefully and with dignity was pursuing acourse which carried him further and further from the zone of operations)and finally, spinning around again, cried shrilly

"_Qu'est-ce que vous avez foutu avec cette machine-là?_"

At which cry the _planton_ staggered, rotated, brought his gun clumsilyoff his shoulder, and stared, trembling all over with emotion, at hissuperior. 

"_Là-bas!_" screamed the pimply _sergeant de plantons_, pointing fiercelyin our direction. 

Margherite, at his first command, had let go the jam-pail and soughtshelter in the building. Simultaneously with her flight we all beganpulling on the rope for dear life, making the bucket bound against thewall. 

Upon hearing the dreadful exclamation "_Là-bas!_" the _planton_ almostfell down. The sight which greeted his eyes caused him to excrete asingle mouthful of vivid profanity, made him grip his gun like a hero, set every nerve in his noble and faithful body tingling. Apparentlyhowever he had forgotten completely his gun, which lay faithfully andexpectingly in his two noble hands. 

"Attention!" screamed the sergeant. 

The _planton_ did something to his gun very aimlessly and rapidly. 

"FIRE!" shrieked the sergeant, scarlet with rage and mortification. 

The _planton_, cool as steel, raised his gun. 

"_NOM DE DIEU TIREZ!_"

The bucket, in big merry sounding jumps, was approaching the window belowus. 

The _planton_ took aim, falling fearlessly on one knee, and closing botheyes. I confess that my blood stood on tip-toe; but what was death to theloss of that jam-bucket, let alone everyone's apparel which everyone hadso generously loaned? We kept on hauling silently. Out of the corner ofmy eye I beheld the _planton_--now on both knees, musket held to hisshoulder by his left arm and pointing unflinchingly at us one andall--hunting with his right arm and hand in his belt for cartridges! Afew seconds after this fleeting glimpse of heroic devotion had penetratedmy considerably heightened sensitivity--UP suddenly came the bucket andover backwards we all went together on the floor of The Enormous Room. And as we fell I heard a cry like the cry of a boiler announcing noon--

"Too late!"

I recollect that I lay on the floor for some minutes, half on top of TheZulu and three-quarters smothered by Monsieur Auguste, shaking withlaughter.... 

Then we all took to our hands and knees, and made for our bunks. 

I believe no one (curiously enough) got punished for this atrociousmisdemeanour--except the _planton_; who was punished for not shooting us, although God knows he had done his very best. 

And now I must chronicle the famous duel which took place between TheZulu's compatriot, The Young Pole, and that herebefore introduced pimp, The Fighting Sheeney; a duel which came as a climax to a vast deal ofteasing on the part of The Young Pole--who, as previously remarked, hadnot learned his lesson from Bill The Hollander with the thoroughnesswhich one might have expected of him. 

In addition to a bit of French and considerable Spanish, Rockyfeller'svalet spoke Russian very (I did not have to be told) badly. The YoungPole, perhaps sore at being rolled on the floor of The Enormous Room bythe worthy Sheeney, set about nagging him just as he had done in the caseof neighbour Bill. His favourite epithet for the conqueror was "_moshki_"or "_moski_" I never was sure which. Whatever it meant (The Young Poleand Monsieur Auguste informed me that it meant "Jew" in a highlyderogatory sense) its effect upon the noble Sheeney was definitelyunpleasant. But when coupled with the word "_moskosi_, " accent on thesecond syllable or long o, its effect was more than unpleasant--it wasreally disagreeable. At intervals throughout the day, on promenade, of anevening, the ugly phrase

"_MOS-ki mosKOsi_"

resounded through The Enormous Room. The Fighting Sheeney, then rapidlyconvalescing from syphilis, bided his time. The Young Pole moreover had away of jesting upon the subject of The Sheeney's infirmity. He would, particularly during the afternoon promenade, shout various none toosubtle allusions to Moshki's physical condition for the benefit of _lesfemmes_. And in response would come peals of laughter from the girls'windows, shrill peals and deep guttural peals intersecting and breakingjoints like overlapping shingles on the roof of Craziness. So hearty didthese responses become one afternoon that, in answer to loud pleas fromthe injured Moshki, the pimply _sergeant de plantons_ himself came to thegate in the barbed wire fence and delivered a lecture upon theseriousness of venereal ailments (heart-felt, I should judge by the looksof him), as follows:

"_Il ne faut pas rigoler de ça. Savez-vous? C'est une maladie, ça, _"

which little sermon contrasted agreeably with his usual remarksconcerning, and in the presence of, _les femmes_, whereof the essence layin a single phrase of prepositional significance--

"_bon pour coucher avec_"

he would say shrilly, his puny eyes assuming an expression of amorouswisdom which was most becoming.... 

One day we were all upon afternoon promenade, (it being _beau temps_ forthat part of the world), under the auspices of by all odds one of thelittlest and mildest and most delicate specimens of mankind that everdonned the high and dangerous duties of a _planton_. As B. Says: "Healways looked like a June bride. " This mannikin could not have been fivefeet high, was perfectly proportioned (unless we except the musket uponhis shoulder and the bayonet at his belt), and minced to and fro with afeminine grace which suggested--at least to _les deux citoyens_ of TheseUnited States--the extremely authentic epithet "fairy. " He had such apretty face! and so cute a moustache! and such darling legs! and such awonderful smile! For plantonic purposes the smile--which brought twolittle dimples into his pink cheeks--was for the most part suppressed. However it was impossible for this little thing to look stern: the besthe could do was to look poignantly sad. Which he did with great success, standing like a tragic last piece of uneaten candy in his big box at theend of the _cour_, and eyeing the sinful _hommes_ with sad pretty eyes. Won't anyone eat me?--he seemed to ask. --I'm really delicious, you know, perfectly delicious, really I am. 

To resume: everyone being in the _cour_, it was well filled, not onlyfrom the point of view of space but of sound. A barnyard crammed withpigs, cows, horses, ducks, geese, hens, cats and dogs could not possiblyhave produced one-fifth of the racket that emanated, spontaneously andinevitably, from the _cour_. Above which racket I heard _tout à coup_ aroar of pain and surprise; and looking up with some interest and also insome alarm, beheld The Young Pole backing and filling and slipping in thedeep ooze under the strenuous jolts, jabs and even haymakers of TheFighting Sheeney, who, with his coat off and his cap off and his shirtopen at the neck, was swatting luxuriously and for all he was worth thatround helpless face and that peaches-and-cream complexion. From where Istood, at a distance of six or eight yards, the impact of the Sheeney'sfist on The Young Pole's jaw and cheeks was disconcertingly audible. Thelatter made not the slightest attempt to defend himself, let aloneretaliate; he merely skidded about, roaring and clutching desperately outof harm's way his long white scarf, of which (as I have mentioned) he wasextremely proud. But for the sheer brutality of the scene it would havebeen highly ludicrous. The Sheeney was swinging like a windmill andhammering like a blacksmith. His ugly head lowered, the chin protruding, lips drawn back in a snarl, teeth sticking forth like a gorilla's, hebanged and smote that moon-shaped physiognomy as if his life dependedupon utterly annihilating it. And annihilate it he doubtless would have, but for the prompt (not to say punctual) heroism of The June Bride--who, lowering his huge gun, made a rush for the fight; stopped at a safedistance; and began squeaking at the very top and even summit of hisfaint girlish voice:

"_Aux armes! Aux armes!_"

which plaintive and intrepid utterance by virtue of its very fragilitypenetrated the building and released The Black Holster, who boundedthrough the gate, roaring a salutation as he bounded, and in a jiffy hadcuffed the participants apart. "All right, whose fault is this?" heroared. And a number of highly reputable spectators, such as Judas andThe Fighting Sheeney himself, said it was The Young Pole's fault. "_Allez! Au cabinot! De suits!_" And off trickled the sobbing Young Pole, winding his great scarf comfortingly about him, to the dungeon. 

Some few minutes later we encountered The Zulu speaking with MonsieurAuguste. Monsieur Auguste was very sorry. He admitted that The Young Polehad brought his punishment upon himself. But he was only a boy. TheZulu's reaction to the affair was absolutely profound: he indicated _lesfemmes_ with one eye, his trousers with another, and converted hisutterly plastic personality into an amorous machine for several seconds, thereby vividly indicating the root of the difficulty. That the stupidityof his friend, The Young Pole, hurt The Zulu deeply I discovered bylooking at him as he lay in bed the next morning, limply and sorrowfullyprone; beside him the empty _paillasse_, which meant _cabinot_ ... Hisperfectly extraordinary face (a face perfectly at once fluent andangular, expressionless and sensitive) told me many things whereof evenThe Zulu might not speak, things which in order entirely to suffer hekept carefully and thoroughly ensconced behind his rigid and mobile eyes. 

From the day that The Young Pole emerged from _cabinot_ he was ourfriend. The _blague_ had been at last knocked out of him, thanks to UnMangeur de Blanc, as the little Machine-Fixer expressively called TheFighting Sheeney. Which _mangeur_, by the way (having been exoneratedfrom all blame by the more enlightened spectators of the unequal battle)strode immediately and ferociously over to B. And me, a hideous grincrackling upon the coarse surface of his mug, and demanded--hiking at thefront of his trousers--

"_Bon, eh? Bien fait, eh?_"

and a few days later asked us for money, even hinting that he would bepleased to become our special protector. I think, as a matter of fact, we"lent" him one-eighth of what he wanted (perhaps we lent him five cents)in order to avoid trouble and get rid of him. At any rate, he didn'tbother us particularly afterwards; and if a nickel could accomplish thata nickel should be proud of itself. 

And always, through the falling greyness of the desolate Autumn, The Zuluwas beside us, or wrapped around a tree in the _cour_, or melting in apost after tapping Mexique in a game of hide-and-seek, or suffering fromtoothache--God, I wish I could see him expressing for us the wickednessof toothache--or losing his shoes and finding them under Garibaldi's bed(with a huge perpendicular wink which told tomes about Garibaldi's fatalpropensities for ownership), or marvelling silently at the power of _lesfemmes à propos_ his young friend--who, occasionally resuming his formerbravado, would stand in the black evil rain with his white farm scarftwined about him, singing as of old:

 "_Je suis content pour mettre dedans suis pas pressé pour tirer ah-la-la-la ... _"

... And the Zulu came out of _la commission_ with identically theexpressionless expression which he had carried into it; and God knowswhat The Three Wise Men found out about him, but (whatever it was) theynever found and never will find that Something whose discovery was worthto me more than all the round and powerless money of the world--limbs'tin grace, wooden wink, shoulderless, unhurried body, velocity of agrasshopper, soul up under his arm-pits, mysteriously falling over theownness of two feet, floating fish of his slimness half a bird.... 

Gentlemen, I am inexorably grateful for the gift of these ignorant andindivisible things. 

X

SURPLICE

Let us ascend the third Delectable Mountain, which is called Surplice. 

I will admit, in the beginning, that I never knew Surplice. This for thesimple reason that I am unwilling to know except as a last resource. Andit is by contrast with Harree The Hollander, whom I knew, and Judas, whomI knew, that I shall be able to give you (perhaps) a little of Surplice, whom I did not know. For that matter, I think Monsieur Auguste was theonly person who might possibly have known him; and I doubt whetherMonsieur Auguste was capable of descending to such depths in the case ofso fine a person as Surplice. 

Take a sheer animal of a man. Take the incredible Hollander withcobalt-blue breeches, shock of orange hair pasted over forehead, pinklong face, twenty-six years old, had been in all the countries of all theworld: "Australia girl fine girl--Japanese girl cleanest girl of theworld--Spanish girl all right--English girl no good, no face--everywherethese things: Norway sailors German girls Sweedisher matches Hollandcandles" ... Had been to Philadelphia; worked on a yacht for amillionaire; knew and had worked in the Krupp factories; was on two boatstorpedoed and one which struck a mine when in sight of shore through the"looking-glass": "Holland almost no soldier--India" (the Dutch Indies)"nice place, always warm there, I was in cavalry; if you kill a man orsteal one hundred franc or anything, in prison twenty-four hours; everyweek black girl sleep with you because government want white children, black girl fine girl, always doing something, your fingernails or cleanyour ears or make wind because it's hot.... No one can beat Germanpeople; if Kaiser tell man to kill his father and mother he do itquick!"--the tall, strong, coarse, vital youth who remarked:

"I sleep with black girl who smoke a pipe in the night. "

Take this animal. You hear him, you are afraid of him, you smell and yousee him and you know him--but you do not touch him. 

Or a man who makes us thank God for animals, Judas, as we called him: whokeeps his moustaches in press during the night (by means of a kind oftransparent frame which is held in place by a band over his head); whogrows the nails of his two little fingers with infinite care; has twogirls with both of whom he flirts carefully and wisely, without ever oncegetting into trouble; talks in French; converses in Belgian; can speakeight languages and is therefore always useful to Monsieur leSurveillant--Judas with his shining horrible forehead, pecked with littleindentures; with his Reynard full-face--Judas with his pale almostputrescent fatty body in the _douche_--Judas with whom I talked one nightabout Russia, he wearing my _pélisse_--the frightful and impeccableJudas: take this man. You see him, you smell the hot stale odour ofJudas' body; you are not afraid of him, in fact, you hate him; you hearhim and you know him. But you do not touch him. 

And now take Surplice, whom I see and hear and smell and touch and eventaste, and whom I do not know. 

Take him in dawn's soft squareness, gently stooping to pick chewedcigarette ends from the spitty floor ... Hear him, all night: retchingswhich light into the dark ... See him all day and all days, collectinghis soaked ends and stuffing them gently into his round pipe (when he canfind none he smokes tranquilly little splinters of wood) ... Watch himscratching his back (exactly like a bear) on the wall ... Or in the_cour_, speaking to no one, sunning his soul.... 

He is, we think, Polish. Monsieur Auguste is very kind to him, MonsieurAuguste can understand a few words of his language and thinks they meanto be Polish. That they are trying hard to be and never can be Polish. 

Everyone else roars at him, Judas refers to him before his face as adirty pig, Monsieur Peters cries angrily: "_Il ne faut pas cracher parterre_" eliciting a humble not to stay abject apology; the Belgians spiton him; the Hollanders chaff him and bulldoze him now and then, crying"Syph'lis"--at which he corrects them with offended majesty

"_pas syph'lis, Surplice_"

causing shouts of laughter from everyone--of nobody can he say My Friend, of no one has he ever or will he ever say My Enemy. 

When there is labour to do he works like a dog ... The day we had_nettoyage de chambre_, for instance, and Surplice and The Hat did mostof the work; and B. And I were caught by the _planton_ trying to strollout into the _cour_ ... Every morning he takes the pail of solidexcrement down, without anyone's suggesting that he take it; takes it asif it were his, empties it in the sewer just beyond the _cour des femmes_or pours a little (just a little) very delicately on the garden whereMonsieur le Directeur is growing a flower for his daughter--he has, infact, an unobstreperous affinity for excrement; he lives in it; he isshaggy and spotted and blotched with it; he sleeps in it; he puts it inhis pipe and says it is delicious.... 

And he is intensely religious, religious with a terrible and exceedinglybeautiful and absurd intensity ... Every Friday he will be found sittingon a little kind of stool by his _paillasse_ reading his prayer-bookupside down; turning with enormous delicacy the thin difficult leaves, smiling to himself as he sees and does not read. Surplice is actuallyreligious, and so are Garibaldi and I think The Woodchuck (a little darksad man who spits blood with regularity); by which I mean they go to _lamesse_ for _la messe_, whereas everyone else goes _pour voir les femmes_. And I don't know for certain why The Woodchuck goes, but I think it'sbecause he feels entirely sure he will die. And Garibaldi is afraid, immensely afraid. And Surplice goes in order to be surprised, surprisedby the amazing gentleness and delicacy of God--Who put him, Surplice, upon his knees in La Ferté Macé, knowing that Surplice would appreciateHis so doing. 

He is utterly ignorant. He thinks America is out a particular window onyour left as you enter The Enormous Room. He cannot understand thesubmarine. He does now know that there is a war. On being informed uponthese subjects he is unutterably surprised, he is inexpressiblyastonished. He derives huge pleasure from this astonishment. His filthyrather proudly noble face radiates the pleasure he receives upon beinginformed that people are killing people for nobody knows what reason, that boats go under water and fire six-foot long bullets at ships, thatAmerica is not really outside this window close to which we are talking, that America is, in fact, over the sea. The sea: is that water?--"_c'estde l'eau, monsieur?_" Ah: a great quantity of water; enormous amounts ofwater, water and then water; water and water and water and water andwater. "Ah! You cannot see the other side of this water, monsieur?Wonderful, monsieur!"--He meditates it, smiling quietly; its wonder, howwonderful it is, no other side, and yet--the sea. In which fish swim. Wonderful. 

He is utterly curious. He is utterly hungry. We have bought cheese withThe Zulu's money. Surplice comes up, bows timidly and ingratiatingly withthe demeanour of a million-times whipped but somewhat proud dog. Hesmiles. He says nothing, being terribly embarrassed. To help hisembarrassment, we pretend we do not see him. That makes things better:

"_Fromage, monsieur?_"

"_Oui, c'est du frommage. _"

"_Ah-h-h-h-h-h-h.... _"

his astonishment is supreme. _C'est du frommage. _ He ponders this. Aftera little

"_Monsieur, c'est bon, monsieur?_"

asking the question as if his very life depended on the answer: "Yes, itis good, " we tell him reassuringly. 

"_Ah-h-h. Ah-h. _"

He is once more superlatively happy. It is good, _le fromage_. Couldanything be more superbly amazing? After perhaps a minute

"_monsieur--monsieur--c'est chère le fromage?_"

"Very, " we tell him truthfully. He smiles, blissfully astonished. Then, with extreme delicacy and the utmost timidity conceivable

"_monsieur, combien ça coute, monsieur?_"

We tell him. He totters with astonishment and happiness. Only now, as ifwe had just conceived the idea, we say carelessly

"_en voulez-vous?_"

He straightens, thrilled from the top of his rather beautiful filthy headto the soleless slippers with which he promenades in rain and frost:

"_Merci, Monsieur!_"

We cut him a piece. He takes it quiveringly, holds it a second as a kingmight hold and contemplate the best and biggest jewel of his realm, turnswith profuse thanks to us--and disappears.... 

He is perhaps most curious of this pleasantly sounding thing whicheveryone around him, everyone who curses and spits upon and bullies him, desires with a terrible desire--_Liberté_. Whenever anyone departsSurplice is in an ecstasy of quiet excitement. The lucky man may beFritz; for whom Bathhouse John is taking up a collection as if he, Fritz, were a Hollander and not a Dane--for whom Bathhouse John is stridinghither and thither, shaking a hat into which we drop coins for Fritz;Bathhouse John, chipmunk-cheeked, who talks Belgian, French, English andDutch in his dreams, who has been two years in La Ferté (and they say hedeclined to leave, once, when given the chance), who cries "_baigneur defemmes moi_" and every night hoists himself into his wooden bunk crying"goo-d ni-te"; whose favourite joke is "_une section pour les femmes_, "which he shouts occasionally in the _cour_ as he lifts his paper-soledslippers and stamps in the freezing mud, chuckling and blowing his noseon the Union Jack ... And now Fritz, beaming with joy, shakes hands andthanks us all and says to me "Good-bye, Johnny, " and waves and is goneforever--and behind me I hear a timid voice

"_monsieur, Liberté?_"

and I say Yes, feeling that Yes in my belly and in my head at the sameinstant; and Surplice stands beside me, quietly marvelling, extremelyhappy, uncaring that _le parti_ did not think to say good-bye to him. Orit may be Harree and Pompom who are running to and fro shaking hands witheverybody in the wildest state of excitement, and I hear a voice behindme:

"_Liberté, monsieur? Liberté?_"

and I say, No. Précigne, feeling weirdly depressed, and Surplice isstanding to my left, contemplating the departure of the incorrigibleswith interested disappointment--Surplice of whom no man takes any noticewhen that man leaves, be it for Hell or Paradise.... 

And once a week the _maître de chambre_ throws soap on the mattresses, and I hear a voice

"_monsieur, voulez pas?_"

and Surplice is asking that we give him our soap to wash with. 

Sometimes, when he has made _quelques sous_ by washing for others, hestalks quietly to the Butcher's chair (everyone else who wants a shavehaving been served) and receives with shut eyes and a patient expressionthe blade of The Butcher's dullest razor--for The Butcher is not a man towaste a good razor on Surplice; he, The Butcher, as we call him, thesuccessor of The Frog (who one day somehow managed to disappear like hispredecessor The Barber), being a thug and a burglar fond of telling uspleasantly about German towns and prisons, prisons where men are notallowed to smoke, clean prisons where there is a daily medicalinspection, where anyone who thinks he has a grievance of any sort hasthe right of immediate and direct appeal; he, The Butcher, being perhapshappiest when he can spend an evening showing us little parlour tricksfit for children of four and three years old; quite at his best when heremarks:

"Sickness doesn't exist in France, "

meaning that one is either well or dead; or

"If they (the French) get an inventor they put him in prison. "

--So The Butcher is stooping heavily upon Surplice and slicing andgashing busily and carelessly, his thick lips stuck a little pursewise, his buried pig's eyes glistening--and in a moment he cries "_Fini!_" andpoor Surplice rises unsteadily, horribly slashed, bleeding from at leastthree two-inch cuts and a dozen large scratches; totters over to hiscouch holding on to his face as if he were afraid it would fall off anymoment; and lies down gently at full length, sighing with pleasurablesurprise, cogitating the inestimable delights of cleanness.... 

It struck me at the time as intensely interesting that, in the case of acertain type of human being, the more cruel are the miseries inflictedupon him the more cruel does he become toward anyone who is sounfortunate as to be weaker or more miserable than himself. Or perhaps Ishould say that nearly every human being, given sufficiently miserablecircumstances, will from time to time react to those very circumstances(whereby his own personality is mutilated) through a deliberatemutilation on his own part of a weaker or already more mutilatedpersonality. I daresay that this is perfectly obvious. I do not pretendto have made a discovery. On the contrary, I merely state what interestedme peculiarly in the course of my sojourn at La Ferté: I mention that Iwas extremely moved to find that, however busy sixty men may be keptsuffering in common, there is always one man or two or three men who canalways find time to make certain that their comrades enjoy a little extrasuffering. In the case of Surplice, to be the butt of everyone's ridiculecould not be called precisely suffering; inasmuch as Surplice, beingunspeakably lonely, enjoyed any and all insults for the simple reasonthat they constituted or at least implied a recognition of his existence. To be made a fool of was, to this otherwise completely neglectedindividual, a mark of distinction; something to take pleasure in; to beproud of. The inhabitants of The Enormous Room had given to Surplice asmall but essential part in the drama of La Misère: he would play thatpart to the utmost of his ability; the cap-and-bells should not grace ahead unworthy of their high significance. He would be a great fool, sincethat was his function; a supreme entertainer, since his duty was toamuse. After all, men in La Misère as well as anywhere else rightlydemand a certain amount of amusement; amusement is, indeed, peculiarlyessential to suffering; in proportion as we are able to be amused we areable to suffer; I, Surplice, am a very necessary creature after all. 

I recall one day when Surplice beautifully demonstrated his ability toplay the fool. Someone had crept up behind him as he was stalking to andfro, head in air proudly, hands in pockets, pipe in teeth, and had (afterseveral heart-breaking failures) succeeded in attaching to the back ofhis jacket by means of a pin a huge placard carefully preparedbeforehand, bearing the numerical inscription

 606

in vast writing. The attacher, having accomplished his difficult feat, crept away. So soon as he reached his _paillasse_ a volley of shouts wentup from all directions, shouts in which all nationalities joined, shoutsor rather jeers which made the pillars tremble and the windows rattle--

"_SIX CENT SIX! SYPH'LIS!_"

Surplice started from his reverie, removed his pipe from his lips, drewhimself up proudly, and--facing one after another the sides of TheEnormous Room--blustered in his bad and rapid French accent:

"_Pas syph'lis! Pas syph'lis!_"

at which, rocking with mirth, everyone responded at the top of his voice:

"_SIX CENT SIX!_"

Whereat, enraged, Surplice made a dash at Pete The Shadow and was greetedby

"Get away, you bloody Polak, or I'll give you something you'll be sorryfor"--this from the lips of America Lakes. Cowed, but as majestic asever, Surplice attempted to resume his promenade and his composuretogether. The din bulged:

"_Six cent six! Syph'lis! Six cent Six!_"

--increasing in volume with every instant. Surplice, beside himself withrage, rushed another of his fellow-captives (a little old man, who fledunder the table) and elicited threats of:

"Come on now, you Polak hoor, and quit that business or I'll kill you, "upon which he dug his hands into the pockets of his almost transparentpantaloons and marched away in a fury, literally frothing at the mouth. --

"_Six Cent Six!_"

everyone cried. Surplice stamped with wrath and mortification. "_C'estdomage_" Monsieur Auguste said gently beside me. "_C'est un bon-homme, lepauvre, il ne faut pas l'enmerd-er. _"

"Look behind you!"

somebody yelled. Surplice wheeled, exactly like a kitten trying to catchits own tail, and provoked thunders of laughter. Nor could anything atonce more pitiful and ridiculous, more ludicrous and horrible, beimagined. 

"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 hisimprovised tail to wag, which sent The Enormous Room into spasms ofmerriment--finally caught sight of the incriminating appendage, pulledhis coat to the left, seized the paper, tore it off, threw it fiercelydown, and stamped madly on the crumpled 606; spluttering and blusteringand waving his arms; slavering like a mad dog. Then he faced the mostprominently vociferous corner and muttered thickly and crazily:

"_Wuhwuhwuhwuhwuh.... _"

Then he strode rapidly to his _paillasse_ and lay down; in which positionI caught him, a few minutes later, smiling and even chuckling ... Veryhappy ... As only an actor is happy whose efforts have been greeted withuniversal applause.... 

In addition to being called "Syph'lis" he was popularly known as "ChaudePisse, the Pole. " If there is anything particularly terrifying aboutprisons, or at least imitations of prisons such as La Ferté, it ispossibly the utter obviousness with which (quite unknown to themselves)the prisoners demonstrate willy-nilly certain fundamental psychologicallaws. The case of Surplice is a very exquisite example: everyone, ofcourse, is afraid of _les maladies venérinnes_--accordingly all pick anindividual (of whose inner life they know and desire to know nothing, whose external appearance satisfies the requirements of the mind _àpropos_ what is foul and disgusting) and, having tacitly agreed upon thisindividual as a Symbol of all that is evil, proceed to heap insults uponhim and enjoy his very natural discomfiture ... But I shall rememberSurplice on his both knees sweeping sacredly together the spilled sawdustfrom 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 himthat there was always Hell.... 

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

"_Monsieur_, disabled me--yes, _monsieur_--disabled--I work, many people, house, very high, third floor, everybody, planks up there--planks nogood--all shake... " (here he began to stagger and rotate before us)"begins to fall ... Falls, falls, all, all twenty-seven men--bricks--planks--wheelbarrows--all--ten metres ... _zuhzuhzuhzuhzuhPOOM_!... Everybody hurt, everybody killed, not me, injured ... _ouimonsieur_"--and he smiled, rubbing his head foolishly. Twenty-seven men, bricks, planks and wheelbarrows. Ten metres. Bricks and planks. Men andwheelbarrows.... 

Also he told us, one night, in his gentle, crazy, shrugging voice, thatonce upon a time he played the fiddle with a big woman in Alsace-Lorrainefor fifty francs a night; "_c'est la misère_"--adding quietly, "I canplay well, I can play anything, I can play _n'importe quoi_. "

Which I suppose and guess I scarcely believed--until one afternoon a manbrought up a harmonica which he had purchased _en ville_; and the mantried it; and everyone tried it; and it was perhaps the cheapestinstrument and the poorest that money can buy, even in the fair countryof France; and everyone was disgusted--but, about six o'clock in theevening, a voice came from behind the last experimenter; a timid hastyvoice:

"_monsieur, monsieur, permettez?_"

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

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

... And suddenly:

He put the harmonica softly upon the table. He rose. He went quickly tohis _paillasse_. He neither moved nor spoke nor responded tothe calls for more music, to the cries of "_Bis!_"--"_Bienjoué!_"--"_Allez!_"--"_Va-g-y!_" He was crying, quietly and carefully, tohimself ... Quietly and carefully crying, not wishing to annoy anyone ... Hoping that people could not see that Their Fool had temporarily failedin his part. 

The following day he was up as usual before anyone else, hunting forchewed 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_ hadenjoyed the privilege of examination by that inexorable and delightfulbody--one evening very late, in fact, just before _lumières éteintes_, astrange _planton_ arrived in The Enormous Room and hurriedly read a listof five names, adding:

"_demain partis, à bonne heure_"

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

I have already told how Monsieur Pet-airs sat with the franticallyweeping Wanderer writing letters, and sniffing with his big red nose, andsaying from time to time: "Be a man, Demestre, don't cry, crying does nogood. "--Monsieur Auguste was broken-hearted. We did our best to cheerhim; we gave him a sort of Last Supper at our bedside, we heated some redwine in the tin cup and he drank with us. We presented him with certaintokens 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 atevery function, however personal, which involved Food or Drink) scowledand laughed. _Le con, surplice, chaude pisse_--how could he sit with menand gentlemen? Surplice sat down gracefully and lightly on one of ourbeds, taking extreme care not to strain the somewhat capricious mechanismthereof; sat very proudly; erect; modest but unfearful. We offered him acup of wine. A kind of huge convulsion gripped, for an instant, fiercelyhis entire face: then he said in a whisper of sheer and unspeakablewonderment, leaning a little toward us without in any way suggesting thatthe question might have an affirmative answer, "_pour moi, monsieur?_"

We smiled at him and said "_Prenez, monsieur. _" His eyes opened. I havenever seen eyes since. He remarked quietly, extending one hand withmajestic delicacy:

"_Merci, monsieur. _"

... Before he left, B. Gave him some socks and I presented him with aflannel shirt, which he took softly and slowly and simply and otherwisenot as an American would take a million dollars. 

"I will not forget you, " he said to us, as if in his own country he werea more than very 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 meadowsof clarinets, the domain of violins. And God says: Why did they put youin prison? What did you do to the people? "I made them dance and they putme in prison. The soot-people hopped; and to twinkle like sparks on achimney-back and I made eighty francs every _dimanche_, and beer andwine, and to eat well. _Maintenant ... C'est fini ... Et tout suite_(gesture of cutting himself in two) _la tête_. " And He says: "O you whoput the jerk into joys, come up hither. There's a man up here calledChrist who likes the violin. "

XI

JEAN LE NÈGRE

On a certain day the ringing of the bell and accompanying rush of men tothe window facing the entrance gate was supplemented by an unparalleledvolley of enthusiastic exclamations in all the languages of La FertèMacé--provoking in me a certainty that the queen of fair women hadarrived. This certainty thrillingly withered when I heard the cry: "_II ya un noir!_" Fritz was at the best peep-hole, resisting successfully theonslaught 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 NIGGERtoo"--hereupon writhing with laughter. 

I attempted to get a look, but in vain; for by this at least two dozenmen were at the peep-hole, fighting and gesticulating and slapping eachother's back with joy. However, my curiosity was not long in beinganswered. I heard on the stairs the sound of mounting feet, and knew thata couple of _plantons_ would before many minutes arrive at the door withtheir new prey. So did everyone else--and from the farthest beds uncouthfigures sprang and rushed to the door, eager for the first glimpse of the_nouveau_; which was very significant, as the ordinary procedure onarrival of prisoners was for everybody to rush to his own bed and standguard 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 abeautiful pillar of black strutting muscle topped with a tremendousdisplay of the whitest teeth on earth. The muscle bowed politely in ourdirection, the grin remarked musically: "_Bo'jour, tou'l'monde_"; thencame a cascade of laughter. Its effect on the spectators wasinstantaneous: they roared and danced with joy. "_Comment vousappelez-vous?_" was fired from the hubbub. --"_J'm'appelle Jean, moi_, "the muscle rapidly answered with sudden solemnity, proudly gazing to leftand right as if expecting a challenge to this statement: but when noneappeared, it relapsed as suddenly into laughter--as if hugely amused atitself and everyone else including a little and tough boy, whom I had notpreviously noted, although his entrance had coincided with the muscle's. 

Thus into the _misère_ of La Ferté Macé stepped lightly and proudly Jeanle Nègre. 

Of all the fine people in La Ferté, Monsieur Jean ("_le noir_" as he wasentitled by his enemies) swaggers in my memory as the finest. 

Jean's first act was to complete the distribution (begun, he announced, among the _plantons_ who had escorted him upstairs) of two pockets fullof Cubebs. Right and left he gave them up to the last, remarkingcarelessly, "_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_ forour afternoon promenade. The cook spotted us immediately and desired usto "catch water"; which we did, three cartfuls of it, earning our usual_café sucré_. On quitting the kitchen after this delicious repast (whichas usual mitigated somewhat the effects of the swill that was ourofficial nutriment) we entered the _cour_. And we noticed at once awell-made figure standing conspicuously by itself, and poring withextraordinary intentness over the pages of a London Daily Mail which itwas holding upside-down. The reader was culling choice bits of news of ahighly sensational nature, and exclaiming from time to time: "You don'tsay! Look, the King of England is sick. Some news!... What? The queentoo? Good God! What's this?--My father is dead! Oh, well. The war isover. Good. "--It was Jean le Nègre, playing a little game with himself tobeguile the time. 

When we had mounted _à la chambre_, two or three tried to talk with thisextraordinary personage in French; at which he became very superior andannounced: "_J'suis anglais, moi. Parlez anglais. Comprends pas français, moi. _" At this a crowd escorted him over to B. And me--anticipating greatdeeds in the English language. Jean looked at us critically and said:"_Vous parlez anglais? Moi parlez anglais. _"--"We are Americans, andspeak English, " I answered. --"_Moi anglais_, " Jean said. "_Mon père, capitaine de gendarmes, Londres. Comprends pas français, moi. _SPEE-Kingliss"--he laughed all over himself. 

At this display of English on Jean's part the English-speaking Hollandersbegan 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 exaltedfibbing, sometimes the purely picturesque. He courted above all the soundof words, more or less disdaining their meaning. He told us immediately(in pidgeon French) that he was born without a mother because his motherdied when he was born, that his father was (first) sixteen (then) sixtyyears old, that his father _gagnait cinq cent franc par jour_ (later, par_année_), that he was born in London and not in England, that he was inthe French army and had never been in any army. 

He did not, however, contradict himself in one statement: "_Les françaissont des cochons_"--to which we heartily agreed, and which won him theapprovel of the Hollanders. 

The next day I had my hands full acting as interpreter for "_le noir quicomprends pas français_. " I was summoned from the _cour_ to elucidate agreat grief which Jean had been unable to explain to the Gestionnaire. Imounted with a _planton_ to find Jean in hysterics, speechless, his eyesstarting out of his head. As nearly as I could make out, Jean had hadsixty francs when he arrived, which money he had given to a _planton_upon his arrival, the _planton_ having told Jean that he would depositthe money with the Gestionnaire in Jean's name (Jean could not write). The _planton_ in question who looked particularly innocent denied thischarge upon my explaining Jean's version; while the Gestionnaire puffedand grumbled, disclaiming any connection with the alleged theft andprotesting sonorously that he was hearing about Jean's sixty francs forthe first time. The Gestionnaire shook his thick piggish finger at thebook wherein all financial transactions were to be found--from the yearone to the present year, month, day, hour and minute (or words to thateffect). "_Mais c'est pas là_" he kept repeating stupidly. TheSurveillant was uh-ahing at a great rate and attempting to pacify Jean inFrench. I myself was somewhat fearful for Jean's sanity and highlyindignant at the _planton_. The matter ended with the _planton's_ beingsent about his business; simultaneously with Jean's dismissal to the_cour_, whither I accompanied him. My best efforts to comfort Jean inthis matter were quite futile. Like a child who has been unjustlypunished he was inconsolable. Great tears welled in his eyes. He keptrepeating "_sees-tee franc--planton voleur_, " and--absolutely like achild who in anguish calls itself by the name which has been given itselfby grown-ups--"steel Jean munee. " To no avail I called the _planton_ a_menteur_, a _voleur_, a _fils d'un chien_, and various other names. Jeanfelt the wrong itself too keenly to be interested in my denunciation ofthe mere agent through whom injustice had (as it happened) beenconsummated. 

But--again like an inconsolable child who weeps his heart out when nohuman comfort avails and wakes the next day without an apparent trace ofthe recent grief--Jean le Nègre, in the course of the next twenty-fourhours, had completely recovered his normal buoyancy of spirit. The_sees-tee franc_ were gone. A wrong had been done. But that wasyesterday. To-day--

 and he wandered up and down, joking, laughing, singing "_après la guerre finit_. " ... 

In the _cour_ Jean was the target of all female eyes. Handkerchiefs werewaved to him; phrases of the most amorous nature greeted his everyappearance. To all these demonstrations he by no means turned a deaf ear;on the contrary. Jean was irrevocably vain. He boasted of having beenenormously popular with the girls wherever he went and of having neverdisdained their admiration. In Paris one day--(and thus it happened thatwe discovered why _le gouvernement français_ had arrested Jean)--

One afternoon, having _rien à faire_, and being flush (owing to hissuccess as a thief, of which vocation he made a great deal, adding asmany ciphers to the amounts as fancy dictated) Jean happened to cast hiseyes in a store window where were displayed all possible appurtenancesfor the _militaire_. Vanity was rooted deeply in Jean's soul. The uniformof an English captain met his eyes. Without a moment's hesitation heentered the store, bought the entire uniform, including leather putteesand belt (of the latter purchase he was especially proud), and departed. The next store contained a display of medals of all descriptions. Itstruck Jean at once that a uniform would be incomplete without medals. Heentered this store, bought one of every decoration--not forgetting theColonial, nor yet the Belgian Cross (which on account of its size andcolour particularly appealed to him)--and went to his room. There headjusted 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 ofall stations from _les putains_ to _les princesses. _ The police salaamedto him. His arm was wearied with the returning of innumerable salutes. Sofar 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'sstealing the affections of his lady), the sergeant of police before whomJean was arraigned on a charge of attempting to kill refused to even hearthe evidence, and dismissed the case with profuse apologies to the heroicCaptain. "_'Le gouvernement français, Monsieur_, extends to you, throughme, its profound apology for the insult which your honour has received. '_Ils sont des cochons, les français_, " said Jean, and laughed throughouthis entire body. 

Having had the most blue-blooded ladies of the capital cooing upon hisheroic chest, having completely beaten up, with the full support of thelaw, whosoever of lesser rank attempted to cross his path or refused himthe salute--having had "great fun" saluting generals on _les grandsboulevards_ and being in turn saluted ("_tous les générals, tous_, saluteme, Jean have more medals"), and this state of affairs having lasted forabout three months--Jean began to be very bored (me _très ennuyé_). A fitof temper ("me _très faché_") arising from this _ennui_ led to a _rixe_with the police, in consequence of which (Jean, though outnumbered threeto one, having almost killed one of his assailants), our hero was asecond time arrested. This time the authorities went so far as to ask theheroic captain to what branch of the English army he was at presentattached; to which Jean first replied "_parle pas français, moi_, " andimmediately after announced that he was a Lord of the Admiralty, that hehad 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 hadlost a leg in Algeria, and that the French were _cochons_. All of whichassertions being duly disproved, Jean was remanded to La Ferté forpsychopathic observation and safe keeping on the technical charge ofwearing an English officer's uniform. 

Jean's particular girl at La Ferté was "LOO-Loo. " With Lulu it was thesame as with _les princesses_ in Paris--"me no _travaille, jam-MAIS. Lesfemmes travaillent_, geev Jean mun-ee, _sees, sees-tee, see-cent francs. Jamais travaille, moi. _" Lulu smuggled Jean money; and not for some timedid the woman who slept next Lulu miss it. Lulu also sent Jean a laceembroidered handkerchief, which Jean would squeeze and press to his lipswith a beatific smile of perfect contentment. The affair with Lulu keptMexique and Pete The Hollander busy writing letters; which Jean dictated, rolling his eyes and scratching his head for words. 

At this time Jean was immensely happy. He was continually playingpractical jokes on one of the Hollanders, or Mexique, or the Wanderer, or, in fact, anyone of whom he was particularly fond. At intervalsbetween these demonstrations of irrepressibility (which kept everyone ina state of laughter) he would stride up and down the filth-sprinkledfloor with his hands in the pockets of his stylish jacket, singing at thetop of his lungs his own version of the famous song of songs:

 _après la guerre finit, soldat anglais parti, mademoiselle que je laissais en France avec des pickaninee. _ PLENTY!

and laughing till he shook and had to lean against a wall. 

B. And Mexique made some dominoes. Jean had not the least idea of how toplay, but when we three had gathered for a game he was always to be foundleaning over our shoulders, completely absorbed, once in a while offeredus sage advice, laughing utterly when someone made a _cinque_ or amultiple thereof. 

One afternoon, in the interval between _la soupe_ and _promenade_, Jeanwas in especially high spirits. I was lying down on my collapsible bedwhen he came up to my end of the room and began showing off exactly likea child. This time it was the game of _l'armée française_ which Jean wasplaying. --"_Jamais soldat, moi. Connais tous l'armée française. _" JohnThe Bathman, stretched comfortably in his bunk near me, grunted. "_Tous_, " Jean repeated. --And he stood in front of us; stiff as a stickin imitation of a French lieutenant with an imaginary company in front ofhim. First he would be the lieutenant giving commands, then he would bethe Army executing them. He began with the manual of arms. "_Com-pag-nie... _" then, as he went through the manual, holding his imaginarygun--"_htt, htt, htt_. "--Then as the officer commending his troops:"_Bon. Très bon. Très bien fait_"--laughing with head thrown back andteeth aglitter at his own success. John le Baigneur was so tremendouslyamused that he gave up sleeping to watch. _L'armée_ drew a crowd ofadmirers from every side. For at least three-quarters of an hour thisgame went on.... 

Another day Jean, being angry at the weather and having eaten a hugeamount of _soupe_, began yelling at the top of his voice: "_MERDE à laFrance_" and laughing heartily. No one paying especial attention to him, he continued (happy in this new game with himself) for about fifteenminutes. Then The Trick Raincoat (that undersized specimen, clad infeminine-fitting raiment with flashy shoes, who was by trade a pimp, being about half Jean's height and a tenth of his physique, ) strolled upto Jean--who had by this time got as far as my bed--and, sticking hissallow face as near Jean's as the neck could reach, said in a solemnvoice: "_II ne faut pas dire ça. _" Jean astounded, gazed at the intruderfor a moment; then demanded: "_Qui dit ça? Moi? Jean? Jamais, ja-MAIS. MERDE à la France!_" nor would he yield a point, backed up as he was bythe moral support of everyone present except the Raincoat--who founddiscretion the better part of valour and retired with a few dark threats;leaving Jean master of the situation and yelling for the Raincoat'sparticular delectation: "_MAY-RRR-DE à la France!_" more loudly thanever. 

A little after the epic battle with stovepipes between The Young Pole andBill The Hollander, the wrecked _poêle_ (which was patiently waiting tobe repaired) furnished Jean with perhaps his most brilliant inspiration. The final section of pipe (which conducted the smoke through a hole inthe wall to the outer air) remained in place all by itself, projectingabout six feet into the room at a height of seven or eight feet from thefloor. Jean noticed this; got a chair; mounted on it, and by applyingalternately his ear and his mouth to the end of the pipe created forhimself a telephone, with the aid of which he carried on a conversationwith The Wanderer (at that moment visiting his family on the floor below)to this effect:

--Jean, grasping the pipe and speaking angrily into it, being evidentlynettled at the poor connection--"Heh-loh, hello, hello, hello"--surveyingthe pipe in consternation--"_Merde. Ça marche pas_"--trying again with adeep frown--"heh-LOH!"--tremendously agitated--"HEHLOH!"--a beautifulsmile supplanting the frown--"hello Barbu. Are you there? _Oui?Bon!_"--evincing tremendous pleasure at having succeeded in establishingthe connection satisfactorily--"Barbu? Are you listening to me? _Oui?_What's the matter Barbu? _Comment? Moi? Oui, MOI? JEAN jaMAIS! jamais, jaMAIS_, Barbu. I have never said you have fleas. _C'était pas moi, tusais. JaMAIS, c'était un autre. Peutêtre c'était Mexique_"--turning hishead in Mexique's direction and roaring with laughter--"Hello, HEH-LOH. Barbu? _Tu sais_, Barbu, _j'ai jamais dit ça. Au contraire_, Barbu. _J'aidit que vous avez des totos_"--another roar of laughter--"What? It isn'ttrue? Good. Then. What have you got, Barbu? Barbu? Lice--OHHHH. Iunderstand. It's better"--shaking with laughter, then suddenlytremendously serious--"hellohellohellohello HEHLOH!"--addressing thestove-pipe--"_C'est une mauvaise machine, ça_"--speaking into it with thegreatest distinctness--"HEL-L-LOH. Barbu? _Liberté_, Barbu. _Oui. Comment? C'est ça. Liberté pour tou'l'monde. Quand? Après la soupe. Oui. Liberté pour tou'l'monde après la soupe!_"--to which jest astonishinglyreacted a certain old man known as the West Indian Negro (a stockycredulous creature with whom Jean would have nothing to do, and whosetales of Brooklyn were indeed outclassed by Jean's _histoires d'amour_)who leaped rheumatically from his _paillasse_ at the word "_Liberté_" andrushed limpingly hither and thither inquiring Was it true? to theenormous and excruciating amusement of The Enormous Room in general. 

After which Jean, exhausted with laughter, descended from the chair andlay down on his bed to read a letter from Lulu (not knowing a syllable ofit). A little later he came rushing up to my bed in the most terrificstate of excitement, the whites of his eyes gleaming, his teeth bared, his kinky hair fairly standing on end, and cried:

"You--me, me--you? _Pas bon. _ You--you, me--me: _bon_. Me--me, you--you!"and went away capering and shouting with laughter, dancing with greatgrace and as great agility and with an imaginary partner the entirelength of the room. 

There was another game--a pure child's game--which Jean played. It wasthe name game. He amused himself for hours together by lying on his_paillasse_ tilting his head back, rolling up his eyes, and crying in ahigh quavering voice--"JAW-neeeeee. " After a repetition or two of his ownname in English, he would demand sharply "Who is calling me? Mexique?_Es-ce que tu m'appelle_, Mexique?" and if Mexique happened to be asleep, Jean would rush over and cry in his ear, shaking him thoroughly--"_Es-cetu m'appelle, toi?_" Or it might be Barbu, or Pete The Hollander, or B. Or myself, of whom he sternly asked the question--which was alwaysfollowed by quantities of laughter on Jean's part. He was never perfectlyhappy unless exercising his inexhaustible imagination.... 

Of all Jean's extraordinary selves, the moral one was at once the mostrare and most unreasonable. In the matter of _les femmes_ he could hardlyhave been accused by his bitterest enemy of being a Puritan. Yet thePuritan streak came out one day, in a discussion which lasted for severalhours. Jean as in the case of France, spoke in dogma. His contention wasvery simple: "The woman who smokes is not a woman. " He defended it hotlyagainst the attacks of all the nations represented; in vain did Belgianand Hollander, Russian and Pole, Spaniard and Alsatian, charge andcounter-charge--Jean remained unshaken. A woman could do anything butsmoke--if she smoked she ceased automatically to be a woman and becamesomething unspeakable. As Jean was at this time sitting alternately onB. 's bed and mine, and as the alternations became increasingly frequentas the discussion waxed hotter, we were not sorry when the _planton's_shout "_A la promenade les hommes!_" scattered the opposing warriors. Then up leaped Jean (who had almost come to blows innumerable times) andrushed laughing to the door, having already forgotten the whole thing. 

Now we come to the story of Jean's undoing, and may the gods which madeJean le Nègre give me grace to tell it as it was. 

The trouble started with Lulu. One afternoon, shortly after thetelephoning, Jean was sick at heart and couldn't be induced either toleave his couch or to utter a word. Everyone guessed the reason--Lulu hadleft for another camp that morning. The _planton_ told Jean to come downwith the rest and get _soupe_. No answer. Was Jean sick? "_Oui_, meseek. " And steadfastly he refused to eat, till the disgusted _planton_gave it up and locked Jean in alone. When we ascended after _la soupe_ wefound Jean as we had left him, stretched on his couch, big tears on hischeeks. I asked him if I could do anything for him; he shook his head. Weoffered him cigarettes--no, he did not wish to smoke. As B. And I wentaway we heard him moaning to himself "Jawnee no see LooLoo no more. " Withthe exception of ourselves, the inhabitants of La Ferté Macé took Jean'sdesolation as a great joke. Shouts of Lulu! rent the welkin on all sides. Jean stood it for an hour; then he leaped up, furious; and demanded(confronting the man from whose lips the cry had last issued)--"FeeneeshLooLoo?" The latter coolly referred him to the man next to him; he inturn to someone else; and round and round the room Jean stalked, seekingthe offender, followed by louder and louder shouts of Lulu! and Jawnee!the authors of which (so soon as he challenged them) denied with innocentfaces their guilt and recommended that Jean look closer next time. Atlast Jean took to his couch in utter misery and disgust. The rest of _leshommes_ descended as usual for the promenade--not so Jean. He ate nothingfor supper. That evening not a sound issued from his bed. 

Next morning he awoke with a broad grin, and to the salutations of Lulu!replied, laughing heartily at himself "FEENEESH Loo Loo. " Upon which thetormentors (finding in him no longer a victim) desisted; and thingsresumed their normal course. If an occasional Lulu! upraised itself, Jeanmerely laughed, and repeated (with a wave of his arm) "FEENEESH. "Finished Lulu seemed to be. 

But _un jour_ I had remained upstairs during the promenade, both becauseI wanted to write and because the weather was worse than usual. Ordinarily, no matter how deep the mud in the _cour_, Jean and I wouldtrot back and forth, resting from time to time under the little shelterout of the drizzle, talking of all things under the sun. I remember onone occasion we were the only ones to brave the rain and slough--Jean inpaper-thin soled slippers (which he had recently succeeded in drawingfrom the Gestionnaire) and I in my huge _sabots_--hurrying back and forthwith the rain pouring on us, and he very proud. On this day, however, Irefused the challenge of the mud. 

The promenaders had been singularly noisy, I thought. Now they weremounting to the room making a truly tremendous racket. No sooner were thedoors opened than in rushed half a dozen frenzied friends, who begantelling me all at once about a terrific thing which my friend the _noir_had just done. It seems that The Trick Raincoat had pulled at Jean'shandkerchief (Lulu's gift in other days) which Jean wore alwaysconspicuously in his outside breast pocket; that Jean had taken theRaincoat's head in his two hands, held it steady, abased his own head, and rammed the helpless T. R. As a bull would do--the impact of Jean'shead upon the other's nose causing that well-known feature to occupy anew position in the neighbourhood of the right ear. B. Corroborated thisdescription, adding the Raincoat's nose was broken and that everyone wasdown on Jean for fighting in an unsportsmanlike way. I found Jean stillvery angry, and moreover very hurt because everyone was now shunning him. I told him that I personally was glad of what he'd done; but nothingwould cheer him up. The T. R. Now entered, very terrible to see, havingbeen patched up by Monsieur Richard with copious plasters. His nose wasnot broken, he said thickly, but only bent. He hinted darkly of troublein store for _le noir_; and received the commiserations of everyonepresent except Mexique, The Zulu, B. And me. 

The Zulu, I remember, pointed to his own nose (which was notunimportant), then to Jean, and made a _moue_ of excruciating anguish, and winked audibly. 

Jean's spirit was broken. The well-nigh unanimous verdict against him hadconvinced his minutely sensitive soul that it had done wrong. He layquietly, and would say nothing to anyone. 

Some time after the soup, about eight o'clock, the Fighting Sheeney andThe Trick Raincoat suddenly set upon Jean le Nègre à propos of nothing;and began pommelling him cruelly. The conscience-stricken pillar ofbeautiful muscle--who could have easily killed both his assailants at oneblow--not only offered no reciprocatory violence but refused even todefend himself. Unresistingly, wincing with pain, his arms mechanicallyraised and his head bent, he was battered frightfully to the window byhis bed, thence into the corner (upsetting the stool in the _pissoir_), thence along the wall to the door. As the punishment increased he criedout like a child: "_Laissez-moi tranquille!_"--again and again; and inhis voice the insane element gained rapidly. Finally, shrieking in agony, he rushed to the nearest window; and while the Sheeneys togetherpommelled him yelled for help to the _planton_ beneath. --

The unparalleled consternation and applause produced by this one-sidedbattle had long since alarmed the authorities. I was still trying tobreak through the five-deep ring of spectators (among whom was TheMessenger Boy, who advised me to desist and got a piece of advice inreturn)--when with a tremendous crash open burst the door; and in steppedfour _plantons_ with drawn revolvers, looking frightened to death, followed by the Surveillant who carried a sort of baton and was cryingfaintly: "_Qu'est-ce que c'est!_"

At the first sound of the door the two Sheeneys had fled, and were nowplaying the part of innocent spectators. Jean alone occupied the stage. His lips were parted. His eyes were enormous. He was panting as if hisheart would break. He still kept his arms raised as if seeing everywherebefore him fresh enemies. Blood spotted here and there the wonderfulchocolate carpet of his skin, and his whole body glistened with sweat. His shirt was in ribbons over his beautiful muscles. 

Seven or eight persons at once began explaining the fight to theSurveillant, who could make nothing out of their accounts and thereforecalled aside a trusted older man in order to get his version. The tworetired from the room. The _plantons_, finding the expected wolf a lamb, flourished their revolvers about Jean and threatened him in theinsignificant and vile language which _plantons_ use to anyone whom theycan bully. Jean kept repeating dully "_laissez-moi tranquille. Ilsvoulaient me tuer. _" His chest shook terribly with vast sobs. 

Now the Surveillant returned and made a speech, to the effect that he hadreceived independently of each other the stories of four men, that by allcounts _le nègre_ was absolutely to blame, that _le nègre_ had caused aninexcusable trouble to the authorities and to his fellow-prisoners bythis wholly unjustified conflict, and that as a punishment the _nègre_would now suffer the consequences of his guilt in the _cabinot_. --Jeanhad dropped his arms to his sides. His face was twisted with anguish. Hemade a child's gesture, a pitiful hopeless movement with his slenderhands. Sobbing he protested: "It isn't my fault, _monsieur leSurveillant!_ They attacked me! I didn't do a thing! They wanted to killme! Ask him"--he pointed to me desperately. Before I could utter asyllable the Surveillant raised his hand for silence: _le nègre_ had donewrong. He should be placed in the _cabinot_. 

--Like a flash, with a horrible tearing sob, Jean leaped from thesurrounding _plantons_ and rushed for the coat which lay on his bedscreaming--"_AHHHHH--mon couteau!_"--"Look out or he'll get his knife andkill himself!" someone yelled; and the four _plantons_ seized Jean byboth arms just as he made a grab for his jacket. Thwarted in his hope andburning with the ignominy of his situation, Jean cast his enormous eyesup at the nearest pillar, crying hysterically: "Everybody is putting mein _cabinot_ because I am black. "--In a second, by a single movement ofhis arms, he sent the four _plantons_ reeling to a distance of ten feet:leaped at the pillar: seized it in both hands like a Samson, and (gazingfor another second with a smile of absolute beatitude at its length)dashed his head against it. Once, twice, thrice he smote himself, beforethe _plantons_ seized him--and suddenly his whole strength wilted; heallowed himself to be overpowered by them and stood with bowed head, tears streaming from his eyes--while the smallest pointed a revolver athis heart. 

This was a little more than the Surveillant had counted on. Now thatJean's might was no more, the bearer of the croix de guerre steppedforward and in a mild placating voice endeavoured to soothe the victim ofhis injustice. It was also slightly more than I could stand, and slammingaside the spectators I shoved myself under his honour's nose. "Do youknow, " I asked, "whom you are dealing with in this man? A child. Thereare a lot of Jeans where I come from. You heard what he said? He isblack, is he not, and gets no justice from you. You heard that. I saw thewhole affair. He was attacked, he put up no resistance whatever, he wasbeaten by two cowards. He is no more to blame than I am. "--TheSurveillant was waving his wand and cooing "_Je comprends, je comprends, c'est malheureux. _"--"You're god damn right its _malheureux_" I said, forgetting my French. "_Quand même_, he has resisted authority" TheSurveillant gently continued: "Now Jean, be quiet, you will be taken tothe _cabinot_. You may as well go quietly and behave yourself like a goodboy. "

At this I am sure my eyes started out of my head. All I could think of tosay was: "_Attends, un petit moment. _" To reach my own bed took but asecond. In another second I was back, bearing my great and sacred_pélisse_. I marched up to Jean. "Jean" I remarked with a smile, "you aregoing to the _cabinot_ but you're coming back right away. I know that youare perfectly right. Put that on"--and I pushed him gently into my coat. "Here are my cigarettes, Jean; you can smoke just as much as you like"--Ipulled out all I had, one full _paquet_ of Maryland, and a half dozenloose ones, and deposited them carefully in the right hand pocket of the_pélisse_. Then I patted him on the shoulder and gave him the immortalsalutation--"_Bonne chance, mon ami!_"

He straightened proudly. He stalked like a king through the doorway. Theastounded _plantons_ and the embarrassed Surveillant followed, the latterclosing the doors behind him. I was left with a cloud of angry witnesses. 

An hour later the doors opened, Jean entered quietly, and the doors shut. As I lay on my bed I could see him perfectly. He was almost naked. Helaid my _pélisse_ on his mattress, then walked calmly up to aneighbouring bed and skillfully and unerringly extracted a brush fromunder it. Back to his own bed he tiptoed, sat down on it, and beganbrushing my coat. He brushed it for a half hour, speaking to no one, spoken to by no one. Finally he put the brush back, disposed the_pélisse_ carefully on his arm, came to my bed, and as carefully laid itdown. Then he took from the right hand outside pocket a full _paquetjaune_ and six loose cigarettes, showed them for my approval, andreturned them to their place. "_Merci_" was his sole remark. B. Got Jeanto sit down beside him on his bed and we talked for a few minutes, avoiding the subject of the recent struggle. Then Jean went back to hisown bed and lay down. 

It was not till later that we learned the climax--not till _le petitbelge avec le bras cassé, le petit balayeur_, came hurrying to our end ofthe room and sat down with us. He was bursting with excitement; his wellarm jerked and his sick one stumped about and he seemed incapable ofspeech. At length words came. 

"_Monsieur Jean_" (now that I think of it, I believe someone had told himthat all male children in America are named Jean at their birth) "I sawSOME SIGHT! _le nègre, vous savez?_--he is STRONG: _Monsieur Jean_, he's_a_ GIANT, _croyez moi! C'est pas un homme, tu sais? Je l'ai vu, moi_"--and he indicated his eyes. 

We pricked up our ears. 

The _balayeur_, stuffing a pipe nervously with his tiny thumb said: "Yousaw the fight here? So did I. The whole of it. _Le noir avait raison. _Well, when they took him downstairs, I slipped out too--_Je suis lebalayeur, savez vous?_ and the _balayeur_ can go where other peoplecan't. "

I gave him a match, and he thanked me. He struck it on his trousers witha quick pompous gesture, drew heavily on his squeaky pipe, and at lastshot a minute puff of smoke into the air: then another, and another. Satisfied, he went on; his good hand grasping the pipe between its indexand second fingers and resting on one little knee, his legs crossed, hissmall body hunched forward, wee unshaven face close to mine--went on inthe confidential tone of one who relates an unbelievable miracle to acouple of intimate friends:

"Monsieur Jean, I followed. They got him to the _cabinot_. The door stoodopen. At this moment _les femmes descendaient_, it was their _corvéed'eau, vous savez. _ He saw them, _le noir_. One of them cried from thestairs, Is a Frenchman stronger than you, Jean? The _plantons_ werestanding around him, the Surveillant was behind. He took the nearest_planton_, and tossed him down the corridor so that he struck against thedoor at the end of it. He picked up two more, one in each arm, and threwthem away. They fell on top of the first. The last tried to take hold ofJean, and so Jean took him by the neck"--(the _balayeur_ strangledhimself for our benefit)--"and that _planton_ knocked down the otherthree, who had got on their feet by this time. You should have seen theSurveillant. He had run away and was saying, 'Capture him, capture him. 'The _plantons_ rushed Jean, all four of them. He caught them as they cameand threw them about. One knocked down the Surveillant. The women cried'_Vive Jean_, ' and clapped their hands. The Surveillant called to the_plantons_ to take Jean, but they wouldn't go near Jean, they said he wasa black devil. The women kidded them. They were so sore. And they coulddo nothing. Jean was laughing. His shirt was almost off him. He asked theplanton to come and take him, please. He asked the Surveillant, too. Thewomen had set down their pails and were dancing up and down and yelling. The Directeur came down and sent them flying. The Surveillant and his_plantons_ were as helpless as if they had been children. MonsieurJean--_quelque chose_. "

I gave him another match. "_Merci, Monsieur Jean. _" He struck it, drew onhis pipe, lowered it, and went on:

"They were helpless, and men. I am little. I have only one arm, _tusais_. I walked up to Jean and said, Jean, you know me, I am your friend. He said, Yes. I said to the _plantons_, Give me that rope. They gave methe rope that they would have bound him with. He put out his wrists forme. I tied his hands behind his back. He was like a lamb. The _plantons_rushed up and tied his feet together. Then they tied his hands and feettogether. They took the lacings out of his shoes for fear he would usethem to strangle himself. They stood him up in an angle between two wallsin the _cabinot_. They left him there for an hour. He was supposed tohave been in there all night; but the Surveillant knew that he would havedied, for he was almost naked, and _vous savez_, Monsieur Jean, it wascold in there. And damp. A fully clothed man would have been dead in themorning. And he was naked.... _Monsieur Jean--un géant!_"

--This same _petit belge_ had frequently protested to me that _Il estfou, le noir_. He is always playing when sensible men try to sleep. Thelast few hours (which had made of the _fou_ a _géant_) made of thescoffer a worshipper. Nor did "_le bras cassé_" ever from that time forthdesert his divinity. If as _balayeur_ he could lay hands on a _morceau depain_ or _de viande_, he bore it as before to our beds; but Jean wasalways called over to partake of the forbidden pleasure. 

As for Jean, one would hardly have recognised him. It was as if the childhad fled into the deeps of his soul, never to reappear. Day after daywent by, and Jean (instead of courting excitement as before) cloisteredhimself in solitude; or at most sought the company of B. And me and LePetit Belge for a quiet chat or a cigarette. The morning after the threefights he did not appear in the _cour_ for early promenade along with therest of us (including The Sheeneys). In vain did _les femmes_ straintheir necks and eyes to find the black man who was stronger than sixFrenchmen. And B. And I noticed our bed-clothing airing upon thewindow-sills. When we mounted, Jean was patting and straightening ourblankets, and looking for the first time in his life guilty of someenormous crime. Nothing however had disappeared. Jean said, "Me feeks_lits tous les jours. "_ And every morning he aired and made our beds forus, and we mounted to find him smoothing affectionately some finalruffle, obliterating with enormous solemnity some microscopic crease. Wegave him cigarettes when he asked for them (which was almost never) andoffered them when we knew he had none or when we saw him borrowing fromsomeone else whom his spirit held in less esteem. Of us he asked nofavours. He liked us too well. 

When B. Went away, Jean was almost as desolate as I. 

About a fortnight later, when the grey dirty snow-slush hid the blackfilthy world which we saw from our windows, and when people lived intheir ill-smelling beds, it came to pass that my particular _amis_--TheZulu, Jean, Mexique--and I and all the remaining _miserables_ of La Fertédescended at the decree of Caesar Augustus to endure our bi-weekly bath. I remember gazing stupidly at Jean's chocolate-coloured nakedness as itstrode to the tub, a rippling texture of muscular miracle. _Tout lemonde_ had _baigné_ (including The Zulu, who tried to escape at the lastminute and was nabbed by the _planton_ whose business it was to countheads and see that none escaped the ordeal) and now _tout le monde_ wasshivering all together in the anteroom, begging to be allowed to goupstairs and get into bed--when La Baigneur, Monsieur Richard's strenuoussuccessor that is, set up a hue and cry that one towel was lacking. TheFencer was sent for. He entered; heard the case; and made a speech. Ifthe guilty party would immediately return the stolen towel, he, TheFencer, would guarantee that party pardon; if not, everyone presentshould be searched, and the man on whose person the serviette was found_va attraper quinze jours de cabinot_. This eloquence yielding noresults, The Fencer exorted the culprit to act like a man and render toCaesar what is Caesar's. Nothing happened. Everyone was told to get insingle file and make ready to pass out the door, one after one we weresearched; but so general was the curiosity that as fast as they wereinspected the erstwhile bed-enthusiasts, myself included, gathered on theside-lines to watch their fellows instead of availing themselves of theopportunity to go upstairs. One after one we came opposite The Fencer, held up our arms, had our pockets run through and our clothing felt overfrom head to heel, and were exonerated. When Caesar came to Jean Caesar'seyes lighted, and Caesar's hitherto perfunctory proddings and pokingsbecame inspired and methodical. Twice he went over Jean's entire body, while Jean, his arms raised in a bored gesture, his face completelyexpressionless, suffered loftily the examination of his person. A thirdtime the desperate Fencer tried; his hands, starting at Jean's neck, reached the calf of his leg--and stopped. The hands rolled up Jean'sright trouser-leg to the knee. They rolled up the underwear on hisleg--and there, placed perfectly flat to the skin, appeared the missingserviette. As The Fencer seized it, Jean laughed--the utter laughter ofold days--and the onlookers cackled uproariously, while, with a broadsmile, the Fencer proclaimed: "I thought I knew where I should find it. "And he added, more pleased with himself than anyone had ever seen him:"_Maintenant, vous pouvez tous montez à la chambre. _" We mounted, happyto get back to bed; but none so happy as Jean le Nègre. It was not thatthe _cabinot_ threat had failed to materialize--at any minute a _planton_might call Jean to his punishment: indeed this was what everyoneexpected. It was that the incident had absolutely removed that inhibitionwhich (from the day when Jean _le noir_ became Jean _le géant_) had heldthe child, which was Jean's soul and destiny, prisoner. From that instanttill the day I left him he was the old Jean--joking, fibbing, laughing, and always playing--Jean L'Enfant. 

And I think of Jean le Nègre ... You are something to dream over, Jean;summer and winter (birds and darkness) you go walking into my head; youare a sudden and chocolate-coloured thing, in your hands you have a habitof holding six or eight _plantons_ (which you are about to throw away)and the flesh of your body is like the flesh of a very deep cigar. WhichI am still and always quietly smoking: always and still I am inhaling itsvery fragrant and remarkable muscles. But I doubt if ever I am quitethrough with you, if ever I will toss you out of my heart into thesawdust of forgetfulness. Kid, Boy, I'd like to tell you: _la guerre estfinie_. 

O yes, Jean: I do not forget, I remember Plenty; the snow's coming, thesnow will throw again a very big and gentle shadow into The Enormous Roomand into the eyes of you and me walking always and wonderfully up anddown.... 

--Boy, Kid, Nigger, with the strutting muscles--take me up into your mindonce or twice before I die (you know why: just because the eyes of me andyou will be full of dirt some day). Quickly take me up into the brightchild of your mind, before we both go suddenly all loose and silly (youknow how it will feel). Take me up (carefully, as if I were a toy) andplay carefully with me, once or twice, before I and you go suddenly alllimp and foolish. Once or twice before you go into great Jack roses andivory--(once or twice, Boy, before we together go wonderfully down intothe Big Dirt laughing, bumped with the last darkness). 

XII

THREE WISE MEN

It must have been late in November when _la commission_ arrived. _Lacommission_, as I have said, visited La Ferté every three months. That isto say, B. And I (by arriving when we did) had just escaped its clutches. I consider this one of the luckiest things in my life. 

_La commission_ arrived one morning, and began work immediately. 

A list was made of _les hommes_ who were to pass _la commission_, anotherof _les femmes_. These lists were given to the _planton_ with the WoodenHand. In order to avert any delay, those of the men whose names fell inthe first half of the list were not allowed to enjoy the usualstimulating activities afforded by La Ferté's supreme environment: theywere, in fact, confined to The Enormous Room, subject to instantcall--moreover they were not called one by one, or as their respectiveturns came, but in groups of three or four; the idea being that _lacommission_ should suffer no smallest annoyance which might be occasionedby loss of time. There were always, in other words, eight or ten menwaiting in the upper corridor opposite a disagreeably crisp door, whichdoor belonged to that mysterious room wherein _la commission_ transactedits inestimable affairs. Not more than a couple of yards away ten oreight women waited their turns. Conversation between the men and thewomen had been forbidden in the fiercest terms by Monsieur le Directeur:nevertheless conversation spasmodically occurred, thanks to the indulgentnature of the Wooden Hand. The Wooden Hand must have been cuckoo--helooked it. If he wasn't I am totally at a loss to account for hisindulgence. 

B. And I spent a morning in The Enormous Room without results, anastonishing acquisition of nervousness excepted. _Après la soupe_ (noon)we were conducted _en haut_, told to leave our spoons and bread (which wedid) and--in company with several others whose names were within afurlong of the last man called--were descended to the corridor. All thatafternoon we waited. Also we waited all next morning. We spent our timetalking quietly with a buxom pink-cheeked Belgian girl who was inattendance as translator for one of _les femmes_. This Belgian told usthat she was a permanent inhabitant of La Ferté, that she and another_femme honnette_ occupied a room by themselves, that her brothers were atthe front in Belgium, that her ability to speak fluently severallanguages (including English and German) made her invaluable to_Messieurs la commission_, that she had committed no crime, that she washeld as a _suspecte_, that she was not entirely unhappy. She struck meimmediately as being not only intelligent but alive. She questioned us inexcellent English as to our offenses, and seemed much pleased to discoverthat we were--to all appearances--innocent of wrong-doing. 

From time to time our subdued conversation was interrupted by admonitionsfrom the amiable Wooden Hand. Twice the door SLAMMED open, and Monsieurle Directeur bounced out, frothing at the mouth and threatening everyonewith infinite _cabinot_, on the ground that everyone's deportment or lackof it was menacing the aplomb of the commissioners. Each time, the BlackHolster appeared in the background and carried on his master's bullyinguntil everyone was completely terrified--after which we were left toourselves and the Wooden Hand once again. 

B. And I were allowed by the latter individual--he was that day, atleast, an individual not merely a _planton_--to peek over his shoulder atthe men's list. The Wooden Hand even went so far as to escort oureditious minds to the nearness of their examination by the simple yetefficient method of placing one of his human fingers opposite the name ofhim who was (even at that moment) within, submitting to the inexorablejustice of _le gouvernement français_. I cannot honestly say that thediscovery of this proximity of ourselves to our respective fates whollypleased us; yet we were so weary of waiting that it certainly did notwholly terrify us. All in all, I think I have never been so utterlyun-at-ease as while waiting for the axe to fall, metaphorically speaking, upon our squawking heads. 

We were still conversing with the Belgian girl when a man came out of thedoor unsteadily, looking as if he had submitted to several strenuousfittings of a wooden leg upon a stump not quite healed. The Wooden Hand, nodding at B. , remarked hurriedly in a low voice:

"_Allez!_"

And B. (smiling at La Belge and at me) entered. He was followed by TheWooden Hand, as I suppose for greater security. 

The next twenty minutes, or whatever it was, were by far the mostnerve-racking which I had as yet experienced. La Belge said to me:

"_Il est gentil, votre ami, _"

and I agreed. And my blood was bombarding the roots of my toes and thesummits of my hair. 

After (I need not say) two or three million aeons, B. Emerged. I had nottime to exchange a look with him--let alone a word--for the Wooden Handsaid from the doorway:

"_Allez, l'autre américain, _"

and I entered in more confusion than can easily be imagined; entered thetorture chamber, entered the inquisition, entered the tentacles of thatsly and beaming polyp, _le gouvernement français_.... 

As I entered I said, half aloud: The thing is this, to look 'em in theeyes and keep cool whatever happens, not for the fraction of a momentforgetting that they are made of _merde_, that they are all of themcomposed entirely of _merde_--I don't know how many inquisitors Iexpected to see; but I guess I was ready for at least fifteen, among themPresident Poincaré Lui-même. I hummed noiselessly:

 "_si vous passez par ma vil-le n'oubliez pas ma maison; on y mang-e de bonne sou-pe Ton Ton Tay-ne; faite de merde et les onions, Ton Ton Tayne Ton Ton Ton, _"

remembering the fine _forgeron_ of Chevancourt who used to sing this, orsomething very like it, upon a table--entirely for the benefit of _lesdeux américains_, who would subsequently render "Eats uh lonje wae toTee-pear-raer-ee, " wholly for the gratification of a roomful of what Mr. Anderson liked to call "them bastards, " alias "dirty" Frenchmen, alias_les poilus, les poilus divins_.... 

A little room. The Directeur's office? Or The Surveillant's? Comfort. Oyes, very, very comfortable. On my right a table. At the table threepersons. Reminds me of Noyon a bit, not unpleasantly of course. Threepersons: reading from left to right as I face them--a soggy, sleepy, slumpy lump in a _gendarme's_ cape and cap, quite old, captain of_gendarmes_, not at all interested, wrinkled coarse face, onlysemi-_méchant_, large hard clumsy hands, floppingly disposed on table;wily tidy man in civilian clothes, pen in hand, obviously lawyer, _avocat_ type, little bald on top, sneaky civility, smells of bad perfumeor, at any rate, sweetish soap; tiny red-headed person, also civilian, creased worrying excited face, amusing little body and hands, brief andjumpy, must be a Dickens character, ought to spend his time sailing kitesof his own construction over other people's houses in gusty weather. Behind the Three, all tied up with deference and inferiority, mild andspineless, Apollyon. 

Would the reader like to know what I was asked?

Ah, would I could say! Only dimly do I remember those moments--only dimlydo I remember looking through the lawyer at Apollyon's clean collar--onlydimly do I remember the gradual collapse of the captain of _gendarmes_, his slow but sure assumption of sleepfulness, the drooping of his soggy_tête de cochon_ lower and lower till it encountered one hand whoseelbow, braced firmly upon the table, sustained its insensatelimpness--only dimly do I remember the enthusiastic antics of the littlered-head when I spoke with patriotic fervour of the wrongs which LaFrance was doing _mon ami et moi_--only dimly do I remember, to my right, the immobility of The Wooden Hand, reminding one of a clothing dummy, ora life-size doll which might be made to move only by him who knew theproper combination.... At the outset I was asked: Did I want atranslator? I looked and saw the _sécrétaire_, weak-eyed and lemon-pale, and I said "_Non. _" I was questioned mostly by the _avocat_, somewhat bythe Dickens, never by either the captain (who was asleep) or theDirecteur (who was timid in the presence of these great and gooddelegates of hope, faith and charity per the French Government). I recallthat, for some reason, I was perfectly cool. I put over six or eight hotshots without losing in the least this composure, which surprised myselfand pleased myself and altogether increased myself. As the questions camefor me I met them half-way, spouting my best or worst French in a mannerwhich positively astonished the tiny red-headed demigod. I challengedwith my eyes and with my voice and with my manner Apollyon Himself, andApollyon Himself merely cuddled together, depressing his hairy bodybetween its limbs as a spider sometimes does in the presence of danger. Iexpressed immense gratitude to my captors and to _le gouvernementfrançais_ for allowing me to see and hear and taste and smell and touchthe things which inhabited La Ferté Macé, Orne, France. I do not thinkthat _la commission_ enjoyed me much. It told me, through itssweetish-soap leader, that my friend was a criminal--this immediatelyupon my entering--and I told it with a great deal of well-chosenpoliteness that I disagreed. In telling how and why I disagreed I think Imanaged to shove my shovel-shaped imagination under the refuse of theirintellects. At least once or twice. 

Rather fatiguing--to stand up and be told: Your friend is no good; haveyou anything to say for yourself?--And to say a great deal for yourselfand for your friend and for _les hommes_--or try your best to--and becontradicted, and be told "Never mind that, what we wish to know is, " andinstructed to keep to the subject, et cetera, ad infinitum. At last theyasked each other if each other wanted to ask the man before each otheranything more, and each other not wanting to do so, they said:

"_C'est fini_. "

As at Noyon, I had made an indisputably favourable impression uponexactly one of my three examiners. I refer, in the present case, to thered-headed little gentleman who was rather decent to me. I do not exactlysalute him in recognition of this decency; I bow to him, as I might bowto somebody who said he was sorry he couldn't give me a match, but therewas a cigar store just around the corner, you know. 

At "_C'est fini_" the Directeur leaped into the limelight with a savageadmonition to the Wooden Hand--who saluted, opened the door suddenly, andlooked at me with (dare I say it?) admiration. Instead of availing myselfof this means of escape I turned to the little kite-flying gentleman andsaid:

"If you please, sir, will you be so good as to tell me what will becomeof my friend?"

The little kite-flying gentleman did not have time to reply, for theperfumed presence stated dryly and distinctly:

"We cannot say anything to you upon that point. "

I gave him a pleasant smile, which said, If I could see your intestinesvery slowly embracing a large wooden drum rotated by means of a smalliron crank turned gently and softly by myself, I should beextraordinarily happy--and I bowed softly and gently to Monsieur leDirecteur, and I went through the door using all the perpendicular incheswhich God had given me. 

Once outside I began to tremble like a _peuplier_ in _l'automne_.... "_L'automne humide et monotone. _"

--"_Allez en bas, pour la soupe_" the Wooden Hand said not unkindly. Ilooked about me. "There will be no more men before the commission untilto-morrow, " the Wooden Hand said. "Go get your dinner in the kitchen. "

I descended. 

Afrique was all curiosity--what did they say? what did I say?--as heplaced before me a huge, a perfectly huge, an inexcusably huge plate ofsomething more than lukewarm grease.... B. And I ate at a very littletable in _la cuisine_, excitedly comparing notes as we swallowed thered-hot stuff.... "_Du pain; prenez, mes amis_, " Afrique said. "_Mangezcomme vous voulez_" the Cook quoth benignantly, with a glance at us overhis placid shoulder.... Eat we most surely did. We could have eaten theFrench Government. 

The morning of the following day we went on promenade once more. It wasneither pleasant nor unpleasant to promenade in the _cour_ while somebodyelse was suffering in the Room of Sorrow. It was, in fact, ratherthrilling. 

The afternoon of this day we were all up in The Enormous Room when _lacommission_ suddenly entered with Apollyon strutting and lisping behindit, explaining, and poo-poohing, and graciously waving his thick wickedarms. 

Everyone in The Enormous Room leaped to his feet, removing as he did sohis 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 timeto stalk it to its lair. _La commission_ reacted interestingly to theEnormous Room: the captain of _gendarmes_ looked soggily around and sawnothing with a good deal of contempt; the scented soap squinted up hisface and said, "Faugh!" or whatever a French bourgeois _avocat_ says inthe presence of a bad smell (_la commission_ was standing by the door andconsequently close to the _cabinet_); but the little red-head kite-flyinggentleman 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 andyou could tell it if you wished, you imbecile, you incorrigible, youcriminal, " Apollyon shouted; then, turning to the _avocat_ and thered-headed little gentleman, "He is a dangerous alien, he admits it, hehas admitted it--DON'T YOU ADMIT IT, EH? EH?" he roared at The SilentMan, who fingered his black cap without raising his eyes or changing inthe least the simple and supreme dignity of his poise. "He isincorrigible, " said (in a low snarl) The Directeur. "Let us go, gentlemen, when you have seen enough. " But the red-headed man, as Irecollect, was contemplating the floor by the door, where six pails ofurine solemnly stood, three of them having overflowed slightly from timeto time upon the reeking planks.... And The Directeur was told that _leshommes_ should have a tin trough to urinate into, for the sake ofsanitation; and that this trough should be immediately installed, installed without delay--"O yes, indeed, sirs, " Apollyon simpered, "avery good suggestion; it shall be done immediately: yes, indeed. Do letme show you the--it's just outside--" and he bowed them out with nolittle skill. And the door SLAMMED behind Apollyon and the Three WiseMen. 

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 replyto the letters which he, Fritz, wrote every so often and sent through _lebureau_--meaning the _sécrétaire_--had managed to get news of hiswhereabouts to said consul by unlawful means; and was immediately, uponreception of this news by the consul, set free and invited to join a shipat the nearest port. His departure (than which a more joyous I have neverwitnessed) has been already mentioned in connection with the thirdDelectable Mountain, as has been the departure for Précigne of Pom Pomand Harree ensemble. Bill the Hollander, Monsieur Pet-airs, Mexique, TheWanderer, the little Machine-Fixer, Pete, Jean le Nègre, The Zulu andMonsieur Auguste (second time) were some of our remaining friends whopassed the commission with us. Along with ourselves and these fine peoplewere judged gentlemen like the Trick Raincoat and the Fighting Sheeney. One would think, possibly, that Justice--in the guise of the Three WiseMen--would have decreed different fates, to (say) The Wanderer and TheFighting Sheeney. _Au contraire_. As I have previously remarked, the waysof 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 wereinclined to fear him, Bill the Hollander who washed some towels andhandkerchiefs and what-nots for us and turned them a bright pink, Billthe Hollander who had tried so hard to teach The Young Pole the lessonwhich he could only learn from The Fighting Sheeney, left us about a weekafter _la commission_. As I understand it, they decided to send him backto Holland under guard in order that he might be jailed in his nativeland as a deserter. It is beautiful to consider the unselfishness of _legouvernement français_ in this case. Much as _le gouvernement français_would have liked to have punished Bill on its own account and for its ownenjoyment, it gave him up--with a Christian smile--to the punishingclutches of a sister or brother government: without a murmur denyingitself the incense of his sufferings and the music of his sorrows. Thentoo it is really inspiring to note the perfect collaboration of _lajustice française_ and _la justice hollandaise_ in a critical moment ofthe world's history. Bill certainly should feel that it was a greathonour to be allowed to exemplify this wonderful accord, this exquisitemutual understanding, between the punitive departments of two nationssuperficially somewhat unrelated--that is, as regards customs andlanguage. I fear Bill didn't appreciate the intrinsic usefulness of hisdestiny. 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 inventingforcepumps had prejudiced _ces messieurs_ in his disfavour; and shook hispoor old head and sniffed hopelessly. Mexique exited in a placidlycheerful 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 Dutchto the Young Skipper and his mate; which pair took _la commission_ moreor less as a healthy bull calf takes nourishment: there was little doubtthat they would refind _la liberté_ in a short while, judging from theinability of the Three Wise Men to prove them even suspicious characters. The Zulu uttered a few inscrutable gestures made entirely of silence andsaid he would like us to celebrate the accomplishment of this ordeal bybuying ourselves and himself a good fat cheese apiece--his friend TheYoung Pole looked as if the ordeal had scared the life out of himtemporarily; he was unable to say whether or no he and "_mon ami_" wouldleave us: _la commission_ had adopted, in the case of these twain, anawe-inspiring taciturnity. Jean Le Nègre, who was one of the last topass, had had a tremendously exciting time, due to the fact that _legouvernement français's_ polished tools had failed to scratch his mysteryeither in French or English--he came dancing and singing toward us; then, suddenly suppressing every vestige of emotion, solemnly extended for ourapproval a small scrap of paper on which was written:

 CALAIS, remarking: "_Qu-est-ce que ça veut dire?_"--and when we read the word forhim, "_m'en vais à Calais, moi, travailler à Calais, très bon!_"--with ajump and a shout of laughter pocketing the scrap and beginning the Songof Songs:

"_apres la guerre finit.... _"

A trio which had been hit and hard hit by the Three Wise Men were, orwas, The Wanderer and the Machine-Fixer and Monsieur Auguste--the formerhaving been insulted in respect to Chocolat's mother (who also occupiedthe witness-stand) and having retaliated, as nearly as we could discover, with a few remarks straight from the shoulder à propos Justice (OWanderer, did you expect honour among the honourable?); the Machine-Fixerhaving been told to shut up in the midst of a passionate plea for mercy, or at least fair-play, if not in his own case in the case of the wife whowas crazed by his absence; Monsieur Auguste having been asked (as he hadbeen asked three months before by the honorable commissioners), Why didyou not return to Russia with your wife and your child at the outbreak ofthe war?--and having replied, with tears in his eyes and that gentleferocity of which he was occasionally capable:

"Be-cause I didn't have the means. I am not a mil-lion-aire, Sirs. "

The Baby-Snatcher, the Trick Raincoat, the Messenger Boy, the FightingSheeney and similar gentry passed the commission without the slightestapparent effect upon their disagreeable personalities. 

It was not long after Bill the Hollander's departure that we lost twoDelectable Mountains in The Wanderer and Surplice. Remained The Zulu andJean le Nègre.... B. And I spent most of our time when on promenadecollecting rather beautifully hued leaves in _la cour_. These leaves weinserted in one of my notebooks, along with all the colours which wecould find on cigarette boxes, chocolate wrappers, labels of varioussorts and even postage stamps. (We got a very brilliant red from acertain piece of cloth. ) Our efforts puzzled everyone (including the_plantons_) more than considerably; which was natural, considering thateveryone did not know that by this exceedingly simple means we wereeffecting a study of colour itself, in relation to what is popularlycalled "abstract" and sometimes "non-representative" painting. Despitetheir natural puzzlement everyone (_plantons_ excepted) wasextraordinarily kind and brought us often valuable additions to ourchromatic collection. Had I, at this moment and in the city of New York, the complete confidence of one-twentieth as many human beings I shouldnot be so inclined to consider The Great American Public as the mostaesthetically incapable organization ever created for the purpose ofperpetuating defunct ideals and ideas. But of course The Great AmericanPublic has a handicap which my friends at La Ferté did not as a rulehave--education. Let no one sound his indignant yawp at this. I refer tothe fact that, for an educated gent or lady, to create is first of all todestroy--that there is and can be no such thing as authentic art untilthe _bons trucs_ (whereby we are taught to see and imitate on canvas andin stone and by words this so-called world) are entirely and thoroughlyand perfectly annihilated by that vast and painful process of Unthinkingwhich may result in a minute bit of purely personal Feeling. Which minutebit is Art. 

Ah well, the revolution--I refer of course to the intelligentrevolution--is on the way; is perhaps nearer than some think, is possiblyknocking at the front doors of The Great Mister Harold Bell Wright andThe Great Little Miss Pollyanna. In the course of the next ten thousandyears it may be possible to find Delectable Mountains without going toprison--captivity, I mean, Monsieur le Surveillant--it may be possible, Idaresay, to encounter Delectable Mountains who are not in prison.... 

The Autumn wore on. 

Rain did, from time to time, not fall: from time to time a sort ofunhealthy almost-light leaked from the large uncrisp corpse of the sky, returning for a moment to our view the ruined landscape. From time totime the eye, travelling carefully with a certain disagreeable suddenlyfear no longer distances of air, coldish and sweet, stopped upon theincredible clearness of the desolate, without-motion, Autumn. Awkward andsolemn clearness, making louder the unnecessary cries, the hoarselaughter of the invisible harlots in their muddy yard, pointing a coolactual finger at the silly and ferocious group of man-shaped beingshuddled in the mud under four or five little trees, came strangely in myown mind pleasantly to suggest the ludicrous and hideous and beautifulantics of the insane. Frequently I would discover so perfect a commandover myself as to reduce _la promenade_ easily to a recently inventedmechanism; or to the demonstration of a collection of vivid and unlovelytoys around and around which, guarding them with impossible heroism, funnily moved purely unreal _plantons_ always absurdly marching, themaimed and stupid dolls of my imagination. Once I was sitting alone onthe long beam of silent iron and suddenly had the gradual complete uniqueexperience of death.... 

It became amazingly cold. 

One evening B. And myself and, I think it was the Machine-Fixer, werepartaking of the warmth of a _bougie_ hard by and, in fact, between ourambulance beds, when the door opened, a _planton_ entered, and a list ofnames (none of which we recognized) was hurriedly read off with (as inthe case of the last _partis_, including The Wanderer and Surplice) theadmonition:

"Be ready to leave early to-morrow morning. "

--and the door shut loudly and quickly. Now one of the names which hadbeen called sounded somewhat like "Broom, " and a strange inquietudeseized us on this account. Could it possibly have been "B. "? We madeinquiries of certain of our friends who had been nearer the _planton_than ourselves. We were told that Pete and The Trick Raincoat and TheFighting Sheeney and Rockyfeller were leaving--about "B. " nobody was ableto enlighten us. Not that opinions in this matter were lacking. There wasplenty of opinions--but they contradicted each other to a painful extent. _Les hommes_ were in fact about equally divided; half considering thatthe occult sound had been intended for "B. , " half that the somewhatasthmatic _planton_ had unwittingly uttered a spontaneous grunt or sigh, which sigh or grunt we had mistaken for a proper noun. Our uncertaintywas augmented by the confusion emanating from a particular corner of TheEnormous Room, in which corner The Fighting Sheeney was haranguing agroup of spectators on the pregnant topic: What I won't do to Précignewhen I get there. In deep converse with Bathhouse John we beheld the verysame youth who, some time since, had drifted to a place beside me at _lasoupe_--Pete The Ghost, white and determined, blond and fragile: Pete theShadow.... 

I forget who, but someone--I think it was the littleMachine-Fixer--established the truth that an American was to leave thenext morning. That, moreover, said American's name was B. 

Whereupon B. And I became extraordinarily busy. 

The Zulu and Jean le Nègre, upon learning that B. Was among the _partis_, came over to our beds and sat down without uttering a word. The former, through a certain shy orchestration of silence, conveyed effortlessly andperfectly his sorrow at the departure; the latter, by his bowed head anda certain very delicate restraint manifested in the wholly exquisitepoise of his firm alert body, uttered at least a universe of grief. 

The little Machine-Fixer was extremely indignant; not only that hisfriend was going to a den of thieves and ruffians, but that his friendwas leaving in such company as that of _ce crapule_ (meaning Rockyfeller)and _les deux mangeurs de blanc_ (to wit, The Trick Raincoat and TheFighting Sheeney). "_c'est malheureux_, " he repeated over and over, wagging his poor little head in rage and despair--"it's no place for ayoung man who has done no wrong, to be shut up with pimps and cutthroats, _pour la durée de la guerre; le gouvernement français a bien fait!_" andhe brushed a tear out of his eye with a desperate rapid brittlegesture.... But what angered the Machine-Fixer most was that B. And Iwere about to be separated--"_M'sieu' Jean_" (touching me gently on theknee) "they have no hearts, _la commission_; they are not simply unjust, they are cruel, _savez-vous_? Men are not like these; they are not men, they are Name of God I don't know what, they are worse than the animals;and they pretend to Justice" (shivering from top to toe with anindescribable sneer) "Justice! My God, Justice!"

All of which, somehow or other, did not exactly cheer us. 

And, the packing completed, we drank together for The Last Time. The Zuluand Jean Le Nègre and the Machine-Fixer and B. And I--and Pete The Shadowdrifted over, whiter than I think I ever saw him, and said simply to me:

"I'll take care o' your friend, Johnny. "

... And then at last it was _lumières éteintes_; and _les deuxaméricains_ lay in their beds in the cold rotten darkness, talking in lowvoices of the past, of Petroushka, of Paris, of that brilliant andextraordinary and impossible something: Life. 

Morning. Whitish. Inevitable. Deathly cold. 

There was a great deal of hurry and bustle in The Enormous Room. Peoplewere rushing hither and thither in the heavy half-darkness. People weresaying good-bye to people. Saying good-bye to friends. Saying good-bye tothemselves. We lay and sipped the black evil dull certainly not coffee;lay on our beds, dressed, shuddering with cold, waiting. Waiting. Severalof _les hommes_ whom we scarcely knew came up to B. And shook hands withhim and said good luck and good-bye. The darkness was going rapidly outof the dull black evil stinking air. B. Suddenly realized that he had nogift for The Zulu; he asked a fine Norwegian to whom he had given hisleather belt if he, the Norwegian, would mind giving it back, becausethere was a very dear friend who had been forgotten. The Norwegian, witha pleasant smile, took off the belt and said "Certainly" ... He had beenarrested at Bordeaux, where he came ashore from his ship, for stealingthree cans of sardines when he was drunk ... A very great and dangerouscriminal ... He said "Certainly, " and gave B. A pleasant smile, thepleasantest smile in the world. B. Wrote his own address and name in theinside of the belt, explained in French to The Young Pole that any timeThe Zulu wanted to reach him all he had to do was to consult the belt;The Young Pole translated; The Zulu nodded; The Norwegian smiledappreciatively; The Zulu received the belt with a gesture to which wordscannot do the faintest justice--

A _planton_ was standing in The Enormous Room, a _planton_ roaring andcursing and crying, "Hurry, those who are going to go. "--B. Shook handswith Jean and Mexique and the Machine-Fixer and the Young Skipper, andBathhouse John (to whom he had given his ambulance tunic, and who wascrazy-proud in consequence) and the Norwegian and the Washing Machine Manand The Hat and many of _les hommes_ whom we scarcely knew. --The BlackHolster was roaring:

"_Allez, nom de Dieu, l'américain!_"

I went down the room with B. And Pete, and shook hands with both at thedoor. The other _partis_, alias The Trick Raincoat and The FightingSheeney, were already on the way downstairs. The Black Holster cursed usand me in particular and slammed the door angrily in my face--

Through the little peephole I caught a glimpse of them, entering thestreet. I went to my bed and lay down quietly in my great _pélisse_. Theclamour and filth of the room brightened and became distant and faded. Iheard the voice of the jolly Alsatian saying:

"_Courage, mon ami_, your comrade is not dead; you will see him later, "and after that, nothing. In front of and on and within my eyes livedsuddenly a violent and gentle and dark silence. 

The Three Wise Men had done their work. But wisdom cannot rest.... 

Probably at that very moment they were holding their court in another LaFerté committing to incomparable anguish some few merely perfectlywretched criminals: little and tall, tremulous and brave--all of themwhite and speechless, all of them with tight bluish lips and largewhispering eyes, all of them with fingers weary and mutilated andextraordinarily old ... Desperate fingers; closing, to feel the finalluke-warm fragment of life glide neatly and softly into forgetfulness. 

XIII

I SAY GOOD-BYE TO LA MISÈRE

To convince the reader that this history is mere fiction (and rathervulgarly violent fiction at that) nothing perhaps is needed save thatancient standby of sob-story writers and thrill-artists alike--the HappyEnding. As a matter of fact, it makes not the smallest difference to mewhether anyone who has thus far participated in my travels does or doesnot believe that they and I are (as that mysterious animal, "the public"would say) "real. " I do, however, very strenuously object to theassumption, on the part of anyone, that the heading of this, my final, chapter stands for anything in the nature of happiness. In the course ofrecalling (in God knows a rather clumsy and perfectly inadequate way)what happened to me between the latter part of August, 1917, and thefirst of January, 1918, I have proved to my own satisfaction (if not toanyone else's) that I was happier in La Ferté Macé, with The DelectableMountains about me, than the very keenest words can pretend to express. Idaresay it all comes down to a definition of happiness. And a definitionof happiness I most certainly do not intend to attempt; but I can andwill say this: to leave La Misère with the knowledge, and worse than thatthe feeling, that some of the finest people in the world are doomed toremain prisoners thereof for no one knows how long--are doomed tocontinue, possibly for years and tens of years and all the years whichterribly are between them and their deaths, the grey and indivisibleNon-existence which without apology you are quitting for Reality--cannotby any stretch of the imagination be conceived as constituting a HappyEnding to a great and personal adventure. That I write this chapter atall is due, purely and simply, to the, I daresay, unjustified hope on mypart that--by recording certain events--it may hurl a little additionallight into a very tremendous darkness.... 

At the outset let me state that what occurred subsequent to the departurefor Précigne of B. And Pete and The Sheeneys and Rockyfeller is shroudedin a rather ridiculous indistinctness; due, I have to admit, to thedepression which this departure inflicted upon my altogether too humannature. The judgment of the Three Wise Men had--to use a peculiarlyvigorous (not to say vital) expression of my own day and time--knocked mefor a loop. I spent the days intervening between the separation from"_votre camarade_" and my somewhat supernatural departure for freedom inattempting to partially straighten myself. When finally I made my exit, the part of me popularly referred to as "mind" was still in a slightlybent if not twisted condition. Not until some weeks of American diet hadrevolutionized my exterior did my interior completely resume the contoursof normality. I am particularly neither ashamed nor proud of this (onemight nearly say) mental catastrophe. No more ashamed or proud, in fact, than of the infection of three fingers which I carried to America as alittle token of La Ferté's good-will. In the latter case I certainly haveno right to boast, even should I find myself so inclined; for B. Tookwith him to Précigne a case of what his father, upon B. 's arrival in TheHome of The Brave, diagnosed as scurvy--which scurvy made my mutilationslook like thirty cents or even less. One of my vividest memories of LaFerté consists in a succession of crackling noises associated with thedisrobing of my friend. I recall that we appealed to Monsieur Ree-chardtogether, B. In behalf of his scurvy and I in behalf of my hand plus aqueer little row of sores, the latter having proceeded to adorn that partof my face which was trying hard to be graced with a moustache. I recallthat Monsieur Ree-chard decreed a _bain_ for B. , which _bain_ meantimmersion in a large tin tub partially filled with not quite luke-warmwater. I, on the contrary, obtained a speck of zinc ointment on a minutepiece of cotton, and considered myself peculiarly fortunate. Whichdetails cannot possibly offend the reader's aesthetic sense to a greaterdegree than have already certain minutiae connected with the sanitaryarrangements of The Directeur's little home for homeless boys andgirls--therefore I will not trouble to beg the reader's pardon; but willproceed with my story proper or improper. 

"_Mais qu'est-ce que vous avez_, " Monsieur le Surveillant demanded, in atone of profound if kindly astonishment, as I wended my lonely way to _lasoupe_ some days after the disappearance of _les partis_. 

I stood and stared at him very stupidly without answering, having indeednothing 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 persontrying to persuade a bicycle to climb a hill--"_mais--vous avez de lachance!_"

"I suppose I have, " I said without enthusiasm. 

"_Mais--mais--parfaitement--vous avez de lachance--uh-ah--uh-ah--parceque--comprenez-vous--votre camarade--ah-ah--aattrapé prison!_"

"Uh-ah!" I said wearily. 

"Whereas, " continued Monsieur, "you haven't. You ought to beextraordinarily 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 innothing short of complete amazement. 

I really believe that my condition worried him, incredible as this mayseem. At the time I gave neither an extraordinary nor a particular damnabout Monsieur le Surveillant, nor indeed about "_l'autre américain_"alias myself. Dimly, through a fog of disinterested inapprehension, Irealized 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 MachineMan (with whom I promenaded frequently when no one else felt like takingthe completely unagreeable air) were kind, very kind, kinder than I canpossibly say. As for Afrique and The Cook--there was nothing too good forme at this time. I asked the latter's permission to cut wood, and was notonly accepted as a sawyer, but encouraged with assurances of the bestcoffee there was, with real sugar _dedans_. In the little space outsidethe _cuisine_, between the building and _la cour_, I sawed away of amorning 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 beamof silent iron, pondering very carefully nothing at all, replying totheir questions or responding to their observations in a highlymechanical manner. I felt myself to be, at last, a doll--taken outoccasionally and played with and put back into its house and told to goto 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 littlehorribly 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 thicksoundless Autumn.... It seemed to me supremely beautiful, the snow. Therewas about it something unspeakably crisp and exquisite, something perfectand minute and gentle and fatal.... The Guard Champêtre's cry began apoem 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 along time I returned to my bunk and I lay down, closing my eyes; feelingthe snow's minute and crisp touch falling gently and exquisitely, fallingperfectly and suddenly, through the thick soundless autumn of myimagination.... 

"_L'américain! L'américain!_"

Someone is speaking to me. 

"_Le petit belge avec le bras cassé est là-bas, à la porte, il veutparler.... _"

I marched the length of the room. The Enormous Room is filled with a newand beautiful darkness, the darkness of the snow outside, falling andfalling and falling with the silent and actual gesture which has touchedthe 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'américainque je veux parler avec lui. _"--"_Me voici_" I said. 

"Put your ear to the key-hole, _M'sieu' Jean_, " said the Machine-Fixer'svoice. The voice of the little Machine-Fixer, tremendously excited. Iobey--"_Alors. Qu'est-ce que c'est, mon ami?_"

"_M'sieu' Jean! Le Directeur va vous appeler tout de suite!_ You must getready 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 Ihad talked. It seemed that _la commission_ had decided that I was not acriminal, but only a suspect. As a suspect I would be sent to some placein France, any place I wanted to go, provided it was not on or near thesea coast. That was in order that I should not perhaps try to escape fromFrance. The Machine-Fixer had advised me to ask to go to Oloron SainteMarie. I should say that, as a painter, the Pyrenees particularlyappealed to me. "_Et qu'il fait beau, là-bas!_ The snow on the mountains!And it's not cold. And what mountains! You can live there very cheaply. As a suspect you will merely have to report once a month to the chief ofpolice of Oloron Sainte Marie; he's an old friend of mine! He's a fine, fat, red-cheeked man, very kindly. He will make it easy for you, _M'sieu'Jean_, and will help you out in every way, when you tell him you are afriend of the little Belgian with the broken arm. Tell him I sent you. You will have a very fine time, and you can paint: such scenery to paint!My God--not like what you see from these windows. I advise you by allmeans to ask to go to Oloron. "

So thinking I lathered my face, standing before Judas' mirror. 

"You don't rub enough, " the Alsatian advised, "_il faut frotter bien!_" Anumber of fellow-captives were regarding my toilet with surprise andsatisfaction. I discovered in the mirror an astounding beard and a goodlayer of dirt. I worked busily, counselled by several voices, censured bythe Alsatian, encouraged by Judas himself. The shave and the washcompleted I felt considerably refreshed. 

WHANG!

"_L'américain en bas!_" It was the Black Holster. I carefully adjusted mytunic and obeyed him. 

The Directeur and the Surveillant were in consultation when I entered thelatter's office. Apollyon, seated at a desk, surveyed me very fiercely. His subordinate swayed to and fro, clasping and unclasping his handsbehind his back, and regarded me with an expression of almostbenevolence. The Black Holster guarded the doorway. 

Turning on me ferociously: "Your friend is wicked, very wicked, SAVEZ-VOUS?" Le Directeur shouted. 

I answered quietly: "Oui? Je ne le savait pas. "

"He is a bad fellow, a criminal, a traitor, an insult to civilization, "Apollyon roared into my face. 

"Yes?" I said again. 

"You'd better be careful!" the Directeur shouted. "Do you know what'shappened to your friend?"

"_Sais pas_, " I said. 

"He's gone to prison where he belongs!" Apollyon roared. "Do youunderstand what that means?"

"Perhaps, " I answered, somewhat insolently I fear. 

"You're lucky not to be there with him! Do you understand?" Monsieur LeDirecteur thundered, "and next time pick your friends better, take morecare, I tell you, or you'll go where he is--TO PRISON FOR THE REST OF THEWAR!"

"With my friend I should be well content in prison!" I said evenly, trying to keep looking through him and into the wall behind his black, big, spidery body. 

"In God's Name, what a fool!" the Directeur bellowed furiously--and theSurveillant remarked pacifyingly: "He loves his comrade too much, that'sall. "--"But his comrade is a traitor and a villain!" objected the Fiend, at the top of his harsh voice--"_Comprenez-vous; votre ami est UNSALOP!_" he snarled at me. 

He seems afraid that I don't get his idea, I said to myself. "Iunderstand what you say, " I assured him. 

"And you don't believe it?" he screamed, showing his fangs and otherwiselooking like an exceedingly dangerous maniac. 

"_Je ne le crois fas, Monsieur_. "

"O God's name!" he shouted. "What a fool, _quel idiot_, what a beastlyfool!" And he did something through his froth-covered lips, somethingremotely suggesting laughter. 

Hereupon the Surveillant again intervened. I was mistaken. It waslamentable. I could not be made to understand. Very true. But I had beensent for--"Do you know, you have been decided to be a suspect?" Monsieurle Surveillant turned to me, "and now you may choose where you wish to besent. " Apollyon was blowing and wheezing and muttering ... Clenching hishuge pinkish hands. 

I addressed the Surveillant, ignoring Apollyon. "I should like, if I may, to go to Oloron Sainte Marie. "

"What do you want to go there for?" the Directeur exploded threateningly. 

I explained that I was by profession an artist, and had always wanted toview the Pyrenees. "The environment of Oloron would be most stimulatingto an artist--"

"Do you know it's near Spain?" he snapped, looking straight at me. 

I knew it was, and therefore replied with a carefully childish ignorance:"Spain? Indeed! Very interesting. "

"You want to escape from France, that's it?" the Directeur snarled. 

"Oh, I hardly should say that!" the Surveillant interposed soothingly;"he is an artist, and Oloron is a very pleasant place for an artist. Avery nice place, I hardly think his choice of Oloron a cause forsuspicion. I should think it a very natural desire on his part. "--Hissuperior subsided snarling. 

After a few more questions I signed some papers which lay on the desk, and was told by Apollyon to get out. 

"When can I expect to leave?" I asked the Surveillant. 

"Oh, it's only a matter of days, of weeks perhaps, " he assured mebenignantly. 

"You'll leave when it's proper for you to leave!" Apollyon burst out. "Doyou understand?"

"Yes, indeed. Thank you very much, " I replied with a bow, and exited. Onthe way to The Enormous Room the Black Holster said to me sharply:

"_Vous allez partir?_"

"_Oui. _"

He gave me such a look as would have turned a mahogany piano leg into amound of smoking ashes, and slammed the key into the lock. 

--Everyone gathered about me. "What news?"

"I have asked to go to Oloron as a suspect, " I answered. 

"You should have taken my advice and asked to go to Cannes, " the fatAlsatian reproached me. He had indeed spent a great while advising me;but I trusted the little Machine-Fixer. 

"_Parti?_" Jean le Nègre said with huge eyes, touching me gently. 

"No, no. Later, perhaps; not now, " I assured him. And he patted myshoulder and smiled, "_Bon!_" And we smoked a cigarette in honour of thesnow, of which Jean--in contrast to the majority of _les hommes_--highlyand unutterably approved. "_C'est jolie!_" he would say, laughingwonderfully. And next morning he and I went on an exclusive promenade, Iin my _sabots_, Jean in a new pair of slippers which he had received(after many requests) from the _bureau_. And we strode to and fro in themuddy _cour_ admiring _la neige_, not speaking. 

One day, after the snowfall, I received from Paris a complete set ofShakespeare in the Everyman edition. I had forgotten completely that B. And I--after trying and failing to get William Blake--had ordered andpaid for the better-known William; the ordering and communicating ingeneral being done with the collaboration of Monsieur Pet-airs. It was acurious and interesting feeling which I experienced upon first opening to"As You Like It" ... The volumes had been carefully inspected, I learned, by the _sécrétaire_, in order to eliminate the possibility of theirconcealing something valuable or dangerous. And in this connection let meadd that the _sécrétaire_ or (if not he) his superiors, were a good judgeof what is valuable--if not what is dangerous. I know this because, whereas my family several times sent me socks in every case enclosingcigarettes, I received invariably the former sans the latter. Perhaps itis not fair to suspect the officials of La Ferté of this peculiarly meantheft; I should, possibly, doubt the honesty of that very same Frenchcensor whose intercepting of B. 's correspondence had motivated ourremoval from the Section Sanitaire. Heaven knows I wish (like the ThreeWise Men) to give justice where justice is due. 

Somehow or other, reading Shakespeare did not appeal to my disorderedmind. I tried Hamlet and Julius Caesar once or twice, and gave it up, after telling a man who asked "Shah-kay-spare, who is Shah-kay-spare?"that Mr. S. Was the Homer of the English-speaking peoples--which remark, to my surprise, appeared to convey a very definite idea to the questionerand sent him away perfectly satisfied. Most of the timeless time I spentpromenading in the rain and sleet with Jean le Nègre, or talking withMexique, or exchanging big gifts of silence with The Zulu. For Oloron--Idid not believe in it, and I did not particularly care. If I went away, good; if I stayed, so long as Jean and The Zulu and Mexique were with me, good. "_M'en fou pas mal_, " pretty nearly summed up my philosophy. 

At least the Surveillant let me alone on the Soi-Même topic. After mybrief visit to Satan I wallowed in a perfect luxury of dirt. And no oneobjected. On the contrary everyone (realizing that the enjoyment of dirtmay be made the basis of a fine art) beheld with something likeadmiration my more and more uncouth appearance. Moreover, by beingdirtier than usual I was protesting in a (to me) very satisfactory wayagainst all that was neat and tidy and bigoted and solemn and foundedupon the anguish of my fine friends. And my fine friends, being my finefriends, understood. Simultaneously with my arrival at the summit ofdirtiness--by the calendar, as I guess, December the twenty-first--camethe Black Holster into The Enormous Room and with an excited and angrymien proclaimed loudly:

"_L'américain! Allez chez le Directeur. De suite. _"

I protested mildly that I was dirty. 

"_N'importe. Allez avec moi_, " and down I went to the amazement ofeveryone and the great amazement of myself. "By Jove! wait till he seesme this time, " I remarked half-audibly.... 

The Directeur said nothing when I entered. 

The Directeur extended a piece of paper, which I read. 

The Directeur said, with an attempt at amiability: "_Alors, vous allezsortir. _"

I looked at him in eleven-tenths of amazement. I was standing in thebureau de Monsieur le Directeur du Camp de Triage de la Ferté Macé, Orne, France, and holding in my hand a slip of paper which said that if therewas a man named Edward E. Cummings he should report immediately to theAmerican Embassy, Paris, and I had just heard the words:

"Well, you are going to leave. "

Which words were pronounced in a voice so subdued, so constrained, somild, so altogether ingratiating, that I could not imagine to whom itbelonged. Surely not to the Fiend, to Apollyon, to the Prince of Hell, toSatan, to Monsieur le Directeur du Camp de Triage de la Ferté Macé--

"Get ready. You will leave immediately. "

Then I noticed the Surveillant. Upon his face I saw an almost smile. Hereturned my gaze and remarked:

"_Uh-ah, uh-ah, Oui. _"

"That's all, " the Directeur said. "You will call for your money at the_bureau_ of the Gestionnaire before leaving. "

"Go and get ready, " the Fencer said, and I certainly saw a smile.... 

"I? Am? Going? To? Paris?" somebody who certainly wasn't myself remarkedin a kind of whisper. 

"_Parfaitement. _"--Pettish. Apollyon. But how changed. Who the devil ismyself? Where in Hell am I? What is Paris--a place, a somewhere, a city, life; (to live: infinitive. Present first singular: I live. Thou livest). The Directeur. The Surveillant. La Ferté Macé, Orne, France. "Edward E. Cummings will report immediately. " Edward E. Cummings. The Surveillant. Apiece of yellow paper. The Directeur. A necktie. Paris. Life. _Liberté_. _La liberté_. "_La Liberté!_" I almost shouted in agony. 

"_Dépêchez-vous. Savez-vous, vous allez partir de suite. Cet après-midi. Pour Paris. _"

I turned, I turned so suddenly as almost to bowl over the Black Holster, Black Holster and all; I turned toward the door, I turned upon the BlackHolster, I turned into Edward E. Cummings, I turned into what was deadand is now alive, I turned into a city, I turned into a dream--

I am standing in The Enormous Room for the last time. I am sayinggood-bye. No, it is not I who am saying good-bye. It is in fact somebodyelse, possibly myself. Perhaps myself has shaken hands with a littlecreature with a wizened arm, a little creature in whose eyes tears forsome reason are; with a placid youth (Mexique?) who smiles and saysshakily:

"Good-bye, Johnny; I no for-get you, "

with a crazy old fellow who somehow or other has got inside B. 's tunicand is gesticulating and crying out and laughing; with a frank-eyed boywho claps me on the back and says:

"Good-bye and good luck t'you"

(is he The Young Skipper, by any chance?); with a lot of hungry wretchedbeautiful people--I have given my bed to The Zulu, by Jove! and The Zuluis even now standing guard over it, and his friend The Young Pole hasgiven me the address of "_mon ami_, " and there are tears in The YoungPole's eyes, and I seem to be amazingly tall and altogether tearless--andthis is the nice Norwegian, who got drunk at Bordeaux and stole three (orfour was it?) cans of sardines ... And now I feel before me someone whoalso has tears in his eyes, someone who is in fact crying, someone whom Ifeel to be very strong and young as he hugs me quietly in his firm, alertarms, kissing me on both cheeks and on the lips.... 

"Goo-bye, boy!"

--O good-bye, good-bye, I am going away, Jean; have a good time, laughwonderfully when _la neige_ comes.... 

And I am standing somewhere with arms lifted up. "_Si vous avez unelettre, sais-tu, il faut dire. _ For if I find a letter on you it will gohard with the man that gave it to you to take out. " Black. The BlackHolster even. Does not examine my baggage. Wonder why? "_Allez!_" Jean'sletter to his gonzesse in Paris still safe in my little pocket under mybelt. Ha, ha, by God, that's a good one on you, you Black Holster, youVery Black Holster. That's a good one. Glad I said good-bye to the cook. Why didn't I give Monsieur Auguste's little friend, the _cordonnier_, more than six francs for mending my shoes? He looked so injured. I am afool, and I am going into the street, and I am going by myself with no_planton_ into the little street of the little city of La Ferté Macéwhich is a little, a very little city in France, where once upon a time Iused to catch water for an old man.... 

I have already shaken hands with the Cook, and with the _cordonnier_ whohas beautifully mended my shoes. I am saying good-bye to _les deuxbalayeurs_. I am shaking hands with the little (the very little)Machine-Fixer again. I have again given him a franc and I have givenGaribaldi a franc. We had a drink a moment ago on me. The tavern is justopposite the gare, where there will soon be a train. I will get upon thesoonness of the train and ride into the now of Paris. No, I must changeat a station called Briouse did you say, Good-bye, _mes amis, et bonnechance!_ They disappear, pulling and pushing a cart _les deux balayeurs... De mes couilles ... _ by Jove what a tin noise is coming, see thewooden engineer, he makes a funny gesture utterly composed (composedsilently and entirely) of _merde_. _Merde!_ _Merde. _ A wee tiny absurdwhistle coming from nowhere, from outside of me. Two men opposite. Jolt. A few houses, a fence, a wall, a bit of _neige_ float foolishly by andthrough a window. These gentlemen in my compartment do not seem to knowthat La Misère exists. They are talking politics. Thinking that I don'tunderstand. By Jesus, that's a good one. "Pardon me, gentlemen, but doesone change at the next station for Paris?" Surprised. I thought so. "Yes, Monsieur, the next station. " By Hell I surprised somebody.... 

Who are a million, a trillion, a nonillion young men? All are standing. Iam standing. We are wedged in and on and over and under each other. Sardines. Knew a man once who was arrested for stealing sardines. I, sardine, look at three sardines, at three million sardines, at a carfulof sardines. How did I get here? Oh yes of course. Briouse. Horrible name"Briouse. " Made a bluff at riding _deuxième classe_ on a _troisièmeclasse_ ticket bought for me by _les deux balayeurs_. Gentleman in thecompartment talked French with me till conductor appeared. "Tickets, gentlemen?" I extended mine dumbly. He gave me a look. "How? This isthird class!" I looked intelligently ignorant. "_Il ne comprend pasfrançais_" says the gentleman. "Ah!" says the conductor, "tease easeeye-ee thoorde claz tea-keat. You air een tea say-coend claz. You weel goean-too tea thoorde claz weal you yes pleace at once?" So I got stungafter all. Third is more amusing certainly, though god-damn hot withthese sardines, including myself of course. O yes of course. _Poilus enpermission. _ Very old some. Others mere kids. Once saw a _planton_ whonever saw a razor. Yet he was _reformé. C'est la guerre. _ Several of usget off and stretch at a little tank-town-station. Engine thumping upfront somewhere in the darkness. Wait. They get their _bidons_ filled. Wish I had a _bidon_, a _dis-donc bidon n'est-ce pas. Faut pas t'enfaire_, who sang or said that?

PEE-p.... 

We're off. 

I am almost asleep. Or myself. What's the matter here? Sardines writhingabout, cut it out, no room for that sort of thing. Jolt. 

"Paris. "

Morning. Morning in Paris. I found my bed full of fleas this morning, andI couldn't catch the fleas, though I tried hard because I was ashamedthat anyone should find fleas in my bed which is at the Hotel des SaintsPères whither I went in a fiacre and the driver didn't know where it was. Wonderful. This is the American embassy. I must look funny in my_pélisse_. Thank God for the breakfast I ate somewhere ... Good-lookinggirl, Parisienne, at the switch-board upstairs. "Go right in, sir. " A-IEnglish by God. So this is the person to whom Edward E. Cummings isimmediately to report. 

"Is this Mr. Cummings?"

"Yes. " Rather a young man, very young in fact. Jove I must look queer. 

"Sit down! We've been looking all over creation for you. "

"Yes?"

"Have some cigarettes?"

"Yes. "

By God he gives me a sac of Bull. Extravagant they are at the AmericanEmbassy. Can I roll one? I can. I do. 

Conversation. Pleased to see me. Thought I was lost for good. Tried everymeans to locate me. Just discovered where I was. What was it like? No, really? You don't mean it! Well I'll be damned! Look here; this man B. , what sort of a fellow is he? Well I'm interested to hear you say that. Look at this correspondence. It seemed to me that a fellow who couldwrite like that wasn't dangerous. Must be a little queer. Tell me, isn'the a trifle foolish? That's what I thought. Now I'd advise you to leaveFrance as soon as you can. They're picking up ambulance men left andright, men who've got no business to be in Paris. Do you want to leave bythe next boat? I'd advise it. Good. Got money? If you haven't we'll payyour fare. Or half of it. Plenty, eh? Norton-Harjes, I see. Mind goingsecond class? Good. Not much difference on this line. Now you can takethese papers and go to.... No time to lose, as she sails to-morrow. That's it. Grab a taxi, and hustle. When you've got those signaturesbring them to me and I'll fix you all up. Get your ticket first, here's aletter to the manager of the Compagnie Générale. Then go through thepolice department. You can do it if you hurry. See you later. Make itquick, eh? Good-bye!

The streets. _Les rues de Paris. _ I walked past Notre Dame. I boughttobacco. Jews are peddling things with American trade-marks on them, because in a day or two it's Christmas I suppose. Jesus it is cold. Dirtysnow. Huddling people. _La guerre. _ Always _la guerre_. And chill. Goesthrough these big mittens. To-morrow I shall be on the ocean. Pretty neatthe way that passport was put through. Rode all day in a taxi, twocylinders, running on one. Everywhere waiting lines. I stepped to thehead and was attended to by the officials of the great and good FrenchGovernment. Gad that's a good one. A good one on _le gouvernementfrançais_. Pretty good. _Les rues sont tristes. _ Perhaps there's noChristmas, perhaps the French Government has forbidden Christmas. Clerkat Norton-Harjes seemed astonished to see me. O God it is cold in Paris. Everyone looks hard under lamplight, because it's winter I suppose. Everyone hurried. Everyone hard. Everyone cold. Everyone huddling. Everyone alive; alive: alive. 

Shall I give this man five francs for dressing my hand? He said "anythingyou like, monsieur. " Ship's doctor's probably well-paid. Probably not. Better hurry before I put my lunch. Awe-inspiring stink, because it's inthe bow. Little member of the crew immersing his guess-what in a can ofsome liquid or other, groaning from time to time, staggers when the boattilts. "_Merci bien, Monsieur!_" That was the proper thing. Now forthe--never can reach it--here's the _première classe_ one--any port in astorm.... Feel better now. Narrowly missed American officer but justmanaged to make it. Was it yesterday or day before saw the Vaterland, Imean the what deuce is it--the biggest afloat in the world boat. Damnedrough. Snow falling. Almost slid through the railing that time. Snow. Thesnow is falling into the sea; which quietly receives it: into which itutterly and peacefully disappears. Man with a college degree returningfrom Spain, not disagreeable sort, talks Spanish with that fat man who'san Argentinian. --Tinian?--Tinish, perhaps. All the same. In other wordsTin. Nobody at the table knows I speak English or am American. Hell, that's a good one on nobody. That's a pretty fat kind of a joke onnobody. Think I'm French. Talk mostly with those three or four Frenchmengoing on permission to somewhere via New York. One has an accordion. Likesecond class. Wait till you see the _gratte-ciels_, I tell 'em. They say"_Oui?_" and don't believe. I'll show them. America. The land of the fleaand the home of the dag'--short for dago of course. My spirits areconstantly improving. Funny Christmas, second day out. Wonder if we'lldock New Year's Day. My God what a list to starboard. They say a waiterbroke his arm when it happened, ballast shifted. Don't believe it. Something wrong. I know I nearly fell downstairs.... 

My God what an ugly island. Hope we don't stay here long. All thered-bloods first-class much excited about land. Damned ugly, I think. 

Hullo. 

The tall, impossibly tall, incomparably tall, city shoulderingly upwardinto hard sunlight leaned a little through the octaves of its paralleledges, leaningly strode upward into firm hard snowy sunlight; the noisesof America nearingly throbbed with smokes and hurrying dots which are menand which are women and which are things new and curious and hard andstrange and vibrant and immense, lifting with a great ondulous stridefirmly into immortal sunlight....