Requiem for a Nun by William Faulkner

night, about two A.M.—a clock on the wall says two minutes past two—, a massive flat-topped desk bare except for an ashtray and a telephone, behind it a high-backed heavy chair like a throne; on the wall behind and above the chair, is the emblem, official badge, of the State, sovereignty (a mythical one, since this is rather the State of which Yoknapatawpha County is a unit)—an eagle, the blind scales of justice, a device in Latin perhaps, against a flag. There are two other chairs in front of the desk, turned slightly to face each other, the length of the desk between them.
    The Governor stands in front of the high chair, between it and the desk, beneath the emblem on the wall. He is symbolic too: no known person, neither old nor young; he might be someone’s idea not of God but of Gabriel perhaps, the Gabriel not before the Crucifixion but after it. He has obviously just been routed out of bed or at least out of his study or dressing room; he wears a dressing gown, though there is a collar and tie beneath it, and his hair is neatly combed.
    Temple and Stevens have just entered. Temple wears the same fur coat, hat, bag, gloves etc. as in Act One, Scene II, Stevens is dressed exactly as he was in Scene III, Act One, is carrying his hat. They are moving toward the two chairs at either end of the desk.

    Stevens
    Good morning, Henry. Here we are.

    Governor
    Yes. Sit down.

    (as Temple sits down)

    Does Mrs Stevens smoke?

    Stevens
    Yes. Thank you.
    He takes a pack of cigarettes from his topcoat pocket, as though he had come prepared for the need, emergency. He works one of them free and extends the pack to Temple. The Governor puts one hand into his dressing-gown pocket and withdraws it, holding something in his closed fist.

    Temple
    (takes the cigarette)

    What, no blindfold?

    (the Governor extends his hand across the desk. It contains a lighter. Temple puts the cigarette into her mouth. The Governor snaps on the lighter)

    But of course, the only one waiting execution is back there in Jefferson. So all we need to do here is fire away, and hope that at least the volley rids us of the metaphor.

    Governor
    Metaphor?

    Temple
    The blindfold. The firing squad. Or is metaphor wrong? Or maybe it’s the joke. But dont apologise; a joke that has to be diagrammed is like trying to excuse an egg, isn’t it? The only thing you can do is, bury them both, quick.

    (the Governor approaches the flame to Temple’s cigarette. She leans and accepts the light, then sits back)

    Thanks.
    The Governor closes the lighter, sits down in the tall chair behind the desk, still holding the lighter in his hand, his hands resting on the desk before him. Stevens sits down in the other chair across from Temple, laying the pack of cigarettes on the desk beside him.

    Governor
    What has Mrs Gowan Stevens to tell me?

    Temple
    Not tell you: ask you. No, that’s wrong. I could have asked you to revoke or commute or whatever you do to a sentence to hang when we—Uncle Gavin telephoned you last night.

    (to Stevens)

    Go on. Tell him. Aren’t you the mouthpiece?—isn’t that how you say it? Don’t lawyers always tell their patients—I mean clients—never to say anything at all: to let them do all the talking?

    Governor
    That’s only before the client enters the witness stand.

    Temple
    So this is the witness stand.

    Governor
    You have come all the way here from Jefferson at two o’clock in the morning. What would you call it?

    Temple
    All right.
Touché
then. But not Mrs Gowan Stevens: Temple Drake. You remember Temple: the all-Mississippi debutante whose finishing school was the Memphis sporting house? About eight years ago, remember? Not that anyone, certainly not the sovereign state of Mississippi’s first paid servant, need be reminded of that, provided they could read newspapers eight years ago or were kin to somebody who could read eight years ago or even had a friend who