I Begin a Pilgrimage
-In October, 1917, we had succeeded, my friend B. and I, in dispensing with almost three of our six months’ engagement as Voluntary Drivers, Sanitary Section 21, Ambulance Norton Harjes, American Red Cross, and at the moment which subsequent experience served to capitalize, had just finished the unlovely job of cleaning and greasing (nettoyer is the proper word) the own private flivver of the chief of section, a gentleman by the convenient name of Mr. A. To borrow a characteristic-cadence from Our Great President: the lively satisfaction which we might be suspected of having derived from the accomplishment of a task so important in the saving of civilization from the clutches of Prussian tyranny was in some degree inhibited, unhappily, by a complete absence of cordial relations between the man whom fate had placed over us and ourselves. Or, to use the vulgar American idiom, B. and I and Mr. A. didn’t get on well. We were in fundamental disagreement as to the attitude which we, Americans, should uphold toward the poilus in whose behalf we had volunteered assistance, Mr. A. maintaining “you boys want to keep away from those dirty Frenchmen” and “we’re here to show those bastards how they do things in America,” to which we answered by seizing every opportunity for fraternization. Inasmuch as eight “dirty Frenchmen” were attached to the section in various capacities (cook, provisioner, chauffeur, mechanician, etc.) and the section itself was affiliated with a branch of the French army, fraternization was easy. Now when he saw that we had not the slightest intention of adopting his ideals, Mr. A. (together with the sous-lieutenant who acted as his translator—for the chief’s knowledge of the French language, obtained during several years’ heroic service, consisted for the most part in “Sar var,” “Sar marche,” and “Deet donk moan vieux”) confined his efforts to denying us the privilege of acting as drivers, on the ground that our personal appearance was a disgrace to the section. In this, I am bound to say, Mr. A. was but sustaining the tradition conceived originally by his predecessor, a Mr. P., a Harvard man, who until his departure from Vingt-et-Un succeeded in making life absolutely miserable for B. and myself. Before leaving this painful subject I beg to state that, at least as far as I was concerned, the tradition had a firm foundation in my own predisposition for uncouthness plus what Le Matin (if we remember correctly) cleverly nicknamed La Boue Héroïque.
-Having accomplished the nettoyage (at which we were by this time adepts, thanks to Mr. A.’s habit of detailing us to wash any car which its driver and aide might consider too dirty a task for their own hands) we proceeded in search of a little water for personal use. B. speedily finished his ablutions. I was strolling carelessly and solo from the cook-wagon toward one of the two tents—which protestingly housed some forty huddling Americans by night—holding in my hand an historic morceau de chocolat, when a spick, not to say span, gentleman in a suspiciously quiet French uniform allowed himself to be driven up to the bureau, by two neat soldiers with tin derbies, in a Renault whose painful cleanliness shamed my recent efforts. This must be a general at least, I thought, regretting the extremely undress character of my uniform, which uniform consisted of overalls and a cigarette.
+In October, 1917, we had succeeded, my friend B. and I, in dispensing with almost three of our six months’ engagement as Voluntary Drivers, Sanitary Section 21, Ambulance Norton Harjes, American Red Cross, and at the moment which subsequent experience served to capitalize, had just finished the unlovely job of cleaning and greasing (nettoyer is the proper word) the own private flivver of the chief of section, a gentleman by the convenient name of Mr. A. To borrow a characteristic-cadence from Our Great President: the lively satisfaction which we might be suspected of having derived from the accomplishment of a task so important in the saving of civilization from the clutches of Prussian tyranny was in some degree inhibited, unhappily, by a complete absence of cordial relations between the man whom fate had placed over us and ourselves. Or, to use the vulgar American idiom, B. and I and Mr. A. didn’t get on well. We were in fundamental disagreement as to the attitude which we, Americans, should uphold toward the poilus in whose behalf we had volunteered assistance, Mr. A. maintaining “you boys want to keep away from those dirty Frenchmen” and “we’re here to show those bastards how they do things in America,” to which we answered by seizing every opportunity for fraternization. Inasmuch as eight “dirty Frenchmen” were attached to the section in various capacities (cook, provisioner, chauffeur, mechanician, etc.) and the section itself was affiliated with a branch of the French army, fraternization was easy. Now when he saw that we had not the slightest intention of adopting his ideals, Mr. A. (together with the sous-lieutenant who acted as his translator—for the chief’s knowledge of the French language, obtained during several years’ heroic service, consisted for the most part in “Sar var,” “Sar marche,” and “Deet donk moan vieux”) confined his efforts to denying us the privilege of acting as drivers, on the ground that our personal appearance was a disgrace to the section. In this, I am bound to say, Mr. A. was but sustaining the tradition conceived originally by his predecessor, a Mr. P., a Harvard man, who until his departure from Vingt-et-Un succeeded in making life absolutely miserable for B. and myself. Before leaving this painful subject I beg to state that, at least as far as I was concerned, the tradition had a firm foundation in my own predisposition for uncouthness plus what Le Matin (if we remember correctly) cleverly nicknamed La Boue Héroïque.
+Having accomplished the nettoyage (at which we were by this time adepts, thanks to Mr. A.’s habit of detailing us to wash any car which its driver and aide might consider too dirty a task for their own hands) we proceeded in search of a little water for personal use. B. speedily finished his ablutions. I was strolling carelessly and solo from the cook-wagon toward one of the two tents—which protestingly housed some forty huddling Americans by night—holding in my hand an historic morceau de chocolat, when a spick, not to say span, gentleman in a suspiciously quiet French uniform allowed himself to be driven up to the bureau, by two neat soldiers with tin derbies, in a Renault whose painful cleanliness shamed my recent efforts. This must be a general at least, I thought, regretting the extremely undress character of my uniform, which uniform consisted of overalls and a cigarette.
Having furtively watched the gentleman alight and receive a ceremonious welcome from the chief and the aforesaid French lieutenant who accompanied the section for translatory reasons, I hastily betook myself to one of the tents, where I found B. engaged in dragging all his belongings into a central pile of frightening proportions. He was surrounded by a group of fellow-heroes who hailed my coming with considerable enthusiasm. “Your bunky’s leaving” said somebody. “Going to Paris” volunteered a man who had been trying for three months to get there. “Prison you mean” remarked a confirmed optimist whose disposition had felt the effects of French climate.
-Albeit confused by the eloquence of B.’s unalterable silence, I immediately associated his present predicament with the advent of the mysterious stranger, and forthwith dashed forth, bent on demanding from one of the tin-derbies the high identity and sacred mission of this personage. I knew that with the exception of ourselves everyone in the section had been given his seven days’ leave—even two men who had arrived later than we and whose turn should, consequently, have come after ours. I also knew that at the headquarters of the Ambulance, 7 rue François Premier, was Monsieur Norton, the supreme head of the Norton Harjes fraternity, who had known my father in other days. Putting two and two together I decided that this potentate had sent an emissary to Mr. A. to demand an explanation of the various and sundry insults and indignities to which I and my friend had been subjected, and more particularly to secure our long-delayed permission. Accordingly I was in high spirits as I rushed toward the bureau.
+Albeit confused by the eloquence of B.’s unalterable silence, I immediately associated his present predicament with the advent of the mysterious stranger, and forthwith dashed forth, bent on demanding from one of the tin-derbies the high identity and sacred mission of this personage. I knew that with the exception of ourselves everyone in the section had been given his seven days’ leave—even two men who had arrived later than we and whose turn should, consequently, have come after ours. I also knew that at the headquarters of the Ambulance, 7 rue François Premier, was Monsieur Norton, the supreme head of the Norton Harjes fraternity, who had known my father in other days. Putting two and two together I decided that this potentate had sent an emissary to Mr. A. to demand an explanation of the various and sundry insults and indignities to which I and my friend had been subjected, and more particularly to secure our long-delayed permission. Accordingly I was in high spirits as I rushed toward the bureau.
I didn’t have to go far. The mysterious one, in conversation with monsieur le sous-lieutenant, met me halfway. I caught the words: “And Cummings” (the first and last time that my name was correctly pronounced by a Frenchman), “where is he?”
“Present,” I said, giving a salute to which neither of them paid the slightest attention.
“Ah yes” impenetrably remarked the mysterious one in positively sanitary English. “You shall put all your baggage in the car, at once”—then, to tin-derby-the-first, who appeared in an occult manner at his master’s elbow—“Go with him, get his baggage, at once.”
My things were mostly in the vicinity of the cuisine, where lodged the cuisinier, mécanicien, menuisier, etc., who had made room for me (some ten days since) on their own initiative, thus saving me the humiliation of sleeping with nineteen Americans in a tent which was always two-thirds full of mud. Thither I led the tin-derby, who scrutinised everything with surprising interest. I threw mes affaires hastily together (including some minor accessories which I was going to leave behind, but which the t-d bade me include) and emerged with a duffle-bag under one arm and a bedroll under the other, to encounter my excellent friends, the “dirty Frenchmen,” aforesaid. They all popped out together from one door, looking rather astonished. Something by way of explanation as well as farewell was most certainly required, so I made a speech in my best French:
“Gentlemen, friends, comrades—I am going away immediately and shall be guillotined tomorrow.”
—“Oh hardly guillotined I should say,” remarked t-d, in a voice which froze my marrow despite my high spirits; while the cook and carpenter gaped audibly and the mechanician clutched a hopelessly smashed carburetor for support.
-One of the section’s voitures, a FIAT, was standing ready. General Nemo sternly forbade me to approach the Renault (in which B.’s baggage was already deposited) and waved me into the FIAT, bed, bedroll and all; whereupon t-d leaped in and seated himself opposite me in a position of perfect unrelaxation, which, despite my aforesaid exultation at quitting the section in general and Mr. A. in particular, impressed me as being almost menacing. Through the front window I saw my friend drive away with t-d Number 2 and Nemo; then, having waved hasty farewell to all les Américains that I knew—three in number—and having exchanged affectionate greetings with Mr. A. (who admitted he was very sorry indeed to lose us), I experienced the jolt of the clutch—and we were off in pursuit.
+One of the section’s voitures, a FIAT, was standing ready. General Nemo sternly forbade me to approach the Renault (in which B.’s baggage was already deposited) and waved me into the FIAT, bed, bedroll and all; whereupon t-d leaped in and seated himself opposite me in a position of perfect unrelaxation, which, despite my aforesaid exultation at quitting the section in general and Mr. A. in particular, impressed me as being almost menacing. Through the front window I saw my friend drive away with t-d Number 2 and Nemo; then, having waved hasty farewell to all les Américains that I knew—three in number—and having exchanged affectionate greetings with Mr. A. (who admitted he was very sorry indeed to lose us), I experienced the jolt of the clutch—and we were off in pursuit.
Whatever may have been the forebodings inspired by t-d Number 1’s attitude, they were completely annihilated by the thrilling joy which I experienced on losing sight of the accursed section and its asinine inhabitants—by the indisputable and authentic thrill of going somewhere and nowhere, under the miraculous auspices of someone and no one—of being yanked from the putrescent banalities of an official nonexistence into a high and clear adventure, by a deus ex machina in a grey-blue uniform, and a couple of tin derbies. I whistled and sang and cried to my vis-à-vis: “By the way, who is yonder distinguished gentleman who has been so good as to take my friend and me on this little promenade?”—to which, between lurches of the groaning FIAT, t-d replied awesomely, clutching at the window for the benefit of his equilibrium: “Monsieur le Ministre de Sûreté de Noyon.”
Not in the least realizing what this might mean, I grinned. A responsive grin, visiting informally the tired cheeks of my confrère, ended by frankly connecting his worthy and enormous ears which were squeezed into oblivion by the oversize casque. My eyes, jumping from those ears, lit on that helmet and noticed for the first time an emblem, a sort of flowering little explosion, or hair-switch rampant. It seemed to me very jovial and a little absurd.
“We’re on our way to Noyon, then?”
@@ -33,7 +33,7 @@“Did y’ do something to get pinched?”
“Probably,” I answered importantly and vaguely, feeling a new dignity.
“Well, if you didn’t, maybe B⸺ did.”
-“Maybe,” I countered, trying not to appear enthusiastic. As a matter of fact I was never so excited and proud. I was, to be sure, a criminal! Well, well, thank God that settled one question for good and all—no more Section Sanitaire for me! No more Mr. A. and his daily lectures on cleanliness, deportment, etc.! In spite of myself I started to sing. The driver interrupted:
+“Maybe,” I countered, trying not to appear enthusiastic. As a matter of fact I was never so excited and proud. I was, to be sure, a criminal! Well, well, thank God that settled one question for good and all—no more Section Sanitaire for me! No more Mr. A. and his daily lectures on cleanliness, deportment, etc.! In spite of myself I started to sing. The driver interrupted:
“I heard you asking the tin lid something in French. Whadhesay?”
“Said that gink in the Renault is the head cop of Noyon,” I answered at random.
“Goodnight. Maybe we’d better ring off, or you’ll get in wrong with”—he indicated t-d with a wave of his head that communicated itself to the car in a magnificent skid; and t-d’s derby rang out as the skid pitched t-d the length of the FIAT.
@@ -61,7 +61,7 @@“A la santé de ma marraine charmante!”
—This deed of gallantry quite won the cook (a smallish, agile Frenchman) who shovelled several helps of potatoes on my already empty plate. The tin derby approved also: “That’s right, eat, drink, you’ll need it later perhaps.” And his knife guillotined another delicious hunk of white bread.
At last, sated with luxuries, I bade adieu to my marraine and allowed t-d to conduct me (I going first, as always) upstairs and into a little den whose interior boasted two mattresses, a man sitting at the table, and a newspaper in the hands of the man.
-“C’est un Américain,” t-d said by way of introduction. The newspaper detached itself from the man who said: “He’s welcome indeed: make yourself at home, Mr. American”—and bowed himself out. My captor immediately collapsed on one mattress.
+“C’est un Américain,” t-d said by way of introduction. The newspaper detached itself from the man who said: “He’s welcome indeed: make yourself at home, Mr. American”—and bowed himself out. My captor immediately collapsed on one mattress.
I asked permission to do the same on the other, which favor was sleepily granted. With half-shut eyes my Ego lay and pondered: the delicious meal it had just enjoyed; what was to come; the joys of being a great criminal … then, being not at all inclined to sleep, I read Le Petit Parisien quite through, even to Les Voies Urinaires.
Which reminded me—and I woke up t-d and asked: “May I visit the vespasienne?”
“Downstairs,” he replied fuzzily, and readjusted his slumbers.
@@ -103,7 +103,7 @@Monsieur le Ministre asked: Was it true (a) that B. and I were always together and (b) preferred the company of the attached Frenchmen to that of our fellow-Americans?—to which I answered in the affirmative. Why? he wanted to know. So I explained that we felt that the more French we knew and the better we knew the French the better for us; expatiating a bit on the necessity for a complete mutual understanding of the Latin and Anglo-Saxon races if victory was to be won.
Again the rosette nodded with approbation.
Monsieur le Ministre may have felt that he was losing his case, for he played his trump card immediately: “You are aware that your friend has written to friends in America and to his family very bad letters.” “I am not,” I said.
-In a flash I understood the motivation of Monsieur’s visit to Vingt-et-Un: the French censor had intercepted some of B.’s letters, and had notified Mr. A. and Mr. A.’s translator, both of whom had thankfully testified to the bad character of B. and (wishing very naturally to get rid of both of us at once) had further averred that we were always together and that consequently I might properly be regarded as a suspicious character. Whereupon they had received instructions to hold us at the section until Noyon could arrive and take charge—hence our failure to obtain our long-overdue permission.
+In a flash I understood the motivation of Monsieur’s visit to Vingt-et-Un: the French censor had intercepted some of B.’s letters, and had notified Mr. A. and Mr. A.’s translator, both of whom had thankfully testified to the bad character of B. and (wishing very naturally to get rid of both of us at once) had further averred that we were always together and that consequently I might properly be regarded as a suspicious character. Whereupon they had received instructions to hold us at the section until Noyon could arrive and take charge—hence our failure to obtain our long-overdue permission.
“Your friend,” said Monsieur in English, “is here a short while ago. I ask him if he is up in the aeroplane flying over Germans will he drop the bombs on Germans and he say no, he will not drop any bombs on Germans.”
By this falsehood (such it happened to be) I confess that I was nonplussed. In the first place, I was at the time innocent of third-degree methods. Secondly, I remembered that, a week or so since, B., myself and another American in the section had written a letter—which, on the advice of the sous-lieutenant who accompanied Vingt-et-Un as translator, we had addressed to the Undersecretary of State in French Aviation—asking that inasmuch as the American Government was about to take over the Red Cross (which meant that all the Sanitary Sections would be affiliated with the American, and no longer with the French, Army) we three at any rate might be allowed to continue our association with the French by enlisting in l’Esquadrille Lafayette. One of the “dirty Frenchmen” had written the letter for us in the finest language imaginable, from data supplied by ourselves.
“You write a letter, your friend and you, for French aviation?”
@@ -113,7 +113,7 @@Relapsing into French, Monsieur asked me if I would have any hesitation in dropping bombs on Germans? I said no, I wouldn’t. And why did I suppose I was fitted to become aviator? Because, I told him, I weighed 135 pounds and could drive any kind of auto or motorcycle. (I hoped he would make me prove this assertion, in which case I promised myself that I wouldn’t stop till I got to Munich; but no.)
“Do you mean to say that my friend was not only trying to avoid serving in the American Army but was contemplating treason as well?” I asked.
“Well, that would be it, would it not?” he answered coolly. Then, leaning forward once more, he fired at me: “Why did you write to an official so high?”
-At this I laughed outright. “Because the excellent sous-lieutenant who translated when Mr. Lieutenant A. couldn’t understand advised us to do so.”
+At this I laughed outright. “Because the excellent sous-lieutenant who translated when Mr. Lieutenant A. couldn’t understand advised us to do so.”
Following up this sortie, I addressed the mustache: “Write this down in the testimony—that I, here present, refuse utterly to believe that my friend is not as sincere a lover of France and the French people as any man living!—Tell him to write it,” I commanded Noyon stonily. But Noyon shook his head, saying: “We have the very best reason for supposing your friend to be no friend of France.” I answered: “That is not my affair. I want my opinion of my friend written in; do you see?” “That’s reasonable,” the rosette murmured; and the moustache wrote it down.
“Why do you think we volunteered?” I asked sarcastically, when the testimony was complete.
Monsieur le Ministre was evidently rather uncomfortable. He writhed a little in his chair, and tweaked his chin three or four times. The rosette and the moustache were exchanging animated phrases. At last Noyon, motioning for silence and speaking in an almost desperate tone, demanded:
diff --git a/src/epub/text/chapter-12.xhtml b/src/epub/text/chapter-12.xhtml index 48f0344..26a9db0 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/chapter-12.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/chapter-12.xhtml @@ -38,7 +38,7 @@ faite de merde et les onions, Ton Ton Tayne Ton Ton Ton,” -remembering the fine forgeron of Chevancourt who used to sing this, or something very like it, upon a table—entirely for the benefit of les deux américains, who would subsequently render “Eats uh lonje wae to Tee-pear-raer-ee,” wholly for the gratification of a roomful of what Mr. Anderson liked to call “them bastards,” alias “dirty” Frenchmen, alias les poilus, les poilus divins. …
+remembering the fine forgeron of Chevancourt who used to sing this, or something very like it, upon a table—entirely for the benefit of les deux américains, who would subsequently render “Eats uh lonje wae to Tee-pear-raer-ee,” wholly for the gratification of a roomful of what Mr. Anderson liked to call “them bastards,” alias “dirty” Frenchmen, alias les poilus, les poilus divins. …
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-méchant, large hard clumsy hands, floppingly disposed on table; wily tidy man in civilian clothes, pen in hand, obviously lawyer, avocat 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.
Would the reader like to know what I was asked?
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 tête de cochon 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 mon ami et moi—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 secrétaire, weak-eyed and lemon-pale, and I said “Non.” I was questioned mostly by the avocat, 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 le gouvernement français 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 la commission 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.
diff --git a/src/epub/text/chapter-13.xhtml b/src/epub/text/chapter-13.xhtml index 400afe5..b9cd7cf 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/chapter-13.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/chapter-13.xhtml @@ -81,7 +81,7 @@“Parti?” Jean le Nègre said with huge eyes, touching me gently.
“No, no. Later, perhaps; not now,” I assured him. And he patted my shoulder and smiled, “Bon!” And we smoked a cigarette in honour of the snow, of which Jean—in contrast to the majority of les hommes—highly and unutterably approved. “C’est jolie!” 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 bureau. And we strode to and fro in the muddy cour admiring la neige, not speaking.
One day, after the snowfall, I received from Paris a complete set of Shakespeare in the Everyman edition. I had forgotten completely that B. 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 As You Like It … the volumes had been carefully inspected, I learned, by the sécrétaire, in order to eliminate the possibility of their concealing something valuable or dangerous. And in this connection let me add that the sécrétaire 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 B.’s correspondence had motivated our removal from the Section Sanitaire. Heaven knows I wish (like the Three Wise Men) to give justice where justice is due.
-Somehow or other, reading Shakespeare did not appeal to my disordered mind. I tried Hamlet and Julius Caesar once or twice, and gave it up, after telling a man who asked “Shah-kay-spare, who is Shah-kay-spare?” that Mr. S. 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. “M’en fous pas mal,” pretty nearly summed up my philosophy.
+Somehow or other, reading Shakespeare did not appeal to my disordered mind. I tried Hamlet and Julius Caesar once or twice, and gave it up, after telling a man who asked “Shah-kay-spare, who is Shah-kay-spare?” that Mr. S. 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. “M’en fous pas mal,” pretty nearly summed up my philosophy.
At least the Surveillant let me alone on the Soi-Même 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:
“L’américain! Allez chez le Directeur. De suite.”
I protested mildly that I was dirty.
@@ -116,7 +116,7 @@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 switchboard 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?”
+“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?”
diff --git a/src/epub/text/chapter-6.xhtml b/src/epub/text/chapter-6.xhtml index fbaf44d..e5d161d 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/chapter-6.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/chapter-6.xhtml @@ -53,7 +53,7 @@Lily was a German girl, who looked unbelievably old, wore white, or once white dresses, had a sort of drawling scream in her throat besides a thick deadly cough, and floundered leanly under the eyes of men. Upon the skinny neck of Lily a face had been set for all the world to look upon and be afraid. The face itself was made of flesh green and almost putrescent. In each cheek a bloody spot. Which was not rouge, but the flower which consumption plants in the cheek of its favourite. A face vulgar and vast and heavy-featured, about which a smile was always flopping uselessly. Occasionally Lily grinned, showing several monstrously decayed and perfectly yellow teeth, which teeth usually were smoking a cigarette. Her bluish hands were very interestingly dead; the fingers were nervous, they lived in cringing bags of freckled skin, they might almost be alive.
She was perhaps eighteen years old.
Renée, the fourth member of the circle, was always well-dressed and somehow chic. Her silhouette had character, from the waved coiffure to the enormously high heels. Had Renée been able to restrain a perfectly toothless smile she might possibly have passed for a jeune gonzesse. She was not. The smile was ample and black. You saw through it into the back of her neck. You felt as if her life was in danger when she smiled, as it probably was. Her skin was not particularly tired. But Renée was old, older than Lena by several years; perhaps twenty-five. Also about Renée there was a certain dangerous fragility, the fragility of unhealth. And yet Renée was hard, immeasurably hard. And accurate. Her exact movements were the movements of a mechanism. Including her voice, which had a purely mechanical timbre. She could do two things with this voice and two only—screech and boom. At times she tried to chuckle and almost fell apart. Renée was in fact dead. In looking at her for the first time, I realised that there may be something stylish about death.
-This first time was interesting in the extreme. It was Lily’s birthday. We looked out of the windows which composed one side of the otherwise windowless Enormous Room; looked down, and saw—just outside the wall of the building—Celina, Lena, Lily and a new girl who was Renée. They were all individually intoxicated, Celina was joyously tight. Renée was stiffly bunnied. Lena was raucously pickled. Lily, floundering and staggering and tumbling and whirling was utterly soused. She was all tricked out in an erstwhile dainty dress, white, and with ribbons. Celina (as always) wore black. Lena had on a rather heavy striped sweater and skirt. Renée was immaculate in tight-fitting satin or something of the sort; she seemed to have somehow escaped from a doll’s house overnight. About the group were a number of plantons, roaring with laughter, teasing, insulting, encouraging, from time to time attempting to embrace the ladies. Celina gave one of them a terrific box on the ear. The mirth of the others was redoubled. Lily spun about and fell down, moaning and coughing, and screaming about her fiancée in Belgium: what a handsome young fellow he was, how he had promised to marry her … shouts of enjoyment from the plantons. Lena had to sit down or else fall down, so she sat down with a good deal of dignity, her back against the wall, and in that position attempted to execute a kind of dance. Les plantons rocked and applauded. Celina smiled beautifully at the men who were staring from every window of The Enormous Room and, with a supreme effort, went over and dragged Renée (who had neatly and accurately folded up with machine-like rapidity in the mud) through the doorway and into the house. Eventually Lena followed her example, capturing Lily en route. The scene must have consumed all of twenty minutes. The plantons were so mirth-stricken that they had to sit down and rest under the washing-shed. Of all the inhabitants of The Enormous Room, Fritz and Harree and Pom Pom and Bathhouse John enjoyed it most. I should include Jan, whose chin nearly rested on the windowsill with the little body belonging to it fluttering in an ugly interested way all the time. That Bathhouse John’s interest was largely cynical is evidenced by the remarks which he threw out between spittings—“Une section mesdames!” “A la gare!” “Aux armes tout le monde!” etc. With the exception of these enthusiastic watchers, the other captives evidenced vague amusement—excepting Count Bragard who said with lofty disgust that it was “no better than a bloody knocking ’ouse, Mr. Cummings” and Monsieur Pet-airs whose annoyance amounted to agony. Of course these twain were, comparatively speaking, old men. …
+This first time was interesting in the extreme. It was Lily’s birthday. We looked out of the windows which composed one side of the otherwise windowless Enormous Room; looked down, and saw—just outside the wall of the building—Celina, Lena, Lily and a new girl who was Renée. They were all individually intoxicated, Celina was joyously tight. Renée was stiffly bunnied. Lena was raucously pickled. Lily, floundering and staggering and tumbling and whirling was utterly soused. She was all tricked out in an erstwhile dainty dress, white, and with ribbons. Celina (as always) wore black. Lena had on a rather heavy striped sweater and skirt. Renée was immaculate in tight-fitting satin or something of the sort; she seemed to have somehow escaped from a doll’s house overnight. About the group were a number of plantons, roaring with laughter, teasing, insulting, encouraging, from time to time attempting to embrace the ladies. Celina gave one of them a terrific box on the ear. The mirth of the others was redoubled. Lily spun about and fell down, moaning and coughing, and screaming about her fiancée in Belgium: what a handsome young fellow he was, how he had promised to marry her … shouts of enjoyment from the plantons. Lena had to sit down or else fall down, so she sat down with a good deal of dignity, her back against the wall, and in that position attempted to execute a kind of dance. Les plantons rocked and applauded. Celina smiled beautifully at the men who were staring from every window of The Enormous Room and, with a supreme effort, went over and dragged Renée (who had neatly and accurately folded up with machine-like rapidity in the mud) through the doorway and into the house. Eventually Lena followed her example, capturing Lily en route. The scene must have consumed all of twenty minutes. The plantons were so mirth-stricken that they had to sit down and rest under the washing-shed. Of all the inhabitants of The Enormous Room, Fritz and Harree and Pom Pom and Bathhouse John enjoyed it most. I should include Jan, whose chin nearly rested on the windowsill with the little body belonging to it fluttering in an ugly interested way all the time. That Bathhouse John’s interest was largely cynical is evidenced by the remarks which he threw out between spittings—“Une section mesdames!” “A la gare!” “Aux armes tout le monde!” etc. With the exception of these enthusiastic watchers, the other captives evidenced vague amusement—excepting Count Bragard who said with lofty disgust that it was “no better than a bloody knocking ’ouse, Mr. Cummings” and Monsieur Pet-airs whose annoyance amounted to agony. Of course these twain were, comparatively speaking, old men. …
The four female incorrigibles encountered less difficulty in attaining cabinot than any four specimens of incorrigibility among les hommes. Not only were they placed in dungeon vile with a frequency which amounted to continuity; their sentences were far more severe than those handed out to the men. Up to the time of my little visit to La Ferté I had innocently supposed that in referring to women as “the weaker sex” a man was strictly within his rights. La Ferté, if it did nothing else for my intelligence, rid it of this overpowering error. I recall, for example, a period of sixteen days and nights spent (during my stay) by the woman Lena in the cabinot. It was either toward the latter part of October or the early part of November that this occurred, I will not be sure which. The dampness of the Autumn was as terrible, under normal conditions—that is to say in The Enormous Room—as any climatic eccentricity which I have ever experienced. We had a wood-burning stove in the middle of the room, which antiquated apparatus was kept going all day to the vast discomfort of eyes and noses not to mention throats and lungs—the pungent smoke filling the room with an atmosphere next to unbreathable, but tolerated for the simple reason that it stood between ourselves and death. For even with the stove going full blast the wall never ceased to sweat and even trickle, so overpowering was the dampness. By night the chill was to myself—fortunately bedded at least eighteen inches from the floor and sleeping in my clothes; bedroll, blankets, and all, under and over me and around me—not merely perceptible but desolating. Once my bed broke, and I spent the night perforce on the floor with only my mattress under me; to awake finally in the whitish dawn perfectly helpless with rheumatism. Yet with the exception of my bed and B.’s bed and a wooden bunk which belonged to Bathhouse John, every paillasse lay directly on the floor; moreover the men who slept thus were three-quarters of them miserably clad, nor had they anything beyond their lightweight blankets—whereas I had a complete outfit including a big fur coat, which I had taken with me (as previously described) from the Section Sanitaire. The morning after my night spent on the floor I pondered, having nothing to do and being unable to move, upon the subject of my physical endurance—wondering just how the men about me, many of them beyond middle age, some extremely delicate, in all not more than five or six as rugged constitutionally as myself, lived through the nights in The Enormous Room. Also I recollected glancing through an open door into the women’s quarters, at the risk of being noticed by the planton in whose charge I was at the time (who, fortunately, was stupid even for a planton, else I should have been well punished for my curiosity) and beholding paillasses identical in all respects with ours reposing on the floor; and I thought, if it is marvellous that old men and sick men can stand this and not die, it is certainly miraculous that girls of eleven and fifteen, and the baby which I saw once being caressed out in the women’s cour with unspeakable gentleness by a little putain whose name I do not know, and the dozen or so oldish females whom I have often seen on promenade—can stand this and not die. These things I mention not to excite the reader’s pity nor yet his indignation; I mention them because I do not know of any other way to indicate—it is no more than indicating—the significance of the torture perpetrated under the Directeur’s direction in the case of the girl Lena. If incidentally it throws light on the personality of the torturer I shall be gratified.
Lena’s confinement in the cabinot—which dungeon I have already attempted to describe but to whose filth and slime no words can begin to do justice—was in this case solitary. Once a day, of an afternoon and always at the time when all the men were upstairs after the second promenade (which gave the writer of this history an exquisite chance to see an atrocity at firsthand), Lena was taken out of the cabinot by three plantons and permitted a half-hour promenade just outside the door of the building, or in the same locality—delimited by barbed wire on one side and the washing-shed on another—made famous by the scene of inebriety above described. Punctually at the expiration of thirty minutes she was shoved back into the cabinot by the plantons. Every day for sixteen days I saw her; noted the indestructible bravado of her gait and carriage, the unchanging timbre of her terrible laughter in response to the salutation of an inhabitant of The Enormous Room (for there were at least six men who spoke to her daily, and took their pain sec and their cabinot in punishment therefor with the pride of a soldier who takes the medaille militaire in recompense for his valour); noted the increasing pallor of her flesh, watched the skin gradually assume a distinct greenish tint (a greenishness which I cannot describe save that it suggested putrefaction); heard the coughing to which she had always been subject grow thicker and deeper till it doubled her up every few minutes, creasing her body as you crease a piece of paper with your thumbnail, preparatory to tearing it in two—and I realised fully and irrevocably and for perhaps the first time the meaning of civilization. And I realised that it was true—as I had previously only suspected it to be true—that in finding us unworthy of helping to carry forward the banner of progress, alias the tricolour, the inimitable and excellent French government was conferring upon B. and myself—albeit with other intent—the ultimate compliment.
And the Machine-Fixer, whose opinion of this blond putain grew and increased and soared with every day of her martyrdom till the Machine-Fixer’s former classification of les femmes exploded and disappeared entirely—the Machine-Fixer who would have fallen on his little knees to Lena had she given him a chance, and kissed the hem of her striped skirt in an ecstasy of adoration—told me that Lena on being finally released, walked upstairs herself, holding hard to the banister without a look for anyone, “having eyes as big as teacups.” He added, with tears in his own eyes:
diff --git a/src/epub/text/chapter-7.xhtml b/src/epub/text/chapter-7.xhtml index 60a724a..f3e1661 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/chapter-7.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/chapter-7.xhtml @@ -13,7 +13,7 @@- “Sunday (says Mr. Pound with infinite penetration) is a dreadful day, + “Sunday (says Mr. Pound with infinite penetration) is a dreadful day,
Monday is much pleasanter.
@@ -85,13 +85,13 @@“No travailler moi. Femme travaille, fait la noce, tout le temps. Toujours avec officiers anglais. Gagne beaucoup, cent francs, deux cent francs, trois cent francs, toutes les nuits. Anglais riches. Femme me donne tout. Moi no travailler. Bon, eh?”
Grateful for this little piece of information, and with his leer an inch from my chin, I answered slowly and calmly that it certainly was. I might add that he spoke Spanish by preference (according to Mexique very bad Spanish); for The Fighting Sheeney had made his home for a number of years in Rio, and his opinion thereof may be loosely translated by the expressive phrase, “it’s a swell town.”
A charming fellow, The Fighting Sheeney.
-Now I must tell you what happened to the poor Spanish Whoremaster. I have already noted the fact that Count Bragard conceived an immediate fondness for this rolypoly individual, whose belly—as he lay upon his back of a morning in bed—rose up with the sheets, blankets and quilts as much as two feet above the level of his small, stupid head studded with chins. I have said that this admiration on the part of the admirable Count and R.A. for a personage of the Spanish Whoremaster’s profession somewhat interested me. The fact is, a change had recently come in our own relations with Vanderbilt’s friend. His cordiality toward B. and myself had considerably withered. From the time of our arrivals the good nobleman had showered us with favours and advice. To me, I may say, he was even extraordinarily kind. We talked painting, for example: Count Bragard folded a piece of paper, tore it in the centre of the folded edge, unfolded it carefully, exhibiting a good round hole, and remarking: “Do you know this trick? It’s an English trick, Mr. Cummings,” held the paper before him and gazed profoundly through the circular aperture at an exceptionally disappointing section of the altogether gloomy landscape, visible thanks to one of the ecclesiastical windows of The Enormous Room. “Just look at that, Mr. Cummings,” he said with quiet dignity. I looked. I tried my best to find something to the left. “No, no, straight through,” Count Bragard corrected me. “There’s a lovely bit of landscape,” he said sadly. “If I only had my paints here. I thought, you know, of asking my housekeeper to send them on from Paris—but how can you paint in a bloody place like this with all these bloody pigs around you? It’s ridiculous to think of it. And it’s tragic, too,” he added grimly, with something like tears in his grey, tired eyes.
+Now I must tell you what happened to the poor Spanish Whoremaster. I have already noted the fact that Count Bragard conceived an immediate fondness for this rolypoly individual, whose belly—as he lay upon his back of a morning in bed—rose up with the sheets, blankets and quilts as much as two feet above the level of his small, stupid head studded with chins. I have said that this admiration on the part of the admirable Count and R.A. for a personage of the Spanish Whoremaster’s profession somewhat interested me. The fact is, a change had recently come in our own relations with Vanderbilt’s friend. His cordiality toward B. and myself had considerably withered. From the time of our arrivals the good nobleman had showered us with favours and advice. To me, I may say, he was even extraordinarily kind. We talked painting, for example: Count Bragard folded a piece of paper, tore it in the centre of the folded edge, unfolded it carefully, exhibiting a good round hole, and remarking: “Do you know this trick? It’s an English trick, Mr. Cummings,” held the paper before him and gazed profoundly through the circular aperture at an exceptionally disappointing section of the altogether gloomy landscape, visible thanks to one of the ecclesiastical windows of The Enormous Room. “Just look at that, Mr. Cummings,” he said with quiet dignity. I looked. I tried my best to find something to the left. “No, no, straight through,” Count Bragard corrected me. “There’s a lovely bit of landscape,” he said sadly. “If I only had my paints here. I thought, you know, of asking my housekeeper to send them on from Paris—but how can you paint in a bloody place like this with all these bloody pigs around you? It’s ridiculous to think of it. And it’s tragic, too,” he added grimly, with something like tears in his grey, tired eyes.
Or we were promenading The Enormous Room after supper—the evening promenade in the cour having been officially eliminated owing to the darkness and the cold of the autumn twilight—and through the windows the dull bloating colours of sunset pouring faintly; and the Count stops dead in his tracks and regards the sunset without speaking for a number of seconds. Then—“it’s glorious, isn’t it?” he asks quietly. I say “Glorious indeed.” He resumes his walk with a sigh, and I accompany him. “Ce n’est pas difficile à peindre, un coucher du soleil, it’s not hard,” he remarks gently. “No?” I say with deference. “Not hard a bit,” the Count says, beginning to use his hands. “You only need three colours, you know. Very simple.” “Which colours are they?” I inquire ignorantly. “Why, you know of course,” he says surprised. “Burnt sienna, cadmium yellow, and—er—there! I can’t think of it. I know it as well as I know my own face. So do you. Well, that’s stupid of me.”
Or, his worn eyes dwelling benignantly upon my duffle-bag, he warns me (in a low voice) of Prussian Blue.
-“Did you notice the portrait hanging in the bureau of the Surveillant?” Count Bragard inquired one day. “That’s a pretty piece of work, Mr. Cummings. Notice it when you get a chance. The green moustache, particularly fine. School of Cézanne.”—“Really?” I said in surprise.—“Yes, indeed,” Count Bragard said, extracting his tired-looking hands from his tired-looking trousers with a cultured gesture. “Fine young fellow painted that. I knew him. Disciple of the master. Very creditable piece of work.”—“Did you ever see Cézanne?” I ventured.—“Bless you, yes, scores of times,” he answered almost pityingly.—“What did he look like?” I asked, with great curiosity.—“Look like? His appearance, you mean?” Count Bragard seemed at a loss. “Why he was not extraordinary looking. I don’t know how you could describe him. Very difficult in English. But you know a phrase we have in French, ‘l’air pesant’; I don’t think there’s anything in English for it; il avait l’air pesant, Cézanne, if you know what I mean.
+“Did you notice the portrait hanging in the bureau of the Surveillant?” Count Bragard inquired one day. “That’s a pretty piece of work, Mr. Cummings. Notice it when you get a chance. The green moustache, particularly fine. School of Cézanne.”—“Really?” I said in surprise.—“Yes, indeed,” Count Bragard said, extracting his tired-looking hands from his tired-looking trousers with a cultured gesture. “Fine young fellow painted that. I knew him. Disciple of the master. Very creditable piece of work.”—“Did you ever see Cézanne?” I ventured.—“Bless you, yes, scores of times,” he answered almost pityingly.—“What did he look like?” I asked, with great curiosity.—“Look like? His appearance, you mean?” Count Bragard seemed at a loss. “Why he was not extraordinary looking. I don’t know how you could describe him. Very difficult in English. But you know a phrase we have in French, ‘l’air pesant’; I don’t think there’s anything in English for it; il avait l’air pesant, Cézanne, if you know what I mean.
“I should work, I should not waste my time,” the Count would say almost weepingly. “But it’s no use, my things aren’t here. And I’m getting old too; couldn’t concentrate in this stinking hole of a place, you know.”
-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.”
+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.
diff --git a/src/epub/text/introduction.xhtml b/src/epub/text/introduction.xhtml index 8ae5642..e36e6b7 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/introduction.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/introduction.xhtml @@ -23,13 +23,13 @@ White House,
Washington DC. -Mr. President:
-It seems criminal to ask for a single moment of your time. But I am strongly advised that it would be more criminal to delay any longer calling to your attention a crime against American citizenship in which the French Government has persisted for many weeks—in spite of constant appeals made to the American Minister at Paris; and in spite of subsequent action taken by the State Department at Washington, on the initiative of my friend, Hon. ⸻.
+Mr. President:
+It seems criminal to ask for a single moment of your time. But I am strongly advised that it would be more criminal to delay any longer calling to your attention a crime against American citizenship in which the French Government has persisted for many weeks—in spite of constant appeals made to the American Minister at Paris; and in spite of subsequent action taken by the State Department at Washington, on the initiative of my friend, Hon. ⸻.
The victims are two American ambulance drivers, Edward Estlin Cummings of Cambridge, Mass., and W⸺ S⸺ B⸺. …
More than two months ago these young men were arrested, subjected to many indignities, dragged across France like criminals, and closely confined in a Concentration Camp at La Ferté Macé; where, according to latest advices they still remain—awaiting the final action of the Minister of the Interior upon the findings of a Commission which passed upon their cases as long ago as .
Against Cummings both private and official advices from Paris state that there is no charge whatever. He has been subjected to this outrageous treatment solely because of his intimate friendship with young B⸺, whose sole crime is—so far as can be learned—that certain letters to friends in America were misinterpreted by an overzealous French censor.
It only adds to the indignity and irony of the situation to say that young Cummings is an enthusiastic lover of France and so loyal to the friends he has made among the French soldiers, that even while suffering in health from his unjust confinement, he excuses the ingratitude of the country he has risked his life to serve by calling attention to the atmosphere of intense suspicion and distrust that has naturally resulted from the painful experience which France has had with foreign emissaries.
-Be assured, Mr. President, that I have waited long—it seems like ages—and have exhausted all other available help before venturing to trouble you.
+Be assured, Mr. President, that I have waited long—it seems like ages—and have exhausted all other available help before venturing to trouble you.
After many weeks of vain effort to secure effective action by the American Ambassador at Paris, Richard Norton of the Norton-Harjes Ambulance Corps to which the boys belonged, was completely discouraged, and advised me to seek help here.
@@ -50,8 +50,8 @@After such painful and baffling experiences, I turn to you—burdened though I know you to be, in this world crisis, with the weightiest task ever laid upon any man.
-But I have another reason for asking this favor. I do not speak for my son alone; or for him and his friend alone. My son has a mother—as brave and patriotic as any mother who ever dedicated an only son to a great cause. The mothers of our boys in France have rights as well as the boys themselves. My boy’s mother had a right to be protected from the weeks of horrible anxiety and suspense caused by the inexplicable arrest and imprisonment of her son. My boy’s mother had a right to be spared the supreme agony caused by a blundering cable from Paris saying that he had been drowned by a submarine. (An error which Mr. Norton subsequently cabled that he had discovered six weeks before.) My boy’s mother and all American mothers have a right to be protected against all needless anxiety and sorrow.
-Pardon me, Mr. President, but if I were President and your son were suffering such prolonged injustice at the hands of France; and your son’s mother had been needlessly kept in Hell as many weeks as my boy’s mother has—I would do something to make American citizenship as sacred in the eyes of Frenchmen as Roman citizenship was in the eyes of the ancient world. Then it was enough to ask the question, “Is it lawful to scourge a man that is a Roman, and uncondemned?” Now, in France, it seems lawful to treat like a condemned criminal a man that is an American, uncondemned and admittedly innocent!
+But I have another reason for asking this favor. I do not speak for my son alone; or for him and his friend alone. My son has a mother—as brave and patriotic as any mother who ever dedicated an only son to a great cause. The mothers of our boys in France have rights as well as the boys themselves. My boy’s mother had a right to be protected from the weeks of horrible anxiety and suspense caused by the inexplicable arrest and imprisonment of her son. My boy’s mother had a right to be spared the supreme agony caused by a blundering cable from Paris saying that he had been drowned by a submarine. (An error which Mr. Norton subsequently cabled that he had discovered six weeks before.) My boy’s mother and all American mothers have a right to be protected against all needless anxiety and sorrow.
+Pardon me, Mr. President, but if I were President and your son were suffering such prolonged injustice at the hands of France; and your son’s mother had been needlessly kept in Hell as many weeks as my boy’s mother has—I would do something to make American citizenship as sacred in the eyes of Frenchmen as Roman citizenship was in the eyes of the ancient world. Then it was enough to ask the question, “Is it lawful to scourge a man that is a Roman, and uncondemned?” Now, in France, it seems lawful to treat like a condemned criminal a man that is an American, uncondemned and admittedly innocent!