SCENE III
SAME AS SCENE I. Governor’s Office. 3.09 a.m. March twelfth.
The lights go on upper left. The scene is the same as before, Scene I, except that Gowan Stevens now sits in the chair behind the desk where the Governor had been sitting and the Governor is no longer in the room. Temple now kneels before the desk, facing it, her arms on the desk and her face buried in her arms. Stevens now stands beside and over her. The hands of the clock show nine minutes past three.
Temple does not know that the Governor has gone and that her husband is now in the room.
TEMPLE
(her face still hidden)
And that’s all. The police came, and the murderess still sitting in a chair in the kitchen in the dark, saying ‘Yes, Lord, I done it,’ and then in the cell at the jail still saying it ——
(Stevens leans and touches her arm, as if to help her up. She resists, though still not raising her head)
Not yet. It’s my cue to stay down here until his honour or excellency grants our plea, isn’t it? Or have I already missed my cue forever even if the sovereign state should offer me a handkerchief right out of its own elected public suffrage dressing-gown pocket? Because see?
(she raises her face, quite blindly, tearless, still not looking toward the chair where she could see Gowan instead of the Governor, into the full glare of the light)
Still no tears.
STEVENS
Get up, Temple.
(he starts to lift her again, but before he can do so, she rises herself, standing, her face still turned away from the desk, still blind; she puts her arm up almost in the gesture of a little girl about to cry, but instead she merely shields her eyes from the light while her pupils re-adjust)
TEMPLE
Nor cigarette either; this time it certainly won’t take long, since all he has to say is, No.
(still not turning her face to look, even though she is now speaking directly to the Governor who she still thinks is sitting behind the desk)
Because you aren’t going to save her, are you? Because all this was not for the sake of her soul because her soul doesn’t need it, but for mine.
STEVENS
(gently)
Why not finish first? Tell the rest of it. You had started to say something about the jail.
TEMPLE
The jail. They had the funeral the next day — Gowan had barely reached New Orleans, so he chartered an aeroplane back that morning — and in Jefferson, everything going to the graveyard passes the jail, or going anywhere else for that matter, passing right under the upstairs barred windows — the bullpen and the cells where the Negro prisoners — the crapshooters and whiskey-pedlars and vagrants and the murderers and murderesses too — can look down and enjoy it, enjoy the funerals too. Like this. Some white person you know is in a jail or a hospital, and right off you say, How ghastly: not at the shame or the pain, but the walls, the locks, and before you even know it, you have sent them books to read, cards, puzzles to play with. But not Negroes. You don’t even think about the cards and puzzles and books. And so all of a sudden you find out with a kind of terror, that they have not only escaped having to read, they have escaped having to escape. So whenever you pass the jail, you can see them — no, not them, you don’t see them at all, you just see the hands among the bars of the windows, not tapping or fidgeting or even holding, gripping the bars like white hands would be, but just lying there among the interstices, not just at rest, but even restful, already shaped and easy and unanguished to the handles of the ploughs and axes and hoes, and the mops and brooms and the rockers of white folks’ cradles, until even the steel bars fitted them too without alarm or anguish. You see? not gnarled and twisted with work at all, but even limbered and suppled by it, smoothed and even softened, as though with only the penny-change of simple sweat they had already got the same thing the white ones have to pay dollars by the ounce jar for. Not immune to work, and in compromise with work is not the right word either, but in confederacy with work and so free from it; in armistice, peace; — the same long supple hands serene and immune to anguish, so that all the owners of them need to look out with, to see with — to look out at the outdoors — the funerals, the passing, the people, the freedom, the sunlight, the free air — are just the hands: not the eyes: just the hands lying there among the bars and looking out, that can see the shape of the plough or hoe or axe before daylight comes; and even in the dark, without even having to turn on the light, can not only find the child, the baby — not her child but yours, the white one — but the trouble and discomfort too — the hunger, the wet nappie, the unfastened safety-pin — and see to remedy it. You see. If I could just cry. There was another one, a man this time, before my time in Jefferson but Uncle Gavin will remember this too. His wife had just died — they had been married only two weeks — and he buried her and so at first he tried just walking the country roads at night for exhaustion and sleep, only that failed and then he tried getting drunk so he could sleep, and that failed and then he tried fighting and then he cut a white man’s throat with a razor in a dice game and so at last he could sleep for a little while; which was where the sheriff found him, asleep on the wooden floor of the gallery of the house he had rented for his wife, his marriage, his life, his old age. Only that waked him up, and so in the jail that afternoon, all of a sudden it took the jailor and a deputy and five other Negro prisoners just to throw him down and hold him while they locked the chains on him — lying there on the floor with more than a half-dozen men panting to hold him down, and what do you think he said? ‘Look like I just can’t quit thinking. Look like I just can’t quit.’
(she ceases, blinking, rubs her eyes and then extends one hand blindly toward Stevens, who has already shaken out his handkerchief and hands it to her. There are still no tears on her face; she merely takes the handkerchief and dabs, pats at her eyes with it as if it were a powder-puff, talking again)
But we have passed the jail, haven’t we? We’re in the Courtroom now. It was the same there; Uncle Gavin had rehearsed her, of course, which was easy, since all you can say when they ask you to answer to a murder charge is, Not Guilty. Otherwise, they can’t even have a trial; they would have to hurry out and find another murderer before they could take the next official step. So they asked her, all correct and formal among the judges and lawyers and bailiffs and jury and the Scales and the Sword and the flag and the ghosts of Coke upon Littleton upon Bonaparte and Julius Cæsar and all the rest of it, not to mention the eyes and the faces which were getting a moving-picture show for free since they had already paid for it in the taxes, and nobody really listening since there was only one thing she could say. Except that she didn’t say it: just raising her head enough to be heard plain — not loud: just plain — and said, ‘Guilty, Lord’ — like that, disrupting and confounding and dispersing and flinging back two thousand years, the whole edifice of corpus juris and rules of evidence we have been working to make stand up by itself ever since Cæsar, like when without even watching yourself or even knowing you were doing it, you would reach out your hand and turn over a chip and expose to air and light and vision the frantic and aghast turmoil of an ant-hill. And moved the chip again, when even the ants must have thought there couldn’t be another one within her reach: when they finally explained to her that to say she was not guilty, had nothing to do with truth but only with law, and this time she said it right, Not Guilty, and so then the jury could tell her she lied and everything was all correct again and, as everybody thought, even safe, since now she wouldn’t be asked to say anything at all any more. Only, they were wrong; the jury said Guilty and the judge said Hang and now everybody was already picking up his hat to go home, when she picked up that chip too: the judge said, ‘And may God have mercy on your soul,’ and Nancy answered: ‘Yes, Lord.’
(she turns suddenly, almost briskly, speaking so briskly that her momentum carries her on past the instant when she sees and recognises Gowan sitting where she had thought all the time
that the Governor was sitting and listening to her)
And that is all, this time. And so now you can tell us. I know you’re not going to save her, but now you can say so. It won’t be difficult. Just one word ——
(she stops, arrested, utterly motionless, but even then she is first to recover)
Oh God.
(Gowan rises quickly, Temple whirls to Stevens)
Why is it you must always believe in plants? Do you have to? Is it because you have to? Because you are a lawyer? No, I’m wrong. I’m sorry; I was the one that started us hiding gimmicks on each other, wasn’t it?
(quickly: turning to Gowan)
Of course; you didn’t take the sleeping pill at all. Which means you didn’t even need to come here for the Governor to hide you behind the door or under the desk or wherever it was he was trying to tell me you were hiding and listening, because after all the Governor of a Southern state has got to try to act like he regrets having to aberrate from being a gentleman ——
STEVENS
(to Temple)
Stop it.
GOWAN
Maybe we both didn’t start hiding soon enough — by about eight years — not in desk drawers either, but in two abandoned mine shafts, one in Siberia and the other at the South Pole, maybe.
TEMPLE
All right. I didn’t mean hiding. I’m sorry.
GOWAN
Don’t be. Just draw on your eight years’ interest for that.
(to Stevens)
All right, all right; tell me to shut up too.
(to no one directly)
In fact, this may be the time for me to start saying sorry for the next eight-year term. Just give me a little time. Eight years of gratitude might be a habit a little hard to break. So here goes.
(to Temple)
I’m sorry. Forget it.
TEMPLE
I would have told you.
GOWAN
You did. Forget it. You see how easy it is? You could have been doing that yourself for eight years: every time I would say ‘Say sorry, please,’ all you would need would be to answer: ‘I did. Forget it.’
(to Stevens)
I guess that’s all, isn’t it? We can go home now.
(he starts to come around the desk)
TEMPLE
Wait.
(Gowan stops; they look at each other)
Where are you going?
GOWAN
I said home, didn’t I? To pick up Bucky and carry him back to his own bed again.
(they look at one another)
You’re not even going to ask me where he is now?
(answers himself)
Where we always leave our children when the clutch ——
STEVENS
(to Gowan)
Maybe I will say shut up this time.
GOWAN
Only let me finish first. I was going to say, ‘with our handiest kinfolks.’
(to Temple)
I carried him to Maggie’s.
STEVENS
(moving)
I think we can all go now. Come on.
GOWAN
So do I.
(he comes on around the desk, and stops again; to Temple)
Make up your mind. Do you want to ride with me, or Gavin?
STEVENS
(to Gowan)
Go on. You can pick up Bucky.
GOWAN
Right.
(he turns, starts toward the steps front, where Temple and Stevens entered, then stops)
That’s right. I’m probably still supposed to use the spy’s entrance.
(he turns back, starts around the desk again, toward the door at rear, sees Temple’s gloves and bag on the desk, and takes them up and holds them out to her: roughly almost)
Here. This is what they call evidence; don’t forget these.
(Temple takes the bag and gloves)
Gowan goes on toward the door at rear.
TEMPLE
(after him)
Did you have a hat and coat?
(he doesn’t answer. He goes on, exits)
Oh, God. Again.
STEVENS
(touches her arm)
Come on.
TEMPLE
(not moving yet)
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow ——
STEVENS
(speaking her thought, finishing the sentence)
— he will wreck the car again against the wrong tree, in the wrong place, and you will have to forgive him again, for the next eight years until he can wreck the car again in the wrong place, against the wrong tree ——
TEMPLE
I was driving it too. I was driving some of the time too.
STEVENS
(gently)
Then let that comfort you.
(he takes her arm again, turns her toward the stairs)
Come on. It’s late.
TEMPLE
(holds back)
Wait. He said, No.
STEVENS
Yes.
TEMPLE
Did he say why?
STEVENS
Yes. He can’t.
TEMPLE
Can’t? The Governor of a state, with all the legal power to pardon or at least reprieve, can’t?
STEVENS
That’s just law. If it was only law, I could have pleaded insanity for her at any time, without bringing you here at two o’clock in the morning ——
TEMPLE
And the other parent too; don’t forget that. I don’t know yet how you did it. . . . Yes, Gowan was here first; he was just pretending to be asleep when I carried Bucky in and put him in his bed; yes, that was what you called that leaking valve, when we stopped at the filling station to change the wheel: to let him get ahead of us ——
STEVENS
All right. He wasn’t even talking about justice. He was talking about a child, a little boy ——
TEMPLE
That’s right. Make it good: the same little boy to hold whose normal and natural home together, the murderess, the nigger, the dope-fiend whore, didn’t hesitate to cast the last gambit — and maybe that’s the wrong word too, isn’t it? — she knew and had: her own debased and worthless life. Oh yes, I know that answer too; that was brought out here tonight too: that a little child shall not suffer in order to come unto Me. So good can come out of evil.
STEVENS
It not only can, it must.
TEMPLE
So touché, then. Because what kind of natural and normal home can that little boy have where his father may at any time tell him he has no father?
STEVENS
Haven’t you been answering that question every day for six years? Didn’t Nancy answer it for you when she told you how you had fought back, not for yourself, but for that little boy? Not to show the father that he was wrong, nor even to prove to the little boy that the father was wrong, but to let the little boy learn with his own eyes that nothing, not even that, which could possibly enter that house, could ever harm him?
TEMPLE
But I quit. Nancy told you that too.
STEVENS
She doesn’t think so now. Isn’t that what she’s going to prove Friday morning?
TEMPLE
Friday. The black day. The day you never start on a journey. Except that Nancy’s journey didn’t start at daylight or sun-up or whenever it is polite and tactful to hang people, day after tomorrow. Her journey started that morning eight years ago when I got on the train at the University ——
(she stops: a moment; then quietly)
Oh God, that was Friday too; that baseball game was Friday ——
(rapidly)
You see? Don’t you see? It’s nowhere near enough yet. Of course he wouldn’t save her. If he did that, it would be over: Gowan could just throw me out, which he may do yet, or I could throw Gowan out, which I could have done until it got too late now, too late forever now, or the judge could have thrown us both out and given Bucky to an orphan
age, and it would be all over. But now it can go on, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, forever and forever and forever ——
STEVENS
(gently tries to start her)
Come on.
TEMPLE
(holding back)
Tell me exactly what he did say. Not tonight: it couldn’t have been tonight — or did he say it over the telephone, and we didn’t even need ——
STEVENS
He said it a week ago ——
TEMPLE
Yes, about the same time when you sent the wire. What did he say?
STEVENS
(quotes)
‘Who am I, to have the brazen temerity and hardihood to set the puny appanage of my office in the balance against that simple undeviable aim? Who am I, to render null and abrogate the purchase she made with that poor crazed lost and worthless life?’
TEMPLE
(wildly)
And good too — good and mellow too. So it was not even in hopes of saving her life, that I came here at two o’clock in the morning. It wasn’t even to be told that he had already decided not to save her. It was not even to confess to my husband, but to do it in the hearing of two strangers, something which I had spent eight years trying to expiate so that my husband wouldn’t have to know about it. Don’t you see? That’s just suffering. Not for anything: just suffering.
STEVENS
You came here to affirm the very thing which Nancy is going to die tomorrow morning to postulate: that little children, as long as they are little children, shall be intact, unanguished, untorn, unterrified.
TEMPLE
(quietly)
All right. I have done that. Can we go home now?
STEVENS
Yes.
(she turns, moves toward the steps, Stevens beside her. As she reaches the first step, she falters, seems to stumble slightly, like a sleepwalker. Stevens steadies her, but at once she frees her arm, and begins to descend)
TEMPLE
(on the first step: to no one, still with that sleepwalker air)
To save my soul — if I have a soul. If there is a God to save it — a God who wants it ——
(CURTAIN)
ACT THREE
THE JAIL (Nor Even Yet Quite Relinquish —— )
SO, ALTHOUGH IN a sense the jail was both older and less old than the courthouse, in actuality, in time, in observation and memory, it was older even than the town itself. Because there was no town until there was a courthouse, and no courthouse until (like some insentient unweaned creature torn violently from the dug of its dam) the floorless lean-to rabbit-hutch housing the iron chest was reft from the log flank of the jail and transmogrified into a by-neo-Greek-out-of-Georgian-England edifice set in the centre of what in time would be the town Square (as a result of which, the town itself had moved one block south — or rather, no town then and yet, the courthouse itself the catalyst: a mere dusty widening of the trace, trail, pathway in a forest of oak and ash and hickory and sycamore and flowering catalpa and dogwood and judas tree and persimmon and wild plum, with on one side old Alec Holston’s tavern and coaching-yard, and a little farther along, Ratcliffe’s trading-post-store and the blacksmith’s, and diagonal to all of them, en face and solitary beyond the dust, the log jail; moved — the town — complete and intact, one block southward, so that now, a century and a quarter later, the coaching-yard and Ratcliffe’s store were gone and old Alec’s tavern and the blacksmith’s were a hotel and a garage, on a main thoroughfare true enough but still a business side-street, and the jail across from them, though transformed also now into two storeys of Georgian brick by the hand [or anyway pocket-books] of Sartoris and Sutpen and Louis Grenier, faced not even on a side-street but on an alley);
Complete Works of William Faulkner Page 407
