...
One afternoon I was lying on my couch, thinking of the usual Nothing,
when a sharp cry sung through The Enormous Room:
"_Il tombe de la neige--Noel! Noel!_"
I sat up. The Guard Champetre was at the nearest window, dancing a little
horribly and crying:
"_Noel! Noel!_"
I went to another window and looked out. Sure enough. Snow was falling,
gradually and wonderfully falling, silently falling through the thick
soundless Autumn.... It seemed to me supremely beautiful, the snow. There
was about it something unspeakably crisp and exquisite, something perfect
and minute and gentle and fatal.... The Guard Champetre's cry began a
poem in the back of my head, a poem about the snow, a poem in French,
beginning _Il tombe de la neige, Noel, Noel._ I watched the snow. After a
long time I returned to my bunk and I lay down, closing my eyes; feeling
the snow's minute and crisp touch falling gently and exquisitely, falling
perfectly and suddenly, through the thick soundless autumn of my
imagination....
"_L'americain! L'americain!_"
Someone is speaking to me.
"_Le petit belge avec le bras casse est la-bas, a la porte, il veut
parler...._"
I marched the length of the room. The Enormous Room is filled with a new
and beautiful darkness, the darkness of the snow outside, falling and
falling and falling with the silent and actual gesture which has touched
the soundless country of my mind as a child touches a toy it loves.
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