A Rose for Emily
by William Faulkner
I
WHEN Miss Emily Grierson died, our whole town went to her funeral: the men through a sort of respectful affection for a fallen monument, the women mostly out of curiosity to see the inside of her house, which no one save an old man-servant--a combined gardener and cook--had seen in at least ten years.
It was a big, squarish frame house that had once been white, decorated with cupolas and spires and scrolled balconies in the heavily lightsome style of the seventies, set on what had once been our most select street. But garages and cotton gins had encroached and obliterated even the august names of that neighborhood; only Miss Emily's house was left, lifting its stubborn and coquettish decay above the cotton wagons and the gasoline pumps-an eyesore among eyesores. And now Miss Emily had gone to join the representatives of those august names where they lay in the cedar-bemused cemetery among the ranked and anonymous graves of Union and Confederate soldiers who fell at the battle of Jefferson.
Alive, Miss Emily had been a tradition, a duty, and a care; a sort of hereditary obligation upon the town, dating from that day in 1894 when Colonel Sartoris, the mayor--he who fathered the edict that no Negro woman should appear on the streets without an apron-remitted her taxes, the dispensation dating from the death of her father on into perpetuity. Not that Miss Emily would have accepted charity. Colonel Sartoris invented an involved tale to the effect that Miss Emily's father had loaned money to the town, which the town, as a matter of business, preferred this way of repaying. Only a man of Colonel Sartoris' generation and thought could have invented it, and only a woman could have believed it.
When the next generation, with its more modern ideas, became mayors and aldermen, this arrangement created some little dissatisfaction. On the first of the year they mailed her a tax notice. February came, and there was no reply. They wrote her a formal letter, asking her to call at the sheriff's office at her convenience. A week later the mayor wrote her himself, offering to call or to send his car for her, and received in reply a note on paper of an archaic shape, in a thin, flowing calligraphy in faded ink, to the effect that she no longer went out at all. The tax notice was also enclosed, without comment.
They called a special meeting of the Board of Aldermen. A deputation waited upon her, knocked at the door through which no visitor had passed since she ceased giving china-painting lessons eight or ten years earlier. They were admitted by the old Negro into a dim hall from which a stairway mounted into still more shadow. It smelled of dust and disuse--a close, dank smell. The Negro led them into the parlor. It was furnished in heavy, leather-covered furniture. When the Negro opened the blinds of one window, they could see that the leather was cracked; and when they sat down, a faint dust rose sluggishly about their thighs, spinning with slow motes in the single sun-ray. On a tarnished gilt easel before the fireplace stood a crayon portrait of Miss Emily's father.
They rose when she entered--a small, fat woman in black, with a thin gold chain descending to her waist and vanishing into her belt, leaning on an ebony cane with a tarnished gold head. Her skeleton was small and spare; perhaps that was why what would have been merely plumpness in another was obesity in her. She looked bloated, like a body long submerged in motionless water, and of that pallid hue. Her eyes, lost in the fatty ridges of her face, looked like two small pieces of coal pressed into a lump of dough as they moved from one face to another while the visitors stated their errand.
She did not ask them to sit. She just stood in the door and listened quietly until the spokesman came to a stumbling halt. Then they could hear the invisible watch ticking at the end of the gold chain.
Her voice was dry and cold. "I have no taxes in Jefferson. Colonel Sartoris explained it to me. Perhaps one of you can gain access to the city records and satisfy yourselves."
"But we have. We are the city authorities, Miss Emily. Didn't you get a notice from the sheriff, signed by him?"
"I received a paper, yes," Miss Emily said. "Perhaps he considers himself the sheriff . . . I have no taxes in Jefferson."
"But there is nothing on the books to show that, you see We must go by the--"
"See Colonel Sartoris. I have no taxes in Jefferson."
"But, Miss Emily--"
"See Colonel Sartoris." (Colonel Sartoris had been dead almost ten years.) "I have no taxes in Jefferson. Tobe!" The Negro appeared. "Show these gentlemen out.
กุหลาบสำหรับเอมิลี่
โดยวิลเลียมฟอล์กเนอร์
ผม
เมื่อคุณเอมิลี่เกรียสันตายทั้งเมืองของเราไปงานศพ : คนผ่านการจัดเรียงของความรักเคารพสำหรับลดลงอนุสาวรีย์ ผู้หญิงส่วนใหญ่ ด้วยความอยากรู้เข้าไปดูบ้านของเธอซึ่งไม่มีใครช่วยชายชรานั้น -- คนสวนรวมและปรุงอาหาร -- ได้เห็นอย่างน้อยสิบปี
มันเป็นเรื่องใหญ่ squarish frame house that had once been white, decorated with cupolas and spires and scrolled balconies in the heavily lightsome style of the seventies, set on what had once been our most select street. But garages and cotton gins had encroached and obliterated even the august names of that neighborhood; only Miss Emily's house was left,การยกของมันแข็ง และคอลเกตผุข้างบนฝ้ายเกวียนและปั๊มขัดลูกตาของ eyesores น้ำมันเท่านั้น และตอนนี้คุณเอมิลี่ได้ไปเข้าร่วมตัวแทนของเดือนสิงหาคมที่พวกเขาวางในชื่อสุสานซีดาร์ ตะลึงในการจัดอันดับและหลุมฝังศพของทหารนิรนามและสหภาพ สหพันธ์ ที่ลดลงในการต่อสู้ของ เจฟเฟอร์สัน
ยังมีชีวิตอยู่ คุณเอมิลี่ได้รับประเพณี , หน้าที่ and a care; a sort of hereditary obligation upon the town, dating from that day in 1894 when Colonel Sartoris, the mayor--he who fathered the edict that no Negro woman should appear on the streets without an apron-remitted her taxes, the dispensation dating from the death of her father on into perpetuity. Not that Miss Emily would have accepted charity.พันเอก sartoris คิดค้นเข้ามาพัวพันกับเรื่องผล ที่พ่อของคุณเอมิลี่ได้ยืมเงินไปในเมือง ซึ่งเมืองนี้เป็นเรื่องของธุรกิจ วิธีนี้จะพิจารณาเป็นพิเศษ มีเพียงชายรุ่นผู้พัน sartoris ' และคิดจะสร้างมันขึ้นมา และมีแต่ผู้หญิงเท่านั้นที่จะต้องเชื่อ
เมื่อคนรุ่นใหม่ ด้วยแนวคิดที่ทันสมัยมากขึ้น และกลายเป็น aldermen นายกเทศมนตรี , this arrangement created some little dissatisfaction. On the first of the year they mailed her a tax notice. February came, and there was no reply. They wrote her a formal letter, asking her to call at the sheriff's office at her convenience. A week later the mayor wrote her himself, offering to call or to send his car for her, and received in reply a note on paper of an archaic shape, in a thin, flowing calligraphy in faded ink, to the effect that she no longer went out at all. The tax notice was also enclosed, without comment.
They called a special meeting of the Board of Aldermen. A deputation waited upon her, knocked at the door through which no visitor had passed since she ceased giving china-painting lessons eight or ten years earlier. They were admitted by the old Negro into a dim hall from which a stairway mounted into still more shadow. It smelled of dust and disuse--a close, dank smell. The Negro led them into the parlor. It was furnished in heavy, leather-covered furniture. When the Negro opened the blinds of one window, they could see that the leather was cracked; and when they sat down, a faint dust rose sluggishly about their thighs, spinning with slow motes in the single sun-ray. On a tarnished gilt easel before the fireplace stood a crayon portrait of Miss Emily's father.
They rose when she entered--a small, fat woman in black, with a thin gold chain descending to her waist and vanishing into her belt, leaning on an ebony cane with a tarnished gold head. Her skeleton was small and spare; perhaps that was why what would have been merely plumpness in another was obesity in her. She looked bloated, like a body long submerged in motionless water, and of that pallid hue. Her eyes, lost in the fatty ridges of her face,ดูเหมือน 2 ชิ้นเล็ก ๆของถ่านหินอัดเป็นก้อนของแป้งเช่นที่พวกเขาย้ายจากหน้าหนึ่งไปอีกในขณะที่เข้าชมกล่าวธุระของตน
เธอไม่ได้ถามพวกเขาที่จะนั่ง เธอแค่ยืนที่ประตู และฟังอย่างเงียบๆ จนโฆษกก็ต้องสะดุดหยุดลง แล้วพวกเขาก็ได้ยินเสียงนาฬิกาฟ้องยุบ ปลายโซ่ทอง
เสียงของเธอ ที่แห้ง และเย็น" ผมไม่มีภาษีในเจฟเฟอร์สัน พันเอก sartoris อธิบายให้ฉันฟัง บางทีหนึ่งของคุณสามารถเข้าถึงประวัติเมืองและตอบสนองเอง "
" แต่เรามี เราเป็นเจ้าหน้าที่เมือง มิสเอมิลี่ คุณไม่ได้รับแจ้งจากนายอำเภอ ลงนามโดยเขา ? "
" ผมรับกระดาษค่ะ " คิดถึง " เอมิลี่กล่าว บางทีเขาอาจจะคิดว่าตัวเอง นายอำเภอ . . . . . . . ผมไม่มีภาษี "
ใน เจฟเฟอร์สัน"But there is nothing on the books to show that, you see We must go by the--"
"See Colonel Sartoris. I have no taxes in Jefferson."
"But, Miss Emily--"
"See Colonel Sartoris." (Colonel Sartoris had been dead almost ten years.) "I have no taxes in Jefferson. Tobe!" The Negro appeared. " Show these gentlemen out.
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