The Enormous Room · Chapter 7 (1/5)

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 upon the outside of La Dimanche. We may now⁠—Nature’s morbid grace being a topic whereof the reader has already heard much and will necessarily hear more⁠—turn to the “much pleasanter,” the in fact “Monday,” aspect of La Ferté; by which I mean les nouveaux whose arrivals and reactions constituted the actual kinetic aspect of our otherwise merely real Nonexistence. So let us tighten our belts, (everyone used to tighten his belt at least twice a day at La Ferté, but for another reason⁠—to follow and keep track of his surely shrinking anatomy) seize our staffs into our hands, and continue the ascent begun with the first pages of the story.

One day I found myself expecting La Soupe Number 1 with something like avidity. My appetite faded, however, upon perceiving a vision en route to the empty place at my left. It slightly resembled a tall youth not more than sixteen or seventeen years old, having flaxen hair, a face whose whiteness I have never seen equalled, and an expression of intense starvation which might have been well enough in a human being but was somewhat unnecessarily uncanny in a ghost. The ghost, floating and slenderly, made for the place beside me, seated himself suddenly and gently like a morsel of white wind, and regarded the wall before him. La soupe arrived. He obtained a plate (after some protest on the part of certain members of our table to whom the advent of a newcomer meant only that everyone would get less for lunch), and after gazing at his portion for a second in apparent wonderment at its size caused it gently and suddenly to disappear. I was no sluggard as a rule, but found myself outclassed by minutes⁠—which, said I to myself, is not to be worried over since ’tis sheer vanity to compete with the supernatural. But (even as I lugged the last spoonful of lukewarm greasy water to my lips) this ghost turned to me for all the world as if I too were a ghost, and remarked softly:

“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 sum cheerfully⁠—which sum disappeared, the ghost arose slenderly and soundlessly, 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 in Harree, John o’ the Bathhouse and the other Hollanders. In three days Pete discarded the immateriality which had constituted the exquisite definiteness of his advent, and donned the garb of flesh-and-blood. This change was due equally to La Soupe and the canteen, and to the finding of friends. For Pete had been in solitary confinement for three months and had had nothing to eat but bread and water during that time, having been told by the jailors (as he informed us, without a trace of bitterness) that they would shorten his sentence provided he did not partake of La Soupe during his incarceration⁠—that is to say, le gouvernement français had a little joke at Pete’s expense. Also he had known nobody during that time but the five fingers which deposited said bread and water with conscientious regularity on the ground beside him. Being a Hollander neither of these things killed him⁠—on the contrary, he merely turned into a ghost, thereby fooling the excellent French Government within an inch of its foolable life. He was a very excellent friend of ours⁠—I refer as usual to B. and myself⁠—and from the day of his arrival until the day of his departure to Précigne along with B. and three others I never ceased to like and to admire him. He was naturally sensitive, extremely the antithesis of coarse (which “refined” somehow does 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 its owner’s trousers had become too big around the waist⁠—altogether not so extraordinary as was the fact that, after being physically transformed as I have never seen a human being transformed by food and friends, Pete thought 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 been introduced to us by a man we called One Eyed David, who was married and had a wife downstairs, with which wife he was allowed to live all day⁠—being conducted to and from her society by a planton. He spoke Spanish well and French passably; had black hair, bright Jewish eyes, a dead-fish expression, and a both amiable and courteous disposition. One Eyed Dah-veed (as it was pronounced of course) had been in prison at Noyon during the German occupation, which he described fully and without hyperbole⁠—stating that no one could have been more considerate or just than the commander of the invading troops. Dah-veed had seen with his own eyes a French girl extend an apple to one of the common soldiers as the German army entered the outskirts of the city: “ ‘Take it,’ she said, ‘you are tired.’⁠—‘Madame,’ answered the German soldier in French, ‘thank you’⁠—and he looked in his pocket and found ten cents. ‘No, no,’ the young girl said. ‘I don’t want any money. I give it to you with good will.’⁠—‘Pardon, madame,’ said the soldier, ‘you must know that a German soldier is forbidden to take anything without paying for it.’ ”⁠—And before that, One Eyed Dah-veed had talked at Noyon with a barber whose brother was an aviator with the French Army: “ ‘My brother,’ the barber said to me, ‘told me a beautiful story the other day. He was flying over the lines, and he was amazed, one day, to see that the French guns were not firing on the boches but on the French themselves. He landed precipitously, sprang from his machine and ran to the office of the general. He saluted, and cried in great excitement: “General, you are firing on the French!” The general regarded him without interest, without budging; then, he said, very simply: “They have begun, they must finish.” ’ Which is why perhaps,” said One Eyed Dah-veed, looking two ways 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, apropos a pot of hot tea which Dah-veed’s wife had given him to take upstairs, it being damnably damp and cold (as usual) in The Enormous Room. Dah-veed, cautiously and in a low voice, invited us to his mattress to enjoy this extraordinary pleasure; and we accepted, B. and I, with huge joy; and sitting on Dah-veed’s paillasse we found somebody who turned out to be Mexique⁠—to whom, by his right name, our host introduced us with all the poise and courtesy vulgarly associated with a French salon.

For Mexique I cherish and always will cherish unmitigated affection. He was perhaps nineteen years old, very chubby, extremely good-natured; and possessed of an unruffled disposition which extended to the most violent and obvious discomforts a subtle and placid illumination. He spoke beautiful Spanish, had been born in Mexico, and was really called Philippe Burgos. He had been in New York. He criticised someone for saying “Yes” to us, one day, stating that no American said “Yes” but “Yuh”; which⁠—whatever the reader may think⁠—is to my mind a very profound observation. In New York he had worked nights as a fireman in some big building or other and slept days, and this method of seeing America he had enjoyed extremely. Mexique had one day taken ship (being curious to see the world) and worked as chauffeur⁠—that is to say in the stokehole. He had landed in, I think, Havre; had missed his ship; had inquired 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 de suite⁠—had boarded a train in the company of two or three kind gendarmes, ridden a prodigious distance, got off the train finally with high hopes, walked a little distance, come in sight of the grey perspiring wall of La Ferté, and⁠—“So, I ask one of them: ‘Where is the Ship?’ He point to here and tell me, ‘There is the ship.’ I say: ‘This is a God Dam Funny Ship’ ”⁠—quoth Mexique, laughing.

Mexique played dominoes with us (B. having devised a set from cardboard), strolled The Enormous Room with us, telling of his father and brother in Mexico, of the people, of the customs; and⁠—when we were in the cour⁠—wrote the entire conjugation of tengo in the deep mud with a little stick, squatting and chuckling and explaining. He and his brother had both participated in the revolution which made Carranza president. His description of which affair was utterly delightful.

“Every-body run a‑round with guns,” Mexique said. “And by-and-by no see to shoot everybody, so everybody go home.” We asked if he had shot anybody himself. “Sure. I shoot everybody I do’no” Mexique answered laughing. “I t’ink every-body no hit me,” he added, regarding his stocky person with great and quiet amusement. When we asked him once what he thought about the war, he replied, “I t’ink lotta bull⁠—,” which, upon copious reflection, I decided absolutely expressed my own point of view.

Mexique was generous, incapable of either stupidity or despondency, and mannered as a gentleman is supposed to be. Upon his arrival he wrote almost immediately to the Mexican (or is it Spanish?) consul⁠—“He know my fader in Mexico”⁠—stating in perfect and unambiguous Spanish the facts leading to his arrest; and when I said goodbye to La Misère Mexique was expecting a favorable reply at any moment, as indeed he had been cheerfully expecting for some time. If he reads this history I hope he will not be too angry with me for whatever injustice it does to one of the altogether pleasantest companions I have ever had. My notebooks, one in particular, are covered with conjugations which bear witness to Mexique’s ineffable good-nature. I also have a somewhat superficial portrait of his back sitting on a bench by the stove. I wish I had another of Mexique out in le jardin with a man who worked there who was a Spaniard, and whom the Surveillant had considerately allowed Mexique to assist; with the perfectly correct idea that it would be pleasant for Mexique 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 to see my very good friend sitting with his hands in his pockets by the stove with Bill the Hollander beside him. And I hope it was not many days after my departure that Mexique went free. Somehow I feel that he went free⁠ ⁠… and if I am right, I will only say about Mexique’s freedom what I have heard him slowly and placidly say many times concerning not only the troubles which were common property to us all but his own peculiar troubles as well.

“That’s fine.”

Here let me introduce the Guard Champêtre, whose name I have already taken more or less in vain. A little, sharp, hungry-looking person who, subsequent to being a member of a rural police force (of which membership he seemed rather proud), had served his patrie⁠—otherwise known as La Belgique⁠—in the capacity of motorcyclist. As he carried dispatches from one end of the line to the other his disagreeably big eyes had absorbed certain peculiarly inspiring details of civilised warfare. He had, at one time, seen a bridge hastily constructed by les alliés over the Yser River, the cadavers of the faithful and the enemy alike being thrown in helter-skelter to make a much needed foundation for the timbers. This little procedure had considerably outraged the Guard Champêtre’s sense of decency. The Yser, said he, flowed perfectly red for a long time. “We were all together: Belgians, French, English⁠ ⁠… we Belgians did not see any good reason for continuing the battle. But we continued. O indeed we continued. 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 French machine guns, always the French machine guns, mon vieux.”

“Je ne comprends pas bien” I said in confusion, recalling all the highfalutin rigmarole which Americans believed⁠—(little martyred Belgium protected by the allies from the inroads of the aggressor, etc.)⁠—“why should the French put machine guns behind you?”

The Guard Champêtre lifted his big empty eyes nervously. The vast hollows in which they lived darkened. His little rather hard face trembled within itself. I thought for a second he was going to throw a fit at my feet⁠—instead of doing which he replied pettishly, in a sunken bright whisper:

“To keep us going forward. At times a company would drop its guns and turn to run. Pupupupupupupupup⁠ ⁠…” his short unlovely arms described gently the swinging of a mitrailleuse⁠ ⁠… “finish. The Belgian soldiers to left and right of them took the hint. If they did not⁠—pupupupupupup.⁠ ⁠… O we went forward. Yes. Vive le patriotisme.”

And he rose with a gesture which seemed to brush away these painful trifles from his memory, crossed the end of the room with short rapid steps, and began talking to his best friend Judas, who was at that moment engaged in training his wobbly mustachios.⁠ ⁠… Toward the close of my visit to La Ferté the Guard Champêtre was really happy for a period of two days⁠—during which time he moved in the society of a rich, intelligent, mistakenly arrested and completely disagreeable youth in bone spectacles, copious hair and spiral putees, whom B. and I partially contented ourselves by naming Jo Jo The Lion Faced Boy. Had the charges against Jo Jo been stronger my tale would have been longer⁠—fortunately for tout le monde they had no basis; and back went Jo Jo to his native Paris, leaving the Guard Champêtre with Judas and attacks of only occasionally interesting despair.

The reader may suppose that it is about time another Delectable Mountain appeared upon his horizon. Let him keep his eyes wide open, for here one comes.⁠ ⁠…