Collected Stories

by William Faulkner

  “There should never have been an alliance between Frenchmen and Englishmen,” the subadar said. He spoke without effort; invisible, his effortless voice had an organ quality, out of all proportion to his size. “Different nations should never join forces to fight for the same object. Let each fight for something different; ends that do not conflict, each in his own way.” Sartoris passed us, returning from the fountain, carrying his bulging cap carefully before him, bottom-up. We could hear the water dripping from it between his footsteps. He became one of the blob of thicker shadow where the bandage gleamed and where Monaghan cursed steadily and quietly. “And each after his own tradition,” the subadar said. “My people. The English gave them rifles. They looked at them and came to me: This spear is too short and too heavy: how can a man slay a swift enemy with a spear of this size and weight?’ They gave them tunics with buttons to be kept buttoned; I have passed a whole trench of them squatting, motionless, buried to the ears in blankets, straw, empty sand bags, their faces gray with cold; I have lifted the blankets away from patient torsos clad only in a shirt.

  “The English officers would say to them, ‘Go there and do thus’; they would not stir. Then one day at full noon the whole battalion, catching movement beyond a crater, sprang from the trench, carrying me and an officer with it. We carried the trench without firing a shot; what was left of us—the officer, I, and seventeen others—lived three days in a traverse of the enemy’s front line; it required a whole brigade to extricate us. ‘Why didn’t you shoot?’ the officer said. ‘You let them pick you off like driven pheasant.’ They did not look at him. Like children they stood, murmurous, alert, without shame. I said to the headman, ‘Were the rifles loaded, O Das?’ Like children they stood, diffident, without shame. ‘O Son of many kings,’ Das said. ‘Speak the truth of thy knowing to the sahib,’ I said. ‘They were not loaded, sahib,’ Das said.”

  Again the band came, remote, thudding in the thick air. They were giving the German drink from a bottle. Monaghan said: “Now. Feel better now?”

  “It iss mine head,” the German said. They spoke quietly, like they were discussing wall-paper.

  Monaghan cursed again. “I’m going back. By God, I—”

  “No, no,” the German said. “I will not permit. You haf already obligated—”

  We stood in the shadow beneath the wall and drank. We had one bottle left. Comyn crashed it, empty, against the wall.

  “Now what?” Bland said.

  “Girls,” Comyn said. “Would ye watch Comyn of the Irish nation among the yellow hair of them like a dog among the wheat?”

  We stood there, hearing the far band, the far shouting. “You sure you feel all right?” Monaghan said.

  “Thanks,” the German said. “I feel goot.”

  “Come on, then,” Comyn said.

  “You going to take him with you?” Bland said.

  “Yes,” Monaghan said. “What of it?”

  “Why not take him on to the A.P.M.? He’s sick.”

  “Do you want me to bash your bloody face in?” Monaghan said.

  “All right,” Bland said.

  “Come on,” Comyn said. “What fool would rather fight than fush? All men are brothers, and all their wives are sisters. So come along, yez midnight fusileers.”

  “Look here,” Bland said to the German, “do you want to go with them?” With his bandaged head, he and the subadar alone were visible, like two injured men among five spirits.

  “Hold him up a minute,” Monaghan told Comyn. Monaghan approached Bland. He cursed Bland. “I like fighting,” he said, in that same monotone. “I even like being whipped.”

  “Wait,” the German said. “Again I will not permit.” Monaghan halted, he and Bland not a foot apart. “I haf wife and son in Beyreuth,” the German said. He was speaking to me. He gave me the address, twice, carefully.

  “I’ll write to her,” I said. “What shall I tell her?”

  “Tell her it iss nothing. You will know.”

  “Yes. I’ll tell her you are all right.”

  “Tell her this life iss nothing.”

  Comyn and Monaghan took his arms again, one on either side. They turned and went on, almost carrying him. Comyn looked back once. “Peace be with you,” he said.

  “And with you, peace,” the subadar said. They went on. We watched them come into silhouette in the mouth of an alley where a light was. There was an arch there, and the faint cold pale light on the arch and on the walls so that it was like a gate and they entering the gate, holding the German up between them.

  “What will they do with him?” Bland said. “Prop him in the corner and turn the light off? Or do French brothels have he-beds too?”

  “Who the hell’s business is that?” I said.

  The sound of the band came, thudding; it was cold. Each time my flesh jerked with alcohol and cold I believed that I could hear it rasp on the bones.

  “Since seven years now I have been in this climate,” the subadar said. “But still I do not like the cold.” His voice was deep, quiet, like he might be six feet tall. It was like when they made him they said among themselves, “We’ll give him something to carry his message around with.” “Why? Who’ll listen to his message?” “He will. So we’ll give him something to hear it with.”

  “Why dont you go back to India then?” Bland said.

  “Ah,” the subadar said. “I am like him; I too will not be baron.”

  “So you clear out and let foreigners who will treat the people like oxen or rabbits come in and take it.”

  “By removing myself I undid in one day what it took two thousand years to do. Is not that something?”

  We shook with the cold. Now the cold was the band, the shouting, murmuring with cold hands to the skeleton, not the ears.

  “Well,” Bland said, “I suppose the English government is doing more to free your people than you could.”

  The subadar touched Bland on the chest, lightly. “You are wise, my friend. Let England be glad that all Englishmen are not so wise.”

  “So you will be an exile for the rest of your days, eh?”

  The subadar jerked his short, thick arm toward the empty arch where Comyn and the German and Monaghan had disappeared. “Did you not hear what he said? This life is nothing.”

  “You can think so,” Bland said. “But, by God, I’d hate to think that what I saved out of the last three years is nothing.”

  “You saved a dead man,” the subadar said serenely. “You will see.”

  “I saved my destiny,” Bland said. “You nor nobody else knows what that will be.”

  “What is your destiny except to be dead? It is unfortunate that your generation had to be the one. It is unfortunate that for the better part of your days you will walk the earth a spirit. But that was your destiny.” From far away came the shouting, on that sustained note, feminine and childlike all at once, and then the band again, brassy, thudding, like the voices, forlornly gay, hysteric, but most of all forlorn. The arch in the cold glow of the light yawned empty, profound, silent, like the gate to another city, another world. Suddenly Sartoris left us. He walked steadily to the wall and leaned against it on his propped arms, vomiting.

  “Hell,” Bland said. “I want a drink.” He turned to me. “Where’s your bottle?”

  “It’s gone.”

  “Gone where? You had two.”

  “I haven’t got one now, though. Drink water.”

  “Water?” he said. “Who the hell drinks water?”

  Then the hot hard ball came into my stomach again, pleasant, unbearable, real; again that instant when you say Now. Now I can dump everything. “You will, you goddamn son,” I said.

  Bland was not looking at me. “Twice,” he said in a quiet, detached tone. “Twice in an hour. How’s that for high?” He turned and went toward the fountain. Sartoris came back, walking steadily erect. The band blent with the cold along the bones.

  “What time is it?” I said.

  Sartoris peered
at his wrist. “Twelfth.”

  “It’s later than midnight,” I said. “It must be.”

  “I said it was the twelfth,” Sartoris said.

  Bland was stooping at the fountain. There was a little light there. As we reached him he stood up, mopping at his face. The light was on his face and I thought for some time that he must have had his whole head under to be mopping that high up his face before I saw that he was crying. He stood there, mopping at his face, crying hard but quiet.

  “My poor little wife,” he said. “My poor little wife.”

  Victory

  I

  THOSE WHO SAW HIM descend from the Marseilles express in the Gare de Lyon on that damp morning saw a tall man, a little stiff, with a bronze face and spike-ended moustaches and almost white hair. “A milord,” they said, remarking his sober, correct suit, his correct stick correctly carried, his sparse baggage; “a milord military. But there is something the matter with his eyes.” But there was something the matter with the eyes of so many people, men and women too, in Europe since four years now. So they watched him go on, a half head above the French people, with his gaunt, strained eyes, his air strained, purposeful, and at the same time assured, and vanish into a cab, thinking, if they thought about him any more at all: “You will see him in the Legation offices or at a table on the Boulevards, or in a carriage with the fine English ladies in the Bois.” That was all.

  And those who saw him descend from the same cab at the Gare du Nord, they thought: “This milord returns home by haste”; the porter who took his bag wished him good morning in fair English and told him that he was going to England, receiving for reply the English glare which the porter perhaps expected, and put him into a first-class carriage of the boat train. And that was all, too. That was all right, too, even when he got down at Amiens. English milords even did that. It was only at Rozières that they began to look at him and after him when he had passed.

  In a hired car he jounced through a gutted street between gutted walls rising undoored and unwindowed in jagged shards in the dusk. The street was partially blocked now and then by toppled walls, with masses of masonry in the cracks of which a thin grass sprouted, passing empty and ruined courtyards, in one of which a tank, mute and tilted, rusted among rank weeds. This was Rozières, but he didn’t stop there because no one lived there and there was no place to stop.

  So the car jounced and crept on out of the ruin. The muddy and unpaved street entered a village of harsh new brick and sheet iron and tarred paper roofs made in America, and halted before the tallest house. It was flush with the street: a brick wall with a door and one window of American glass bearing the word RESTAURANT. “Here you are, sir,” the driver said.

  The passenger descended, with his bag, his ulster, his correct stick. He entered a biggish, bare room chill with new plaster. It contained a billiard table at which three men played. One of the men looked over his shoulder and said,

  “Bonjour, monsieur.”

  The newcomer did not reply at all. He crossed the room, passing the new zinc bar, and approached an open door beyond which a woman of any age around forty looked at him above the sewing on her lap.

  “Bong jour, madame,” he said. “Dormie, madame?”

  The woman gave him a single glance, brief, still. “C’est ça, monsieur,” she said, rising.

  “Dormie, madame?” he said, raising his voice a little, his spiked moustache beaded a little with rain, dampness beneath his strained yet assured eyes. “Dormie, madame?”

  “Bon, monsieur,” the woman said. “Bon. Bon.”

  “Dor—” the newcomer essayed again. Someone touched his arm. It was the man who had spoken from the billiard table when he entered.

  “Regardez, Monsieur l’Anglais,” the man said. He took the bag from the newcomer and swept his other arm toward the ceiling. “La chambre.” He touched the traveler again; he laid his face upon his palm and closed his eyes; he gestured again toward the ceiling and went on across the room toward a wooden stair without balustrade. As he passed the bar he took a candle stub from it and lit the candle (the big room and the room beyond the door where the woman sat were lighted by single bulbs hanging naked on cords from the ceiling) at the foot of the stair.

  They mounted, thrusting their fitful shadows before them, into a corridor narrow, chill, and damp as a tomb. The walls were of rough plaster not yet dried. The floor was of pine, without carpet or paint. Cheap metal doorknobs glinted symmetrically. The sluggish air lay like a hand upon the very candle. They entered a room, smelling too of wet plaster, and even colder than the corridor; a sluggish chill almost substantial, as though the atmosphere between the dead and recent walls were congealing, like a patent three-minute dessert. The room contained a bed, a dresser, a chair, a wash-stand; the bowl, pitcher, and slop basin were of American enamel. When the traveler touched the bed the linen was soundless under his hand, coarse as sacking, clinging damply to the hand in the dead air in which their two breathings vaporized in the faint candle.

  The host set the candle on the dresser. “Dîner, monsieur?” he said. The traveler stared down at the host, incongruous in his correct clothes, with that strained air. His waxed moustaches gleamed like faint bayonets above a cravat striped with what the host could not have known was the patterned coloring of a Scottish regiment. “Manger?” the host shouted. He chewed violently in pantomime. “Manger?” he roared, his shadow aping his gesture as he pointed toward the floor.

  “Yes,” the traveler shouted in reply, their faces not a yard apart. “Yes. Yes.”

  The host nodded violently, pointed toward the floor and then at the door, nodded again, went out.

  He returned below stairs. He found the woman now in the kitchen, at the stove. “He will eat,” the host said.

  “I knew that,” the woman said.

  “You would think that they would stay at home,” the host said. “I’m glad I was not born of a race doomed to a place too small to hold all of us at one time.”

  “Perhaps he has come to look at the war,” the woman said.

  “Of course he has,” the host said. “But he should have come four years ago. That was when we needed Englishmen to look at the war.”

  “He was too old to come then,” the woman said. “Didn’t you see his hair?”

  “Then let him stay at home now,” the host said. “He is no younger.”

  “He may have come to look at the grave of his son,” the woman said.

  “Him?” the host said. “That one? He is too cold to ever have had a son.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” the woman said. “After all, that is his affair. It is our affair only that he has money.”

  “That’s right,” the host said. “A man in this business, he cannot pick and choose.”

  “He can pick, though,” the woman said.

  “Good!” the host said. “Very good! Pick! That is worth telling to the English himself.”

  “Why not let him find it out when he leaves?”

  “Good!” the host said. “Better still. Good! Oh, good!”

  “Attention,” the woman said. “Here he comes.”

  They listened to the traveler’s steady tramp, then he appeared in the door. Against the lesser light of the bigger room, his dark face and his white hair looked like a kodak negative.

  The table was set for two, a carafe of red wine at each place. As the traveller seated himself, the other guest entered and took the other place—a small, rat-faced man who appeared at first glance to have no eyelashes at all. He tucked his napkin into the top of his vest and took up the soup ladle (the tureen sat between them in the center of the table) and offered it to the other. “Faites-moi l’honneur, monsieur,” he said. The other bowed stiffly, accepting the ladle. The small man lifted the cover from the tureen. “Vous venez examiner ce scène de nos victoires, monsieur?” he said, helping himself in turn. The other looked at him. “Monsieur l’Anglais a peut-être beaucoup des amis qui sont tombés en voisinage.”


  “A speak no French,” the other said, eating.

  The little man did not eat. He held his yet unwetted spoon above his bowl. “What agreeable for me. I speak the Engleesh. I am Suisse, me. I speak all langue.” The other did not reply. He ate steadily, not fast. “You ave return to see the grave of your galant countreemans, eh? You ave son here, perhaps, eh?”

  “No,” the other said. He did not cease to eat.

  “No?” The other finished his soup and set the bowl aside. He drank some wine. “What deplorable, that man who ave,” the Swiss said. “But it is finish now. Not?” Again the other said nothing. He was not looking at the Swiss. He did not seem to be looking at anything, with his gaunt eyes, his rigid moustaches upon his rigid face. “Me, I suffer too. All suffer. But I tell myself, What would you? It is war.”

  Still the other did not answer. He ate steadily, deliberately, and finished his meal and rose and left the room. He lit his candle at the bar, where the host, leaning beside a second man in a corduroy coat, lifted a glass slightly to him. “Au bon dormir, monsieur,” the host said.

  The traveler looked at the host, his face gaunt in the candle, his waxed moustaches rigid, his eyes in shadow. “What?” he said. “Yes. Yes.” He turned and went toward the stairs. The two men at the bar watched him, his stiff, deliberate back.

  Ever since the train left Arras, the two women had been watching the other occupant of the carriage. It was a third-class carriage because no first-class trains ran on this line, and they sat with their shawled heads and the thick, still hands of peasants folded upon closed baskets on their laps, watching the man sitting opposite them—the white distinction of the hair against the bronze, gaunt face, the needles of the moustaches, the foreign-made suit and the stick—on a worn and greasy wooden seat, looking out the window. At first they had just looked, ready to avert their gaze, but as the man did not seem to be aware of them, they began to whisper quietly to one another behind their hands. But the man did not seem to notice this, so they soon were talking in undertone, watching with bright, alert, curious eyes the stiff, incongruous figure leaning a little forward on the stick, looking out a foul window beyond which there was nothing to see save an occasional shattered road and man-high stump of shattered tree breaking small patches of tilled land whorled with apparent unreason about islands of earth indicated by low signboards painted red, the islands inscrutable, desolate above the destruction which they wombed. Then the train, slowing, ran suddenly among tumbled brick, out of which rose a small house of corrugated iron bearing a name in big letters; they watched the man lean forward.