The Essential Faulkner

  “Luster!” she shouted, standing to listen, tilting her face from the wind. “You, Luster?” She listened, then as she prepared to shout again Luster appeared around the corner of the kitchen.

  “Ma’am?” he said innocently, so innocently that Dilsey looked down at him, for a moment motionless, with something more than mere surprise.

  “Whar you at?” she said.

  “Nowhere,” he said. “Jes in de cellar.”

  “Whut you doin’ in de cellar?” she said. “Don’t stand dar in de rain, fool,” she said.

  “Ain’t doin’ nothin’,” he said. He came up the steps.

  “Don’t you dare come in dis do’ widout a armful of wood,” she said. “Here I done had to tote yo wood en build yo fire bofe. Didn’t I tole you not to leave dis place last night befo’ dat woodbox was full to de top?”

  “I did,” Luster said. “I filled hit.”

  “Whar hit gone to, den?”

  “I don’t know’m. I ain’t teched hit.”

  “Well, you git hit full up now,” she said. “And git on up den en see ’bout Benjy.”

  She shut the door. Luster went to the woodpile. The five jaybirds whirled over the house, screaming, and into the mulberries again. He watched them. He picked up a rock and threw it. “Whoo,” he said, “git on back to hell, whar you belong at. ’Tain’t Monday yit.”

  He loaded himself mountainously with stove wood. He could not see over it, and he staggered to the steps and up them and blundered crashing against the door, shedding billets. Then Dilsey came and opened the door for him and he blundered across the kitchen. “You, Luster!” she shouted, but he had already hurled the wood into the box with a thunderous crash. “Hah!” he said.

  “Is you tryin’ to wake up de whole house?” Dilsey said. She hit him on the back of his head with the flat of her hand. “Go on up dar and git Benjy dressed, now.”

  “Yessum,” he said. He went toward the outer door.

  “Whar you gwine?” Dilsey said.

  “I thought I better go round de house en in by de front, so I won’t wake up Miss Cahline en dem.”

  “You go on up dem back stairs like I tole you en git Benjy’s clothes on him,” Dilsey said. “Go on, now.”

  “Yessum,” Luster said. He returned and left by the dining-room door. After a while it ceased to flap. Dilsey prepared to make biscuit. As she ground the sifter steadily above the breadboard, she sang, to herself at first, something without particular tune or words, repetitive, mournful and plaintive, austere, as she ground a faint, steady snowing of flour onto the breadboard. The stove had begun to heat the room and to fill it with murmurous minors of the fire, and presently she was singing louder, as if her voice too had been thawed out by the growing warmth, and then Mrs. Compson called her name again from within the house. Dilsey raised her face as if her eyes could and did penetrate the walls and ceiling and saw the old woman in her quilted dressing gown at the head of the stairs, calling her name with machine-like regularity.

  “Oh, Lawd,” Dilsey said. She set the sifter down and swept up the hem of her apron and wiped her hands and caught up the bottle from the chair on which she had laid it and gathered her apron about the handle of the kettle which was now jetting faintly. “Jes a minute,” she called. “De water jes dis minute got hot.”

  It was not the bottle which Mrs. Compson wanted, however, and clutching it by the neck like a dead hen Dilsey went to the foot of the stairs and looked upward.

  “Ain’t Luster up dar wid him?” she said.

  “Luster hasn’t been in the house. I’ve been lying here listening for him. I knew he would be late, but I did hope he’d come in time to keep Benjamin from disturbing Jason on Jason’s one day in the week to sleep in the morning.”

  “I don’t see how you expect anybody to sleep, wid you standin’ in de hall, holl’in at folks fum de crack of dawn,” Dilsey said. She began to mount the stairs, toiling heavily. “I sont dat boy up dar half hour ago.”

  Mrs. Compson watched her, holding the dressing gown under her chin. “What are you going to do?” she said.

  “Gwine git Benjy dressed en bring him down to de kitchen, whar he won’t wake Jason en Quentin,” Dilsey said.

  “Haven’t you started breakfast yet?”

  “I’ll tend to dat too,” Dilsey said. “You better git back in bed twell Luster make yo fire. Hit cold dis mawnin.”

  “I know it,” Mrs. Compson said. “My feet are like ice. They were so cold they waked me up.” She watched Dilsey mount the stairs. It took her a long while. “You know how it frets Jason when breakfast is late,” Mrs. Compson said.

  “I can’t do but one thing at a time,” Dilsey said. “You git on back to bed, fo I has you on my hands dis mawnin too.”

  “If you’re going to drop everything to dress Benjamin, I’d better come down and get breakfast. You know as well as I do how Jason acts when it’s late.”

  “En who gwine eat yo messin’?” Dilsey said. “Tell me dat. Go on now,” she said, toiling upward. Mrs. Compson stood watching her as she mounted, steadying herself against the wall with one hand, holding her skirts up with the other.

  “Are you going to wake him up just to dress him?” she said.

  Dilsey stopped. With her foot lifted to the next step she stood there, her hand against the wall and the gray splash of the window behind her, motionless and shapeless she looked.

  “He ain’t awake den?” she said.

  “He wasn’t when I looked in,” Mrs. Compson said. “But it’s past his time. He never does sleep after half past seven. You know he doesn’t.”

  Dilsey said nothing. She made no further move, but though she could not see her save as a blobby shape without depth, Mrs. Compson knew that she had lowered her face a little and that she stood now like a cow in the rain, as she held the empty water bottle by its neck.

  “You’re not the one who has to bear it,” Mrs. Compson said. “It’s not your responsibility. You can go away. You don’t have to bear the brunt of it day in and day out. You owe nothing to them, to Mr. Compson’s memory. I know you have never had any tenderness for Jason. You’ve never tried to conceal it.”

  Dilsey said nothing. She turned slowly and descended, lowering her body from step to step, as a small child does, her hand against the wall. “You go on and let him alone,” she said. “Don’t go in dar no mo’, now. I’ll send Luster up soon as I find him. Let him alone, now.”

  She returned to the kitchen. She looked into the stove, then she drew her apron over her head and donned the overcoat and opened the outer door and looked up and down the yard. The weather drove upon her flesh, harsh and minute, but the scene was empty of all else that moved. She descended the steps, gingerly, as if for silence, and went around the corner of the kitchen. As she did so Luster emerged quickly and innocently from the cellar door.

  Dilsey stopped. “What you up to?” she said.

  “Nothin’,” Luster said. “Mr. Jason say fer me to find out whar dat water leak in de cellar fum.”

  “En when was hit he say fer you to do dat?” Dilsey said. “Last New Year’s day, wasn’t hit?”

  “I thought I jes be lookin whiles dey sleep,” Luster said. Dilsey went to the cellar door. He stood aside and she peered down into the obscurity odorous of dank earth and mold and rubber.

  “Huh,” Dilsey said. She looked at Luster again. He met her gaze blandly, innocent and open. “I don’t know what you up to, but you ain’t got no business doin’ hit. You jes trying me too dis mawnin cause de others is, ain’t you? You git on up dar en see to Benjy, you hear?”

  “Yessum,” Luster said. He went on toward the kitchen steps, swiftly.

  “Here,” Dilsey said, “you git me another armful of wood while I got you.”

  “Yessum,” he said. He passed her on the steps and went to the woodpile. When he blundered again at the door a moment later, again invisible and blind within and beyond his wooden avatar, Dilsey opened the door and guided him across the kitche
n with a firm hand.

  “Jes thow hit at dat box again,” she said, “Jes thow hit.”

  “I got to,” Luster said, panting, “I can’t put hit down no other way.”

  “Den you stand dar en hold hit a while,” Dilsey said. She unloaded him a stick at a time. “Whut got into you dis mawnin? Here I sont you fer wood en you ain’t never brought mo’n six sticks at a time to save yo life twell today. Whut you fixin to ax me kin you do now? Ain’t dat show left town yit?”

  “Yessum. Hit done gone.”

  She put the last stick into the box. “Now you go on up dar wid Benjy, like I tole you befo,” she said. “And I don’t want nobody else yellin’ down dem stairs at me twell I rings de bell. You hear me.”

  “Yessum,” Luster said. He vanished through the swing door. Dilsey put some more wood in the stove and returned to the breadboard. Presently she began to sing again.

  The room grew warmer. Soon Dilsey’s skin had taken on a rich, lustrous quality as compared with that as of a faint dusting of wood ashes which both it and Luster’s had worn, as she moved about the kitchen, gathering about her the raw materials of food, coördinating the meal. On the wall above a cupboard, invisible save at night, by lamplight and even then evincing an enigmatic profundity because it had but one hand, a cabinet clock ticked, then with a preliminary sound as if it had cleared its throat, struck five times.

  “Eight o’clock,” Dilsey said. She ceased and tilted her head upward, listening. But there was no sound save the clock and the fire. She opened the oven and looked at the pan of bread, then stooping she paused while someone descended the stairs. She heard the feet cross the dining-room, then the swing door opened and Luster entered, followed by a big man who appeared to have been shaped of some substance whose particles would not or did not cohere to one another or to the frame which supported it. His skin was dead looking and hairless; dropsical too, he moved with a shambling gait like a trained bear. His hair was pale and fine. It had been brushed smoothly down upon his brow like that of children in daguerreotypes. His eyes were clear, of the pale sweet blue of cornflowers, his thick mouth hung open, drooling a little.

  “Is he cold?” Dilsey said. She wiped her hands on her apron and touched his hand.

  “Ef he ain’t, I is,” Luster said. “Always cold Easter. Ain’t never seen hit fail. Miss Cahline say ef you ain’t got time to fix her hot water bottle to never mind about hit.”

  “Oh, Lawd,” Dilsey said. She drew a chair into the corner between the woodbox and the stove. The man went obediently and sat in it. “Look in de dinin’ room and see whar I laid dat bottle down,” Dilsey said. Luster fetched the bottle from the dining-room and Dilsey filled it and gave it to him. “Hurry up, now,” she said. “See ef Jason ‘wake now. Tell em hit’s all ready.”

  Luster went out. Ben sat beside the stove. He sat loosely, utterly motionless save for his head, which made a continual bobbing sort of movement as he watched Dilsey with his sweet vague gaze as she moved about. Luster returned.

  “He up,” he said, “Miss Cahline say put hit on de table.” He came to the stove and spread his hands palm down above the firebox. “He up, too,” he said. “Gwine hit wid bofe feet dis mawnin.”

  “Whut’s de matter now?” Dilsey said. “Git away fum dar. How kin I do anything wid you standing over de stove?”

  “I cold,” Luster said.

  “You ought to thought about dat whiles you wus down dar in dat cellar,” Dilsey said. “Whut de matter wid Jason?”

  “Sayin’ me en Benjy broke dat winder in his room.”

  “Is dey one broke?” Dilsey said.

  “Dat’s whut he sayin’,” Luster said. “Say I broke hit.”

  “How could you, when he keep hit locked all day en night?”

  “Say I broke hit chunkin’ rocks at hit,” Luster said.

  “En did you?”

  “Nome,” Luster said.

  “Don’t lie to me, boy,” Dilsey said.

  “I never done hit,” Luster said. “Ask Benjy ef I did. I ain’t stud’in’ dat winder.”

  “Who could a broke hit, den?” Dilsey said. “He jes tryin hisself, to wake Quentin up,” she said, taking the pan of biscuits out of the stove.

  “Reckin so,” Luster said. “Dese is funny folks. Glad I ain’t none of em.”

  “Ain’t none of who?” Dilsey said. “Lemme tell you somethin’, nigger boy, you got jes es much Compson devilment in you es any of em. Is you right sho you never broke dat window?”

  “Whut I want to break hit fur?”

  “Whut you do any of yo devilment fur?” Dilsey said. “Watch him now, so he can’t burn his hand again twell I git de table set.”

  She went to the dining-room, where they heard her moving about, then she returned and set a plate at the kitchen table and set food there. Ben watched her, slobbering, making a faint, eager sound.

  “All right, honey,” she said. “Here yo breakfast. Bring his chair, Luster.” Luster moved the chair up and Ben sat down, whimpering and slobbering. Dilsey tied a cloth about his neck and wiped his mouth with the end of it. “And see kin you kep fum messin’ up his clothes one time,” she said, handing Luster a spoon.

  Ben ceased whimpering. He watched the spoon as it rose to his mouth. It was as if even eagerness were muscle-bound in him too, and hunger itself inarticulate, not knowing it is hunger. Luster fed him with skill and detachment. Now and then his attention would return long enough to enable him to feint the spoon and cause Ben to close his mouth upon the empty air, but it was apparent that Luster’s mind was elsewhere. His other hand lay on the back of the chair and upon that dead surface it moved tentatively, delicately, as if he were picking an inaudible tune out of the dead void, and once he even forgot to tease Ben with the spoon while his fingers teased out of the slain wood a soundless and involved arpeggio until Ben recalled him by whimpering again.

  In the dining-room Dilsey moved back and forth. Presently she rang a small clear bell, then in the kitchen Luster heard Mrs. Compson and Jason descending, and Jason’s voice, and he rolled his eyes whitely with listening.

  “Sure, I know they didn’t break it,” Jason said. “Sure, I know that. Maybe the change of weather broke it.”

  “I don’t see how it could have,” Mrs. Compson said. “Your room stays locked all day long, just as you leave it when you go to town. None of us ever go in there except Sunday, to clean it. I don’t want you to think that I would go where I’m not wanted, or that I would permit anyone else to.”

  “I never said you broke it, did I?” Jason said.

  “I don’t want to go in your room,” Mrs. Compson said. “I respect anybody’s private affairs. I wouldn’t put my foot over the threshold, even if I had a key.”

  “Yes,” Jason said, “I know your keys won’t fit. That’s why I had the lock changed. What I want to know is, how that window got broken.”

  “Luster say he didn’t do hit,” Dilsey said.

  “I knew that without asking him,” Jason said. “Where’s Quentin?” he said.

  “Where she is ev’y Sunday mawnin,” Dilsey said. “Whut got into you de last few days, anyhow?”

  “Well, we’re going to change all that,” Jason said. “Go up and tell her breakfast is ready.”

  “You leave her alone now, Jason,” Dilsey said. “She gits up fer breakfast ev’y week mawnin, en Cahline lets her stay in bed ev’y Sunday. You knows dat.”

  “I can’t keep a kitchen full of niggers to wait on her pleasure, much as I’d like to,” Jason said. “Go and tell her to come down to breakfast.”

  “Ain’t nobody have to wait on her,” Dilsey said. “I puts her breakfast in de warmer en she—”

  “Did you hear me?” Jason said.

  “I hears you,” Dilsey said. “All I been hearin’, when you in de house. Ef hit ain’t Quentin er yo maw, hit’s Luster en Benjy. Whut you let him go on dat way fer, Miss Cahline?”

  “You’d better do as he says,” Mrs. Compson said. “He’s he
ad of the house now. It’s his right to require us to respect his wishes. I try to do it, and if I can, you can too.”

  “ ’Tain’t no sense in him bein’ so bad tempered he got to make Quentin git up jes to suit him,” Dilsey said. “Maybe you think she broke dat window.”

  “She would, if she happened to think of it,” Jason said. “You go and do what I told you.”

  “En I wouldn’t blame her none ef she did,” Dilsey said, going toward the stairs. “Wid you naggin’ at her all de blessed time you in de house.”

  “Hush, Dilsey,” Mrs. Compson said. “It’s neither your place nor mine to tell Jason what to do. Sometimes I think he is wrong, but I try to obey his wishes for you all’s sakes. If I’m strong enough to come to the table, Quentin can too.”

  Dilsey went out. They heard her mounting the stairs. They heard her a long while on the stairs.

  “You’ve got a prize set of servants,” Jason said. He helped his mother and himself to food. “Did you ever have one that was worth killing? You must have had some before I was big enough to remember.”

  “I have to humor them,” Mrs. Compson said. “I have to depend on them so completely. It’s not as if I were strong. I wish I were. I wish I could do all the housework myself. I could at least take that much off your shoulders.”

  “And a fine pigsty we’d live in, too,” Jason said. “Hurry up, Dilsey,” he shouted.

  “I know you blame me,” Mrs. Compson said, “for letting them off to go to church today.”

  “Go where?” Jason said. “Hasn’t that damn show left yet?”

  “To church,” Mrs. Compson said. “The darkies are having a special Easter service. I promised Dilsey two weeks ago that they could get off.”

  “Which means we’ll eat cold dinner,” Jason said, “or none at all.”

  “I know it’s my fault,” Mrs. Compson said. “I know you blame me.”

  “For what?” Jason said. “You never resurrected Christ, did you?”