Read Online Flags in the Dust by William Faulkner - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: William Faulkner
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he couldn’t know about it; couldn’t have come to her if he had? And you can say that?”
“Bayard love anybody, that cold devil?” Miss Jenny clipped larkspur. “He never cared a snap of his fingers for anybody in his life except Johnny.” She snipped larkspur savagely. “Swelling around here like it was our fault, like we made ’emgo to that war. And now he’s got to have an automobile, got to go all the way to Memphis to buy one. An automobile in Bayard Sartoris’ barn, mind you; him that wont even lend the bank’s money to a man that owns one.…… Do you want some sweet peas?”
“Yes, please,” Narcissa answered. Miss Jenny straightened up, then she stopped utterly still.
“Just look yonder, will you?” she pointed with the shears. “That’s how they suffer from war, poor things.” Beyond a frame of sweet peas Isom in his khaki strode solemnly back and forth. Upon his right shoulder was a hoe and on his face an expression of rapt absorption, and as he reversed at the end of his beat, he murmured to himself in measured singsong. “You, Isom!” Miss Jenny shouted.
He halted in midstride, still at shoulder arms. “Ma’am?” he said mildly. Miss Jenny continued to glare at him, and his military bearing faded and he lowered his piece and executed a sort of effacing movement within his martial shroud.
“Put that hoe down and bring that basket over here. That’s the first time in your life you ever picked up a garden tool of your own free will. I wish I could discover the kind of uniform that would make you dig in the ground with it; I’d certainly buy you one.”
“Yessum.”
“If you want to play soldier, you go off somewhere with Bayard and do it. I can raise flowers without any help from the army,” she added, turning to the guest with her handful of larkspur. “And what are you laughing at?” she demanded.
“You both looked so funny,” the younger woman explained. “You looked so much more like a soldier than poor Isom, for all his uniform.” She touched her eyes with her fingertips. “I’m sorry: please forgive me for laughing.”
“Hmph,” Miss Jenny sniffed. She put the larkspur into thebasket and went on to the sweet pea frame and snipped again, viciously. The guest followed, as did Isom with the basket; and presently Miss Jenny was done with sweet peas and she moved on again with her train, pausing to cut a rose here and there, and stopped before a bed where tulips lifted their bright inverted bells. She and Isom had guessed happily, this time; the various colors formed an orderly pattern.
“When we dug ’em up last fall,” she told her guest, “I’d put a red one in Isom’s right hand and a yellow one in his left, and then I’d say ‘All right, Isom, give me the red one.’ He’d never fail to hold out his left hand, and if I just looked at him long enough, he’d hold out both hands. ‘Didn’t I tell you to hold that red one in your right hand?’ I’d say. ‘Yessum, here ’tis.’ And out would come his left hand again. ‘That aint your right hand, stupid,’ I’d say. ‘Dat’s de one you said wuz my right hand a while ago,’ Mr Isom says. Aint that so, nigger?” Miss Jenny glared at Isom, who again performed his deprecatory effacing movement behind the slow equanimity of his grin.
“Yessum, I ’speck it is.”
“You’d better,” Miss Jenny rejoined warningly. “Now, how can anybody have a decent garden, with a fool like that? I expect every spring to find corn or lespedeza coming up in the hyacinth beds or something.” She examined the tulips again, weighing the balanced colors one against another in her mind. “No, you dont want any tulips,” she decided, moving on.
“No, Miss Jenny,” the guest agreed demurely. They went on to the gate, and Miss Jenny stopped and took the basket from Isom.
“And you go home and take that thing off, you hear?”
“Yessum.”
“And I want to look out that window in a few minutes and see you
“Bayard love anybody, that cold devil?” Miss Jenny clipped larkspur. “He never cared a snap of his fingers for anybody in his life except Johnny.” She snipped larkspur savagely. “Swelling around here like it was our fault, like we made ’emgo to that war. And now he’s got to have an automobile, got to go all the way to Memphis to buy one. An automobile in Bayard Sartoris’ barn, mind you; him that wont even lend the bank’s money to a man that owns one.…… Do you want some sweet peas?”
“Yes, please,” Narcissa answered. Miss Jenny straightened up, then she stopped utterly still.
“Just look yonder, will you?” she pointed with the shears. “That’s how they suffer from war, poor things.” Beyond a frame of sweet peas Isom in his khaki strode solemnly back and forth. Upon his right shoulder was a hoe and on his face an expression of rapt absorption, and as he reversed at the end of his beat, he murmured to himself in measured singsong. “You, Isom!” Miss Jenny shouted.
He halted in midstride, still at shoulder arms. “Ma’am?” he said mildly. Miss Jenny continued to glare at him, and his military bearing faded and he lowered his piece and executed a sort of effacing movement within his martial shroud.
“Put that hoe down and bring that basket over here. That’s the first time in your life you ever picked up a garden tool of your own free will. I wish I could discover the kind of uniform that would make you dig in the ground with it; I’d certainly buy you one.”
“Yessum.”
“If you want to play soldier, you go off somewhere with Bayard and do it. I can raise flowers without any help from the army,” she added, turning to the guest with her handful of larkspur. “And what are you laughing at?” she demanded.
“You both looked so funny,” the younger woman explained. “You looked so much more like a soldier than poor Isom, for all his uniform.” She touched her eyes with her fingertips. “I’m sorry: please forgive me for laughing.”
“Hmph,” Miss Jenny sniffed. She put the larkspur into thebasket and went on to the sweet pea frame and snipped again, viciously. The guest followed, as did Isom with the basket; and presently Miss Jenny was done with sweet peas and she moved on again with her train, pausing to cut a rose here and there, and stopped before a bed where tulips lifted their bright inverted bells. She and Isom had guessed happily, this time; the various colors formed an orderly pattern.
“When we dug ’em up last fall,” she told her guest, “I’d put a red one in Isom’s right hand and a yellow one in his left, and then I’d say ‘All right, Isom, give me the red one.’ He’d never fail to hold out his left hand, and if I just looked at him long enough, he’d hold out both hands. ‘Didn’t I tell you to hold that red one in your right hand?’ I’d say. ‘Yessum, here ’tis.’ And out would come his left hand again. ‘That aint your right hand, stupid,’ I’d say. ‘Dat’s de one you said wuz my right hand a while ago,’ Mr Isom says. Aint that so, nigger?” Miss Jenny glared at Isom, who again performed his deprecatory effacing movement behind the slow equanimity of his grin.
“Yessum, I ’speck it is.”
“You’d better,” Miss Jenny rejoined warningly. “Now, how can anybody have a decent garden, with a fool like that? I expect every spring to find corn or lespedeza coming up in the hyacinth beds or something.” She examined the tulips again, weighing the balanced colors one against another in her mind. “No, you dont want any tulips,” she decided, moving on.
“No, Miss Jenny,” the guest agreed demurely. They went on to the gate, and Miss Jenny stopped and took the basket from Isom.
“And you go home and take that thing off, you hear?”
“Yessum.”
“And I want to look out that window in a few minutes and see you
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