“Who loves you, my people?”
“You, Daddy! Daddy Faith! You loves us! You, Daddy!” Ella joined in with the rest, her arms outstretched and with blissful weeping eyes, as if she could gather him by pure force of will, and across that stretch of water, into her arms. “You, Daddy! Yes, Jesus, you loves us!” But Daddy Faith motioned politely for quiet, with a sweep of his hand. He was chuckling out loud; they could hear him, watched him put his hand slyly to his chin and chuckle happily, all the time regarding them with his friendly, humorous eyes.
“Dat’s right,” he said.
He paused, still chuckling.
“My, dat’s right.”
He ceased his laughing, but a smile lingered on his face, and he shook his head, in amusement and with a certain wonder.
“Dat sho’ is right!” he said. And everybody laughed again. Far off the horn of a freighter blew; darkness would be coming soon. The red fires had disappeared from the water, now it had only the green of dusk in it, and the palest pink from the vanished setting sun. Daddy Faith straightened himself up. His approach at first was direct but friendly, almost like that of an uncle or a raconteur engaged in conversation with children. Once or twice he paused to look at his wrist watch, and only gradually did his voice lose its soothing, intimate tone and work up to its true grandeur, its native triumph. The crowd listened, stood shuffling in the sand, and while he spoke some old women, including Ella, closed their eyes and prayed. “We seen a tough time, my people,” he said, “all dese years. We done had de wars and de pestilenches and de exiles. We had de plagues and de bondages and de people in chains. Isr’el has suffered in de land of de pharaohs and de land of Nebucherezzar. And de people have laid down in de wildiness and cried out loud: Woe is us fo’ our hurt, our wound is grievous, and where is now our hope? Dey shall go down to de bars of de pit, when our rest together is in the dust. And de people have wept out loud, My Lawd, my Lawd, why hast Thou fo’saken me? De people have been sore hurt and dey say, our inheritance is turned to strangers, our fathers have sinned and are not, and we have bo’n their iniquities. And de people have wished to see de pure river of de water of life, clear as crystal, proceedin’ outen de throne of God and of de Lamb. Dey stand in de streets of desolation and dey say, Lawd, show me dat revelation where dere shall be no night and no need fo’ candle, neither light of de sun. Show me dat, Lawd, for our hurt is grievous and our way is fenced up so we can’t pass, and dere is darkness in our paths.
“Now de people of Isr’el done gone off to war,” he went on, propping himself against one of the golden rods. Above him the lamp flickered LOVE in the dusk; Ella, rapt and with her eyes closed, moaned a quavering, “Amen!” Somewhere in the crowd a woman echoed, “War. Amen! Yes, Jesus!” and the words drifted shrilly across the darkening marsh. “Now de people done gone off to war and dey sent down de atom bomb on de Land of de Risin’ Sun and de sojers come home wid glory in dey th’oats and wid timbrels and de clashin’ of bells.” He paused again; his eyes grew sad, caressing the throng. “Well, my people, it do seem to me dat we got a long way yet. De hand of de Lawd is against de sinful and de unjust, and de candle of de wicked is put out. But mo’ time to pass yet and de eyes of de people shall see His destruction and dey shall drink of de wrath of d’Almighty. And dey shall see a time of hate and a time of war, like de preacher said, and dey shall hear de sound of battle in de land and de great destruction. ‘Oh, Lawd,’ dey’ll go on and cry still, ‘Oh, Lawd, I am oppressed, undertake fo’ me! I mou’n as a dove, my eyes fail wid lookin’ upward! Hear my prayer, Lawd, and let my prayer come unto Thee! Don’t take away my freedom again, Lawd, don’t take away dat!’
“Dey gonna holler ‘O God, de proud are risen against me, and de assemblies of vi’lent men done sought after my soul! How long, Lawd, wilt Thou be angry fo’ever, shall Thy jealousy burn like fire?’ “
In the twilight came a hoarse “Amen! Oh yes, Jesus!” Shadows from the sheltering marshland lengthened over the water, and there was a long wild moan, a woman’s tortured wail, “Oh yes, Daddy! You right!” Daddy Faith put out his tiny black hands, a motion of compassion and tenderness.
“Comfort ye,” he said softly, “comfort ye, my people. Do you not know dat I will sprinkle clean water upon you, and ye shall be clean, and a new heart also will I give you and a new sperit will I put widin you? If it were not so I would have told you.”
“Oh yes, Daddy!”
“Hallelujah!”
Then there was a vast sorrow, one somehow proud and proper and just, in his voice, as he spread his arms to heaven and lifted his round face toward the dusk. “Be not afraid, my people. De voice said, Cry! And he said, what shall I cry? All flesh is grass, and all de goodliness thereof is as de flower of de field. De grass withereth and de flower fadeth, because de sperit of de Lawd bloweth upon it …
“Sho’ly de people is grass.”
He paused, gazing with benevolence upon the throng. “Sho’ly” he repeated tenderly, “sho’ly de people is grass.”
“Oh, Daddy!”
“Praise him! Praise him!”
He quieted them again with a single wave of his hand, tapped himself gently on the chest, and smiled. “De grass withereth, de flower fadeth,” he said, “but de word of your God shall stand forever.”
When their baptizing was over, drenched and exhausted, Ella and La Ruth climbed back up onto the beach, dragging behind them Stonewall and Doris, who still hadn’t found her mother. They walked up the sand a bit, to the camp tables beneath the trestle, and here they sat down. Ella still trembled with the fever of the ritual, remembered the bubbles, the salt water in her nose as she went under—yet, more than this, half-swooning when he smiled at her, as her place came in line, and the divine delight of the touch, on her turban, of his hands. She squeezed the water from her robe and then nibbled on a piece of fried chicken. She shivered with the cold and the memory of his hands. “Dat was sho’ some immersion,” she said.
La Ruth didn’t answer. She had her face in a piece of watermelon.
“Gret day, dat was an immersion,” Ella said again.
Sister Adelphia and Brother Andrew joined them, together with a light young girl who seemed to be Doris’ mother. She snatched Doris up from a sandpile, where she had been playing with Stonewall.
“Runnin’ off like dat!” She slapped the child and then, when she began to scream, kissed her until she became quiet. “Crazy little fool,” she crooned, half-sobbing herself, “runnin’ off from me. I thought you was drowned.” Then she said, “Thank you, Sister,” to Ella, and vanished with Doris up the beach.
Sister Adelphia crushed out the water from her robe and sat down on the bench next to Ella with a bottle of Seven-Up. “Whoo-ee, Sister, I seen ’em all now.”
“Amen!” said Brother Andrew.
“Dat was one, all right,” said Ella. “It was in dis world.” All sins washed away, her warfare accomplished, her iniquity pardoned, beneath the touch of his hands, in the flooding seas.
La Ruth let the melon rind drop from her fingers and began to moan. “I don’t know,” she said, “comin’ around to thinkin’ about all dat time an’ ev’ything, po’ Peyton, po’ little Peyton. Gone! Gone!” She thrust her head in her hands and spread out her legs, snuffling into the wet sleeves of her robe. “God knows, I don’t know …”
Sister Adelphia sniffed scornfully, rattling her beads. “Ain’t you been baptized, Sister?” she said.
Twilight fell around them; the evening became sprinkled with stars. Far off the band tooted triumphantly, around the illuminated love-lamps, amid the flare of blossoming torches. Ella thought of the touch of his hands, the sin-destroying seas. The spell was still on her, and she got up. “Yes, Jesus,” she said in a soft voice.
“Dat’s right, Sister,” said Sister Adelphia, clapping her hands together.
“Yes, Jesus!” Ella said again, louder. She began to shake all over. “I seen Him!”
“Amen!” said Brother Andrew.
In the distance a train rumbled, approached the trestle, setting saucers in a rattle on the table. Ella whirled about in the sand, a black finger upraised to the sky. “Yes, Jesus! I seen Him! Yeah! Yeah!” The train roared, trembled, came nearer. It was a ferocious noise. Stonewall stuck his fingers in his ears; the others turned their faces toward the sea. “Yes, Jesus! Yeah! Yeah!” The voice was almost drowned out. The train came on with a clatter, shaking the trestle, and its whistle went off full-blast in a spreading plume of steam. “Yeah! Yeah!” Another blast from the whistle, a roar, a gigantic sound; and it seemed to soar into the dusk beyond and above them forever, with a noise, perhaps, like the clatter of the opening of everlasting gates and doors—passed swiftly on—toward Richmond, the North, the oncoming night.
Set This House on Fire
William Styron
L’ambizione del mio compito non mi impedì di fare molti sbagli
With love and gratitude to
MY WIFE ROSE
MY FATHER
and
WILLIAM BLACKBURN
this book is dedicated
That of that providence of God, that studies the life of every weed, and worme, and ant, and spider, and toad, and viper, there should never, never any beame flow out upon me; that that God, who looked upon me, when I was nothing, and called me when I was not, as though I had been, out of the womb and depth of darknesse, will not looke upon me now, when, though a miserable, and a banished, and a damned creature, yet I am his creature still, and contribute something to his glory, even in my damnation; that that God, who hath often looked upon me in my foulest uncleannesse, and when I had shut out the eye of the day, the Sunne, and the eye of the night, the Taper, and the eyes of all the world, with curtaines and windowes and doores, did yet see me, and see me in mercy, by making me see that he saw me, and sometimes brought me to a present remorse, and (for that time) to a forbearing of that sinne, should so turne himselfe from me, to his glorious Saints and Angels, as that no Saint nor Angel, nor Christ Jesus himselfe, should ever pray him to looke towards me, never remember him, that such a soule there is; that that God, who hath so often said to my soule, Quare morieris? Why wilt thou die? and so often sworne to my soule, Vivit Dominus, As the Lord liveth, I would not have thee dye, but live, will nether let me dye, nor let me live, but dye an everlasting life, and live an everlasting death; that that God, who, when he could not get into me, by standing, and knocking, by his ordinary meanes of entring, by his Word, his mercies, hath applied his judgements, and shaked the house, this body, with agues and palsies, and set this house on fire, with fevers and calentures, and frighted the Master of the house, my soule, with horrors, and heavy apprehensions, and so made an entrance into me; That that God should frustrate all his owne purposes and practises upon me, and leave me, and cast me away, as though I had cost him nothing, that this God at last, should let this soule goe away, as a smoake, as a vapour, as a bubble, and that then this soule cannot be a smoake, a vapour, nor a bubble, but must lie in darknesse, as long as the Lord of light is light it selfe, and never sparke of that light reach to my soul; What Tophet is not Paradise, what Brimstone is not Amber, what gnashing is not a comfort, what gnawing of the worme is not a tickling, what torment is not a marriage bed to this damnation, to be secluded eternally, eternally, eternally from the sight of God?
JOHN DONNE, Dean of St. Paul’s,
“To the Earle of Carlile, and his Company, at Sion”
Contents
Part One
1
2
3
4
Part Two
5
6
7
8
9
10
PART ONE
1
Sambuco.
Of the drive from Salerno to Sambuco, Nagel’s Italy has this to say: “The road is hewn nearly the whole way in the cliffs of the coast. An evervaried panorama unfolds before our eyes, with continual views of an azure sea, imposing cliffs, and deep gorges. We leave Salerno by Via Independenza. The road turns toward the sea, looking down on Marina di Vietri. On regaining the coast we enjoy a glorious view of Salerno, Marina di Vietri, the two rocks (Due Fratelli) and Raito. Beyond a side turning we enjoy a sudden view of the colourful village of Cetara (4½ m.). We return to the sea and then make a retour round the grim ravine of Erchie, approaching the sea again at Cape Tomolo. Passing through a defile with high rocky walls, we come in sight of Minori and Atrani with Sambuco high above them. The road diverges beyond Atrani and ascends the Dragone Valley.”
About Sambuco itself Nagel’s is characteristically lyric: “(1033 ft.) a little town of unusual appearance in an extremely beautiful landscape; the contrast between its lonely situation and its seductive setting, between the ruin of its ancient palaces and the gaiety of its gardens, is very impressive. Built in the 9th cent. under the rule of Amalfi, Sambuco enjoyed great prosperity in the 13th cent.”
Sambuco, indeed, is no longer prosperous, although because of its geographical position it is undoubtedly better off than most Italian villages. Aloof upon its precipice, remote and beautifully difficult of access, it is a model of invulnerability and it is certainly one of the few towns in Italy which remain untouched by recent bombs and invasions. Had Sambuco ever lain upon a strategic route to anywhere it might not have been so lucky and at one time or another might have found itself, like Monte Cassino, crushed in ugly devastation. But the affairs of war have left the place intact, almost unnoticed, so that its homes and churches and courtyards, corroded as they may be by poverty, seem when compared to other towns of the region to be proudly, even unfairly, preserved, like someone fit and sturdy among a group of maimed, wasted veterans. Possibly it was just this remoteness, this unacquaintance with war and with the miserable acts of violence which are its natural aftermath, that made the events of that recent summer seem to everyone so awesome and shocking.
Lest from the above I be accused at the outset of sounding too portentous, I will say that these events were a murder and a rape which ended, too, in death, along with a series of other incidents not so violent yet grim and distressing. They took place, or at least had their origins, at the Palazzo d’Affitto (“… a curious group of Arab-Norman structures rendered specially picturesque and evocative by the luxurious vegetation by which they are framed. The garden-terrace commands a wonderful panorama.”) and they involved more than a few of the townspeople and at least three Americans. One of these Americans, Mason Flagg, is now dead. Another, Cass Kinsolving, is alive and flourishing, and if this story has a hero it is he, I suppose, who fits the part. It is certainly not myself.
My name is Peter Leverett. I am white, Protestant, Anglo-Saxon, Virginia-bred, just past thirty, in good health, tolerable enough looking though possessing no romantic glint or cast, given to orderly habits, more than commonly inquisitive, and strongly sexed—though this is a conceit peculiar to all normal young men. I have lived and worked for the past few years in New York. It is with neither pride nor distress that I confess that—in the idiom of our time—I am something of a square. By profession I am a lawyer. I am ambitious enough to wish to succeed at my trade, but I am no go-getter and, being constitutionally unable to scrabble and connive, I suspect that I shall remain at that decent, mediocre level of attainment common to all my ancestors, on both branches of the tree. This is not, on the one hand, cynicism, nor is it, on the other, self-abasement. I am a realist, and I wish to tell you on good authority that the law—even in my drab province, where only torts, wills, and contracts are at stake—demands as much simple deviousness, as much shouldering-aside of good friends, as any other business. No, I am not up to it. I am stuck, so to speak, with my destiny and I am making the pleasant best of it. While maybe not as satisfying as the role of the composer I once had an idea I might try to play, it is more than several times as lucrative; besides, in America no one listens to composers, while the law, in a way that is a
t once subtle and majestic and fascinating, still works its own music upon the minds of men. Or at least I hope to think so.
A few years ago, when I came back from Italy and Sambuco and took a job in a New York firm (somewhat second-rate, I must admit, and not on Wall Street yet laggardly nearby, which caused our office wits to suggest the slogan “Walk a block and save”)— several years ago I found myself in a really rather bad state. The death of a friend—especially under the circumstances that befell Mason Flagg, even more especially when one has been on the scene, witnessed the blood and the tumult and the shambles—is not something that can be shaken off easily at all. And this applies even when, as in my case, I had thought myself alienated from Mason and all that he stood for. I will come to Mason’s ending presently, and it will be described, I hope, in all its necessary truth; for the moment let me say only that it left me quite desperately stunned.
During that time I had incessant dreams of treachery and betrayal—dreams that lingered all day long. One of them especially I remember; like most fierce nightmares it had the habit of coming back again and again. In this one I was in a house somewhere, trying to sleep; it was dead of night, wintry and storming. Suddenly I heard a noise at the window, a sinister sound, distinct from the tumult of the rain and the wind. I looked outside and saw a shadow —the figure of someone who moved, an indefinite shape, a prowler whose dark form slunk toward me menacingly. Panicky, I reached for the telephone, to call the friend who lived nearby (my best, last, dearest friend; nightmares deal in superlatives and magnitudes); he, somehow, I knew, was the only one dear enough, close enough, to help me. But there was no answer to all my frantic ringing. Then, putting the phone down, I heard a tap-tap-tapping at the window and turned to see—bared with the malignity of a fiend behind the streaming glass—the baleful, murderous face of that selfsame friend. …
William Styron: The Collected Novels: Lie Down in Darkness, Set This House on Fire, The Confessions of Nat Turner, and Sophie's Choice Page 47