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

Her house was dark, but remembering the shadow behind the tree, and for the sake of general precaution, he passed steadily on. After a block or so he halted, straining his ears. Nothing save the peaceful, unemphatic sounds of night. He crossed the street and stopped again, listening. Nothing. Frogs and crickets, and that was all. He walked in the grass beside the pavement, stealing quiet as a shadow to the corner of her lawn. He climbed the fence and, crouching, stole along beside a hedge until he was opposite the house, where he stopped again. The house was still, unlighted, bulking huge and square in slumber and he sped swiftly from the shadow of the hedge to the shadow of the veranda at the place where a French window gave upon it. He sat down in a flower bed, leaning his back against the wall.

The turned flower bed filled the darkness with the smell of fresh earth, something friendly and personal in a world of enormous vague formless shapes of greater and lesser darkness. The night, the silence, was complete and profound: a formless region filled with the smell of fresh earth and the measured ticking of the watch in his pocket. After a time, he felt soft damp earth through his trousers upon his thighs and he sat in a slow physical content, a oneness with the earth, waiting a sound from the dark house at his back. He heard a sound after a while but it was from the street. He sat still and calm. With the inconsistency of his kind, he felt safer here, where he had no business being, than on the street to which he had every right. The sound, approaching, became two vague figures, and Tobe and the cook passed along the drive toward their quarters, murmuring softly to each other.⁠ ⁠… Soon the night was again vague and vast and empty.

Again he became one with the earth, with dark and silence, with his own body⁠ ⁠… with her body, like a little silver water sweetly dividing⁠ ⁠… turned earth and hyacinths along a veranda, swinging soundless bells.⁠ ⁠… How can breasts be as small as yours, and yet be breasts⁠ ⁠… the dull gleam of her eyes beneath lowered lids, of her teeth beneath her lip, her arms rising like two sweet wings of a dream.⁠ ⁠… Her body like.

He took breath into himself, holding it. Something came slow and shapeless across the lawn toward him, pausing opposite. He breathed again, held his breath again. The thing moved and came directly toward him and he sat motionless until it had almost reached the flower bed in which he sat. Then he sprang to his feet and before the other could raise a hand he fell upon the intruder, raging silently. The man accepted battle and they fell clawing and panting, making no outcry. They were at such close quarters, it was so dark, that they could not damage each other, and intent on battle, they were oblivious of their surroundings until Jones hissed suddenly beneath George Farr’s armpit:

“Look out! Somebody’s coming!”

They paused mutually and sat clasping each other like the first position of a sedentary dance. A light had appeared suddenly in a lower window and with one accord they rose and hurled themselves into the shadow of the porch, plunging into the flower bed as Mr. Saunders stepped through the window. Crushing themselves against the brick wall, they lay in a mutual passion for concealment, hearing Mr. Saunders’ feet on the floor above their heads. They held their breath, closing their eyes like ostriches and the man came to the edge of the veranda, and standing directly over them, he shook cigar ashes upon them and spat across their prone bodies⁠ ⁠… after years had passed, he turned and went away.

After a while Jones heaved and George Farr released his cramped body. The light was off again and the house bulked huge and square, sleeping among the trees. They rose and stole across the lawn and after they had passed the frogs and crickets resumed their mild monotonies.

“What⁠—” began George Farr, once they were on the street again.

“Shut up,” Jones interrupted. “Wait until we are farther away.”

They walked side by side, and George Farr, seething, decided upon what he considered a safe distance. Stopping, he faced the other.

“What in hell were you doing there?” he burst out.

Jones had dirt on his face and his collar had burst. George Farr’s tie was like a hangman’s noose under his ear and he wiped his face with his handkerchief.

“What were you doing there?” Jones countered.

“None of your damn business,” he answered hotly. “What I ask is, what in hell do you mean, hanging around that house?”

“Maybe she asked me to. What do you think of that?”

“You lie,” said George Farr, springing upon him. They fought again in the darkness, beneath the arching silence of elms. Jones was like a bear and George Farr, feeling his soft enveloping hug, kicked Jones’ legs from under him. They fell, Jones uppermost, and George lay gasping, with breath driven from his lungs, while Jones held him upon his back.

“How about it?” Jones asked, thinking of his shin. “Got enough?”

For reply, George Farr heaved and struggled, but the other held him down, thumping his head rhythmically upon the hard earth. “Come on, come on. Don’t act like a child. What do we want to fight for?”

“Take back what you said about her, then,” he panted. Then he lay still and cursed Jones. Jones, unmoved, repeated:

“Got enough? Promise?”

George Farr arched his back, writhing, trying vainly to cast off Jones’ fat enveloping bulk. At last he promised in weak rage, almost weeping, and Jones removed his soft weight. George sat up.

“You better go home,” Jones advised him, rising to his feet. “Come on, get up.” He took George’s arm and tugged at it.

“Let go, you bastard!”

“Funny how things get around,” remarked Jones mildly, releasing him. George got slowly to his feet and Jones continued: “Run along, now.