“_N’importe. Allez avec moi_,” and down I went to the amazement of
everyone and the great amazement of myself. “By Jove! wait till he sees
me 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 allez
sortir._”
I looked at him in eleven-tenths of amazement. I was standing in the
bureau 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
there was a man named Edward E. Cummings he should report immediately
to the American 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, so
mild, so altogether ingratiating, that I could not imagine to whom it
belonged. Surely not to the Fiend, to Apollyon, to the Prince of Hell,
to Satan, 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. He
returned 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
remarked in a kind of whisper.
“_Parfaitement._”—Pettish. Apollyon. But how changed. Who the devil is
myself? 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. A piece 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 Black Holster, I turned into Edward E. Cummings, I turned into what
was dead and 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 saying
good-bye. No, it is not I who am saying good-bye. It is in fact
somebody else, possibly myself. Perhaps myself has shaken hands with a
little creature with a wizened arm, a little creature in whose eyes
tears for some reason are; with a placid youth (Mexique?) who smiles
and says shakily:
“Good-bye, Johnny; I no for-get you,”
with a crazy old fellow who somehow or other has got inside B.’s tunic
and is gesticulating and crying out and laughing; with a frank-eyed boy
who 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
wretched beautiful people—I have given my bed to The Zulu, by Jove! and
The Zulu is even now standing guard over it, and his friend The Young
Pole has given me the address of “_mon ami_,” and there are tears in
The Young Pole’s eyes, and I seem to be amazingly tall and altogether
tearless—and this is the nice Norwegian, who got drunk at Bordeaux and
stole three (or four was it?) cans of sardines … and now I feel before
me someone who also has tears in his eyes, someone who is in fact
crying, someone whom I feel to be very strong and young as he hugs me
quietly in his firm, alert arms, 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, laugh
wonderfully when _la neige_ comes….
And I am standing somewhere with arms lifted up. “_Si vous avez une
lettre, sais-tu, il faut dire._ For if I find a letter on you it will
go hard with the man that gave it to you to take out.” Black. The Black
Holster even. Does not examine my baggage. Wonder why? “_Allez!_”
Jean’s letter to his _gonzesse_ in Paris still safe in my little pocket
under my belt. Ha, ha, by God, that’s a good one on you, you Black
Holster, you Very 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 a fool, 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 Macé which is a little, a very little city in
France, where once upon a time I used to catch water for an old man….
I have already shaken hands with the Cook, and with the _cordonnier_
who has beautifully mended my shoes. I am saying good-bye to _les deux
balayeurs_. I am shaking hands with the little (the very little)
Machine-Fixer again. I have again given him a franc and I have given
Garibaldi a franc. We had a drink a moment ago on me. The tavern is
just opposite the gare, where there will soon be a train. I will get
upon the soonness of the train and ride into the now of Paris. No, I
must change at a station called Briouse did you say, Good-bye, _mes
amis, et bonne chance!_ They disappear, pulling and pushing a cart _les
deux balayeurs … de mes couilles …_ by Jove what a tin noise is coming,
see the wooden engineer, he makes a funny gesture utterly composed
(composed silently and entirely) of _merde_. _Merde!_ _Merde._ A wee
tiny absurd whistle 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 and through a window. These gentlemen in my compartment do
not seem to know that La Misère exists. They are talking politics.
Thinking that I don’t understand. By Jesus, that’s a good one. “Pardon
me, gentlemen, but does one 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.
I am 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 carful
of sardines. How did I get here? Oh yes of course. Briouse. Horrible
name “Briouse.” Made a bluff at riding _deuxième classe_ on a
_troisième classe_ ticket bought for me by _les deux balayeurs_.
Gentleman in the compartment talked French with me till conductor
appeared. “Tickets, gentlemen?” I extended mine dumbly. He gave me a
look. “How? This is third class!” I looked intelligently ignorant. “_Il
ne comprend pas français_” says the gentleman. “Ah!” says the
conductor, “tease ease eye-ee thoorde claz tea-keat. You air een tea
say-coend claz. You weel go ean-too tea thoorde claz weal you yes
pleace at once?” So I got stung after all. Third is more amusing
certainly, though god-damn hot with these sardines, including myself of
course. O yes of course. _Poilus en permission._ Very old some. Others
mere kids. Once saw a _planton_ who never saw a razor. Yet he was
_réformé. C’est la guerre._ Several of us get off and stretch at a
little tank-town-station. Engine thumping up front 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’en faire_, who sang or said
that?
PEE-p….
We’re off.
I am almost asleep. Or myself. What’s the matter here? Sardines
writhing about, 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,
and I couldn’t catch the fleas, though I tried hard because I was
ashamed that anyone should find fleas in my bed which is at the Hotel
des Saints Pères 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 _pelisse_. Thank God for the breakfast I ate somewhere …
good-looking girl, Parisienne, at the switch-board upstairs. “Go right
in, sir.” A1 English by God. So this is the person to whom Edward E.
Cummings is immediately 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 American
Embassy. Can I roll one? I can. I do.
Conversation. Pleased to see me. Thought I was lost for good. Tried
every means 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 could write like that wasn’t dangerous. Must be a little
queer. Tell me, isn’t he a trifle foolish? That’s what I thought. Now
I’d advise you to leave France as soon as you can. They’re picking up
ambulance men left and right, men who’ve got no business to be in
Paris. Do you want to leave by the next boat? I’d advise it. Good. Got
money? If you haven’t we’ll pay your fare. Or half of it. Plenty, eh?
Norton-Harjes, I see. Mind going second class? Good. Not much
difference on this line. Now you can take these 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 signatures bring them to me and I’ll fix
you all up. Get your ticket first, here’s a letter to the manager of
the Compagnie Générale. Then go through the police department. You can
do it if you hurry. See you later. Make it quick, eh? Good-bye!
The streets. _Les rues de Paris._ I walked past Notre Dame. I bought
tobacco. 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.
Dirty snow. Huddling people. _La guerre._ Always _la guerre_. And
chill. Goes through these big mittens. To-morrow I shall be on the
ocean. Pretty neat the way that passport was put through. Rode all day
in a taxi, two cylinders, running on one. Everywhere waiting lines. I
stepped to the head and was attended to by the officials of the great
and good French Government. Gad that’s a good one. A good one on _le
gouvernement français_. Pretty good. _Les rues sont tristes._ Perhaps
there’s no Christmas, perhaps the French Government has forbidden
Christmas. Clerk at 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
“anything you like, monsieur.” Ship’s doctor’s probably well-paid.
Probably not. Better hurry before I put my lunch. Awe-inspiring stink,
because it’s in the bow. Little member of the crew immersing his
guess-what in a can of some liquid or other, groaning from time to
time, staggers when the boat tilts. “_Merci bien, Monsieur!_” That was
the proper thing. Now for the—never can reach it—here’s the _première
classe_ one—any port in a storm…. Feel better now. Narrowly missed
American officer but just managed to make it. Was it yesterday or day
before saw the Vaterland, I mean the what deuce is it—the biggest
afloat in the world boat. Damned rough. Snow falling. Almost slid
through the railing that time. Snow. The snow is falling into the sea;
which quietly receives it: into which it utterly and peacefully
disappears. Man with a college degree returning from Spain, not
disagreeable sort, talks Spanish with that fat man who’s an
Argentinian.—Tinian?—Tinish, perhaps. All the same. In other words Tin.
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 on nobody.
Think I’m French. Talk mostly with those three or four Frenchmen going
on permission to somewhere via New York. One has an accordion. Like
second class. Wait till you see the _gratte-ciel_, I tell ’em. They say
“_Oui?_” and don’t believe. I’ll show them. America. The land of the
flea and the home of the dag’—short for dago of course. My spirits are
constantly improving. Funny Christmas, second day out. Wonder if we’ll
dock New Year’s Day. My God what a list to starboard. They say a waiter
broke 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 the
red-bloods first-class much excited about land. Damned ugly, I think.
Hullo.
The tall, impossibly tall, incomparably tall, city shoulderingly upward
into hard sunlight leaned a little through the octaves of its parallel
edges, leaningly strode upward into firm hard snowy sunlight; the
noises of America nearingly throbbed with smokes and hurrying dots
which are men and which are women and which are things new and curious
and hard and strange and vibrant and immense, lifting with a great
ondulous stride firmly into immortal sunlight….