The Essential Faulkner

by William Faulkner

  “I wish you wouldn’t keep on bringin’ him to church, mammy,” Frony said. “Folks talkin.”

  “Whut folks?” Dilsey said.

  “I hears em,” Frony said.

  “And I knows whut kind of folks,” Dilsey said. “Trash white folks. Dat’s who it is. Thinks he ain’t good enough fer white church, but nigger church ain’t good enough fer him.”

  “Dey talks, jes de same,” Frony said.

  “Den you send um to me,” Dilsey said. “Tell um de good Lawd don’t keer whether he smart er not. Don’t nobody but white trash keer dat.”

  A street turned off at right angles, descending, and became a dirt road. On either hand the land dropped more sharply; a broad flat dotted with small cabins whose weathered roofs were on a level with the crown of the road. They were set in small grassless plots littered with broken things, bricks, planks, crockery, things of a once utilitarian value. What growth there was consisted of rank weeds and the trees were mulberries and locusts and sycamores—trees that partook also of the foul desiccation which surrounded the houses; trees whose very burgeoning seemed to be the sad and stubborn remnant of September, as if even spring had passed them by, leaving them to feed upon the rich and unmistakable smell of Negroes in which they grew.

  From the doors Negroes spoke to them as they passed, to Dilsey usually:

  “Sis’ Gibson! How you dis mawnin?”

  “I’m well. Is you well?”

  “I’m right well, I thank you.”

  They emerged from the cabins and struggled up the shading levee to the road—men in staid, hard brown or black, with gold watch chains and now and then a stick; young men in cheap, violent blues or stripes and swaggering hats; women a little stiffly sibilant, and children in garments bought second hand of white people, who looked at Ben with the covertness of nocturnal animals:

  “I bet you won’t go up en tech him.”

  “How come I won’t?”

  “I bet you won’t. I bet you skeered to.”

  “He won’t hurt folks. He des a loony.”

  “How come a loony won’t hurt folks?”

  “Dat un won’t. I teched him.”

  “I bet you won’t now.”

  “Case Miss Dilsey lookin’.”

  “You won’t no ways.”

  “He don’t hurt folks. He des a loony.”

  And steadily the older people speaking to Dilsey, though, unless they were quite old, Dilsey permitted Frony to respond.

  “Mammy ain’t feelin’ well dis mawnin.”

  “Dat’s too bad. But Rev’un Shegog’ll cure dat. He’ll give her de comfort en de unburdenin’.”

  The road rose again, to a scene like a painted backdrop. Notched into a cut of red clay crowned with oaks the road appeared to stop short off, like a cut ribbon. Beside it a weathered church lifted its crazy steeple like a painted church, and the whole scene was as flat and without perspective as a painted cardboard set upon the ultimate edge of the flat earth, against the windy sunlight of space and April and a midmorning filled with bells. Toward the church they thronged with slow sabbath deliberation. The women and children went on in, the men stopped outside and talked in quiet groups until the bell ceased ringing. Then they too entered.

  The church had been decorated, with sparse flowers from kitchen gardens and hedgerows, and with streamers of colored crepe paper. Above the pulpit hung a battered Christmas bell, the accordion sort that collapses. The pulpit was empty, though the choir was already in place, fanning themselves although it was not warm.

  Most of the women were gathered on one side of the room. They were talking. Then the bell struck one time and they dispersed to their seats and the congregation sat for an instant, expectant. The bell struck again one time. The choir rose and began to sing and the congregation turned its head as one, as six small children—four girls with tight pigtails bound with small scraps of cloth like butterflies, and two boys with close-napped heads—entered and marched up the aisle, strung together in a harness of white ribbons and flowers, and followed by two men in single file. The second man was huge, of a light coffee color, imposing in a frock coat and white tie. His head was magisterial and profound, his neck rolled above his collar in rich folds. But he was familiar to them, and so the heads were still reverted when he had passed, and it was not until the choir ceased singing that they realized that the visiting clergyman had already entered, and when they saw the man who had preceded their minister enter the pulpit still ahead of him an indescribable sound went up, a sigh, a sound of astonishment and disappointment.

  The visitor was undersized, in a shabby alpaca coat. He had a wizened, black face like a small, aged monkey. And all the while that the choir sang again and while the six children rose and sang in thin, frightened, tuneless whispers, they watched the insignificant-looking man sitting dwarfed and countrified by the minister’s imposing bulk, with something like consternation. They were still looking at him with consternation and unbelief when the minister rose and introduced him in rich, rolling tones whose very unction served to increase the visitor’s insignificance.

  “En dey brung dat all de way fum Saint Looey,” Frony whispered.

  “I’ve knowed de Lawd to use cuiser tools dan dat,” Dilsey said. “Hush, now,” she said to Ben. “Dey fixin’ to sing again in a minute.”

  When the visitor rose to speak he sounded like a white man. His voice was level and cold. It sounded too big to have come from him and they listened at first through curiosity, as they would have to a monkey talking. They began to watch him as they would a man on a tightrope. They even forgot his insignificant appearance in the virtuosity with which he ran and poised and swooped upon the cold inflectionless wire of his voice, so that at last, when with a sort of swooping glide he came to rest again beside the reading desk with one arm resting upon it at shoulder height and his monkey body as reft of all motion as a mummy or an emptied vessel, the congregation sighed as if it waked from a collective dream and moved a little in its seats. Behind the pulpit the choir fanned steadily. Dilsey whispered, “Hush, now. Dey fixin’ to sing in a minute.”

  Then a voice said, “Brethren.”

  The preacher had not moved. His arm lay yet across the desk, and he still held that pose while the voice died in sonorous echoes between the walls. It was as different as day and dark from his former tone, with a sad, timbrous quality like an alto horn, sinking into their hearts and speaking there again when it had ceased in fading and cumulate echoes.

  “Brethren and sisteren,” it said again. The preacher removed his arm and he began to walk back and forth before the desk, his hands clasped behind him, a meagre figure, hunched over upon itself like that of one long immured in striving with the implacable earth, “I got the recollection and the blood of the Lamb!” He tramped steadily back and forth beneath the twisted paper and the Christmas bell, hunched, his hands clasped behind him. He was like a worn, small rock whelmed by the successive waves of his voice. With his body he seemed to feed the voice that, succubus like, had fleshed its teeth in him. And the congregation seemed to watch with its own eyes while the voice consumed him, until he was nothing and they were nothing and there was not even a voice, but instead their hearts were speaking to one another in chanting measures beyond the need for words, so that when he came to rest against the reading desk, his monkey face lifted and his whole attitude that of a serene, tortured crucifix that transcended its shabbiness and insignificance and made it of no moment, a long, moaning expulsion of breath rose from them, and a woman’s single soprano: “Yes, Jesus!”

  As the scudding day passed overhead the dingy windows glowed and faded in ghostly retrograde. A car passed along the road outside, laboring in the sand, died away. Dilsey sat bolt upright, her hand on Ben’s knee. Two tears slid down her fallen cheeks, in and out of the myriad coruscations of immolation and abnegation and time.

  “Brethren,” the minister said in a harsh whisper, without moving.

  “Yes, Jesus!” the woman’
s voice said, hushed yet.

  “Breddren en sistuhn!” His voice rang again, with the horns. He removed his arm and stood erect and raised his hands. “I got de ricklickshun en de blood of de Lamb!” They did not mark just when his intonation, his pronunciation, became Negroid, they just sat swaying a little in their seats as the voice took them into itself.

  “When de long, cold— Oh, I tells you, breddren, when de long, cold—I sees de light en I sees de word, po’ sinner! Dey passed away in Egypt, de swingin’ chariots; de generations passed away. Wus a rich man: whar he now, O breddren? Wus a po’ man: whar he now, O sistuhn? Oh I tells you, ef you ain’t got de milk en de dew of de old salvation when de long, cold years rolls away!”

  “Yes, Jesus!”

  “I tells you, breddren, en I tells you, sistuhn, dey’ll come a time. Po’ sinner saying Let me lay down wid de Lawd, lemme lay down my load. Den whut Jesus gwine say, O breddren? O sistuhn? Is you got de ricklickshun en de blood of de Lamb? Case I ain’t gwine load down heaven!”

  He fumbled in his coat and took out a handkerchief and mopped his face. A low, concerted sound rose from the congregation: Mmmmmmmmmmmmm! The woman’s voice said, “Yes, Jesus! Jesus!”

  “Breddren! Look at dem little chillen settin dar. Jesus wus like dat once. He mammy suffered de glory en de pangs. Sometime maybe she helt him at de nightfall, whilst de angels singin’ him to sleep; maybe she look out de do’ en see de Roman po-lice passin’.” He tramped back and forth, mopping his face. “Listen breddren! I sees de day. Ma’y settin in de do’ wid Jesus on her lap, de little Jesus. Like dem chillen dar, de little Jesus. I hears de angels singin’ de peaceful songs en de glory; I sees de closin’ eyes; sees Mary jump up, sees de sojer face: We gwine to kill! We gwine to kill! We gwine to kill yo little Jesus! I hears de weepin’ en de lamentation of de po’ mammy widout de salvation en de word of God!”

  “Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm! Jesus! Little Jesus!” and another voice, rising:

  “I sees, O Jesus! Oh I sees!” and still another, without words, like bubbles rising in water.

  “I sees hit, breddren! I sees hit! Sees de blastin’, blindin’ sight! I sees Calvary, wid de sacred trees, sees de thief en de murderer en de least of dese; I hears de boastin’ en de braggin’: Ef you be Jesus, lif up yo’ tree en walk! I hears de wailin’ of women en de evenin’ lamentations; I hears de weepin’ en de cryin’ en de turnt-away face of God: dey done kilt Jesus; dey done kilt my Son!”

  “Mmmmmmmmmmmmm. Jesus! I sees, O Jesus!”

  “O blind sinner! Breddren, I tells you; sistuhn, I says to you, when de Lawd did turn His mighty face, say, Ain’t gwine overload heaven! I can see de widowed God shet His do’; I sees de whelmin’ flood roll between; I sees de darkness en de death everlastin’ upon de generations. Den, lo! Breddren! Yes, breddren! Whut I see? Whut I see, O sinner? I sees de resurrection en de light; sees de meek Jesus sayin’ Dey kilt Me dat ye shall live again; I died dat dem whut sees en believes shall never die. Breddren, O breddren! I sees de doom crack en hears de golden horns shoutin’ down de glory, en de arisen dead whut got de blood en de ricklickshun of de Lamb!”

  In the midst of the voices and the hands Ben sat, rapt in his sweet blue gaze. Dilsey sat bolt upright beside, crying rigidly and quietly in the annealment and the blood of the remembered Lamb.

  As they walked through the bright noon, up the sandy road with the dispersing congregation talking, easily again, group to group, she continued to weep, unmindful of the talk.

  “He sho a preacher, mon! He didn’t look like much at first, but hush!”

  “He seed de power en de glory.”

  “Yes, suh. He seed hit. Face to face he seed hit.”

  Dilsey made no sound, her face did not quiver as the tears took their sunken and devious courses, walking with her head up, making no effort to dry them away even.

  “Whyn’t you quit dat, mammy?” Frony said. “Wid all dese people lookin’. We be passin’ white folks soon.”

  “I’ve seed de first en de last,” Dilsey said. “Never you mind me.”

  “First en last whut?” Frony said.

  “Never you mind,” Dilsey said. “I seed de beginnin’, en now I sees de endin’.”

  Before they reached the street, though, she stopped and lifted her skirt and dried her eyes on the hem of her topmost underskirt. Then they went on. Ben shambled along beside Dilsey, watching Luster who anticked along ahead, the umbrella in his hand and his new straw hat slanted viciously in the sunlight, like a big foolish dog watching a small clever one. They reached the gate and entered. Immediately Ben began to whimper again, and for a while all of them looked up the drive at the square, paintless house with its rotting portico.

  “Whut’s gwine on up dar today?” Frony said. “Somethin’ is.”

  “Nothin’,” Dilsey said. “You tend to yo business en let de white folks tend to deir’n.”

  “Somethin’ is,” Frony said. “I heard him first thing dis mawnin. ‘Taint none of my busines, dough.”

  “En I knows whut, too,” Luster said.

  “You knows mo dan you got any use fer,” Dilsey said. “Ain’t you jes heard Frony say hit ain’t none of yo business? You take Benjy on to de back and keep him quiet twell I put dinner on.”

  “I knows whar Miss Quentin is,” Luster said.

  “Den jes keep hit,” Dilsey said. “Soon es Quentin need any of yo’ egvice, I’ll let you know. Y’all g’awn en play in de back, now.”

  “You know whut gwine happen soon es dey start playin’ dat ball over yonder,” Luster said.

  “Dey won’t start fer a while yit. By dat time T.P. be here to tak him ridin’. Here, you gimme dat new hat.”

  Luster gave her the hat and he and Ben went on across the back yard. Ben was still whimpering, though not loud. Dilsey and Frony went to the cabin. After a while Dilsey emerged, again in the faded calico dress, and went to the kitchen. The fire had died down. There was no sound in the house. She put on the apron and went upstairs. There was no sound anywhere. Quentin’s room was as they had left it. She entered and picked up the undergarment and put the stocking back in the drawer and closed it. Mrs. Compson’s door was closed. Dilsey stood beside it for a moment, listening. Then she opened it and entered, entered a pervading reek of camphor. The shades were drawn, the room in half-light, and the bed, so that at first she thought Mrs. Compson was asleep and was about to close the door when the other spoke.

  “Well?” she said. “What is it?”

  “Hit’s me,” Dilsey said. “You want anything?”

  Mrs. Compson didn’t answer. After a while, without moving her head at all, she said: “Where’s Jason?”

  “He ain’t come back yit,” Dilsey said. “Whut you want?”

  Mrs. Compson said nothing. Like so many cold, weak people, when faced at last by the incontrovertible disaster she exhumed from somewhere a sort of fortitude, strength. In her case it was an unshakable conviction regarding the yet unplumbed event. “Well,” she said presently, “did you find it?”

  “Find whut? Whut you talkin’ about?”

  “The note. At least she would have enough consideration to leave a note. Even Quentin did that.”

  “Whut you talkin’ about?” Dilsey said. “Don’t you know she all right? I bet she be walkin’ right in dis do’ befo’ dark.”

  “Fiddlesticks,” Mrs. Compson said. “It’s in the blood. Like uncle, like niece. Or mother. I don’t know which would be worse. I don’t seem to care.”

  “Whut you keep on talkin’ that way fur?” Dilsey said. “Whut she want to do anything like that fur?”

  “I don’t know. What reason did Quentin have? Under God’s heaven what reason did he have? It can’t be simply to flout and hurt me. Whoever God is, He would not permit that. I’m a lady. You might not believe that from my offspring, but I am.”

  “You des wait en see,” Dilsey said. “She be here by night, right dar in her bed.” Mrs. Compson said nothing. The camphor-soaked cloth lay upon her br
ow. The black robe lay across the foot of the bed. Dilsey stood with her hand on the doorknob.

  “Well,” Mrs. Compson said. “What do you want? Are you going to fix some dinner for Jason and Benjamin, or not?”

  “Jason ain’t come yit,” Dilsey said. “I gwine fix somethin.’ You sho you don’t want nothin? Yo’ bottle still hot enough?”

  “You might hand me my Bible.”

  “I give hit to you dis mawnin, befo’ I left.”

  “You laid it on the edge of the bed. How long did you expect it to stay there?”

  Dilsey crossed to the bed and groped among the shadows beneath the edge of it and found the Bible, face down. She smoothed the bent pages and laid the book on the bed again. Mrs. Compson didn’t open her eyes. Her hair and the pillow were the same color, beneath the wimple of the medicated cloth she looked like an old nun praying. “Don’t put it there again,” she said, without opening her eyes. “That’s where you put it before. Do you want me to have to get out of bed to pick it up?”

  Dilsey reached the book across her and laid it on the broad side of the bed. “You can’t see to read, noways,” she said. “You want me to raise de shade a little?”

  “No. Let them alone. Go on and fix Jason something to eat.”

  Dilsey went out. She closed the door and returned to the kitchen. The stove was almost cold. While she stood there the clock above the cupboard struck ten times. “One o’clock,” she said aloud. “Jason ain’t comin’ home. Ise seed de first en de last,” she said, looking at the cold stove. “I seed de first en de last.”

  6

  MISSISSIPPI FLOOD

  Editor’s Note

  Early in April 1927, the big river overflowed its banks, and the entire population of the state prison farm at Parchman, Mississippi, was set to work on a threatened levee. One tall convict was ordered out in a rowboat to look for a woman in a cypress snag and a man on the ridgepole of a cottonhouse. The water continued to rise. It was the worst flood in the history of the river: for six weeks more than 20,000 square miles were under water, including the whole of the rich Delta, and 600,000 persons were driven from their homes. Several hundreds were drowned, in addition to 25,000 horses, 50,000 cattle, 148,000 hogs, 1300 sheep, and 1,300,000 chickens; 400,000 acres of crops were destroyed and hundreds of miles of levees. A few weeks after the river had returned to its bed, the tall convict rowed back to the state prison farm. “Yonder’s your boat,” he said, “and here’s the woman. But I never did find that bastard on the cotton-house.”