Requiem for a Nun by William Faulkner Page B

already damned before she was ever born, whose only reason for living was to get the chance to die a murderess on the gallows.—Who not only entered the home of the socialite Gowan Stevenses out of the gutter, but made her debut into the public life of her native city while lying in the gutter with a white man trying to kick her teeth or at least her voice back down her throat.—You remember, Gavin: what was his name? it was before my time in Jefferson, but you remember: the cashier in the bank, the pillar of the church or anyway in the name of his childless wife; and this Monday morning and still drunk, Nancy comes up while he is unlocking the front door of the bank and fifty people standing at his back to get in, and Nancy comes into the crowd and right up to him and says, ‘Where’s my two dollars, white man?’ and he turned and struck her, knocked her across the pavement into the gutter and then ran after her, stomping and kicking at her face or anyway her voice which was still saying ‘Where’s my two dollars, white man?’ until the crowd caught and held him still kicking at the face lying in the gutter, spitting blood and teeth and still saying, ‘It was two dollars more than two weeks ago and you done been back twice since’—
    She stops speaking, presses both hands to her face for an instant, then removes them.

    Temple
    No, no handkerchief; Lawyer Stevens and I made a dry run on handkerchiefs before we left home tonight. Where was I?

    Governor
    (quotes her) ‘It was already two dollars’—

    Temple
    So now I’ve got to tell all of it. Because that was just Nancy Mannigoe. Temple Drake was in more than just a two-dollar Saturday-night house. But then, I said
touché,
didn’t I?
    She leans forward and starts to take up the crushed cigarette from the ashtray. Stevens picks up the pack from the desk and prepares to offer it to her. She withdraws her hand from the crushed cigarette and sits back.

    Temple
    (to the proffered cigarette in Stevens’ hand)

    No, thanks; I wont need it, after all. From here out, it’s merely anticlimax.
Coup de grace.
The victim never feels that, does he?—Where was I?

    (quickly)

    Never mind. I said that before too, didn’t I?

    (she sits for a moment, her hands gripped in her lap, motionless)

    There seems to be some of this, quite a lot of this, which even our first paid servant is not up on; maybe because he has been our first paid servant for less than two years yet. Though that’s wrong too; he could read eight years ago, couldn’t he? In fact, he couldn’t have been elected Governor of even Mississippi if he hadn’t been able to read at least three years in advance, could he?

    Stevens
    Temple.

    Temple
    (to Stevens)

    Why not? It’s just stalling, isn’t it?

    Governor
    (watching Temple)

    Hush, Gavin.

    (to Temple)

    Coup de grace
not only means mercy, but is. Deliver it. Give her the cigarette, Gavin.

    Temple
    (sits forward again)

    No, thanks. Really.

    (after a second)

    Sorry.

    (quickly)

    You’ll notice, I always remember to say that, always remember my manners,—‘raising’ as we put it. Showing that I really sprang from gentlefolks, not Norman knights like Nancy did, but at least people who dont insult the host in his own house, especially at two oclock in the morning. Only, I just sprang too far, where Nancy merely stumbled modestly: a lady again, you see.

    (after a moment)

    There again. I’m not even stalling now: I’m faulting—what do they call it? burking. You know: here we are at the fence again; we’ve got to jump it this time, or crash. You know: slack the snaffle, let her mouth it a little, take hold, a light hold, just enough to have something to jump against; then touch her. So here we are, right back where we started, and so we can start over. So how much will I have to tell, say, speak out loud so that anybody with ears can