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."

 

II

So she vanquished them, horse and foot, just as she had vanquished their fathers thirty years before about the smell. That was two years after her father's death and a short time after her sweetheart—the one we believed would marry her—had deserted her. After her father's death she went out very little; after her sweetheart went away, people hardly saw her at all. A few of the ladies had the temerity to call, but were not received, and the only sign of life about the place was the Negro man—a young man then—going in and out with a market basket.

"Just as if a man—any man—could keep a kitchen properly," the ladies said; so they were not surprised when the smell developed. It was another link between the gross, teeming world and the high and mighty Griersons.

A neighbor, a woman, complained to the mayor, Judge Stevens, eighty years old.

"But what will you have me do about it, madam?" he said.

"Why, send her word to stop it," the woman said. "Isn't there a law?"

"I'm sure that won't be necessary," Judge Stevens said. "It's probably just a snake or a rat that nigger of hers killed in the yard. I'll speak to him about it."

The next day he received two more complaints, one from a man who came in diffident deprecation. "We really must do something about it, Judge. I'd be the last one in the world to bother Miss Emily, but we've got to do something." That night the Board of Aldermen met—three graybeards and one younger man, a member of the rising generation.

"It's simple enough," he said. "Send her word to have her place cleaned up. Give her a certain time to do it in, and if she don't . . ."

"Dammit, sir," Judge Stevens said, "will you accuse a lady to her face of smelling bad?"

So the next night, after midnight, four men crossed Miss Emily's lawn and slunk about the house like burglars, sniffing along the base of the brickwork and at the cellar openings while one of them performed a regular sowing motion with his hand out of a sack slung from his shoulder. They broke open the cellar door and sprinkled lime there, and in all the outbuildings. As they recrossed the lawn, a window that had been dark was lighted and Miss Emily sat in it, the light behind her, and her upright torso motionless as that of an idol. They crept quietly across the lawn and into the shadow of the locusts that lined the street. After a week or two the smell went away.

That was when people had begun to feel really sorry for her. People in our town, remembering how old lady Wyatt, her great-aunt, had gone completely crazy at last, believed that the Griersons held themselves a little too high for what they really were. None of the young men were quite good enough for Miss Emily and such. We had long thought of them as a tableau; Miss Emily a slender figure in white in the background, her father a spraddled silhouette in the foreground, his back to her and clutching a horsewhip, the two of them framed by the back-flung front door. So when she got to be thirty and was still single, we were not pleased exactly, but vindicated; even with insanity in the family she wouldn't have turned down all of her chances if they had really materialized.

When her father died, it got about that the house was all that was left to her; and in a way, people were glad. At last they could pity Miss Emily. Being left alone, and a pauper, she had become humanized. Now she too would know the old thrill and the old despair of a penny more or less.

The day after his death all the ladies prepared to call at the house and offer condolence and aid, as is our custom. Miss Emily met them at the door, dressed as usual and with no trace of grief on her face. She told them that her father was not dead. She did that for three days, with the ministers calling on her, and the doctors, trying to persuade her to let them dispose of the body. Just as they were about to resort to law and force, she broke down, and they buried her father quickly.

We did not say she was crazy then. We believed she had to do that. We remembered all the young men her father had driven away, and we knew that with nothing left, she would have to cling to that which had robbed her, as people will.

 

III

She was sick for a long time. When we saw her again, her hair was cut short, making her look like a girl, with a vague resemblance to those angels in colored church windows—sort of tragic and serene.

The town had just let the contracts for paving the sidewalks, and in the summer after her father's death they began the work. The construction company came with niggers and mules and machinery, and a foreman named Homer Barron, a Yankee—a big, dark, ready man, with a big voice and eyes lighter than his face. The little boys would follow in groups to hear him cuss the niggers, and the niggers singing in time to the rise and fall of picks. Pretty soon he knew everybody in town. Whenever you heard a lot of laughing anywhere about the square, Homer Barron would be in the center of the group. Presently we began to see him and Miss Emily on Sunday afternoons driving in the yellow-wheeled buggy and the matched team of bays from the livery stable.

At first we were glad that Miss Emily would have an interest, because the ladies all said, "Of course a Grierson would not think seriously of a Northerner, a day laborer." But there were still others, older people, who said that even grief could not cause a real lady to forget noblesse oblige—without calling it noblesse oblige. They just said, "Poor Emily. Her kinsfolk should come to her." She had some kin in Alabama; but years ago her father had fallen out with them over the estate of old lady Wyatt, the crazy woman, and there was no communication between the two families. They had not even been represented at the funeral.

And as soon as the old people said, "Poor Emily," the whispering began. "Do you suppose it's really so?" they said to one another. "Of course it is. What else could . . ." This behind their hands; rustling of craned silk and satin behind jalousies closed upon the sun of Sunday afternoon as the thin, swift clop-clop-clop of the matched team passed: "Poor Emily."

She carried her head high enough—even when we believed that she was fallen. It was as if she demanded more than ever the recognition of her dignity as the last Grierson; as if it had wanted that touch of earthiness to reaffirm her imperviousness. Like when she bought the rat poison, the arsenic. That was over a year after they had begun to say "Poor Emily," and while the two female cousins were visiting her.

"I want some poison," she said to the druggist. She was over thirty then, still a slight woman, though thinner than usual, with cold, haughty black eyes in a face the flesh of which was strained across the temples and about the eyesockets as you imagine a lighthouse-keeper's face ought to look. "I want some poison," she said.

"Yes, Miss Emily. What kind? For rats and such? I'd recom—"

"I want the best you have. I don't care what kind."

The druggist named several. "They'll kill anything up to an elephant. But what you want is—"

"Arsenic," Miss Emily said. "Is that a good one?"

"Is . . . arsenic? Yes, ma'am. But what you want—"

"I want arsenic."

The druggist looked down at her. She looked back at him, erect, her face like a strained flag. "Why, of course," the druggist said. "If that's what you want. But the law requires you to tell what you are going to use it for."

Miss Emily just stared at him, her head tilted back in order to look him eye for eye, until he looked away and went and got the arsenic and wrapped it up. The Negro delivery boy brought her the package; the druggist didn't come back. When she opened the package at home there was written on the box, under the skull and bones: "For rats."

 

IV

So the next day we all said, "She will kill herself"; and we said it would be the best thing. When she had first begun to be seen with Homer Barron, we had said, "She will marry him." Then we said, "She will persuade him yet," because Homer himself had remarked—he liked men, and it was known that he drank with the younger men in the Elks' Club—that he was not a marrying man. Later we said, "Poor Emily" behind the jalousies as they passed on Sunday afternoon in the glittering buggy, Miss Emily with her head high and Homer Barron with his hat cocked and a cigar in his teeth, reins and whip in a yellow glove.

Then some of the ladies began to say that it was a disgrace to the town and a bad example to the young people. The men did not want to interfere, but at last the ladies forced the Baptist minister—Miss Emily's people were Episcopal—to call upon her. He would never divulge what happened during that interview, but he refused to go back again. The next Sunday they again drove about the streets, and the following day the minister's wife wrote to Miss Emily's relations in Alabama.

So she had blood-kin under her roof again and we sat back to watch developments. At first nothing happened. Then we were sure that they were to be married. We learned that Miss Emily had been to the jeweler's and ordered a man's toilet set in silver, with the letters H. B. on each piece. Two days later we learned that she had bought a complete outfit of men's clothing, including a nightshirt, and we said, "They are married. " We were really glad. We were glad because the two female cousins were even more Grierson than Miss Emily had ever been.

So we were not surprised when Homer Barron—the streets had been finished some time since—was gone. We were a little disappointed that there was not a public blowing-off, but we believed that he had gone on to prepare for Miss Emily's coming, or to give her a chance to get rid of the cousins. (By that time it was a cabal, and we were all Miss Emily's allies to help circumvent the cousins.) Sure enough, after another week they departed. And, as we had expected all along, within three days Homer Barron was back in town. A neighbor saw the Negro man admit him at the kitchen door at dusk one evening.

And that was the last we saw of Homer Barron. And of Miss Emily for some time. The Negro man went in and out with the market basket, but the front door remained closed. Now and then we would see her at a window for a moment, as the men did that night when they sprinkled the lime, but for almost six months she did not appear on the streets. Then we knew that this was to be expected too; as if that quality of her father which had thwarted her woman's life so many times had been too virulent and too furious to die.

When we next saw Miss Emily, she had grown fat and her hair was turning gray. During the next few years it grew grayer and grayer until it attained an even pepper-and-salt iron-gray, when it ceased turning. Up to the day of her death at seventy-four it was still that vigorous iron-gray, like the hair of an active man.

From that time on her front door remained closed, save for a period of six or seven years, when she was about forty, during which she gave lessons in china-painting. She fitted up a studio in one of the downstairs rooms, where the daughters and grand-daughters of Colonel Sartoris' contemporaries were sent to her with the same regularity and in the same spirit that they were sent to church on Sundays with a twenty-five-cent piece for the collection plate. Meanwhile her taxes had been remitted.

Then the newer generation became the backbone and the spirit of the town, and the painting pupils grew up and fell away and did not send their children to her with boxes of color and tedious brushes and pictures cut from the ladies' magazines. The front door closed upon the last one and remained closed for good. When the town got free postal delivery Miss Emily alone refused to let them fasten the metal numbers above her door and attach a mailbox to it. She would not listen to them.

Daily, monthly, yearly we watched the Negro grow grayer and more stooped, going in and out with the market basket. Each December we sent her a tax notice, which would be returned by the post office a week later, unclaimed. Now and then we would see her in one of the downstairs windows—she had evidently shut up the top floor of the house—like the carven torso of an idol in a niche, looking or not looking at us, we could never tell which. Thus she passed from generation to generation—dear, inescapable, impervious, tranquil, and perverse.

And so she died. Fell ill in the house filled with dust and shadows, with only a doddering Negro man to wait on her. We did not even know she was sick; we had long since given up trying to get any information from the Negro. He talked to no one, probably not even to her, for his voice had grown harsh and rusty, as if from disuse.

She died in one of the downstairs rooms, in a heavy walnut bed with a curtain, her gray head propped on a pillow yellow and moldy with age and lack of sunlight.

 

V

The negro met the first of the ladies at the front door and let them in, with their hushed, sibilant voices and their quick, curious glances, and then he disappeared. He walked right through the house and out the back and was not seen again.

The two female cousins came at once. They held the funeral on the second day, with the town coming to look at Miss Emily beneath a mass of bought flowers, with the crayon face of her father musing profoundly above the bier and the ladies sibilant and macabre; and the very old men—some in their brushed Confederate uniforms—on the porch and the lawn, talking of Miss Emily as if she had been a contemporary of theirs, believing that they had danced with her and courted her perhaps, confusing time with its mathematical progression, as the old do, to whom all the past is not a diminishing road, but, instead, a huge meadow which no winter ever quite touches, divided from them now by the narrow bottleneck of the most recent decade of years.

Already we knew that there was one room in that region above stairs which no one had seen in forty years, and which would have to be forced. They waited until Miss Emily was decently in the ground before they opened it.

The violence of breaking down the door seemed to fill this room with pervading dust. A thin, acrid pall as of the tomb seemed to lie everywhere upon this room decked and furnished as for a bridal: upon the valance curtains of faded rose color, upon the rose-shaded lights, upon the dressing table, upon the delicate array of crystal and the man's toilet things backed with tarnished silver, silver so tarnished that the monogram was obscured. Among them lay a collar and tie, as if they had just been removed, which, lifted, left upon the surface a pale crescent in the dust. Upon a chair hung the suit, carefully folded; beneath it the two mute shoes and the discarded socks.

The man himself lay in the bed.

For a long while we just stood there, looking down at the profound and fleshless grin. The body had apparently once lain in the attitude of an embrace, but now the long sleep that outlasts love, that conquers even the grimace of love, had cuckolded him. What was left of him, rotted beneath what was left of the nightshirt, had become inextricable from the bed in which he lay; and upon him and upon the pillow beside him lay that even coating of the patient and biding dust.

Then we noticed that in the second pillow was the indentation of a head. One of us lifted something from it, and leaning forward, that faint and invisible dust dry and acrid in the nostrils, we saw a long strand of iron-gray hair.

 

A Rose for Emily Summary | Detailed Summary

The whole town went to the funeral of Emily Grierson. It was held in a large house, decorated in a garish, baroque style, in what once was the best of neighborhoods, an area now invaded by cotton gins and garages. She would be buried in the cemetery, beside the remains of distinguished neighbors, whose houses had long surrendered to the perverse progress of the new, commercial neighborhood, along with, of course, some soldiers of the Civil War, from both sides, buried anonymously, but with honor.

Emily was respected by the men of the town. They had gone to her funeral to pay their respects. However, the women had a different perspective. They had been driven by curiosity. After all, no one, except one solitary servant, had been inside her house in ten years.

Emily had the curious distinction of having her taxes paid by the town since 1894, a tradition that was developed through a fiction created by the then mayor, Colonel Sartoris, who claimed this honorarium was in repayment for a loan given to the town by her father. It was a fiction she believed in, for she wouldn't have accepted charity.

However, in a future generation, Colonel Sartoris' invention was disregarded and Miss Emily was billed for her taxes. However, the tax notice received no reply. Later, the aldermen wrote her a letter, charging her to visit the sheriff's office. With still no reply, the Mayor wrote, saying he would drop by or have a car sent for her. She wrote back, stylishly, that she did not go out anymore. In the note, she enclosed the tax notice.

As this was an unusual affront to he heads of the city, the aldermen called a meeting. The decided to visit her en masse in her home. They smelled the dusty signs of neglect and were led to the parlor where they sat on cracked, leather furniture as sunbeams shot through a solitary window, dust particles spinning silently in the heavy air.

Miss Emily was not a pretty sight anymore. Her petite frame was offset by an unnatural obesity. She wore a gold chain around her waist and walked with difficulty on an ebony cane with a golden head. A watch danged down from the gold chain and, in the silence of her entrance, its ticking pervaded the dusty room. The fatness pervaded her countenance. Her eyes are sunk in it. Still, they moved actively from one alderman to the next. They all had risen in unison to salute her as she entered the room, standing besides the door without asking them to sit. .

When they brought the tax notice to her attention, she told them that she did not pay any taxes to Jefferson. Did she see the Sheriff's note? She reminded them of the arrangement with Mayor Sartoris, a gentleman who had been deceased for a decade. She asked them to look at the records and to check with him. However, before they can remind her that the good Colonel is dead, she asked her servant to let them out.

Thirty years ago she had done the same with their fathers after the complaint about the smell. She had dismissed them without consequence and now she dismissed their sons. After her father died and her fiancé had deserted her, she kept to herself. She did not go out and the only trace of life in the old house was a young black man who went back and forth from the market.

Yes, at that time, years ago, a smell developed around her property. The women on the block were not surprised because her only attendant was a man- and how could he be expected to keep the house in order? A complaint to Judge Stevens, the mayor of the time, was followed by another and yet another. Yet, how could they bring such a complaint to the distinguished matron of that fine house? Their solution was unique. The Aldermen came in the dark of night, even breaking a basement window. They sowed lime dust over the property. Within a few weeks the smell disappeared.

Emily's plight now caught the attention of the town. Was she going to share the fate of her great Aunt Wyatt who lost her sanity at the end of her life? Here she was, the sole scion of a distinguished family- living alone, without lover, friend or family.

They remembered when her father had died, how she had denied his death until the final moment before the law was about to intrude. She finally let him be buried. Wasn't her insistence on his still living a sure sign of mental decrepitude? However, the townspeople, at this point, forgave her for that incident. They did not question her sanity.

After that, she was sick for a while, reappearing with severely short hair like a tragic angel in stained glass. The summer following her father's death, she began to see Homer Barron, the foreman of a construction company. Barron was a Yankee and a newcomer and was leading the efforts to pave the sidewalks in Jefferson.

To the townspeople, consorting seriously with a man who worked in construction, a common day laborer, foreman or not, was a serious fall from grace. They hoped her family would help her, but her father, prior to his death, had squabbled with them over her great aunt's estate. Miss Emily was abandoned. The litany of pity now increased.

Then came the time she went to the druggist, demanding arsenic. He obeyed the law. He asked, what was she to use it for? She remained firm in her silence. He relented to her unyielding stare, giving her the poison. When it was delivered to her, the box said, "For rats." Of course, many in the town heard the story. They assumed it was for suicide, and perhaps that would be for the best, many thought.

However, still, her relationship with Barron continued. He seemed to be a man's man, hanging out with his men, drinking. Not the marrying type, it was said. Of course, they hated her for the high style in which she held herself as they rode together in the buggy with yellow wheels and the princely stallions that drew them on their appointed Sunday ride.

The Baptist minister was compelled by his flock to go talk to her, even though she was Episcopalian. He kept the results of the interview to himself. Later the minister's wife wrote to her relatives in Alabama and two of her cousins made the journey.

While the cousins were there, Miss Emily made a few dramatic purchases- a toilet set, for a man, made in silver with Homer Barron's initials engraved on it; then a complete set of man's clothing, including, of all things, a nightshirt! Was the marriage a fait accompli?

However, after the pavements were finished, Barron vanished. The cousins left. Three days later, a neighbor gossiped that Barron was let in by the back door. However,, after that, though, Barron was gone permanently. Miss Emily disappeared from the streets. When she was seen again, she was fat, her hair turning, over the years, to a vigorous iron-gray. She led a quiet, isolated life until she was forty, when she conducted china-painting classes for several years. When that period ended, she resumed her isolation.

She refused to put numbers on her house when free postal service arrived. She never claimed her yearly tax notice. One could sometimes see her at an upper window but could not discern whether she looked out upon the streets or kept her mind and her eyes inside. Eventually she died in her bed on a moldy pillow.

The two cousins came to her funeral. Emily lay beneath a crayon portrait of her father as the old men of Jefferson, some in their ancient Confederate uniforms, talked about her, as if she had been their dancing partner, their friend.

Then, it came the time for opening a room which had been closed for forty years. It took an effort, but they finally managed to break in. A man, much decomposed, lay in the bed. There were the silver toilet articles with the engraved letters, "H. B." upon them. Upon his desecrated and desiccated body lay the nightshirt. And, he himself- it was as though, at one time, he had been locked in an embrace. Beside him on the indented pillow was a strand of iron-gray hair. The dead man had not died without attention or alone.

 

Short smmary

The story begins at the huge funeral for Miss Emily Grierson. Nobody has been to her house in ten years, except for her servant. Her house is old, but was once the best house around. The town had a special relationship with Miss Emily ever since it decided to stop billing her for taxes in 1894. But, the "newer generation" wasn't happy with this arrangement, and so they paid a visit to Miss Emily and tried to get her to pay the debt. She refused to acknowledge that the old arrangement might not work any more, and flatly refused to pay.

Thirty years before, the tax collecting townspeople had a strange encounter with Miss Emily about a bad smell at her place. This was about two years after her father died, and a short time after her lover disappeared from her life. Anyhow, the stink got stronger and complaints were made, but the authorities didn't want to confront Emily about the problem. So, they sprinkled lime around the house and the smell was eventually gone.

Everybody felt sorry for Emily when her father died. He left her with the house, but no money. When he died, Emily refused to admit it for three whole days. The town didn't think she was "crazy then," but assumed that she just didn't want to let go of her dad, (even though you could argue that he had stolen her youth from her).

Next, the story doubles back and tells us that not too long after her father died Emily begins dating Homer Barron, who is in town on a sidewalk-building project. The town heavily disapproves of the affair and brings Emily's cousins to town to stop the relationship. One day, Emily is seen buying arsenic at the drugstore, and the town thinks that Homer is giving her the shaft, and that she plans to kill herself.

When she buys a bunch of men's items, they think that she and Homer are going to get married. Homer leaves town, then the cousins leave town, and then Homer comes back. He is last seen entering Miss Emily's house. Emily herself rarely leaves the home after that, except for a period of half a dozen years when she gives painting lessons.

Her hair turns gray, she gains weight, and she eventually dies in a downstairs bedroom that hasn't seen light in many years. The story cycles back to where it began, at her funeral. Tobe, miss Emily's servant, lets in the town women and then leaves by the backdoor forever. After the funeral, and after Emily is buried, the townspeople go upstairs to break into the room that they know has been closed for forty years.

Inside, they find the corpse of Homer Barron, rotting in the bed. On the dust of the pillow next to Homer they find an indentation of a head, and there, in the indentation, a long, gray hair.

 

A Rose for Emily

A Rose for Emily by William Faulkner is a unique piece of literature. It has a plot which seems somewhat bland, and it is not particularly exciting. However, the ending is quite suprising, and for me it made the story worth reading. I think there are some interesting aspects of this story if you look at it from a feminist point of view. The feminist movement has attempted to elevate the status of the woman to a level equal with men. Feminists have fought for the right of women to be free from the old social restraints which have been in place for so long. A feminist believes a woman should be strong and independent. In some ways the main character, Emily, is this kind of woman, but for the most part she is portrayed as weak and fragile.

Throughout the story, Emily is depicted as a weak and dependent woman because
of the way that she is treated by the town. When her father died and she had no man to
care for her, the town absolved her tax duties. The people of the town attempted to
accomodate her needs by offering their help and sympathy. The townspeople also tried to
be considerate of her eccentricities. They extended her courtesies because she was a lady
with no one save her servant. This caretaking of Emily by the town shows the opinion of
women during that time period. Without a man, Emily was considered somewhat helpless.

This story breaks the conventional plot structure of short stories by eliminating virtually all of the falling action.  The climax of the story is at the very last word.  By eliminating the falling action (denouement), the writer creates intentional questions which follow the reader out of the story.  Instead of the falling action providing the reader with all of the answers and tying up all of the loose ends, it leaves the reader with an internal discussion of what was not said in the story.  Thus, the story does not end with the closing of the book, but continues on in the reader's mind.

Another element related to plot is the reconstruction of the timeline of Miss Emily's life.  As the story progresses, it also provides occasional scenes from Miss Emily's past to provide the necessary clues to help the reader later imagine the falling action/resolution that is missing from the story.

 

Rose For Emily-Theme,Symbolism

William Faulkner's central theme in the story "A Rose For Emily" is to "let go of the past." Emily Grierson has a tendency to cling to the past and has a reluctance to be independent. Faulkner uses symbols throughout the story to cloak an almost allegorical correlation to the reconstruction period of the South. Even these symbols are open to interpretation; they are the heart and soul of the story. With the literal meaning of Faulkner's story implies many different conclusions, it is primarily the psychological and symbolic aspects, which give the story meaning.

Miss Emily cannot accept change to any degree. She is unable to ameliorate as the rest of the society does. The Old South is becoming the New South, and yet Emily still has a Negro man helping around the house. Her house "had once been white" and sits on what "had once been" a most select street, however now it is surrounded by cotton gins, garages, and gasoline pumps. This scene creates a sense of the house being "an eyesore among eyesores" (469). Another example of Miss Emily's ability to refuse change is when she does not allow a house number to be placed on her house when the town receives free postal service.

 
When Miss Emily finally passes away, the whole town attends her funeral. "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" (469). When the ladies come in the front door for the funeral, the Negro admits them. Shortly after, the Negro left the house and is never seen or heard from again. A few of the older men of Jefferson dress in their Confederate uniforms for Emily's funeral, and talk of the older times. They speak of how they courted and danced with Miss Emily when they were younger, although that is not the truth.

""I want some arsenic." The druggist looked down at her. She looked back at him, erect, her face like a strained flag. "Why, of course," the druggist said. "If that's what you want. But the law requires you to tell what you are going to use it for." Miss Emily just stared at him, her head tilted back in order to look him eye for eye, until he looked away and went and got the arsenic and wrapped it up. The Negro delivery boy brought her the package; the druggist didn't come back. When she opened the package at home there was written on the box, under the skull and bones: "For rats" (473). The members of the town are unaware of how the poison is going to be used. They figure that Emily was going to kill her self, however that does not happen.

Once Miss Emily is properly buried, the town's members decided to open the room in the top of the house, which no one has seen in over forty years. "A thin, acrid pall as of the tomb seemed to lie everywhere upon this room decked and furnished as for a bridal: upon the valance curtains of faded rose color, upon the rose-shaded lights, upon the dressing table, upon the delicate array of crystal and the man's toilet things backed with tarnished silver, silver so tarnished that the monogram was obscured. Among them lay a collar and tie, as if they had just been removed, which, lifted, left upon the surface of a pale crescent in the dust. Upon a chair hung the suit, carefully folded; beneath it the two mute shoes and discarded socks. The man himself lay in bed" (475). At once, everyone knows that it is Homer Barron. He looks like he had died in an embrace, however the long time he had been there had made his body deteriorated to the point where he was inextricable in the bed.

After Homer's disappearance, the town did not see Miss Emily for quite some time. When they finally see her again, her hair has turned iron gray, and she has gained a lot of weight. She can often be seen sitting at one of the downstairs windows, and apparently no longer inhabits the top floor of the house. For many years, no one has been into her home.

 

A Rose for Emily Symbolism, Imagery, and Allegory

The House

Miss Emily's house is an important symbol in this story. (In general, old family homes are often significant symbols in Gothic literature.) For most of the story, we, like the townspeople, only see Miss Emily's house from the outside looking in. Let's look at the some of the descriptions we get of the house:

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. (1.2)

The fact that the house was built in the 1870s tells us that Miss Emily's father must have been doing pretty well for himself after the Civil War. The narrator's description of it as an "eyesore among eyesores" is a double or even triple judgment. The narrator doesn't seem to approve of the urban sprawl. We also speculate that the house is an emblem of money probably earned in large part through the labors of slaves, or emancipated slaves. The final part of this judgment has to do with the fact that the house was allowed to decay and disintegrate.

For an idea of the kind of house Miss Emily lived in, take a look at artist Theora Hamblett's house in Mississippi, built, like Emily's, in the 1870. Now picture the lawn overgrown, maybe a broken window or two, the paint worn and chipping and you have a the creepy house that Emily lived in, and which the children of the "newer generation" probably ran past in a fright.

The house, as is often the case in scary stories, is also a symbol of the opposite of what it's supposed to be. Like most humans, Emily wanted a house she could love someone in, and a house where she could be free. She thought she might have this with Homer Barron, but something went terribly wrong. This something turned her house into a virtual prison – she had nowhere else to go but home, and this home, with the corpse of Homer Barron rotting in an upstairs room, this home could never be shared with others. The house is a huge symbol of Miss Emily's isolation.

The Pocket Watch, the Stationery, and the Hair

These are all symbols of time in the story. What's more, the struggle between the past and the future threatens to rip the present to pieces. When members of the Board of Aldermen visit Emily to see about the taxes a decade before her death, they hear her pocket watch ticking, hidden somewhere in the folds of her clothing and her body. This is a signal to us that for Miss Emily time is both a mysterious "invisible" force, and one of which she has always been acutely aware. With each tick of the clock, her chance for happiness dwindles .

Another symbol of time is Emily's hair. The town tells time first by Emily's hair, and then when she disappears into her house after her hair has turned "a vigorous iron-gray, like the hair of an active man" (4.6). When Emily no longer leaves the house, the town uses Tobe's hair to tell time, watching as it too turns gray. The strand of Emily's hair found on the pillow next to Homer, is a time-teller too, though precisely what time it tells is hard to say. The narrator tells us that Homer's final resting place hadn't been opened in 40 years, which is exactly how long Homer Barron has been missing. But, Emily's hair didn't turn "iron-gray" until approximately 1898, several years after Homer's death.

In "What's up With the Ending?" we suggest that the town knew they would find Homer Barron's dead body in the room. But maybe what they didn't know was that she had lain next to the body at least several years after its owner had departed it, but perhaps much more recently. Still, the townspeople did have to break into the room. When and why it was locked up is probably only known by Emily (who is dead, and wouldn't talk anyway) and Tobe (who has disappeared, and wouldn't talk anyway).

The stationery is also a symbol of time, but in a different way. The letter the town gets from Emily is written "on paper of an archaic shape, in a thin, flowing calligraphy in faded ink" (1.4). Emily probably doesn't write too many letters, so it's normal that she would be using stationery that's probably at least 40 years old. The stationery is a symbol, and one that points back to the tensions between the past, the present, and the future, which this story explores.

Lime and Arsenic

Lime and arsenic are some of the story's creepiest symbols. Lime is a white powder that's good at covering the smell of decomposing bodies. Ironically, it seems that the lime was sprinkled in vain. The smell of the rotting corpse of Homer Barron stopped wafting into the neighborhood of its own accord. Or maybe the town just got used to the smell. The lime is a symbol of a fruitless attempt to hide something embarrassing, and creepy. It's also a symbol of the way the town, in that generation, did things.

We lump it together with arsenic because they are both symbols of getting rid of something that smells, and in the case of "A Rose for Emily," it happens to be the very same thing. Remember what the druggist writes on Emily's packet of arsenic, under the poison sign? "For rats." Faulkner himself claims that Homer was probably not a nice guy. If Homer is planning to break a promise to marry Emily, she, in the southern tradition, would most probably have considered him a rat.

The arsenic used to kill a stinky rat creates a foul stench, which the townspeople want to get rid of with lime. (If you want to read more about arsenic, click here). We should also note that arsenic is a favorite fictional murder weapon, due to its reputation for being odorless, colorless, and virtually undetectable by the victim. Director Franz Capra's 1944 film Arsenic and Old Lace is good example of this.

Death and Taxes

Notice how the first section of the story involves what Benjamin Franklin said were the only two certain things in the world: death and taxes. Franklin was talking about the fact that even the U.S. Constitution would be subject to future change.

Miss Emily's death at the beginning of the story, and the narrators memory of the history of her tax situation in Jefferson might be what Alfred Hitchcock called "macguffins." A macguffin is "an object, event, or character in a film or story that serves to set and keep the plot in motion despite usually lacking intrinsic importance" (source). Neither the funeral nor the tax issue seem to be about are all that important to the tale of murder and insanity that follows.

Still, we should question whether or not they actually are macguffins.

The taxes are can be seen as symbols of death. The initial remission of Miss Emily taxes is a symbol of the death of her father. It's also a symbol of the financial decline the proud man must have experienced, but kept hidden from Emily and the town, until his death. Since the story isn't clear on why Emily only got the house in the will, the taxes could also be a symbol of his continued control over Emily from the grave. If he had money when he died, but left it to some mysterious entity, (the story is unclear on this point), he would have denied Emily her independence.

Over 30 years after the initial remission of Miss Emily's taxes when the "newer generation" tries to revoke the ancient deal they inherited, taxes are still a symbol of death, though this time, they symbolize the death of Homer Barron.

As we argue in "What's Up With the Ending?", the town is probably already aware that she has a rotting corpse upstairs. Maybe the taxes were just an excuse to definitively see what was going on at the house. The next phase of their plan might well have been foreclosure. They could have used the tax situation to remove Emily from the neighborhood, and to condemn her house. Perhaps they wanted to remove the "eyesore," and to cover up everything Miss Emily says about the past and present of the South.

The fact that they didn't do this might just turn the taxes into a symbol of compassion. Wasn't it out of compassion that her taxes were initially remitted? That the "newer generation" decides to continue the tradition also shows that some of the older ways might well have merit.  

A Rose for Emily Setting

A creepy old house in Jefferson, Yoknapatawpha County, Mississippi, 1861-1933 (approximately)

Setting is usually pretty rich in Faulkner. SimCity-style, William Faulkner created his own Mississippi County, Yoknapatawpha, as the setting for much of his fiction. This county comes complete with several different families including the Grierson family. "A Rose for Emily" is set in the county seat of Yoknapatawpha, Jefferson and as you know, focuses on Emily Grierson, the last living Grierson. For a map and a detailed description of Yoknapatawpha, click here.

OK, so the where is pretty easy. Though Jefferson and its inhabitants are unique, we can see their town as any southern town during that period. The situations that arise in the story develop in large part because many southerners who lived during the slavery era didn't know what to do when that whole way of life ended. Imagine if suddenly you are told and shown that your whole way of life is a sham, an atrocity, an evil. Then heap on a generous helping of southern pride, and you have tragedies like this one. This story also explores how future generations deal with this legacy. To really feel the movement of history in the story, and to understand the movements of Emily's life, it important to pin down the chronology of events.

The dates we use, other than 1874, are just a little rough, but in the ballpark.

1861 – Miss Emily Grierson is born.
1870s – The Grierson house is built.
1893 – Miss Emily's father dies.
1893 – Miss Emily falls ill.
1893 – Miss Emily's taxes are remitted (in December).
1894 – Miss Emily meets Homer Barron (in the summer).
1895 – Homer is last seen entering Miss Emily's house (Emily is "over thirty; we use thirty-three for our calculations).
1895 – The townspeople become concerned about the smell of the Grierson house and sprinkle lime around Emily's place.
1895 – Miss Emily stays in for six months.
1895-1898 – Miss Emily emerges and her hair gradually turns gray.
1899 – Miss Emily stops opening her door, and doesn't leave the house for about five years.
1904 – Miss Emily emerges to give china-painting lessons for about seven years.
1911 – Miss Emily stops giving painting lessons. Over ten years pass before she has any contact with the town.
1925 – They "newer generation" comes to ask about the taxes. This is thirty years after the business with the lime. This is the last contact she has with the town before her death.
1935 – Miss Emily dies at 74 years old. Tobe leaves the house. Two days later the funeral is held at the Grierson house. At the funeral, the townspeople break down the door to the bridal chamber/crypt, which no one has seen in 40 years.

This doesn't answer all the questions by any means. Since nobody in the town ever knew what was really going on in Emily's house, there are numerous holes and gaps in this history. Still, you can use this as a guide to help make sense of some of the confusing moments.

 

 First Person (Peripheral Narrator)

The fascinating narrator of "A Rose for Emily" is more rightly called "first people" than "first person." Usually referring to itself as "we," the narrator speaks sometimes for the men of Jefferson, sometimes for the women, and often for both. It also spans three generations of Jeffersonians, including the generation of Miss Emily's father, Miss Emily's generation, and the "newer generation," made up of the children of Miss Emily's contemporaries. The narrator is pretty hard on the first two generations, and it's easy to see how their treatment of Miss Emily may have led to her downfall. This lends the narrative a somewhat confessional feel.

While we are on the subject of "we," notice no one townsperson is completely responsible for what happened to Emily. (It is fair to say, though that some are more responsible than others.) The willingness of the town to now admit responsibility is a hopeful sign, and one that allows us to envision a better future for generations to come. We discuss this further in "Tone," so check out that section for more information.

امیلی زن عجیبی است که با پدرش زندگی می کند .او رابطه ی خوبی با پدرش ندارد ولی بعد از مرگش احساس تنهایی شدیدی می کند.
امیلی بعد از مدتی با مردی نامزد میکند.اما مردم می دانند که این مرد ، مرد زندگی نیست پس از اقوام او می خواهند که به خانه اش رفته و نگذارند تنها بماند.اما بعد از اینکه آنها رفتند دوباره سر و کله ی آن مرد پیدا شد.مردم امیلی را می دیدند که مقداری سم و وسایل مردانه خریده و به خانه میبرد.بعد از مدتی امیلی با قیافه ی ژولیده ای در شهر نمایان شد.و از آن به بعد دیگر از خانه بیرون نمی آمد و به کسی هم اجازه ورود به خانه اش را نمی داد.کم کم مردم اضحار داشتند که بوی تعفن از خانه ی او می آید.ولی او هیچ توجهی به این حرفها نداشت . تا اینکه که امیلی مرد و مردم شهر برای بردن جنازه اش به خانه اش رفتند.آنجا با صحنه ی عجیبی رو به رو شدند. اسکلت یک مرد در خانه اش پیدا شد که متعلق به نامزدش بود.
شخصیت ها : امیلی – پدرش نامزدش – مردم شهر – اقوام امیلی
شخصیتها flat هستند و در جریان داستان تغییر نمی کنند.
امیلی زن تنهایی است که وقتی فهمید نامزدش مرد زندگی نیست و او را تنها خواهد گذاشت.او را با سم کشت ودر خانه اش نگه داشت تا همیشه در کنارش بماند ولی با این کار در حقیقت تنهایی ابدی خود را رقم زد.
مرگ امیلی سمبول عبور از روش زندگی اصیل است که توسط روش احمقانه ی نسل جدید جایگزین شده است.

ترجمه داستان

يک گل‌سرخ براي اميلي

ويليام فاکنر

برگردان: نجف دريابندري

وقتي که ميس اميلي گريرسن مرد، همۀ اهل شهرِ ما به تشييع جنازه‌اش رفتند. مردها از روي تاثر احترام‌آميزي که گويي از فروريختن يک بناي يادبود قديم در خود حس مي‌کردند، و زن‌ها بيشتر از روي کنجکاوي براي تماشاي داخل خانة او که جز يک نوکر پير - که معجوني از آشپز و باغبان بود - دست‌کم از ده سال به اين طرف کسي آنجا را نديده بود.
اين خانه، خانة چهارگوش بزرگي بود که زماني سفيد بود، و با آلاچيق‌ها و منارها و بالکون‌هايي که مثل طومار پيچيده بود به سبک سنگين قرن هفدهم تزيين شده بود، و در خياباني که يک وقت گل سرسبد شهر بود قرار داشت. اما به گاراژها و انبارهاي پنبه دست‌درازي کرده بودند حتي يادبودها و ميراث اشخاصي مهم و اسم و رسم‌دار را از آن صحنه زدوده بودند. فقط خانة ميس اميلي بود که فرتوتي و وارفتگي عشوه‌گر و پا برجاي خود را ميان واگون‌هاي پنبه و تلمبه‌هاي نفتي افراشته بود –وصله ناجوري بود قاتي وصله‌هاي ناجور ديگر.
و اکنون ميس اميلي رفته بود به مردگان مهم و باصلابتي بپيوندد که در گورستاني که مست بوي صندل است ميان گورهاي سرشناس و گمنام سربازان ايالت متحده و متفقين که در جنگ جفرسن به خاک افتادند، آرميده‌اند.
ميس اميلي در زندگي براي شهر به‌صورت يک عادت ديرينه، يک وظيفه، يک نقطة توجه، يا يکنوع اجبار موروثي درآمده بود؛ و اين از سال 1884، از روزي شروع مي‌شد که کلنل سارتوريس شهردار -همان کسي که قدغن کرده بود هيچ زن سياهي نبايد بدون روپوش به خيابان بيايد- ميس اميلي را از تاريخ فوت پدرش به بعد براي هميشه از پرداخت ماليات معاف کرده بود. نه اين‌که ميس صدقه بپذيرد، بلکه کلنل سارتوريس داستان شاخ و برگ‌داري از خودش درآورده بود، به‌اين معني که پدر ميس‌ اميلي پولي از شهر طلبکار بوده و شهر از لحاظ صرفه‌اش ترجيح مي‌داد که قرضش را به اين طريق بپردازد. البته چنين داستاني را فقط آدمي از نسل و طرز تفکر کلنل سارتوريس مي‌توانست از خودش بسازد و فقط زن‌ها مي‌توانستند آن را باور کنند.
وقتي که آدم‌هاي نسل بعدي، با طرز تفکر تازة خود، شهردار و عضو انجمن شهر شدند، اين قرار مختصر نارضايي ايجاد کرد. اول سال که شد، يک برگ ابلاغية ماليات توسط پست براي ميس اميلي فرستادند.
ماه فوريه آمد و از جواب خبري نشد. آن‌وقت يک نامة رسمي به او نوشتند و ازش خواهش کردند که سرفرصت سري به مقر «شريف» بزند. يک هفته بعد خود «شريف» يک نامه به او نوشت و تکليف کرد به ديدنش برود، يا اينکه اتومبيلش رابراي او بفرستد. در پاسخ يادداشتي دريافت کرد که روي يک برگ کاغذ کهنة قديمي به خط خوش ظريف و روان، با جوهر رنگ باخته‌اي نوشته شده بود؛ به اين مضمون که ايشان ديگر از منزل بيرون نمي‌روند. برگ ابلاغية ماليات هم بدون شرح و توضيحي به يادداشت ضميمه شده بود.
انجمن شهر جلسة مخصوصي تشکيل داد. هيئتي مامور ملاقات با او شد. اعضاي هيئت رفتند و در زدند. دري که هشت يا نه سال يا بيشتر بود که کسي از ميان آن نگذشته بود -از همان زماني که ميس اميلي تعليم نقاشي چيني را ترک کرده بود. همان پيرمرد سياهي که نوکر ميس اميلي بود. اعضاي هيئت را به داخل سالن دنج و تاريکي راهنمايي کرد. از اين سالن يک پلکان به‌ميان تاريکي‌هاي بيشتري بالا مي‌رفت. بوي زهم گرد و خاک و پان مي‌آمد. بوي سرد و مرطوبي بود. پيرمرد سياه آنها را به سالن پذيرايي راهنمايي کرد.
سالن با مبل‌هاي سنگيني که روکش چرمي داشتند آراسته شده بود. وقتي که سياه پردة يکي از پنجره‌ها را کنار زد ديدند که چرم مبل‌ها ترک‌ترک شده است. و وقتي که نشستند، غبار رقيقي آهسته و تنبل‌وار از اطراف ران‌هايشان بلند شد و با ذرات بطية و تنبل خود، در تنها شعاع آفتاب که از پنجره مي‌تابيد دور خود پيچ و تاب خورد. تصوير مدادي ميس اميلي در يک قاب اکليلي تاسيده، روي سه پاية نقاشي گذاشته بود.
وقتي که ميس اميلي وارد شد آنها از جا پا شدند. ميس اميلي زن کوچک اندام چاقي بود که لباس سياه تنش بود. زنجير طلايي نازکي تا کمرش پايين مي‌آمد و زير کمربندش ناپديد مي‌شد. به يک عصاي آبنوس که سر طلايي تاسيده‌اي داشت تکيه داده بود و شايد به همين جهت بود که آنچه در ديگري ممکن بود فقط فربهي برازنده‌اي باشد، در او چاقي و لختي مي‌نمود. بدنش ورم کرده به نظر مي‌رسيد، مثل بدني که مدت‌ها در اعماق تالاب راکدي مانده باشد. رنگش هم همانطور سفيد و بيخون بود.
چشم‌هايش ميان چين‌هاي گوشتالوي صورتش گم شده بود. وقتي که اعضاي هيئت، پيغام خودشان را بيان مي‌کردند، چشم‌هايش به اين طرف و آن طرف حرکت مي‌کرد. مثل دو تکه ذغال بود که تو يک چانه خمير فروکرده باشند. ميس اميلي به آنها تعارف نکرد بنشينند، همين‌طور تو درگاه ايستاد و آرام گوش داد، تا آن کسي که حرف مي‌زد به لکنت افتاد و زبانش بند آمد.
بعد صداي تيک‌تيک يک ساعت نامرئي که شايد به‌دُم همان زنجير طلايي آويزان بود به گوشش رسيد.
صداي ميس اميلي خشک و سرد بود: «من در جفرسن از ماليات معافم. اين را کلنل سارتوريس به من گفته است. شايد شما بتوانيد با مراجعه به سوابق موجود خودتان را قانع کنيد.»
«ولي ميس اميلي ما به سوابق مراجعه کرده‌ايم. ابلاغيه‌اي به امضاي شريف از ايشان دريافت نکرده‌ايد؟»
ميس اميلي گفت: «چرا من کاغذي دريافت کرده‌ام. شايد ايشان به خيال خودشان شريف باشند... ولي من در جفرسن از ماليات معافم.»
«اما دفاتر خلاف اين را نشان مي‌دهد. ما بايد توسط...»
«از کلنل سارتوريس بپرسيد. من در جفرسن از ماليات معافم.»
«ولي ميس اميلي...»
«از کلنل سارتوريس بپرسيد.» (کلنل سارتوريس تقريبا ده سال بود که مرده بود.)
«من در جفرسون از ماليات معافم. توب!»
پيرمرد سياهي ظاهر شد. «اين آقايان را به بيرون راهنمايي کن.»
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و به اين طريق ميس اميلي آنها را، سوار و پياده‌شان را، شکست داد: چنانکه سي سال پيش پدرهاشان را سر قضية «بو» شکست داده بود. اين قضيه دو سال پس از مرگ پدرش بود. مدت کوتاهي پس از اينکه معشوقش -کسي که ما خيال مي‌کرديم با او ازدواج خواهد کرد- او را ترک کرده بود. ميس اميلي پس از مرگ پدرش خيلي کم از خانه بيرون مي‌رفت. و پس از اينکه معشوقش او را ترک کرد، ديگر اصلا کمتر کسي او را مي‌ديد. چند نفر از خانم‌ها جسارت به خرج دادند و به ديدنش رفتند، اما ميس اميلي آنها را نپذيرفت. تنها نشانة زندگي در خانه او، همان سياه بود -که آن زمان جوان بود- و با يک سبد بازاري به بيرون رفت و آمد مي‌کرد.
خانم‌ها مي‌گفتند: «مگر يک مرد -حالا هر طوري باشد- مي‌تواند يک آشپزخانه را حسابي نگهداري کند؟» و بنابراين وقتي که خانة ميس اميلي بو افتاد، تعجب نکردند. بالاخره اين هم نمونه‌اي از کارهاي روزگار و خانوادة عالي‌قدر گريرسن بود.
يکي از همسايه‌ها، از زن‌هاي همسايه، بالاخره به استيونز شهردار هشتاد ساله شکايت کرد.
شهردار گفت: «حالا يعني مي‌فرماييد من چکار کنم؟»
خانم گفت: «خوب دستور بفرماييد بو را برطرف کند. مگر شهر قانون ندارد؟»
شهردار گفت: «من يقين دارم اين کار لزومي نخواهد داشت. احتمال دارد ماري يا موشي باشد که کاکا سياه ميس اميلي تو باغچه کشته است. من راجع به اين موضوع با ايشان صحبت خواهم کرد.»
روز بعد هم دو شکايت ديگر رسيد. يکيش از طرف مردي بود که يکدل دو دل براي شکايت آمده بود: «آقاي شهردار ما حتما بايد فکري راجع به اين موضوع بکنيم. من شخصا هيچ ميل نداشتم که مزاحم ميس اميلي بشوند. ولي بايد حتما راجع به اين موضوع فکري کرد.» و آن شب انجمن شهر جلسه تشکيل داد. سه نفر از اعضاة آدم‌هاي پا به سني بودند و يک نفرشان از آنها جوان‌تر بود -از همين افراد متجددي که تازگي‌ها داشتند پا مي‌گرفتند.
او گفت: «بسيار ساده است؛ بهش اخطار کنيد که خانه‌اش را تميز کند، ضرب‌الاجل هم معين کنيد و اگر نکرد...»
شهردار گفت: «چه مي‌فرماييد آقا؟ مگر مي‌شود يک خانم محترم را تو روش به عنوان بوي بد متهم کرد؟»
در نتيجه شب بعد، پس از نيمه شب، چهار نفر مامور مثل دزدها پاورچين از چمن خانة ميس اميلي گذشتند و وارد خانه شدند. پاي شالوده و درز آجرها و دريچه‌هاي زيرزمين بو مي‌کشيدند. و يکي از آنها مثل آدمي که بذر بيافشاند از کيسه‌اي که گل شانه‌اش بود چيزي مي‌پاشيد. درِ زيرزمين را هم شکستند يکي از پنجره‌ها که تا آنوقت تاريک بود روشن شد، و ميس اميلي در آن ظاهر شد. نور از پشت سرش مي‌تابيد. نيم‌تنه‌اش راست و بيحرکت، مثل يک بت، ايستاده بود. آنها پاورچين پاورچين از چمن گذشتند و قاتي سايه‌هاي درخت‌هايي که در طول خيابان صف کشيده بودند گم شدند. بعد از يکي دو هفته ديگر بو برطرف شد.
همين وقت‌ها بود که مردم شروع کرده بودند که واقعا براي ميس اميلي غصه بخورند. مردم شهر ما که يادشان بود که چطور خانم يات، عمة بزرگ ميس اميلي بالاخره پاک‌ ديوانه شده بود، فکر مي‌کردند که گريرسن‌ها قدري خودشان را بالاتر از آنچه بودند مي‌گرفتند. مثلا اينکه هيچ‌کدام از جوان‌ها لياقت ميس اميلي را نداشتند. ما هميشه تابلويي پيش خودمان تصور مي‌کرديم که ميس اميلي با هيکل باريک و سفيدپوش در قسمت عقب آن ايستاده بود؛ و پدرش به شکل يک هيکل پهن تاريک که تعليمي سواري در دست داشت در جلو تابلو و پشتش به ميس اميلي بود، و چهارچوب دري که به عقب بازشده بود آنها را مثل قاب در ميان گرفته بود. وقتي که ميس اميلي سي سالش شد، نمي‌توان دقيقا گفت که ما راضي و خوشحال شده بوديم، بلکه عبارت بهتر مي‌توان گفت دلمان خنک شده بود. چون با وجود آن جنون ارثي که در خانوادة آنها سراغ داشتيم، مي‌دانستيم که اگر واقعا بختي به ميس اميلي رو آور شده بود، ميس اميلي کسي نبود که پشت پا به بخت خودش بزند.
وقتي که پدرش مرد، خانة آنها تنها چيزي بود که از او براي ميس اميلي باقي مانده بود. مردم خوشحال شده بودند. چون بالاخره محملي پيدا کرده بودند که براي ميس اميلي دلسوزي کنند. تنهايي و فقر او را تنبيه مي‌کرد. افتاده مي‌شد. او هم ديگر کم و بيش هيجان و ياس داشتن و نداشتن چند شاهي پول را مي‌توانست درک کند.
روز پس از مرگ پدرش همة خانم‌ها خودشان را حاضر کردند که براي تسليت و پيشنهاد کمک به ديدنش بروند. ولي او همه را دم در ملاقات کرد. لباسش مطابق معمول بود و هيچ اثر اندوهي در چهره‌اش ديده نمي‌شد. به آنها گفت که پدرش نمرده است، به روسا هم که به ديدنش مي‌رفتند، و به دکتر، که مي‌خواستند او را متقاعد کنند که جنازة پدرش را به آنها تسليم کند، همين را مي‌گفت و فقط وقتي که ديگر نزديک بود به قانون و زور متوسل شوند تسليم شد. و آنها جنازه را فورا دفن کردند.
ما در آن موقع نمي‌گفتيم که ميس اميلي ديوانه است. ما خيال مي‌کرديم که بايد اين کار را بکند. ما تمام جوان‌هايي را که پدرش از او رانده بود به ياد داشتيم، و چون ديگر کسي نمانده بود، مي‌گفتيم بايد هم به کسي که او را غارت کرده است دو دستي بچسبد، همانطور که همه مي‌چسبند.
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ميس اميلي مدتي مريض بود. وقتي که دوباره او را ديديم، موهايش را کوتاه کرده بود، و شکل دخترها شده بود؛ و آدم را کمي به ياد فرشته‌هايي که تو پنجره‌هاي رنگين کليسا مي‌کشند مي‌انداخت -قيافة آرام و غمگيني داشت.
شهر تازه کنترات فرش کردن خيابان‌ها و پياده‌روها را داده بود، و در تابستان پس از مرگ پدر ميس اميلي، کار شروع شد. شرکت ساختماني با سياه‌ها و قاطرها و ماشين‌هايش آمد. يک سرعمله هم داشتند به اسم هومر بارون -شمالي گندة کمر بستة سبزه‌اي بود که صداي نکره‌اي داشت، و رنگ چشماش از رنگ صورتش روشن‌تر بود. بچه‌هاي کوچک دسته‌دسته دنبالش راه مي‌افتادند که ببينند چطور به سياه‌ها فحش مي‌دهد و سياه‌ها چطور با آهنگ بالا و پايين رفتن بيل‌هايشان آواز مي‌خوانند.
هور بارون به زودي با همة اهل شهر آشنا شد. هرجا، نزديک‌هاي چهار راه، مي‌شنيدي که صداي خندة زيادي مي‌آيد، مي‌ديدي که هومر بارون ميان جمعيت است. همين روزها بود که کم‌کم او را با ميس اميلي در يک گاري اسبي زردرنگ کرايه‌اي، که يک جفت اسب بور آن را مي‌کشيد، مي‌ديديم.
اوايل، ما از اينکه ميس اميلي بالاخره دلش يک جايي بند شده بود دلمان خوش شده بود. مخصوصا از لج اينکه خانمها مي‌گفتند: «هرگز يک فرد خانوادة گريرسن محل سگ هم به يک نفر شمالي نخواهد گذاشت -آن هم يک کارگر روزمزد.» اما غير از اينها، عدة ديگر هم، پيرتر از اينها، بودند که مي‌گفتند حتي غم و غصة زياد هم نبايد باعث شود که يک خانم واقعي قيد اصالت و نجيب‌زادگي را بزند. مي‌گفتند: «بيچاره اميلي -خويش و قوم‌هاش حتما بايد به سراغش بيايند.» ميس اميلي چندتا خويش و قوم در آلاباما داشت. اما سال‌ها پيش، پدرش سر نگهداري خانم يات، پيرزن ديوانه، با آنها به‌هم‌ زده بود؛ و ديگر روابطي بين دو خانواده موجود نبود. و آنها در تشييع جنازه هم شرکت نکرده بودند.
و همين که مردم گفتند: «بيچاره اميلي،» پچپچه‌هاي درگوشي شروع شد. به هم ديگر مي‌گفتند: «يعني فکر مي‌کنيد که واقعا اين طور باشد؟... البته هست... جز اين چه مي‌تواند...» و از پشت دست‌هايشان. و خش‌خش لباس‌هاي ابريشمي و ساتين، و حسادت‌ها، و آفتاب بعدازظهر يک‌شنبه، وقتي که آن يک جفت اسب بور رد مي‌شدند و صداي سبک و نازک سم آنها به گوش مي‌رسيد، درگوش هم ديگر مي‌گفتند: «بيچاره اميلي.»
ميس اميلي هميشه سرش را بالابالا مي‌گرفت، حتي وقتي که ديگر به نظر ما پشتش زمين خورده بود. انگار بيش از هميشه انتظار داشت که به اصالت و نجابت او، به عنوان آخرين فرد خانوادة گريرسن، سرفرود بياوريم. انگار همينش مانده بود تا صلابت و غير قابل نفوذ بودن خود را بيش از پيش به ثبوت برساند. مثل وقتي که رفت مرگِ موش بخرد. اين بيش از يکسال پس از زماني بود که مردم بنا کرده بودند بگويند: «بيچاره اميلي» -همان زماني که دو تا دختر عمويش به ديدنش رفتند.
ميس اميلي به دوافروش گفت: «من مقداري سم لازم دارم.» در آن موقع بيش از سي سالش بود. هنوز يک زن معمولي بود؛ گو اينکه از حد معمولي کمي لاغرتر بود. چشم‌هاي خرد و خودپسند و تحقيرکننده‌اي داشت. گوشت صورتش دور و بر شقيقه‌ها و کاسة چشمش کيس شده بود. آدم خيال مي‌کرد کساني که تو مناره‌هاي چراغهاي دريايي زندگي مي‌کنند بايد اين شکلي باشند. به دوافروش گفت: «من مقداري سم لازم دارم.»
«بله چشم، ميس اميلي. چه نوع سمي؟ براي موش و اين چيزها به عقيدة من...»
«من بهترين سمي را که داريد مي‌خواهم به نوعش کار ندارم.»
دوافروش چند سم را اسم برد.
«اينها که عرض کردم حتي فيل را هم مي‌کشد. اما آنکه شما لازم داريد...»
ميس اميلي گفت: «ارسنيک است. ارسنيک خوب سمي است؟»
«ارسنيک؟...بله بله خانم. اما آنکه شما لازم داريد...»
«من ارسنيک لازم دارم.»
دوافروش از بالا به صورتش نگاه کرد. ميس اميلي هم، رُک، نگاهش را به او ميخکوب کرد. صورتش مثل پرچمي بود که از چهار طرف آن را کشيده باشند. دوافروش گفت: «بله چشم اگر اين را لازم داريد... ولي قانون ايجاب مي‌کند که بفرماييد آن را به چه مصرفي مي‌خواهيد برسانيد.»
ميس اميلي فقط نگاهش را به او دوخت. سرش را به عقب ميل داد تا راست به چشم‌هاي او چشم بدوزد. داروفروش نگاهش را به جاي ديگرانداخت و رفت ارسنيک را پيچيد. اما خودش برنگشت. پاکت را داد دست شاگردش که پسرک سياهي بود. او پاکت را آورد داد به ميس اميلي. وقتي که ميس اميلي، در منزلش، پاکت راباز کرد، روي جعبه، زير نقش جمجمه و استخوان‌هاي چپ و راست علامت خطر، نوشته بود «براي موش».
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روز بعد ما همه مي‌گفتيم: «خودش را خواهد کشت»؛ و فکر مي‌کرديم که اين بهترين کار است. اوايلي که ميس اميلي با هومر بارون ديده مي‌شد ما مي‌گفتيم که با او ازدواج خواهد کرد. مي‌گفتيم: «هومر بارون را به راه خواهد آورد.» چون خود هومر بارون گفته بود که از مردها خوشش مي‌آيد. و مردم مي‌دانستند که تو کلوب الک با مردهاي بچه سال مشروب‌خوري مي‌کند. خلاصه آدم زن‌بگيري نبود. بعدها، بعد از ظهر‌هاي يکشنبه که آنها تو گاري اسبي براقشان مي‌گذشتند، ما از روي حسادت مي‌گفتيم: «بيچاره اميلي.» ميس اميلي سرش رابالا نگاه مي‌داشت.
هومر بارون لبه‌هاي کلاهش را بالا زده بود و سيگار برگي ميان لبهايش گذاشته بود و تسمة اسب رابا دستکش‌هاي زردرنگش گرفته بود.
آن وقت چندنفر از خانم‌ها کم‌کم سروصداشان بلند شد که: براي شهر قباحت دارد، براي جوان‌ها بد سرمشقي است. مردها نمي‌خواستند دخالت کنند. اما خانم‌ها کشيش را، که غسل تعميد مي‌داد، مجبور کردند (کس و کار ميس اميلي همه اهل کليسا بودند) که برود ميس اميلي را ملاقات کند. اين کشيش هرگز آنچه را در اين ملاقات گذشته بود فاش نکرد. ولي ديگر به ديدن ميس اميلي نرفت. يک‌شنبة ديگر باز ميس اميلي و هومر بارون تو خيابان پيدا شدند. و روز بعد زن کشيش موضوع را به اقوام ميس اميلي، که در آلاباما بودند، نوشت. آن وقت دوباره خويش و قوم‌هاي ميس اميلي تو خانة او پيدايشان شد. و ما دست روي دست گذاشتيم و ناظر جريانات شديم. اولش چيزي رخ نداد. آن‌وقت ما يقين کرديم که آنها مي‌خواهند با هم ازدواج کنند. به خصوص که خبر شديم که ميس اميلي به دکان جواهرسازي رفته و يک دست اسباب آرايش مردانة نقره سفرش داده که روي هر تکه‌اش حروف «ه.ب» کنده شده باشد. دو روز بعد از آن هم خبر شديم که يک دست کامل لباس مردانه به انضمام يک لباس خواب خريده است. ما پيش خودمان گفتيم ديگر ازدواج کرده‌اند، و واقعا دلمان خنک شد. چون که ديديم حتي دوتا دختر عموهاي ميس اميلي بيش از آنچه خود ميس اميلي تا حالا فروخته بود واقعا «گريرسن» بودند.
خيابان‌ها مدتي بود تمام شده بود؛ بنابراين وقتي که هومر بارون رفت ما تعجب نکرديم. اما از اينکه ميان مردم يکهو سروصدا بلند نشد، کمي بور شديم. ما خيال مي‌کرديم که هومر بارون رفته است که مقدمات رفتن ميس اميلي را فراهم کند. يا اينکه به او مجال بدهد که از دست دختر عموهايش خودش را خلاص کند. (در آن موقع ما براي خودمان دسته‌اي بوديم و همه طرفدار ميس اميلي بوديم که دختر عموهايش را دک کند.)
و يک هفته نگذشت که آنها رفتند. و همان طور که منظر بوديم سه روزه هومر بارون به شهر برگشت. يکي از همسايه‌ها ديده بود که غروب کاکاسياهِ ميس اميلي از در مطبخ او را وارد کرده بود. و اين آخرين دفعه‌اي بود که ما هومر بارون را ديديم. و تا مدتي بعد ديگر ميس اميلي را هم نديدم. فقط کاکاسياه او با زنبيل بازاريش آمد و شد مي‌کرد. اما در خانه هميشه بسته بود. گاه‌گاهي ما ميس اميلي را براي يکي دو دفعه تو پنجره مي‌ديديم. مثل آن شب که موقع آهک پاشيدن او را ديده بودند. تقريبا شش ماه تو خيابان پيدايش نشد. انگار اين خاصيتي که بارها روح او را به زنجير مي‌کشيد؛ اما وحشي‌تر و خبيث‌تر از آن بود که مرگ بپذيرد.
دفعة بعد که او را ديديم ديگر چاق شده بود و موهايش داشت خاکستري مي‌شد، و در مدت چندسال بعد، آنقدر خاکستري شد و شد تا کاملا به‌رنگ فلفل‌نمکي و چدني درآمد؛ و همان طور ماند. و تا روز مرگش در هفتادسالگي، هنوز به همان رنگ چدني، مثل موهاي يک مرد زير و زرنگ باقي بود.
از همان وقت به بعد، در جلو عمارتش همين طور بسته بود. به‌جز مدت شش هفت سال، زماني که در حدود چهل سالش بود و نقاشي چيني تعليم مي‌داد. در آن موقع کارگاهي در يکي از اطاق‌هاي طبقة پايين‌ ترتيب داده بود و دخترها و نوه‌هاي مردم عصر کلنل سارتوريس با همان نظم و همان روحي که يکشنبه‌ها با يک سکة بيست و پنج سنتي -براي انداختن تو سيني اعانه که دور مي‌گرداندند- به کليسا فرستاده مي‌شدند به کارگاه ميس اميلي مي‌رفتند. ميس اميلي در آن زمان از پرداخت ماليت معاف بود.
آن وقت خرده خرده نسل جديد روي کار آمد و استخوان‌ بندي و روح شهر را تشکيل داد. و شاگردهاي قديمي بزرگ شدند و ديگر بچه‌هايشان را با جعبه‌رنگ و قلم‌مو و عکس‌هايي که از مجلات مدبانوان برديده مي‌شد نزد ميس اميلي نفرستادند. در جلو عمارت پشت سر آخرين شاگرد بسته شد. و همچنان بسته ماند. وقتي که شهر داري سرويس پست شد، تنها ميس اميلي بود که نگذاشت شمارة فلزي بالاي در خانه‌اش بکوبند و جعبة پستي به آن بياويزند. ميس اميلي حرف کسي را گوش نمي‌کرد.
روزها و ماه‌ها و سال‌ها ما کاکاسياه ميس اميلي را مي‌پاييديم که موهايش خاکستري‌تر و قامتش خميده‌تر مي‌شد و با سبد بازاريش آمد و شد مي‌کرد. ماه دسامبر هر سال که مي‌شد يک ابلاغية ماليت براي ميس اميلي مي‌فرستاديم، که يک هفته بعد به توسط پست پس فرستاده مي‌شد. گاه‌گاهي، جسته گريخته، او را در يکي از پنجره‌هاي طبقة پايين مي‌ديديم. پيدا بود که اطاق‌هاي طبقة بالا را به کلي بسته است. نيم‌تنة ميس اميلي، مثل نيم‌تنة سنگي بتي که به ديوار محراب معبدي نصب شده باشد، به ما نگاه مي‌کرد؛ يا نگاه نمي‌کرد؛ ما هرگز نتوانستيم اين را تشخيص بدهيم.
به اين ترتيب ميس اميلي، ميس اميلي عالي‌مقام، حي وحاضر، نفوذناپذير، آرام، سمج، نسلي را پشت سر مي‌گذاشت و به نسل ديگر مي‌پيوست.
آن وقت مرگ او اتفاق افتاد. در ميان خانه‌اي که پر از سايه و تاريک و گرد و خاک بود، مريض شد؛ در جايي که غير از سياه پير مرتعش کسي بربالينش نبود. ما حتي از مريض شدنش هم باخبر نشديم. مدتي بود که ديگر از سياه خبر نمي‌گرفتيم.
سياه با کسي، شايد حتي با خود ميس اميلي هم، حرف نمي‌زد. چون که صدايش انگار از ماندن و به کار نرفتن خشن و زنگ زده شده بود. ميس اميلي در يک از اطاق‌هاي طبقة پايين، روي يک تختخواب چوب گردوي پرده‌دار، مرد؛ در حالي که موهاي خاکستريش ميان بالشي که از نديدن نور خورشيد زرد شده بود فرو رفته بود.
سياه اولين دستة زن‌ها را که صداهاشان را در سينه خفه کرده بود و با هيس! هيس! هم ديگر را خاموش مي‌کردند و نگاه‌هاي سريع و کنجکاو خود را به اطراف مي‌انداختند، از در عمارت داخل کرد؛ و خودش ناپديد شد. مستقيما رفت داخل عمارت و از در پشت آن خارج شد و ديگر کسي او را نديد.
دو تا دختر عموهاي ميس اميلي فورا حاضر شدند و روز بعد تشييع جنازه را ترتيب دادند، و اهل شهر آمدند که ميس اميلي را زير توده‌اي از گل‌هاي خريداري شده تماشا کنند، که تصوير مدادي پدرش روي آن به فکر عميق فرو رفته بود. و خانم‌ها نيم‌صدا زير لب پچ‌پچ مي‌کردند، و مردهاي خيلي پير، بعضي‌هايشان با اونيفرم زمان جنگ داخلي، روي سکوي جلو کليسا و چمن ايستاده بودند و دربارة ميس اميلي با هم گفت و گو مي‌کردند. که حالا يعني ميس اميلي هم دورة آنها بوده و با او رقصيده‌اند و شايد زماني دلش را هم برده‌اند. و مثل همة پيرها حساب حوادث گذشته را با هم شلوغ مي‌کردند -گذشته براي آنها مانند جادة باريکي نبود که آنها دور مي‌شد، بلکه مثل چمن وسيعي بود که هرگز زمستان نديده بود و همين ده‌سال آخري مثل دالاني آنها ر از آن جدا کرده بود.
ما در آن موقع متوجه شده بوديم که در طبقة اتاقي بود که چهار سال بود کسي داخل آن رانديده بود و مي‌بايست در آن را شکست. اما قبل از آنکه در آن را باز کنند، تامل کردند تا ميس اميلي به طرز آبرومندي به خاک سپرده شد.
به نظر مي‌رسيد که شدت شکستن در اتاق را پر از گرد و خاک کرده است. اتاق را انگار براي شب زفاف آراسته بودند. غبار تلخ و زننده‌اي، مثل خاک قبرستان، روي ميز توالت، روي اسباب‌هاي بلور ظريف و اسباب آرايش مردانه که دست‌هاي نقره‌اي تاسيده داشت و نقره‌اش چنان تاسيده بود که حرف روي آن محو شده بود نشسته بود. پهلوي اين‌ها يک يخة کراوات گذاشته بود. گويي تازه از گردن آدم باز شده بود. وقتي که از جا برداشته شد، روي غباري که سطح ميز را فراگرفته بود، و زير آن يک جفت کفش و جوراب خاموش و دور افتاده قرارداشت.
خود مردي که صاحب اين لباسها بود روي تختخواب دراز کشيده بود. ما مدت زيادي فقط ايستاديم و لبخند عميق و بي‌گوشت او را که تا بناگوشش باز شده بود نگاه کرديم. جنازه ظاهرا زماني به طرز درآغوش کشيدن کسي اينطور خوابيده بوده است. ولي اکنون، اين خواب طولاني، که حتي عشق را به سر مي‌برد، حتي زشتي‌هاي عشق را مسخرمي‌کند، او را در ربوده بود. بقاياي او، زير بقاياي پيراهن خوابش، از هم پاشيده شده بود و از رختخوابي که روي آن خوابيده بود جدا شدني نبود. روي او و روي بالشي که پهلويش گذاشته شده بود، همان غبار آرام و بي‌حرکت نشسته بود. آن وقت ما متوجه شديم که روي بالش دوم اثر فرورفتگي سري پيدا بود. يکي از ما چيزي را از روي آن برداشت. ما به جلو خم شديم. همان گرد تلخ و خشک، بيني ما را سوزاند. آنچه ديديم يک نخ موي خاکستري چدني بود.

منبع: دیباچه