Read Online Soldiers Pay by William Faulkner - Free Book Online Page B

I newspapers to keep the frost out. Once I recall I was in a neighbouring town attending a conference. The weather—it was March—had been most auspicious and I had removed the covering.
    â€œThe tips were already swelling. Ah, my boy, no young man ever awaited the coming of his mistress with more impatience than do I await the first bloom on this bush. (Who was the old pagan who kept his Byzantine goblet at his bedside I and slowly wore away the rim kissing it? there is an analogy.) “But what was I saying?—ah, yes. So I left the bush uncovered against my better judgment and repaired to the conference. The weather continued perfect until the last day, then the weather reports predicted a change. The bishop was to be present; I ascertained that I could not reach home by rail and return in time. At last I engaged a livery man to drive me home.
    â€œThe sky was becoming overcast, it was already turning colder. And then, three miles from home, we came upon a stream and found the bridge gone. After some shouting we attracted the attention of a man ploughing across the stream and he came over to us in a skiff. I engaged my driver to await me, was ferried across, walked home and covered my rose, walked back to the stream and returned in time. And that night”—the rector beamed upon Januarius Jones—“snow fell!”
    Jones fatly supine on gracious grass, his eyes closed against the sun, stuffing his pipe: “This rose has almost made history. You have had the bush for some time, have you not? One does become attached to things one has long known.” Januarius Jones was not particularly interested in flowers.
    â€œI have a better reason than that. In this bush is imprisoned a part of my youth, as wine is imprisoned in a wine jar. But with this difference: my wine jar always renews itself. “
    â€œOh,” remarked Jones, despairing, “there is a story here, then.”
    â€œYes dear boy. Rather a long story. But you are not comfortable lying there.”
    â€œWhoever is completely comfortable,” Jones rushed into the breach, “unless he be asleep? It is the fatigue caused by man’s inevitable contact with earth which bears him, be he sitting, standing or lying, which keeps his mind in a continual fret over futilities. If a man, if a single man, could be freed for a moment from the forces of gravity, concentrating his weight upon that point of his body which touches the earth, what would he not do? He would be a god, the lord of life, causing the high gods to tremble on their thrones; he would thunder at the very gates of infinity like a mailed knight.
    â€œAs it is, he must ever have behind his mind a dull wonder how anything composed of fire and air and water and omnipotence in equal parts can be so damn hard.”
    â€œThat is true. Man cannot remain in one position long enough to really think. But about the rose bush——”
    â€œRegard the buzzard,” interrupted Jones with enthusiasm, fighting for time, “supported by air alone: what dignity, what singleness of purpose! What cares he whether or not Smith is governor? What cares he that the sovereign people annually commission comparative strangers about whom nothing is known save that they have no inclination toward perspiration, to meddle with impunity in the affairs of the sovereign people?”
    â€œBut, my dear boy, this borders on anarchism.”
    â€œAnarchism? Surely. The hand of Providence with money-changing blisters. That is anarchism.”
    â€œAt least you admit the hand of Providence.”
    â€œI don’t know. Do I?” Jones, his hat over his eyes and his pipe projecting beneath. heaved a box of marches from his jacket. He extracted one and scraped it on the box. It failed and he threw it weakly into a Clump of violets. He tried another. He tried another. “Turn it around,” murmured the rector. He did so and the match flared.
    â€œHow do you