e e cummings

•→ E.E. Cummings _ A poet, playwright, novelist, and painter ⇐

¤  The Enormous Room

Edward Estlin Cummings (1894 – 1962), the author of the book, was suspected of treason while volunteering in France during 1st World War, and put, without any due reason, to prison camp in the town of La Ferté-Macé in Orne, Normandy.

Those several months influenced him a lot and all those unique characters he met there, in the «Enormous room», became part of the plot of this brilliantly written masterpiece. Sometimes merry, sometimes maddening… but always fascinating. Enjoy the sense of humor and intelligence of its author.

¶  Click  for this gem of American prose  ↓

•→http://net.lib.byu.edu/~rdh7/wwi/memoir/cummings/roomTC.htm←

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.

‘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 as 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 Under-Secretary 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 sections sanitaires 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?’

Here I corrected him: there were three of us, and why didn’t he have the third culprit arrested, might I ask? But he ignored this little digression, and wanted to know: Why not American aviation?—to which I answered: Ah, but as my friend has so often said to me, the French are after all the finest people in the world.

This double-blow stopped Noyon dead, but only for a second.

‘Did your friend write this letter?’—‘No,’ I answered truthfully.—‘Who did write it?’—‘One of the Frenchmen attached to the section.’—‘What is his name?’—‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ I answered; mentally swearing that whatever might happen to me, the scribe should not suffer. ‘At my urgent request,’ I added.

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 motor-cycle. (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.’

Following up this sortie, I addressed the moustache: ‘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.

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