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 at
me which I should have to catch, and was accordingly somewhat relieved
at the true state of affairs. On re-entering the _salle à manger_ I was
greeted by many cries and wavings, and looking in their direction
perceived everybody uproariously seated at wooden benches which were
placed on either side of an enormous wooden table. There was a tiny gap
on one bench where a place had been saved for me by B., with the
assistance of Monsieur Auguste, Count Bragard, Harree and several other
fellow-convicts. In a moment I had straddled the bench and was
occupying the gap, spoon and cup in hand, and ready for anything.
The din was perfectly terrific. It had a minutely large quality. Here
and there, in a kind of sonal darkness, solid sincere unintelligible
absurd wisps of profanity heavily flickered. Optically the phenomenon
was equally 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 the roar bulged unbearably. The roguish man, followed by the
_chef_ himself, entered with a suffering waddle, each of them bearing a
huge bowl of steaming something. At least six people immediately rose,
gesturing and imploring: “_Ici_”—“_Mais non, ici_”—“_Mettez par ici_”—
The bearers plumped their burdens carefully down, one at the head of
the table and one in the middle. The men opposite the bowls stood up.
Every man seized the empty plate in front of him and shoved it into his
neighbour’s hand; the plates moved toward the bowls, were filled amid
uncouth protestations and accusations—“_Mettez plus que ça_”—“_C’est
pas juste, alors_”—“_Donnez-moi encore de pommes_”—“_Nom de Dieu, il
n’y a pas assez_”—“_Cochon, qu’est-ce qu’il veut?_”—“Shut
up”—“_Gott-ver-dummer_”—and returned one by one. As each man received
his own, he fell upon it with a sudden guzzle.
Eventually, in front of me, solemnly sat a faintly-smoking
urine-coloured circular broth, in which soggily hung half-suspended
slabs of raw potato. Following the example of my neighbours, I too
addressed myself to _La Soupe_. I found her luke-warm, completely
flavourless. I examined the hunk of bread. It was almost bluish in
colour; in taste mouldy, slightly sour. “If you crumb some into the
soup,” remarked B., who had been studying my reactions from the corner
of his eye, “they both taste better.” I tried the experiment. It was a
complete success. At least one felt as if one were getting nourishment.
Between gulps I smelled the bread furtively. It smelled rather much
like an old attic in which kites and other toys gradually are forgotten
in a gentle darkness.
B. and I were finishing our soup together when behind and somewhat to
the left there came the noise of a lock being manipulated. I turned and
saw in one corner of the _salle à manger_ a little door, shaking
mysteriously. Finally it was thrown open, revealing a sort of minute
bar and a little closet filled with what appeared to be groceries and
tobacco; and behind the bar, standing in the closet, a husky,
competent-looking lady. “It’s the canteen,” B. said. We rose, spoon in
hand 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 I
should see the Gestionnaire and make arrangements for drawing on the
supply of ready cash which the _gendarmes_ who took me from Gré had
confided to The Surveillant’s care; eventually I could also draw on my
account with Norton-Harjes in Paris; meantime he had _quelques sous_
which might well go into chocolate and cigarettes. The large lady had a
pleasant quietness about her, a sort of simplicity, which made me
extremely desirous of complying with B.’s suggestion. Incidentally I
was feeling somewhat uncertain in the region of the stomach, due to the
unique quality of the lunch which I had just enjoyed, and I brightened
at the thought of anything as solid as chocolate. Accordingly we
purchased (or rather B. did) a _paquet jaune_ and a cake of something
which was not Meunier. And the remaining _sous_ we squandered on a
glass apiece of red acrid _pinard_, gravely and with great happiness
pledging the hostess of the occasion and then each other.
With the exception of ourselves hardly anyone patronized the canteen,
noting which I felt somewhat conspicuous. When, however, Harree Pompom
and John the Bathman came rushing up and demanded cigarettes my fears
were dispelled. Moreover the _pinard_ was excellent.
“Come on! Arrange yourselves!” the bull-neck cried hoarsely as the five
of us were lighting up; and we joined the line of fellow-prisoners with
their breads and spoons, gaping, belching, trumpeting fraternally, by
the doorway.
“_Tout le monde en haut!_” this _planton_ roared.
Slowly we filed through the tiny hall, past the stairs (empty now of
their Napoleonic burden), down the corridor, up the creaking gnarled
damp flights, and (after the inevitable pause in which the escort
rattled chains 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 the four o’clock soup) I am quite at a loss to say. Whether
it was that glass of _pinard_ (plus, or rather times, the astonishing
exhaustion bequeathed me by my journey of the day before) which caused
me to enter temporarily the gates of forgetfulness, or whether the
sheer excitement attendant upon my ultra-novel surroundings proved too
much for an indispensable part of my so-called mind—I do not in the
least know. I am fairly certain that I went on afternoon promenade.
After which I must surely have mounted to await my supper in The
Enormous Room. Whence (after the due and proper interval) I doubtless
descended to the clutches of _La Soupe Extraordinaire_… yes, for I
perfectly recall the cry which made me suddenly to re-enter the
dimension of distinctness … and by Jove I had 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 spoons
and bread, through the dining-room door. Turning right we were emitted,
by the door opposite the kitchen, from the building itself into the
open air. A few steps and we passed through the little gate in the
barbed wire fence of the _cour_.
Greatly refreshed by my second introduction to the canteen, and with
the digestion of the somewhat extraordinary evening meal apparently
assured, I gazed almost intelligently around me. Count Bragard had
declined the evening promenade in favour of The Enormous Room, but I
perceived in the crowd the now familiar faces of the three
Hollanders—John, Harree and Pompom—likewise of The Bear, Monsieur
Auguste, and Fritz. In the course of the next hour I had become, if not
personally, at least optically acquainted with nearly a dozen others.
Somewhat overawed by the animals Harree and Pompom (but nevertheless
managing to overawe a goodly portion of his fellow-captives) an
extraordinary human being paced the _cour_. On gazing for the first
time directly at him I experienced a feeling of nausea. A figure
inclined to corpulence, dressed with care, remarkable only above the
neck—and then what a head! It was large, and had a copious mop of limp
hair combed back from the high forehead—hair of a disagreeable blond
tint, dutch-cut behind, falling over the pinkish soft neck almost to
the shoulders. In this pianist’s or artist’s hair, which shook en masse
when the owner walked, two large and outstanding and altogether brutal
white ears tried to hide themselves. The face, a cross between classic
Greek and Jew, had a Reynard expression, something distinctly wily and
perfectly disagreeable. An equally with the hair blond moustache—or
rather mustachios projectingly important—waved beneath the prominent
nostrils, and served to partially conceal the pallid mouth, weak and
large, whose lips assumed from time to time a smile which had something
almost foetal about it. Over the even weaker chin was disposed a blond
goatee. The cheeks were fatty. The continually perspiring forehead
exhibited innumerable pinkish pock-marks. In conversing with a
companion this being emitted a disgusting smoothness, his very gestures
were oily like his skin. He wore a pair of bloated wristless hands, the
knuckles lost in fat, with which he smoothed the air from time to time.
He was speaking low and effortless French, completely absorbed in the
developing ideas which issued fluently from his mustachios. About him
there clung an aura of cringing. His hair whiskers and neck looked as
if they were trick neck whiskers 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 tallish
effeminate person whose immaculate funereal suit hung loosely upon an
aged and hurrying anatomy. He wore a big black cap on top of his
haggard and remarkably clean-shaven face, the most prominent feature of
which was a red nose, which sniffed a little now and then as if its
owner was suffering from a severe cold. This person emanated age,
neatness and despair. Aside from the nose which compelled immediate
attention, his face consisted of a few large planes loosely juxtaposed
and registering pathos. His motions were without grace. He had a
certain refinement. He could not have been more than forty-five. There
was worry on every inch of him. Possibly he thought that he might die.
B. said “He’s a Belgian, a friend of Count Bragard, his name is
Monsieur Pet-airs.” From time to time Monsieur Pet-airs remarked
something delicately and pettishly in a gentle and weak voice. His
adam’s-apple, at such moments, jumped about in a longish slack wrinkled
skinny neck which was like the neck of a turkey. To this turkey the
approach of Thanksgiving inspired dread. From time to time M. Pet-airs
looked about him sidewise as if he expected to see a hatchet. His hands
were claws, kind, awkward and nervous. They twitched. The bony and
wrinkled things looked as if they would like to close quickly 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 figure was clothed in a remarkably picturesque manner: it wore a
dark sombrero-like hat with a large drooping brim, a bright red gipsy
shirt of some remarkably fine material with huge sleeves loosely
falling, and baggy corduroy trousers whence escaped two brown, shapely,
naked feet. On moving a little I discovered a face—perhaps the
handsomest face that I have ever seen, of a gold brown color, framed in
an amazingly large and beautiful black beard. The features were finely
formed and almost fluent, the eyes soft and extraordinarily sensitive,
the mouth delicate and firm beneath a black moustache which fused with
the silky and wonderful darkness falling upon the breast. The face
contained a beauty and dignity which, as I first saw it, annihilated
the surrounding tumult without an effort. Around the carefully formed
nostrils there was something almost of contempt. The cheeks had known
suns of which I might not think. The feet had travelled nakedly in
countries not easily imagined. Seated gravely in the mud and noise of
the _cour_, under the pitiful and scraggly _pommier_… behind the eyes
lived a world of complete strangeness and silence. The composure of the
body was graceful and Jovelike. This being might have been a prophet
come out of a country nearer to the sun. Perhaps a god who had lost his
road and allowed himself to be taken prisoner by _le gouvernement
français_. At least a prince of a dark and desirable country, a king
over a gold-skinned people who would return when he wished to his
fountains and his houris. I learned upon inquiry that he travelled in
various countries with a horse and cart and his wife and children,
selling bright colours to the women and men of these countries. As it
turned out, he was one of the Delectable Mountains; to discover which I
had come a long and difficult way. Wherefore I shall tell you no more
about him for the present, except that his name was Joseph Demestre.
We called him The Wanderer.
I was still wondering at my good luck in occupying the same miserable
yard with this exquisite personage when a hoarse, rather thick voice
shouted 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 unutterably
hated. It was the _planton_ into whom I had had the distinguished
honour of 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:
“_Le nouveau_.”
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
will keep it for you, and give you an allowance twice a week. You can’t
draw more 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 the
barbed wire fence and into the building, at which point he commanded
“Proceed.”