Authors: William Faulkner
The furniture loomed shapelessly in its dun shrouds; the piano alone was uncovered, and Narcissa drew the bench out and removed her hat and dropped it beside her. Miss Jenny set the basket down and from the gloom back of the instrument she drew a straight, hard chair, uncovered also, and sat down and removed her felt hat from her trim white head. Light came through the open door, but the windows were shuttered behind heavy maroon curtains, and it served only to enhance the obscurity and to render more shapeless the hooded anonymous furniture.
But behind these dun bulks and in all the corners of the room there waited, as actors stand within the wings beside the waiting stage, figures in crinoline and hooped muslin and silk; in stocks and flowing coats; in gray too, with crimson sashes and sabres in gallant sheathed repose;—Jeb Stuart himself perhaps,
on his glittering garlanded bay or with his sunny hair falling upon fine broadcloth beneath the mistletoe and holly boughs of Baltimore in ’58. Miss Jenny sat with her uncompromising grenadier’s back and held her hat upon her knees and fixed herself to look on as her guest touched chords from the keyboard and wove them together and rolled the curtain back upon the scene.
In the kitchen Caspey was having breakfast while Simon his father, and Elnora his sister, and Isom his nephew (in uniform) watched him. He had been Simon’s understudy in the stables and general handy-man about the place, doing all the work that Simon managed, through the specious excuse of decrepitude and filial gratitude, to slough off onto his shoulders and that Miss Jenny could devise for him and which he could not evade. Old Bayard also employed him in the fields occasionally. Then the draft had got him and bore him to France and the St Sulpice docks as one of a labor battalion, where he did what work corporals and sergeants managed to slough off onto his unmilitary shoulders and that white officers could devise for him and which he could not evade.
Thus all the labor about the place devolved upon Simon and Isom, but Miss Jenny kept Isom piddling about the house so much of the time that Simon was soon as bitter against the War Lords as any professional Democrat. Meanwhile Caspey was working a little and trifling with continental life in its martial phases rather to his future detriment, for at last the tumult died and the captains departed and left a vacuum filled with the usual bitter bickering of Armageddon’s heirs-at-law; and Caspey returned to his native land a total loss, sociologically speaking, with a definite disinclination toward labor, honest or otherwise, and two honorable wounds incurred in a razor-hedged crap game. But return he did, to his father’s querulous
satisfaction and Elnora’s and Isom’s admiration, and he now sat in the kitchen, telling them about the war.
“I dont take nothin’ fum no white folks no mo’,” he was saying. “War done changed all dat. If us cullud folks is good enough ter save France fum de Germans, den us is good enough ter have de same rights de Germans is. French folks thinks so, anyhow, and ef America dont, dey’s ways of learnin’ ’um. Yes, suh, it wuz de cullud soldier saved France and America bofe. Black regiments kilt mo’ Germans dan all de white armies put together, let ’lone unloadin’ steamboats all day long fer a dollar a day.”
“War aint hurt dat big mouf o’ yo’n, anyhow,” Simon said.
“War unloosed de black man’s mouf,” Caspey corrected. “Give him de right to talk. Kill Germans, den do yo’ oratin’, dey tole us. Well, us done it.”
“How many you kilt, Unc’ Caspey?” Isom asked deferentially.
“I aint never bothered to count ’um up. Been times I kilt mo in one mawnin’ dan dey’s folks on dis whole place. One time we wuz down in de cellar of a steamboat tied up to de bank, and one of dese submareems sailed up and stopped, and all de white officers run up on de bank and hid. Us boys downstairs didn’t know dey wuz anything wrong ’twell folks started clambin’ down de ladder. We never had no guns wid us at de time, so when we seed dem green legs comin’ down de ladder we crope up behin’ ’um, and ez dey come down one of de boys would hit ’um over de haid wid a piece of scantlin’ and another would drag ’um outen de way and cut dey th’oat wid a meat-plow. Dey wuz about thirty of ’um.…… Elnora, is dey any mo’ of dat coffee lef’?”
“Sho,” Simon murmured. Isom’s eyes popped quietly and Elnora lifted the coffee-pot from the stove and refilled Caspey’s cup.
Caspey drank coffee for a while. “And another time me and a boy wuz gwine along a road. We got tired unloadin’ dem steamboats all day long, so one day de Captain’s
dog-robber foun’ whar he kep’ dese here unloaded passes and he tuck a han’ful of ’um, and me and him wuz on de road to town when a truck come along and de boy axed us did us want a lif’. He wuz a school boy, so he writ on three of de passes whenever we come to a place dat mought be M.P. invested, and we got along fine, ridin’ about de country on dat private truck, ’twell one mawnin’ we looked out whar de truck wuz and dey wuz a M.P. settin’ on it whilst de truck boy wuz tryin’ to explain to him. So we turned de other way and lit out walkin’. After dat we had to dodge de M.P. towns, ’case me and de other boy couldn’t write on de passes.
“One day we wuz gwine along a road. It wuz a busted-up road and it didn’t look much like no M.P. country, but dey wuz some of ’em in de las’ town we dodged, so we didn’t know we wuz so close to whar de fightin’ wuz gwine on ’twell we walked onto a bridge and come right onto a whole regiment of Germans, swimmin’ in de river. Dey seed us about de same time we seed dem and div under de water, and me and de other boy grabbed up two machine guns settin’ dar and we sot on de bridge rail, and ev’y time a German stuck his haid up fer a new breaf, us shot ’im. It wuz jes’ like shootin’ turkles in a slough. I reckon dey wuz clost to a hun’ed us kilt ’fo’ de machine guns run dry. Dat’s whut dey gimme dis fer.” He drew from his pocket a florid plated medal of Porto Rican origin, and Isom came quietly up to see it.
“Umumuh,” Simon said. He sat with his hands on his knees, watching his son with rapt astonishment. Elnora came up also, her arms daubed with flour.
“Whut does dey look like?” she asked. “Like folks?”
“Dey’s big,” Caspey answered. “Sort of pink lookin’ and
about eight foot tall. Only folks in de whole American war dat could handle ’um wuz de cullud regiments.” Isom returned to his corner beside the woodbox.
“Aint you got some gyardenin’ to do, boy?” Simon asked him.
“Naw, suh,” Isom answered, his enraptured gaze still on his uncle. “Miss Jenny say us done caught up dis mawnin’.”
“Well, dont you come whinin’ ter me when she jumps on you,” Simon warned him. “Whar’d you kill de nex’ lot?” he asked his son.
“Us didn’t kill no mo’ after dat,” Caspey said. “We decided dat wuz enough and dat we better leave de rest of ’um fer de boys dat wuz gittin’ paid fer killin’ ’um. We went on ’twell de road played out in a field. Dey wuz some ditches and ole wire fences and holes in de field, wid folks livin’ in ’um. De folks wuz white American soldiers and dey egvised us to pick us out a hole and stay dar fer a while, ef us wanted de peace and comfort of de war. So we picked us out a dry hole and moved in. Dey wasn’t nothin’ to do all day long but lay in de shade and watch de air balloons and listen to de shootin’ about fo’ miles up de road. De white boy wid me claimed it wuz rabbit hunters, but I knowed better. De white boys could write, so dey fixed up de passes and we tuck time about gwine up to whar de army wuz and gittin’ grub. When de passes give out we foun’ whar a French army wid some cannons wuz livin’ over in de woods a ways, so we went over whar dey wuz and et.
“Dat went on fer a long time, ’twell one day de balloons wuz gone and de white boys says it wuz time to move again. But me and de other boy didn’t see no use in gwine nowhar else, so we stayed. Dat evenin’ we went over to whar de French army wuz fer some grub, but dey wuz gone too. De boy wid me says maybe de Germans done caught ’um, but we didn’t know;
hadn’t heard no big racket since yistiddy. So we went back to de cave. Dey wasn’t no grub, so we crawled in and went to bed and slep’ dat night, and early de nex’ mawnin’ somebody come into de hole and tromped on us and woke us up. It wuz one of dese army upliftin’ ladies huntin’ German bayonets and belt-buckles. She say ‘Who dat in here?’ and de other boy says ‘Us shock troops’. So we got out, but we hadn’t gone no piece ’fo’ here come a wagon-load of M.P.s. And de passes had done give out.”
“Whut you do den?” Simon asked. Isom’s eyes bulged quietly in the gloom behind the woodbox.
“Dey tuck us and shut us up in de jail-house fer a while.
But de war wuz mos’ thu and dey needed us to load dem steamboats back up, so dey sont us to a town name’ Bres’….… I dont take nothin’ offen no white man, M.P. er not,” Caspey stated again. “Us boys wuz in a room one night, shootin’ dice. De bugle had done already played de lights out tune, but we wuz in de army, whar a man kin do whut he wants es long es dey’ll let ’im, so when de M.P. come along and says ‘Put out dat light’, one of de boys says ‘Come in here, and we’ll put yo’n out’. Dey wuz two of de M.P.s and dey kicked de do’ in and started shootin’, and somebody knocked de light over and we run. Dey foun’ one of de M.P.s de nex’ mawnin’ widout nothin’ to hole his collar on, and two of de boys wuz daid, too. But dey couldn’t fin’ who de res’ of us wuz. And den we come home.”
Caspey emptied his cup. “I dont take nothin’ offen no white man no mo’, lootenant ner captain ner M.P. War showed de white folks dey cant git along widout de cullud man. Tromple him in de dus’, but when de trouble bust loose, hit’s ‘Please, suh, Mr Cullud Man; right dis way whar de bugle blow-in’, Mr Cullud Man; you is de savior of de country.’ And now de cullud race gwine reap de benefits of de war, and dat soon.”
“Sho,” murmured Simon.
“Yes, suh. And de women, too. I got my white in France, and I’m gwine git it here, too.”
“Lemme tell you somethin’, nigger,” Simon said. “De good Lawd done took keer of you fer a long time now, but He aint gwine bother wid you always.”
“Den I reckon I’ll git along widout Him,” Caspey retorted. He rose and stretched. “Reckon I’ll go down to de big road and ketch a ride into town. Gimme dem clothes, Isom.”
Miss Jenny and her guest stood on the veranda when he passed along beside the house and crossed toward the drive.
“There goes your gardener,” Narcissa said. Miss Jenny looked.
“That’s Caspey,” she corrected. “Now, where do you reckon he’s headed? Town, I’ll bet a dollar,” she added, watching his lounging khaki back, by means of which he contrived to disseminate in some way a sort of lazy insolence. “You, Caspey!” she called.
He slowed in passing Narcissa’s small car and examined it with a disparagement too lazy to sneer even, then he slouched on.
“You, Caspey!” Miss Jenny repeated, raising her voice. But he went steadily on down the drive, insolent and slouching and unhurried. “He heard me,” she said ominously. “We’ll see about this when he comes back. Who was the fool anyway, who thought of putting niggers into the same uniform with white men? Mr
Vardaman knew better; he told those fools at Washington at the time that it wouldn’t do. But politicians!” She invested the innocent word with an utter and blasting derogation. “If I ever get tired of associating with gentlefolks, I know what I’ll do: I’ll run for Congress.… Listen at me! tirad-in’ again. I declare, at times I believe these Sartorises and all their possessions just set out to plague and worry me. Thank
the Lord, I wont have to associate with ’em after I’m dead. I dont know where they’ll be, but no Sartoris is going to stay in heaven any longer than he can help.”
The other laughed. “You seem very sure of your own destination, Miss Jenny.”
“Why shouldn’t I be? Haven’t I been laying up crowns and harps for a long time?” She shaded her eyes with her hand and gazed down the drive. Caspey had reached the gate and he now stood beside the road, waiting for a wagon to pass. “Dont you stop for him, you hear?” she said suddenly. “Why wont you stay for dinner?”
“No,” the other answered. “I must get on home. Aunt Sally’s not well today.……” She stood for a moment in the sunlight, her hat and her basket of flowers on her arm, musing. Then with a sudden decision she drew a folded paper from the front of her dress.
“Got another one, did you?” Miss Jenny asked, watching her. “Lemme see it.” She took the paper and opened it and stepped back out of the sun. Her nose glasses hung on a slender silk cord that rolled onto a spring in a small gold case pinned to her bosom. She snapped the cord out and set the glasses on her high-bridged nose, and behind them her gray eyes were cold and piercing as a surgeon’s.
The paper was a single sheet of foolscap; it bore writing in a frank, open script that at first glance divulged no individuality whatever; a hand youthful yet at the same time so blandly and neatly unsecretive that presently you wondered a little.
“You did not answere mine of 25th. I did not expect you answer it yet. You will answer soon I can wait. I will not harm you I am square and honest you will lern when our ways come to gether. I do not expect you answer Yet. But you know where you make a sign.”
Miss Jenny refolded the paper with a gesture of fine and
delicate distaste. “I’d burn this thing, if it wasn’t the only thing we have to catch him with. I’ll give it to Bayard tonight.”
“No, no,” the other protested quickly, extending her hand. “Please dont. Let me have it and tear it up.”
“It’s our only evidence, child—this and the other one. We’ll get a detective.”
“No, no; please! I dont want anybody else to know about it. Please, Miss Jenny.” She reached her hand again.
“You want to keep it,” Miss Jenny accused coldly. “Just like a young fool woman, to be flattered by a thing like this.”
“I’ll tear it up,” the other repeated. “I would have sooner, but I wanted to tell someone. It—it—I thought I wouldn’t feel so filthy, after I had shown it to someone else. Let me have it, please.”
“Fiddlesticks. Why should you feel filthy? You haven’t encouraged it, have you?”
“Please, Miss Jenny.”
But Miss Jenny still held on to it. “Dont be a fool,” she snapped. “How can this thing make you feel filthy? Any young woman is liable to get an anonymous letter. And a lot of ’em like it. We all are convinced that men feel that way about us, and we cant help but admire one that’s got the courage to tell us, no matter who he is.”