Sartoris

by William Faulkner

  “I can’t even go to the bathroom in peace,” she complained querulously. “I’m a good mind to pack up and move back over here and let ’em get along the best they can.” She rocked fretfully in the chair which by unspoken agreement was never disputed her, looking about the room with bleared, protesting old eyes. That nigger don’t half clean up, since I left. That furniture, now . . . a damp cloth . . .”

  “I wish you would take her back,” Miss Sophia, the elder sister, told Narcissa. “She’s got so crochety since she’s been with you that there’s no living with her. What’s this I hear Horace has taken up—making glassware?”

  His proper crucibles and retorts had arrived intact. At first he had insisted on using the cellar, clearing out the lawn mower and the garden tools and all the accumulate impedimenta, and walling up the windows so as to make a dungeon of it. But Narcissa had finally persuaded him upon the upper floor of the garage and here he had set up his furnace and had set fire to the building once and had had tour mishaps and produced one almost perfect vase of clear amber, larger, more richly and chastely serene, which he kept always on his night table and called by his sister’s name in the intervals of apostrophizing both of them impartially in his moments of rhapsody over the realization of the meaning of peace and the unblemished attainment of it, as “Thou still unravished bride of quietness.”

  Bareheaded, in flannels and a blue jacket with his Oxford club insignia embroidered on the pocket and his racket under his arm, Horace passed on around the house, and the court came into view with its two occupants in fluid violent action. Beneath an arcade of white pilasters and vine-hung beams. Belle, surrounded by the fragile, harmonious impedimenta of the moment, was like a butterfly. Two sat with her, in bright relief against the dark foliage of a crape myrtle not yet in flower. The other woman (the third member of the group was a young girl in white, with a grave molasses bang, and a tennis racket across her knees) spoke to him, and Belle greeted him with a sort of languid possessive desolation. Her hand was warm, prehensile, like mercury in his palm exploring softly, with delicate bones and petulant scented flesh. Her eyes were like hothouse grapes and her mouth was redly mobile, rich with discontent.

  She had lost Meloney, she told him.

  “Meloney saw through your gentility,” Horace said. “You grew careless, probably. Your elegance is much inferior to Meloney’s. You surely didn’t expect to always deceive anyone who can lend as much rigid discomfort to the function of eating and drinking as Meloney could, did you? Or has she got married some more?”

  “She’s gone in business,” Belle answered fretfully. “A beauty shop. And why, I can’t for the life of me see. Those things never do last, here. Can you imagine Jefferson women supporting a beauty shop, with the exception of us three? Mrs. Marders and I might; I’m sure we need it, but what use has Frankie for one?”

  “What seems curious to me,” the other woman said, “is where the money came from. People thought that perhaps you had given it to her, Belle.”

  “Since when have I been a public benefactor?” Belle said coldly. Horace grinned faintly. Mrs. Marders said:

  “Now, Belle, we all know how kind-hearted you are; don’t be modest.”

  “I said a public benefactor,” Belle repeated. Horace said quickly:

  “Well, Harry would swap a handmaiden for an ox, any day. At least, he can save a lot of wear and tear on his cellar, not having to counteract your tea in a lot of casual masculine tummies. I suppose there’ll be no more tea out here, will there?” he added.

  “Don’t be silly,” Belle said.

  Horace said: “I realize now that it is not tennis that I come here for, but for the incalculable amount of uncomfortable superiority I always feel when Meloney serves me tea. . . . I saw your daughter as I came along.”

  “She’s around somewhere, I suppose,” Belle agreed indifferently. “You haven’t had your hair cut yet,” she stated. “Why is it that men have no sense about barbers?” she said generally. The older woman watched Belle and Horace brightly, coldly, across her two flaccid chins. The young girl sat quietly in her simple, virginal white, her racket on her lap and one brown hand lying upon it like a sleeping tan puppy. She was watching Horace with sober interest but without rudeness, as children do. “They either won’t go to the barber at all, or they insist on having their heads all gummed up with pomade and things,” Belle added.

  “Horace is a poet,” the other woman said. Her flesh draped loosely from her cheekbones like rich, slightly soiled velvet; her eyes were like the eyes of an old turkey, predatory, unwinking; a little obscene. “Poets must be excused for what they do. You should remember that, Belle.”

  Horace bowed toward her. “Your race never fails in tact, Belle,” he said. “Mrs. Marders is one of the few people I know who give the law profession its true evaluation.”

  “It’s like any other business, I suppose,” Belle said. “You’re late today. Why didn’t Narcissa come?”

  “I mean, dubbing me a poet,” Horace explained. “The law, like poetry, is the final resort of the lame, the halt, the imbecile, and the blind. I dare say Caesar invented the law business to protect himself against poets.”

  “You’re so clever,” Belle said.

  The young girl spoke suddenly: “Why do you bother about what men put on their hair, Miss Belle? Mr. Mitchell’s bald.”

  The other woman laughed, unctuously, steadily, watching them with her lidless unlaughing eyes. She watched Belle and Horace and still laughed steadily, brightly and cold. “‘Out of the mouths of babes—’” she said. The young girl glanced from one to another with her clear, sober eyes. She rose.

  “I guess I’ll see if I can get a set now,” she said.

  Horace moved also. “Let’s you and I—” he began. Without turning her head Belle touched him with her hand.

  “Sit down, Frankie,” she commanded. “They haven’t finished the game yet. You shouldn’t laugh so much on an empty stomach,” she told Mrs. Marders. “Do sit down, Horace.”

  The girl stood yet with slim and awkward grace, holding her racket. She looked at Belle a moment, then she turned her face to the court again. Horace took the chair beyond Belle. Her hand dropped hidden into his, with, that secret movement; then it grew passive; it was as though she had turned a current off somewhere—like one entering a dark room in search of something, finding it and pressing the light off again.

  “Don’t you like poets?” Horace spoke across Belle’s body. The girl did not turn her head.

  “They can’t dance,” she answered. “I guess they are all right, though. They went to the war, the good ones did. There was one was a good tennis player, that got killed. I’ve seen his picture, but I don’t remember his name.”

  “Oh, don’t start talking about the war, for heaven’s sake,” Belle said. Her hand stirred in Horace’s. “I had to listen to Harry for two years. Explaining why he couldn’t go. As if I cared whether he did or not.”

  “He had a family to support,” Mrs. Marders suggested brightly. Belle half reclined, her head against the chair-back, her hidden hand moving slowly in Horace’s, exploring, turning ceaselessly, like a separate volition curious but without warmth.

  “Some of them were aviators,” the girl continued. She stood with one little unemphatic hip braced against the table, her racket clasped beneath her arm, turning the pages of a magazine. Then she closed the magazine and again she watched the two figures leanly antic upon the court. “I danced with one of those Sartoris boys once. I was too scared to know which one it was. I wasn’t anything but a baby, then.”

  “Were they poets?” Horace asked. “I mean, the one that got back? I know the other one, the dead one, was.”

  “He sure can drive that car of his,” she answered, still watching the players, her straight hair (hers was the first bobbed head in town) not brown, not gold, her brief nose in
profile, her brown, still hand clasping her racket. Belle stirred and freed her hand.

  “Do go and play, you all,” she said. “You make me nervous, both of you.”

  Horace rose with alacrity. “Come on, Frankie. Let’s you and I take ’em on for a set.”

  They took the court, matched against the two youths. Horace was an exceptional player, erratic and brilliant. One who knew tennis and who had a cool head could have defeated him out of hand by letting him beat himself. But not these. His partner overreached herself frequently, but Horace managed to retrieve the point with stroking or strategy so audacious as to obscure the faultiness of his tactics.

  Just as Horace made the final point. Harry Mitchell appeared, in tight flannels and a white silk shirt and new ornate sport shoes that cost twenty dollars. With a new racket in a patent case and press, he stood with his squat legs and his bald bullet head and his undershot jaw of rotting teeth beside the studied picture of his wife. Presently, when he had been made to drink a cup of tea, he would gather up all the men present and lead them through the house to his bathroom and give them whisky, pouring a glass and bringing it down to Rachel in the kitchen on the way back. He would give you the shirt off of his back. He was a cotton speculator and a good one; he was ugly as sin and kind-hearted and dogmatic and talkative, and he called Belle “little mother” until she broke him of it.

  Horace and his partner left the court together and approached the group.

  Mrs. Marders sat now with her slack chins in a raised teacup.

  The girl turned to him with polite finality. “Thanks for playing with me,” she said. “I’ll be better someday, I hope. We beat ’em,” she said generally.

  “You and the little lady gave ’em the works, hey, big boy?” Harry Mitchell said, showing his discolored teeth. His heavy prognathous jaw narrowed delicately down, then nipped abruptly off into bewildered pugnacity.

  “Mr. Benbow did,” the girl corrected in her clear voice. She took the chair next Belle. “I kept on letting ’em get my alley.”

  “Horace,” Belle said, “your tea is getting cold.”

  It had been fetched out by the combination gardener-stableman-chauffeur, temporarily impressed in a white jacket and smelling of vulcanized rubber and ammonia. Mrs. Marders removed her chins from her cup.

  “Horace plays too well,” she said, “really too well. The other men can’t compare with him. You were lucky to have him for a partner, child.”

  “Yessum,” the girl agreed. “I guess he won’t risk me again.”

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Marders rejoined. “Horace enjoyed playing with you, with a young, fresh girl. Didn’t you notice it, Belle?”

  Belle made no reply. She poured Horace’s tea, and at this moment her daughter came across the lawn in her crocus-yellow dress. Her eyes were like stars, more soft and melting than any deer’s, and she gave Horace a swift shining glance.

  “Well, Titania?” he said.

  Belle half turned her head, with the teapot poised above the cup, and Harry set his cup on the table and went and knelt on one knee in her path, as though he were cajoling a puppy. The child came up, still watching Horace with radiant and melting diffidence, and permitted her father to embrace her and fondle her with his short, heavy hands.

  “Daddy’s gal,” Harry said. She submitted to having her prim little dress mussed, pleasurably but a little restively. Her eyes flew shining again.

  “Don’t muss your dress, sister,” Belle said. The child evaded her father’s hands with a prim movement. “What is it now?” Belle asked. “Why aren’t you playing?”

  “Nothing. I just came home.” She came and stood diffidently beside her mother’s chair.

  “Speak to the company,” Belle said. “Don’t you know better than to come where older people are without speaking to them?” The little girl did so, shyly and faultlessly, greeting them in rotation, and her mother turned and pulled and patted at her straight, soft hair. “Now, go on and play. Why do you always want to come around where grown people are? You’re not interested in what we’re doing.”

  “Ah, let her stay, mother,” Harry said. “She wants to watch her daddy and Horace play tennis.”

  “Run along, now,” Belle repeated, with a final pat. “And do keep your dress clean.”

  “Yessum,” the child agreed, and she turned obediently, giving Horace another quick shining look. He watched her and saw Rachel open the kitchen door and speak to her as she passed, saw her turn and mount the steps into the kitchen.

  “What a beautifully mannered child,” Mrs. Marders said.

  “They’re so hard to do anything with,” Belle said. “She has some of her father’s’ traits. Drink your tea, Harry.”

  Harry took his cup from the table and sucked its lukewarm contents into himself noisily and dutifully. “Well, big boy, how about a set? These squirrels think they can beat us.”

  “Frankie wants to play again,” Belle interposed. “Let the child have the court for a little while, Harry.” Harry was busy uncasing his racket. He paused and raised his savage undershot face and his dull kind eyes.

  “No, no,” the girl protested quickly. “I’ve had enough. I’d rather look on a while.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Belle said. “They can play any time. Make them let her play, Harry.”

  “Sure the little lady can play,” Harry said. “Help yourself; play as long as you want to.” He bent again and returned his racket to its intricate casing, twisting nuts here and there; his back was sullen, with a boy’s sullenness.

  “Please, Mr. Mitchell,” the girl said.

  “Go ahead,” Harry repeated. “Here, you jellybeans, how about fixing up a set with the little lady?”

  “Don’t mind him,” Belle told the girl. “He and Horace can play some other time. He’ll have to make a fourth, anyway.”

  The two players stood now, politely waiting.

  “Sure, Mr. Harry, come on. Me and Frankie’ll play you and Joe,” one of them said.

  “You folks go ahead and playa set,” Harry repeated. “I’ve got a little business to talk over with Horace. You all go ahead.” He overrode their polite protests, and they took the court. Then he jerked his head significantly at Horace.

  “Go on with him,” Belle said. “The baby!” Without looking at him, without touching him, she enveloped him with rich and smoldering promise. Mrs. Marders sat across the table from them, curious and bright and cold with her teacup. “Unless you want to play with that silly child again.”

  “Silly?” Horace repeated. “She’s too young to be unconsciously silly yet.”

  “Run along,” Belle told him, “and hurry back. Mrs. Marders and I are tired of one another.”

  Horace followed his host into the house, followed his short, rolling gait and the bald indomitability of his head. From the kitchen as they passed little Belle’s voice came steadily, recounting some astonishment of the day, with an occasional mellow ejaculation from Rachel for antistrophe. In the bathroom Harry got a bottle from a cabinet, and preceded by labored, heavy footsteps mounting, Rachel entered without knocking, bearing a pitcher of ice water.

  “Why’n’t y’all go’n and play, ef you wants?” she demanded. “Whut you let that ’oman treat you and that baby like she do, anyhow?” she demanded of Harry. “You ought to take and lay her out wid a stick of wood. Messin’ up my kitchen at fo’ o’clock in de evenin’. And you ain’t helpin’ none, neither,” she told Horace. “Gimme a dram, Mr. Harry, please, suh.”

  She held her glass out and Harry filled it, and she waddled heavily from the room. They heard her descend the stairs slowly and heavily on her fallen arches. “Belle couldn’t get along without Rachel,” Harry said. He rinsed two glasses with ice water and set them on the lavatory. “She talks too much, like all niggers.” He poured into the two tumblers, set the bo
ttle down. “To listen to her you’d think Belle was some kind of a wild animal. A damn tiger or something. But Belle and I understand each other. You’ve got to make allowances for women, anyhow. Different from men. Born contrary; complain when you don’t please ’em and complain when you do.” He added a little water to his glass; then he said, with astonishing irrelevance: “I’d kill the man that tried to wreck my home like I would a damn snake. Well, let’s take one, big boy.”

  Presently he sloshed water into his empty glass and gulped that, too, and he reverted to his former grievance.

  “Can’t get to play on my own damn court,” he said. “Belle gets all these damn people here every day. What I want is a court where I can come home from work and get in a couple of fast sets every afternoon. Appetizer before supper. But every damn day I get home from work and find a bunch of young girls and jellybeans, using it like it was a public court in a damn park.” Horace drank his more moderately. Harry lit a cigarette and threw the match on to the floor and swung his leg across the lavatory. “I reckon I’ll have to build another court for my own use and put a hog-wire fence around it with a Yale lock, so Belle can’t give picnics on it. There’s plenty of room down there by the lot fence. No trees, too. Put it out in the damn sun, and I reckon Belle’ll let me use it now and then. Well, suppose we get on back.”

  He led the way through his bedroom and stopped to show Horace a new repeating rifle he had just bought and to press upon him a package of cigarettes which he imported from South America, and they descended and emerged into afternoon become later. The sun was level now across the court where three players leaped and sped with soft quick slappings of rubber soles, following the fleeting impact of the ball. Mrs. Marders sat yet with her ceaseless chins, although she was speaking of departure when they came up. Belle turned her head against the chair back, but Harry led Horace on.