Soldiers’ Pay - William Faulkner (people reading books TXT) 📗

impersonal efficiency. (He should be a⁠—a⁠—he should be a gladiator or a statesman or a victorious general: someone hard and ruthless who would expect nothing from her, of whom she would expect nothing. Like two gods exchanging golden baubles. And I, I am no gladiator nor statesman nor general: I am nothing. Perhaps that’s why I want so much from her.) He put his arm over her shoulders.

Niggers and mules. Afternoon lay in a coma in the street, like a woman recently loved. Quiet and warm: nothing now that the lover has gone away. Leaves were like a green liquid arrested in mid-flow, flattened and spread; leaves were as though cut with scissors from green paper and pasted flat on the afternoon: someone dreamed them and then forgot his dream. Niggers and mules.

Monotonous wagons drawn by long-eared beasts crawled past. Negroes humped with sleep, portentous upon each wagon and in the wagon bed itself sat other negroes upon chairs: a pagan catafalque under the afternoon. Rigid, as though carved in Egypt ten thousand years ago. Slow dust rising veiled their passing, like Time; the necks of mules limber as rubber hose swayed their heads from side to side, looking behind them always. But the mules were asleep also. “Ketch me sleep, he kill me. But I got mule blood in me: when he sleep, I sleep; when he wake, I wake.”

In the study where Donald sat, his father wrote steadily on tomorrow’s sermon. The afternoon slept without.

The Town:

War Hero Returns.⁠ ⁠…

His face⁠ ⁠… the way that girl goes on with that Farr boy.⁠ ⁠…

Young Robert Saunders:

I just want to see his scar.⁠ ⁠…

Cecily:

And now I’m not a good woman any more. Oh, well, it had to be sometime, I guess.⁠ ⁠…

George Farr:

Yes! Yes! She was a virgin! But if she won’t see me, it means somebody else. Her body in another’s arms.⁠ ⁠… Why must you? Why must you? What do you want? Tell me: I will do anything, anything.⁠ ⁠…

Margaret Powers:

Can nothing at all move me again? Nothing to desire? Nothing to stir me, to move me, save pity?⁠ ⁠…

Gilligan:

Margaret, tell me what you want. I will do it. Tell me, Margaret.⁠ ⁠…

The rector wrote, “The Lord is my shepherd: I shall not want.”

Donald Mahon knowing Time as only something which was taking from him a world he did not particularly mind losing, stared out a window into green and motionless leaves: a motionless blur.

The afternoon dreamed on toward sunset. Niggers and mules.⁠ ⁠… At last Gilligan broke the silence.

“That old fat one is going to send her car to take him riding.”

Mrs. Powers made no reply.

III

San Francisco, Cal.
April 5, 1919.

Dear Margaret⁠—

Well I am at home again I got here this afternoon. As soon as I got away from mother I am sitting down to write to you. Home seems pretty good after you have been doing a pretty risky thing like lots of them cracked up at. Its boreing all these girls how they go on over a flying man if you ever experienced it isn’t it. There was a couple of janes on the train I met. Well anyway they saw my hat band and they gave me the eye they were society girls they said but I am not so dumb anyway they were nice kids and they might of been society girls. Anyway I got there phone numbers and I am going to give them a call. Just kidding them see there is only one woman for me Margaret you know it. Well we rode on into San Francisco talking and laughing in there stateroom so I am going to take the best looking of them out this week I made a date with her except she wants me to bring a fellow for her friend so I guess I will poor kids they probably havent had much fun dureing the war like a man can have dureing the war. But I am just kidding them Margaret you mustnt be jealous like I am not jealous over Lieut. Mahon. Well mother is dragging me out to tea I had rather I had be shot than go except she insists. Give my reguards to Joe.

With love

Julian.

Mrs. Powers and Gilligan met the specialist from Atlanta at the station. In the cab he listened to her attentively.

“But, my dear madam,” he objected when she had finished, “you are asking me to commit an ethical violation.”

“But, surely, Doctor, it isn’t a violation of professional ethics to let his father believe as he wishes to believe, is it?”

“No, it is a violation of my personal ethics.”

“Then, you tell me and let me tell his father.”

“Yes, I will do that. But pardon me, may I ask what exactly is your relation to him?”

“We are to be married,” she answered, looking at him steadily.

“Oho. Then that is quite all right. I will promise not to say anything before his father that can disturb him.”

He kept his promise. After lunch he joined her where she sat on the shaded quiet veranda. She put aside her embroidery frame and he took a chair, puffing furiously at his cigar until it burned evenly.

“What is he waiting for?” he asked suddenly.

“Waiting for?” she repeated.

He flashed her a keen gray glance. “There is no ultimate hope for him, you know.”

“For his sight, you mean?”

“That’s practically gone now. I mean for him.”

“I know. That’s what Mr. Gilligan said two weeks ago.”

“H’m. Is Mr. Gilligan a doctor?”

“No. But it doesn’t take a doctor to see that, does it?”

“Not necessarily. But I think Mr. Gilligan rather overshot himself, making a public statement like that.”

She rocked gently. He veiled his head in smoke, watching the evenly burning ash at the cigar tip. She said:

“You think that there is no hope for him, then?”

“Frankly, I do not.” He tilted the ash carefully over the balustrade. “He is practically a dead man now. More than that, he should have been dead these three months were it not for the fact that