The Enormous Room

by E. E. Cummings

At the first sound of the door the two Sheeneys had fled, and were now playing the part of innocent spectators. Jean alone occupied the stage. His lips were parted. His eyes were enormous. He was panting as if his heart would break. He still kept his arms raised as if seeing everywhere before him fresh enemies. Blood spotted here and there the wonderful chocolate 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 the Surveillant, who could make nothing out of their accounts and therefore called aside a trusted older man in order to get his version. The two retired from the room. The plantons, finding the expected wolf a lamb, flourished their revolvers about Jean and threatened him in the insignificant and vile language which plantons use to anyone whom they can bully. Jean kept repeating dully “laissez-moi tranquille. Ils voulaient me tuer.” His chest shook terribly with vast sobs.

Now the Surveillant returned and made a speech, to the effect that he had received independently of each other the stories of four men, that by all counts le nègre was absolutely to blame, that le nègre had caused an inexcusable trouble to the authorities and to his fellow-prisoners by this wholly unjustified conflict, and that as a punishment the nègre would now suffer the consequences of his guilt in the cabinot.—Jean had dropped his arms to his sides. His face was twisted with anguish. He made a child’s gesture, a pitiful hopeless movement with his slender hands. Sobbing he protested: “It isn’t my fault, monsieur le Surveillant! They attacked me! I didn’t do a thing! They wanted to kill me! Ask him”—he pointed to me desperately. Before I could utter a syllable the Surveillant raised his hand for silence: le nègre had done wrong. He should be placed in the cabinot.

—Like a flash, with a horrible tearing sob, Jean leaped from the surrounding plantons and rushed for the coat which lay on his bed screaming—“AHHHHH—mon couteau!”—“Look out or he’ll get his knife and kill himself!” someone yelled; and the four plantons seized Jean by both arms just as he made a grab for his jacket. Thwarted in his hope and burning with the ignominy of his situation, Jean cast his enormous eyes up at the nearest pillar, crying hysterically: “Everybody is putting me in cabinot because I am black.”—In a second, by a single movement of his 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 (gazing for another second with a smile of absolute beatitude at its length) dashed his head against it. Once, twice, thrice he smote himself, before the plantons seized him—and suddenly his whole strength wilted; he allowed himself to be overpowered by them and stood with bowed head, tears streaming from his eyes—while the smallest pointed a revolver at his heart.

This was a little more than the Surveillant had counted on. Now that Jean’s might was no more, the bearer of the croix de guerre stepped forward and in a mild placating voice endeavoured to soothe the victim of his injustice. It was also slightly more than I could stand, and slamming aside the spectators I shoved myself under his honour’s nose. “Do you know,” I asked, “whom you are dealing with in this man? A child. There are a lot of Jeans where I come from. You heard what he said? He is black, is he not, and gets no justice from you. You heard that. I saw the whole affair. He was attacked, he put up no resistance whatever, he was beaten by two cowards. He is no more to blame than I am.”—The Surveillant 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” The Surveillant gently continued: “Now Jean, be quiet, you will be taken to the cabinot. You may as well go quietly and behave yourself like a good boy.”

At this I am sure my eyes started out of my head. All I could think of to say was: “Attends, un petit moment.” To reach my own bed took but a second. In another second I was back, bearing my great and sacred pelisse. I marched up to Jean. “Jean” I remarked with a smile, “you are going to the cabinot but you’re coming back right away. I know that you are 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”—I pulled out all I had, one full paquet of Maryland, and a half dozen loose ones, and deposited them carefully in the right hand pocket of the pelisse. Then I patted him on the shoulder and gave him the immortal salutation—“Bonne chance, mon ami!”

He straightened proudly. He stalked like a king through the doorway. The astounded plantons and the embarrassed Surveillant followed, the latter closing 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. He laid my pelisse on his mattress, then walked calmly up to a neighbouring bed and skillfully and unerringly extracted a brush from under it. Back to his own bed he tiptoed, sat down on it, and began brushing 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 pelisse carefully on his arm, came to my bed, and as carefully laid it down. Then he took from the right hand outside pocket a full paquet jaune and six loose cigarettes, showed them for my approval, and returned them to their place. “Merci” was his sole remark. B. got Jean to 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 his own bed and lay down.

It was not till later that we learned the climax—not till le petit belge avec le bras cassé, le petit balayeur, came hurrying to our end of the room and sat down with us. He was bursting with excitement; his well arm jerked and his sick one stumped about and he seemed incapable of speech. At length words came.

“Monsieur Jean” (now that I think of it, I believe someone had told him that all male children in America are named Jean at their birth) “I saw SOME SIGHT! le nègre, vous savez?—he is STRONG: Monsieur Jean, he’s aGIANT, croyez moi! C’est pas un homme, tu sais? Je l’ai vu, moi”—and he indicated his eyes.