“No,” Mr. Acarius whispered.
“Come on now,” the nurse said. “You must try to cooperate.”
“I can’t,” Mr. Acarius whispered.
“OK,” the nurse said. “But you must eat some of it, or I’ll have to tell Doctor Hill on you.”
So he tried, chewing down a little of the food anyway; presently the orderly came and removed the tray; immediately after that Miller entered rapidly and removed one of the bottles, the one Watkins had opened, from Mr. Acarius’s bed. “We appreciate this,” Miller said. “Sure you won’t have one?”
“No,” Mr. Acarius whispered. Then he could crouch again, hearing the slow accumulation of the cloistral evening. He could see the corridor beyond his door. Occasionally other men in pajamas and dressing gowns passed; they seemed to be congregating toward another lighted door up the corridor; even as he knotted the cord of his robe he could hear the unmistakable voice: “Did you ever see a dream … walking,” then, creeping nearer, he could see inside the office or dispensary or whatever it was — a cabinet, open, the keys dangling on a ring from the lock, the nurse measuring whiskey from a brown unlabeled bottle in turn into the small glasses in the hands of the assembled devotees. “Did you ever hear a dream … talking,” Watkins said.
“That’s right,” Miller said to him in a friendly voice. “Better take it while you can. It’s going to be a long dry spell after Goldie goes off at midnight.”
But that was not what Mr. Acarius wanted; alone with the nurse at last, he said so. “It’s a little early to go to bed yet, isn’t it?” the nurse said.
“I’ve got to sleep,” Mr. Acarius said. “I’ve got to.”
“All right,” the nurse said. “Go get in bed and I’ll bring it to you.”
He did so, swallowed the capsule and then lay, the hidden bottle cold against his feet, though it would warm in time or perhaps in time, soon even, he would not care, though he didn’t see how, how ever to sleep again; he didn’t know how late it was, though that would not matter either: to call his doctor now, have the nurse call him, to come and get him, take him away into safety, sanity, falling suddenly from no peace into something without peace either, into a loud crash from somewhere up the corridor. It was late, he could feel it. The overhead light was off now, though a single shaded one burned beside the bed, and now there were feet in the corridor, running; Watkins and Miller entered. Watkins wore a woman’s jade-colored raincoat, from the front of which protruded or dangled a single broken-stemmed tuberose; his head was bound in a crimson silk scarf like a nun’s wimple. Miller was carrying the same brown unlabeled bottle which Mr. Acarius had seen the nurse lock back inside the cabinet two or three hours or whatever it was ago, which he was trying to thrust into Mr. Acarius’s bed when there entered a nurse whom Mr. Acarius knew at once must be the new and dreaded one: an older woman in awry pince-nez, crying: “Give it back to me! Give it back to me!” She cried to Mr. Acarius: “I had the cabinet unlocked and was reaching down the bottle when one of them knocked my cap off and when I caught at it, one of them reached over my head and grabbed the bottle!”
“Then give me back that bottle of mine you stole out of my flush tank,” Miller said.
“I poured it out,” the nurse cried in triumph.
“But you had no right to,” Miller said. “That was mine. I bought it myself, brought it in here with me. It didn’t belong to the hospital at all and you had no right to put your hand on it.”
“We’ll let Doctor Hill decide that,” the nurse said. She snatched up the brown unlabeled bottle and went out.
“You bet we will,” Miller said, following.
“Did you ever hear a dream … talking,” Watkins said. “Move your feet,” he said, reaching into Mr. Acarius’s bed and extracting the unopened bottle. Mr. Acarius did not move, he could not, while Watkins opened the bottle and drank from it. From up the corridor there still came the sound of Miller’s moral indignation; presently Miller entered.
“She wouldn’t let me use the telephone,” he said. “She’s sitting on it. We’ll have to go upstairs and wake him up.”
“She has no sense of humor,” Watkins said. “Better kill this before she finds it too.” They drank rapidly in turn from the bottle. “We’ll have to have more liquor now. We’ll have to get the keys away from her.”
“How?” Miller said.
“Trip her up. Grab them.”
“That’s risky.”
“Not unless she hits her head on something. Get her out into the corridor first, where there’s plenty of room.”
“Let’s go upstairs and wake up Hill first,” Miller said. “I’m damned if I’m going to let them get away with anything as highhanded as this.”
“Right,” Watkins said, emptying the bottle and dropping it into Mr. Acarius’s wastebasket. Then Mr. Acarius was alone again — if he had ever been else, since there was no time to telephone anyone now, no one to telephone to: who was as isolate from help and aid here as if he had waked on an inaccessible and forgotten plateau of dinosaurs, where only beast might be rallied to protect beast from beast; he remembered in the group armed with the small ritual glasses at the dispensary one who looked like a truck driver or perhaps even a prize fighter; he might do to help, provided he was awake, though it was incredible to Mr. Acarius that anyone on the floor could still be asleep; certainly not now because at this moment there came through the ceiling overhead the sound of Doctor Hill’s voice roaring with rage, Mr. Acarius lying in a kind of suffering which was almost peaceful, thinking, Yes, yes, we will save her life and then I will get out of here, I don’t care how, I don’t care where; still lying so while Doctor Hill’s voice reached its final crescendo, followed by a curious faint sound which Mr. Acarius could define only as a suspended one: then one last thundering crash.
He was off the bed now; the nurse and an orderly running, had already shown the way: A door in the corridor which, open now, revealed a flight of concrete stairs, at the foot of which lay Watkins. He looked indeed like a corpse now. In fact, he looked more than just dead: he looked at peace, his eyes closed, one arm flung across his breast so that the lax hand seemed to clasp lightly the broken stem of the tuberose. “That’s right!” Mr. Acarius cried, “tremble! You only hope he is!”
Miller had said he put the suit behind the tub; it was there, wadded. Mr. Acarius had no shirt save his pajama jacket nor shoes save his carpet slippers. Nor did he have any idea where Miller’s room with its unlocked window on the fire escape was either. But he did not hesitate. I’ve done what I can, he thought. Let the Lord provide awhile.
Something did, anyway. He had to wait while the orderly and two patients bore Watkins into his room and cleared the corridor. Then he found Miller’s room with no more effort than just selecting a door rapidly and opening it. He had had a fear of height all his life, though he was already on the dark fire escape before he even remembered it, thinking with a kind of amazement of a time, a world in which anyone had time to be afraid of anything consisting merely of vertical space. He knew in theory that fire escapes did not reach the ground and that you had to drop the remaining distance too; it was dark here and he did not know into what but again he did not hesitate, letting go into nothing, onto cinders; there was a fence too and then an alley and now he could see the sweet and empty sweep of the Park: that and nothing more between him and the sanctuary of his home. Then he was in the Park, running, stumbling, panting, gasping, when a car drew abreast of him. Slowing, and a voice said, “Hey, you!” and still trying to run even after the blue coats and the shields surrounded him: then he was fighting, swinging wildly and violently until they caught and held him while one of them sniffed his breath. “Don’t strike a match near him,” a voice said. “Call the wagon.”
“It’s all right, officer,” his doctor said and, panting, helpless, even crying now, Mr. Acarius saw for the first time the other car drawn up behind the police one. “I’m his doctor. They telephoned me from the hospital that he had escap
ed. I’ll take charge of him. Just help me get him into my car.”
They did so: the firm hard hands. Then the car was moving. “It was that old man,” he said crying. “That terrible, terrible old man, who should have been at home telling bedtime stories to his grandchildren.”
“Didn’t you know there were police in that car?” the doctor said.
“No,” Mr. Acarius cried. “I just knew that there were people in it.”
Then he was at home, kneeling before the cellarette, dragging rapidly out not only what remained of the whiskey but all the rest of it too — the brandy, vermouth, gin, liqueurs — all of it, gathering the bottles in his arms and running into the bathroom where first one then a second and then a third crashed and splintered into the tub, the doctor leaning in the door, watching him.
“So you entered mankind, and found the place already occupied,” the doctor said.
“Yes,” Mr. Acarius said, crying, “You can’t beat him. You cannot. You never will. Never.”
The Short Stories
When Faulkner was five years old, his family moved to Oxford, Mississippi, where he lived on and off for the rest of his life.
Faulkner attended the University of Mississippi (Ole Miss) in Oxford, enrolling in 1919, going three semesters before dropping out in November 1920.
List of Short Stories in Chronological Order
Please note: to retain the original structure of the collections, some short stories appear more than once in the list. The contents table also includes the short stories/chapters from the novels The Unvanquished, Go Down, Moses and Knight’s Gambit.
AMBUSCADE
RETREAT
RAID
RIPOSTE IN TERTIO
VENDÉE
SKIRMISH AT SARTORIS
AN ODOR OF VERBENA
WAS
THE FIRE AND THE HEARTH
PANTALOON IN BLACK
THE OLD PEOPLE
THE BEAR
DELTA AUTUMN
GO DOWN, MOSES
SMOKE
MONK
HAND UPON THE WATERS
TO-MORROW
AN ERROR IN CHEMISTRY
KNIGHT’S GAMBIT
VICTORY
AD ASTRA
ALL THE DEAD PILOTS
CREVASSE
RED LEAVES
A ROSE FOR EMILY
A JUSTICE
HAIR
THAT EVENING SUN
DRY SEPTEMBER
MISTRAL
DIVORCE IN NAPLES
CARCASSONNE
BARN BURNING
SHINGLES FOR THE LORD
THE TALL MEN
A BEAR HUNT
TWO SOLDIERS
SHALL NOT PERISH
A ROSE FOR EMILY
HAIR
CENTAUR IN BRASS
DRY SEPTEMBER
DEATH DRAG
ELLY
UNCLE WILLY
MULE IN THE YARD
THAT WILL BE FINE
THAT EVENING SUN
RED LEAVES
A JUSTICE
A COURTSHIP
LO!
AD ASTRA
VICTORY
CREVASSE
TURNABOUT
ALL THE DEAD PILOTS
WASH
HONOR
DR. MARTINO
FOX HUNT
PENNSYLVANIA STATION
ARTIST AT HOME
THE BROOCH
MY GRANDMOTHER MILLARD
GOLDEN LAND
THERE WAS A QUEEN
MOUNTAIN VICTORY
BEYOND
BLACK MUSIC
THE LEG
MISTRAL
DIVORCE IN NAPLES
CARCASSONNE
SPOTTED HORSES
THE HOUND
LIZARDS IN JAMSHYD’S COURTYARD
FOOL ABOUT A HORSE
RACE AT MORNING
ONCE ABOARD THE LUGGER
MISS ZILPHIA GANT
THRIFT
IDYLL IN THE DESERT
TWO DOLLAR WIFE
AFTERNOON OF A COW
SEPULTURE SOUTH: GASLIGHT
MR. ACARIUS
List of Short Stories in Alphabetical Order
Please note: to retain the original structure of the collections, some short stories appear more than once in the list. The contents table also includes the short stories/chapters from the novels Go Down, Moses and Knight’s Gambit.
A BEAR HUNT
A COURTSHIP
A JUSTICE
A JUSTICE
AMBUSCADE
A ROSE FOR EMILY
A ROSE FOR EMILY
AD ASTRA
AD ASTRA
AFTERNOON OF A COW
ALL THE DEAD PILOTS
ALL THE DEAD PILOTS
AN ERROR IN CHEMISTRY
AN ODOR OF VERBENA
ARTIST AT HOME
BARN BURNING
BEYOND
BLACK MUSIC
CARCASSONNE
CARCASSONNE
CENTAUR IN BRASS
CREVASSE
CREVASSE
DEATH DRAG
DELTA AUTUMN
DIVORCE IN NAPLES
DIVORCE IN NAPLES
DR. MARTINO
DRY SEPTEMBER
DRY SEPTEMBER
ELLY
FOOL ABOUT A HORSE
FOX HUNT
GO DOWN, MOSES
GOLDEN LAND
HAIR
HAIR
HAND UPON THE WATERS
HONOR
IDYLL IN THE DESERT
KNIGHT’S GAMBIT
LIZARDS IN JAMSHYD’S COURTYARD
LO!
MISS ZILPHIA GANT
MISTRAL
MISTRAL
MONK
MOUNTAIN VICTORY
MR. ACARIUS
MULE IN THE YARD
MY GRANDMOTHER MILLARD
ONCE ABOARD THE LUGGER
PANTALOON IN BLACK
PENNSYLVANIA STATION
RACE AT MORNING
RAID
RED LEAVES
RED LEAVES
RETREAT
RIPOSTE IN TERTIO
SEPULTURE SOUTH: GASLIGHT
SHALL NOT PERISH
SHINGLES FOR THE LORD
SKIRMISH AT SARTORIS
SMOKE
SPOTTED HORSES
THAT EVENING SUN
THAT EVENING SUN
THAT WILL BE FINE
THE BEAR
THE BROOCH
THE FIRE AND THE HEARTH
THE HOUND
THE LEG
THE OLD PEOPLE
THE TALL MEN
THERE WAS A QUEEN
THRIFT
TO-MORROW
TURNABOUT
TWO DOLLAR WIFE
TWO SOLDIERS
UNCLE WILLY
VENDÉE
VICTORY
VICTORY
WAS
WASH
The Poetry Collections
Faulkner’s home Rowan Oak in Oxford, Mississippi – Faulkner bought the house when it was in disrepair in the 1930’s and completed many of the renovations himself.
Rowan Oak was declared a National Historic Landmark in 1968 and today the building functions as a museum dedicated to the life and works of the author.
Faulkner’s Underwood Universal Portable typewriter in his office at Rowan Oak, which is now maintained by the University of Mississippi.
Faulkner served as Writer-in-Residence at the University of Virginia at Charlottesville from February to June 1957 and again in 1958. For a time, he lived among the students after winning the Nobel Prize for Literature, bequeathing most of his papers to Alderman Library.
The Marble Faun
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
THE MARBLE FAUN
EPILOGUE
To
My Mother
PROLOGUE
The poplar trees sway to and fro
&nb
sp; That through this gray old garden go
Like slender girls with nodding heads,
Whispering above the beds
Of tall tufted hollyhocks,
Of purple asters and of phlox;
Caught in the daisies’ dreaming gold
Recklessly scattered wealth untold
About their slender graceful feet
Like poised dancers, lithe and fleet.
The candled flames of roses here
Gutter gold in this still air,
And clouds glide down the western sky
To watch this sun-drenched revery,
While the poplars’ shining crests
Lightly brush their silvered breasts,
Dreaming not of winter snows
That soon will shake their maiden rows.
The days dream by, golden-white,
About the fountain’s silver light
That lifts and shivers in the breeze
Gracefully slim as are the trees;
Then shakes down its glistered hair
Upon the still pool’s mirrored, fair
Flecked face.
Why am I sad? I?
Why am I not content? The sky
Warms me and yet I cannot break
My marble bonds. That quick keen snake
Is free to come and go, while I
Am prisoner to dream and sigh
For things I know, yet cannot know,
‘Twixt sky above and earth below.
The spreading earth calls to my feet
Of orchards bright with fruits to eat,
Of hills and streams on either hand;
Of sleep at night on moon-blanched sand:
The whole world breathes and calls to me
Who marble-bound must ever be.
THE MARBLE FAUN
IF I were free, then I would go
Where the first chill spring winds blow,
Wrapping a light shocked mountain’s brow
With shrilling tongues, and swirling now,
And fiery upward flaming, leap
From craggy teeth above each deep
Cold and wet with silence. Here
I fly before the streaming year
Along the fierce cold mountain tops
Complete Works of William Faulkner Page 697