The Enormous Room

by E. E. Cummings

I did some hasty drawings of Monsieur Pet-airs washing and rubbing his bald head with a great towel in the dawn. The R.A. caught me in the act and came over shortly after, saying, “Let me see them.” In some perturbation (the subject being a particular friend of his) I showed one drawing. “Very good, in fact, excellent,” the R.A. smiled whimsically. “You have a real talent for caricature, Mr. Cummings, and you should exercise it. You really got Peters. Poor Peters, he’s a fine fellow, you know; but this business of living in the muck and filth, c’est malheureux. 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 to live 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 do get out (I’m just waiting for my papers to be sent on by the French consul) I’ll not forget my friends. We’ve lived together and suffered together and I’m not a man to forget it. This hideous mistake is nearly cleared 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 me to 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 à bon marché. Because you see they know me there, and I know just where to go. Just give me the money for what you need and I’ll get you the best there is in Paris for it. You needn’t worry”—I was protesting that it would be too much trouble—“my dear fellow, it’s no trouble to do a favour for a friend.”

And to B. and myself ensemble he declared, with tears in his eyes, “I have some marmalade at my house in Paris, real marmalade, not the sort of stuff you buy these days. We know how to make it. You can’t get an idea how delicious it is. In big crocks”—the Count said simply—“well, that’s for 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,” and his face clouded with worry, “and we send him some now and then, he’s crazy about it. I know what it means to him. And you shall share in it too. I’ll send you six crocks.” Then, suddenly looking at us with a pleasant expression, “By Jove!” the Count said, “do you like whiskey? Real Bourbon whiskey? I see by your look that you know what it is. But you never tasted anything like this. Do you know London?” I said no, as I had said once before. “Well, that’s a pity,” he said, “for if you did you’d know this bar. I know the barkeeper well, known him for thirty years. There’s a picture of mine hanging in his place. Look at it when you’re in London, drop in to —— Street, you’ll find the place, anyone will tell you where it is. This fellow would do anything for me. And now I’ll tell you what I’ll do: you fellows give me whatever you want to spend and I’ll get you the best whiskey you ever tasted. It’s his own private stock, you understand. I’ll send it on to you—God knows you need it in this place. I wouldn’t do this for anyone else, you understand,” and he smiled kindly; “but we’ve been prisoners together, and we understand each other, and that’s enough for gentlemen. I won’t forget you.” 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 that you 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—an outrage, a bloody outrage, upon two of his own countrymen. We shall see what happens then.”

It was during this period that Count Bragard lent us for our personal use his greatest treasure, a water glass. “I don’t need it,” he said simply and pathetically.

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

It came at the close of one soggy, damp, raining afternoon. For this entire hopeless grey afternoon Count Bragard and B. promenaded The Enormous 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 we wanted him to buy in Paris and London. I spent my time rushing about, falling over things, upsetting people, making curious and secret signs to B., which signs, being interpreted, meant be careful! But there was no need of telling him this particular thing. When the planton announced la soupe, a fiercely weary face strode by me en route to his mattress and his spoon. I knew that B. had been careful. A minute later he joined me, and told me as much….

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

It seems that B. had heard that the kindly nobleman wasn’t going to Paris at all.

Moreover, Monsieur Pet-airs had said to B. something about Count Bragard being 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 poor Spanish Whoremaster to beat the band. Every day had he sat on a little stool beside the rolypoly millionaire, and written from dictation letter after letter in French—with which language the rolypoly was sadly unfamiliar…. And when next day Count Bragard took back his treasure of treasures, his personal water glass, remarking briefly that he needed it once again, I was not surprised. And when, a week or so later, he left—I was not surprised to have Mexique come up to us and placidly remark: