“And so it was the Aunt Rosa that came back to town inside the ambulance,” Shreve said. Quentin did not answer; he did not even say, Miss Rosa. He just lay there staring at the window without even blinking, breathing the chill heady pure snow-gleamed darkness. “And she went to bed because it was all finished now, there was nothing left now, nothing out there now but that idiot boy to lurk around those ashes and those four gutted chimneys and howl until someone came and drove him away. They couldn’t catch him and nobody ever seemed to make him go very far away, he just stopped howling for a little while. Then after awhile they would begin to hear him again. And so she died.” Quentin did not answer, staring at the window; then he could not tell if it was the actual window or the window’s pale rectangle upon his eyelids, though after a moment it began to emerge. It began to take shape in its same curious, light, gravity-defying attitude — the once-folded sheet out of the wistaria Mississippi summer, the cigar-smell, the random blowing of the fireflies. “The South,” Shreve said. “The South. Jesus. No wonder you folks all outlive yourselves by years and years and years.” It was becoming quite distinct; he would be able to decipher the words soon, in a moment; even almost now, now, now.
“I am older at twenty than a lot of people who have died,” Quentin said.
“And more people have died than have been twenty-one,” Shreve said. Now he (Quentin) could read it, could finish it — the sloped whimsical ironic hand out of Mississippi attenuated, into the iron snow:
— or perhaps there is. Surely it can harm no one to believe that perhaps she has escaped not at all the privilege of being outraged and amazed and of not forgiving but on the contrary has herself gained that place or borne where the objects of the outrage and of the commiseration also are no longer ghosts but are actual people to be actual recipients of the hatred and the pity. It will do no harm to hope — You see I have written hope, not think. So let it be hope. — that the one cannot escape the censure which no doubt he deserves, that the other no longer lack the commiseration which let us hope (while we are hoping) that they have longed for, if only for the reason that they are about to receive it whether they will or no. The weather was beautiful though cold and they had to use picks to break the earth for the grave yet in one of the deeper clods I saw a redworm doubtless alive when the clod was thrown up though by afternoon it was frozen again.
“So it took Charles Bon and his mother to get rid of old Tom, and Charles Bon and the octoroon to get rid of Judith, and Charles Bon and Clytie to get rid of Henry; and Charles Bon’s mother and Charles Bon’s grandmother got rid of Charles Bon. So it takes two niggers to get rid of one Sutpen, dont it?” Quentin did not answer; evidently Shreve did not want an answer now; he continued almost without a pause: “Which is all right, it’s fine; it clears the whole ledger, you can tear all the pages out and burn them, except for one thing. And do you know what that is?” Perhaps he hoped for an answer this time, or perhaps he merely paused for emphasis, since he got no answer. “You’ve got one nigger left. One nigger Sutpen left. Of course you can’t catch him and you don’t even always see him and you never will be able to use him. But you’ve got him there still. You still hear him at night sometimes. Don’t you?”
“Yes,” Quentin said.
“And so do you know what I think?” Now he did expect an answer, and now he got one:
“No,” Quentin said.
“Do you want to know what I think?”
“No,” Quentin said.
“Then I’ll tell you. I think that in time the Jim Bonds are going to conquer the western hemisphere. Of course it won’t quite be in our time and of course as they spread toward the poles they will bleach out again like the rabbits and the birds do, so they won’t show up so sharp against the snow. But it will still be Jim Bond; and so in a few thousand years, I who regard you will also have sprung from the loins of African kings. Now I want you to tell me just one thing more. Why do you hate the South?”
“I dont hate it,” Quentin said, quickly, at once, immediately; “I dont hate it,” he said. I dont hate it he thought, panting in the cold air, the iron New England dark; I dont. I dont! I dont hate it! I dont hate it!
CHRONOLOGY
1807
Thomas Sutpen born in West Virginia mountains. Poor whites of Scottish-English stock. Large family.
1817
Sutpen family moved down into Tidewater Virginia, Sutpen ten years old.
1818
Ellen Coldfield born in Tennessee.
1820
Sutpen ran away from home. Fourteen years old.
1827
Sutpen married first wife in Haiti.
1828
Goodhue Coldfield moved to Yoknapatawpha County (Jefferson) Mississippi: mother, sister, wife and daughter Ellen.
1829
Charles Bon born, Haiti.
1831
Sutpen learns his wife has negro blood, repudiates her and child.
1833
Sutpen appears in Yoknapatawpha County, Mississippi, takes up land, builds his house.
1834
Clytemnestra (Clytie) born to slave woman.
1838
Sutpen married Ellen Coldfield.
1839
Henry Sutpen born, Sutpen’s Hundred.
1841
Judith Sutpen born.
1845
Rosa Coldfield born.
1850
Wash Jones moves into abandoned fishing camp on Sutpen’s plantation, with his daughter.
1853
Milly Jones born to Wash Jones’ daughter.
1859
Henry Sutpen and Charles Bon meet at University of Mississippi. Judith and Charles meet that Xmas. Charles Etienne St. Velery Bon born, New Orleans.
1860
Xmas, Sutpen forbids marriage between Judith and Bon. Henry repudiates his birthright, departs with Bon.
1861
Sutpen, Henry, and Bon depart for war.
1862
Ellen Coldfield dies.
1864
Goodhue Coldfield dies.
1865
Henry kills Bon at gates. Rosa Coldfield moves out to Sutpen’s Hundred.
1866
Sutpen becomes engaged to Rosa Coldfield, insults her. She returns to Jefferson.
1867
Sutpen takes up with Milly Jones.
1869
Milly’s child is born. Wash Jones kills Sutpen.
1870
Charles E. St. V. Bon appears at Sutpen’s Hundred.
1871
Clytie fetches Charles E. St. V. Bon to Sutpen’s Hundred to live.
1881
Charles E. St. V. Bon returns with negro wife.
1882
Jim Bond born.
1884
Judith and Charles E. St. V. Bon die of smallpox.
1910
September
Rosa Coldfield and Quentin find Henry Sutpen hidden in the house.
December
Rosa Coldfield goes out to fetch Henry to town, Clytie sets fire to the house.
GENEALOGY
THOMAS SUTPEN.
Born in West Virginia mountains, 1807. One of several children of poor whites, Scotch-English stock. Established plantation of Sutpen’s Hundred in Yoknapatawpha County, Mississippi, 1833. Married (1) Eulalia Bon, Haiti, 1827. (2) Ellen Coldfield, Jefferson, Mississippi, 1838. Major, later Colonel, th Mississippi Infantry, C.S.A. Died, Sutpen’s Hundred, 1869.
EULALIA BON.
Born in Haiti. Only child of Haitian sugar planter of French descent. Married Thomas Sutpen, 1827, divorced from him, 1831. Died in New Orleans, date unknown.
CHARLES BON.
Son of Thomas and Eulalia Bon Sutpen. Only child. Attended University of Mississippi, where he met Henry Sutpen and became engaged to Judith. Private, later lieutenant, th Company, (University Greys) —— th Mississippi Infantry, C.S.A. Died, Sutpen’s Hundred, 1865.
GOODHUE COLDFIELD.
Bor
n in Tennessee. Moved to Jefferson, Miss., 1828, established small mercantile business. Died, Jefferson, 1864.
ELLEN COLDFIELD.
Daughter of Goodhue Coldfield. Born in Tennessee, 1818. Married Thomas Sutpen, Jefferson, Miss., 1838. Died, Sutpen’s Hundred, 1862.
ROSA COLDFIELD.
Daughter of Goodhue Coldfield. Born, Jefferson, 1845. Died, Jefferson, 1910.
HENRY SUTPEN.
Born, Sutpen’s Hundred, 1839, son of Thomas and Ellen Coldfield Sutpen. Attended University of Mississippi. Private, —— th Company, (University Greys) —— th Mississippi Infantry, C.S.A. Died, Sutpen’s Hundred, 1910.
JUDITH SUTPEN.
Daughter of Thomas and Ellen Coldfield Sutpen. Born, Sutpen’s Hundred, 1841. Became engaged to Charles Bon, 1860. Died, Sutpen’s Hundred, 1884.
CLYTEMNESTRA SUTPEN.
Daughter of Thomas Sutpen and a negro slave. Born, Sutpen’s Hundred, 1834. Died, Sutpen’s Hundred, 1910.
WASH JONES.
Date and location of birth unknown. Squatter, residing in an abandoned fishing camp belonging to Thomas Sutpen, hanger-on of Sutpen, handy man about Sutpen’s place while Sutpen was away between ‘61-65. Died, Sutpen’s Hundred, 1869.
MELICENT JONES.
Daughter of Wash Jones. Date of birth unknown. Rumored to have died in a Memphis brothel.
MILLY JONES.
Daughter of Melicent Jones. Born 1853. Died, Sutpen’s Hundred, 1869.
UNNAMED INFANT.
Daughter of Thomas Sutpen and Milly Jones. Born, died, Sutpen’s Hundred, same day, 1869.
CHARLES ETIENNE DE SAINT VELERY BON.
Only child of Charles Bon and an octoroon mistress whose name is not recorded. Born, New Orleans, 1859. Married a full-blood negress, name unknown, 1879. Died, Sutpen’s Hundred, 1884.
JIM BOND (BON).
Son of Charles Etienne de Saint Velery Bon. Born, Sutpen’s Hundred, 1882. Disappeared from Sutpen’s Hundred, 1910. Whereabouts unknown.
QUENTIN COMPSON.
Grandson of Thomas Sutpen’s first Yoknapatawpha County friend. Born, Jefferson, 1891. Attended Harvard, 1909-1910. Died, Cambridge, Mass., 1910.
SHREVLIN McCANNON.
Born, Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, 1890. Attended Harvard, 1909-1914. Captain, Royal Army Medical Corps, Canadian Expeditionary Forces, France, 1914-1918. Now a practising surgeon, Edmonton, Alta.
The Unvanquished
This 1938 novel tells the story of the Sartoris family, who first appeared in the novel Sartoris. The Unvanquished takes place before the previous work and is set during the American Civil War. The text consists of seven short stories, which were originally published separately in magazines, mostly The Saturday Evening Post.
The plot spans the years 1862 to 1873 and the principal character is Bayard Sartoris, tracing his coming of age until he is a grown man and the head of a family. Bayard is decent, honourable, courageous and intelligent, a model Southern aristocrat of the post-war era. As a boy, he is occasionally given to impetuousness and rashness. In the course of the novel, he greatly matures, gaining a sense of the tragedy of life and learning to balance the rash chivalry of the traditional Southern gentleman with sensitivity and mercy.
The first edition
CONTENTS
AMBUSCADE
RETREAT
RAID
RIPOSTE IN TERTIO
VENDÉE
SKIRMISH AT SARTORIS
AN ODOR OF VERBENA
AMBUSCADE
1
BEHIND THE SMOKEHOUSE that summer, Ringo and I had a living map. Although Vicksburg was just a handful of chips from the woodpile and the River a trench scraped into the packed earth with the point of a hoe, it (river, city, and terrain) lived, possessing even in miniature that ponderable though passive recalcitrance of topography which outweighs artillery, against which the most brilliant of victories and the most tragic of defeats are but the loud noises of a moment. To Ringo and me it lived, if only because of the fact that the sunimpacted ground drank water faster than we could fetch it from the well, the very setting of the stage for conflict a prolonged and wellnigh hopeless ordeal in which we ran, panting and interminable, with the leaking bucket between wellhouse and battlefield, the two of us needing first to join forces and spend ourselves against a common enemy, time, before we could engender between us and hold intact the pattern of recapitulant mimic furious victory like a cloth, a shield between ourselves and reality, between us and fact and doom. This afternoon it seemed as if we would never get it filled, wet enough, since there had not even been dew in three weeks. But at last it was damp enough, damp-colored enough at least, and we could begin. We were just about to begin. Then suddenly Loosh was standing there, watching us. He was Joby’s son and Ringo’s uncle; he stood there (we did not know where he had come from; we had not seen him appear, emerge) in the fierce dull early afternoon sunlight, bareheaded, his head slanted a little, tilted a little yet firm and not askew, like a cannonball (which it resembled) bedded hurriedly and carelessly in concrete, his eyes a little red at the inner corners as Negroes’ eyes get when they have been drinking, looking down at what Ringo and I called Vicksburg. Then I saw Philadelphy, his wife, over at the woodpile, stooped, with an armful of wood already gathered into the crook of her elbow, watching Loosh’s back.
“What’s that?” Loosh said.
“Vicksburg,” I said.
Loosh laughed. He stood there laughing, not loud, looking at the chips.
“Come on here, Loosh,” Philadelphy said from the woodpile. There was something curious in her voice too — urgent, perhaps frightened. “If you wants any supper, you better tote me some wood.” But I didn’t know which, urgency or fright; I didn’t have time to wonder or speculate, because suddenly Loosh stooped before Ringo or I could have moved, and with his hand he swept the chips flat.
“There’s your Vicksburg,” he said.
“Loosh!” Philadelphy said. But Loosh squatted, looking at me with that expression on his face. I was just twelve then; I didn’t know triumph; I didn’t even know the word.
“And I tell you nother un you ain’t know,” he said. “Corinth.”
“Corinth?” I said. Philadelphy had dropped the wood and she was coming fast toward us. “That’s in Mississippi too. That’s not far. I’ve been there.”
“Far don’t matter,” Loosh said. Now he sounded as if he were about to chant, to sing; squatting there with the fierce dull sun on his iron skull and the flattening slant of his nose, he was not looking at me or Ringo either; it was as if his redcornered eyes had reversed in his skull and it was the blank flat obverses of the balls which we saw. “Far don’t matter. Case hit’s on the way!”
“On the way? On the way to what?”
“Ask your paw. Ask Marse John.”
“He’s at Tennessee, fighting. I can’t ask him.”
“You think he at Tennessee? Ain’t no need for him at Tennessee now.” Then Philadelphy grabbed him by the arm.
“Hush your mouth, nigger!” she cried, in that tense desperate voice. “Come on here and get me some wood!”
Then they were gone. Ringo and I didn’t watch them go. We stood there above our ruined Vicksburg, our tedious hoe-scratch not even damp-colored now, looking at one another quietly. “What?” Ringo said. “What he mean?”
Complete Works of William Faulkner Page 234
