Semanticate

src/epub/text/chapter-12.xhtml

@@ -38,7 +38,7 @@
 					<span>faite de merde et les onions, Ton Ton Tayne Ton Ton Ton,”</span>
 				</p>
 			</blockquote>
-			<p class="continued">remembering the fine <i xml:lang="fr">forgeron</i> of Chevancourt who used to sing this, or something very like it, upon a table⁠—entirely for the benefit of <i xml:lang="fr">les deux américains</i>, who would subsequently render “Eats uh lonje wae to Tee-pear-raer-ee,” wholly for the gratification of a roomful of what <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Anderson liked to call “them bastards,” alias “dirty” Frenchmen, alias <i xml:lang="fr">les poilus, les poilus divins</i>.⁠ ⁠…</p>
+			<p class="continued">remembering the fine <i xml:lang="fr">forgeron</i> of Chevancourt who used to sing this, or something very like it, upon a table⁠—entirely for the benefit of <i xml:lang="fr">les deux américains</i>, who would subsequently render “Eats uh lonje wae to Tee-pear-raer-ee,” wholly for the gratification of a roomful of what <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Anderson liked to call “them bastards,” alias “dirty” Frenchmen, alias <i xml:lang="fr">les poilus, les poilus divins</i>.⁠ ⁠…</p>
 			<p>A little room. The Directeur’s office? Or The Surveillant’s? Comfort. O yes, very, very comfortable. On my right a table. At the table three persons. Reminds me of Noyon a bit, not unpleasantly of course. Three persons: reading from left to right as I face them⁠—a soggy, sleepy, slumpy lump in a gendarme’s cape and cap, quite old, captain of gendarmes, not at all interested, wrinkled coarse face, only semi-<i xml:lang="fr">méchant</i>, large hard clumsy hands, floppingly disposed on table; wily tidy man in civilian clothes, pen in hand, obviously lawyer, <i xml:lang="fr">avocat</i> type, little bald on top, sneaky civility, smells of bad perfume or, at any rate, sweetish soap; tiny redheaded person, also civilian, creased worrying excited face, amusing little body and hands, brief and jumpy, must be a Dickens character, ought to spend his time sailing kites of his own construction over other people’s houses in gusty weather. Behind the Three, all tied up with deference and inferiority, mild and spineless, Apollyon.</p>
 			<p>Would the reader like to know what I was asked?</p>
 			<p>Ah, would I could say! Only dimly do I remember those moments⁠—only dimly do I remember looking through the lawyer at Apollyon’s clean collar⁠—only dimly do I remember the gradual collapse of the captain of gendarmes, his slow but sure assumption of sleepfulness, the drooping of his soggy <i xml:lang="fr">tête de cochon</i> lower and lower till it encountered one hand whose elbow, braced firmly upon the table, sustained its insensate limpness⁠—only dimly do I remember the enthusiastic antics of the little redhead when I spoke with patriotic fervour of the wrongs which La France was doing <i xml:lang="fr">mon ami et moi</i>⁠—only dimly do I remember, to my right, the immobility of The Wooden Hand, reminding one of a clothing dummy, or a life-size doll which might be made to move only by him who knew the proper combination.⁠ ⁠… At the outset I was asked: Did I want a translator? I looked and saw the <i xml:lang="fr">secrétaire</i>, weak-eyed and lemon-pale, and I said “<i xml:lang="fr">Non.</i>” I was questioned mostly by the <i xml:lang="fr">avocat</i>, somewhat by the Dickens, never by either the captain (who was asleep) or the Directeur (who was timid in the presence of these great and good delegates of hope, faith and charity per the French Government). I recall that, for some reason, I was perfectly cool. I put over six or eight hot shots without losing in the least this composure, which surprised myself and pleased myself and altogether increased myself. As the questions came for me I met them halfway, spouting my best or worst French in a manner which positively astonished the tiny redheaded demigod. I challenged with my eyes and with my voice and with my manner Apollyon Himself, and Apollyon Himself merely cuddled together, depressing his hairy body between its limbs as a spider sometimes does in the presence of danger. I expressed immense gratitude to my captors and to <i xml:lang="fr">le gouvernement français</i> for allowing me to see and hear and taste and smell and touch the things which inhabited La Ferté Macé, Orne, France. I do not think that <i xml:lang="fr">la commission</i> enjoyed me much. It told me, through its sweetish-soap leader, that my friend was a criminal⁠—this immediately upon my entering⁠—and I told it with a great deal of well-chosen politeness that I disagreed. In telling how and why I disagreed I think I managed to shove my shovel-shaped imagination under the refuse of their intellects. At least once or twice.</p>

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@@ -81,7 +81,7 @@
 			<p>“<i xml:lang="fr">Parti?</i>” Jean le Nègre said with huge eyes, touching me gently.</p>
 			<p>“No, no. Later, perhaps; not now,” I assured him. And he patted my shoulder and smiled, “<i xml:lang="fr">Bon!</i>” And we smoked a cigarette in honour of the snow, of which Jean⁠—in contrast to the majority of <i xml:lang="fr">les hommes</i>⁠—highly and unutterably approved. “<i xml:lang="fr">C’est jolie!</i>” he would say, laughing wonderfully. And next morning he and I went on an exclusive promenade, I in my sabots, Jean in a new pair of slippers which he had received (after many requests) from the <i xml:lang="fr">bureau</i>. And we strode to and fro in the muddy <i xml:lang="fr">cour</i> admiring <i xml:lang="fr">la neige</i>, not speaking.</p>
 			<p>One day, after the snowfall, I received from Paris a complete set of Shakespeare in the Everyman edition. I had forgotten completely that <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">B.</abbr> and I⁠—after trying and failing to get William Blake⁠—had ordered and paid for the better-known William; the ordering and communicating in general being done with the collaboration of Monsieur Pet-airs. It was a curious and interesting feeling which I experienced upon first opening to <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">As You Like It</i>⁠ ⁠… the volumes had been carefully inspected, I learned, by the <i xml:lang="fr">sécrétaire</i>, in order to eliminate the possibility of their concealing something valuable or dangerous. And in this connection let me add that the <i xml:lang="fr">sécrétaire</i> or (if not he) his superiors, were a good judge of what is valuable⁠—if not what is dangerous. I know this because, whereas my family several times sent me socks in every case enclosing cigarettes, I received invariably the former sans the latter. Perhaps it is not fair to suspect the officials of La Ferté of this peculiarly mean theft; I should, possibly, doubt the honesty of that very same French censor whose intercepting of <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">B.</abbr>’s correspondence had motivated our removal from the <i xml:lang="fr">Section Sanitaire</i>. Heaven knows I wish (like the Three Wise Men) to give justice where justice is due.</p>
-			<p>Somehow or other, reading Shakespeare did not appeal to my disordered mind. I tried <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">Hamlet</i> and <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">Julius Caesar</i> once or twice, and gave it up, after telling a man who asked “Shah-kay-spare, who is Shah-kay-spare?” that <abbr>Mr.</abbr> <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">S.</abbr> was the Homer of the English-speaking peoples⁠—which remark, to my surprise, appeared to convey a very definite idea to the questioner and sent him away perfectly satisfied. Most of the timeless time I spent promenading in the rain and sleet with Jean le Nègre, or talking with Mexique, or exchanging big gifts of silence with The Zulu. For Oloron⁠—I did not believe in it, and I did not particularly care. If I went away, good; if I stayed, so long as Jean and The Zulu and Mexique were with me, good. “<i xml:lang="fr">M’en fous pas mal</i>,” pretty nearly summed up my philosophy.</p>
+			<p>Somehow or other, reading Shakespeare did not appeal to my disordered mind. I tried <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">Hamlet</i> and <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">Julius Caesar</i> once or twice, and gave it up, after telling a man who asked “Shah-kay-spare, who is Shah-kay-spare?” that <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">S.</abbr> was the Homer of the English-speaking peoples⁠—which remark, to my surprise, appeared to convey a very definite idea to the questioner and sent him away perfectly satisfied. Most of the timeless time I spent promenading in the rain and sleet with Jean le Nègre, or talking with Mexique, or exchanging big gifts of silence with The Zulu. For Oloron⁠—I did not believe in it, and I did not particularly care. If I went away, good; if I stayed, so long as Jean and The Zulu and Mexique were with me, good. “<i xml:lang="fr">M’en fous pas mal</i>,” pretty nearly summed up my philosophy.</p>
 			<p>At least the Surveillant let me alone on the <i xml:lang="fr">Soi-Même</i> topic. After my brief visit to Satan I wallowed in a perfect luxury of dirt. And no one objected. On the contrary everyone (realizing that the enjoyment of dirt may be made the basis of a fine art) beheld with something like admiration my more and more uncouth appearance. Moreover, by being dirtier than usual I was protesting in a (to me) very satisfactory way against all that was neat and tidy and bigoted and solemn and founded upon the anguish of my fine friends. And my fine friends, being my fine friends, understood. Simultaneously with my arrival at the summit of dirtiness⁠—by the calendar, as I guess, December the twenty-first⁠—came the Black Holster into The Enormous Room and with an excited and angry mien proclaimed loudly:</p>
 			<p>“<i xml:lang="fr">L’américain! Allez chez le Directeur. De suite.</i>”</p>
 			<p>I protested mildly that I was dirty.</p>
@@ -116,7 +116,7 @@
 			<p>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.</p>
 			<p>“Paris.”</p>
 			<p>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 switchboard upstairs. “Go right in, sir.” A1 English by God. So this is the person to whom Edward <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">E.</abbr> Cummings is immediately to report.</p>
-			<p>“Is this <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Cummings?”</p>
+			<p>“Is this <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Cummings?”</p>
 			<p>“Yes.” Rather a young man, very young in fact. Jove I must look queer.</p>
 			<p>“Sit down! We’ve been looking all over creation for you.”</p>
 			<p>“Yes?”</p>