Mirrors of Chartres Street by William Faulkner from New Orleans Sketches:
"His voice had the hoarseness of vocal cords long dried with alcohol, and he was crippled. I first noticed him when he swung himself across my path with apelike agility and demanded a quarter for bread. His gray thatch and his eyes as wild and soft as a faun's, his neck muscles moving as smooth as an athlete's to the thrust of his crutch, stopped me; his garrulous assurance—"Say, you are a young man now, and you got both legs. But some day you may need a bite of bread and a cup of coffee, just a cup of coffee, to keep the damp out of your bones; and you may stop a gentleman like I'm stopping you, and he may be my son—I was a good one in my day,
fellow." I had prided myself at the time on my appearance; that I did not look even like a prospective bum, wearing then tweeds which came from the Strand; but who knows what life may do to us? Anyway, to have such a breath fondly on one's neck in this nation and time was worth a quarter. Fifteen minutes later I saw him again, handily swinging himself into a movie theater where was one of those million-dollar pictures of dukes and adultery and champagne and lots of girls in mosquito netting and lamp shades.
Truly, his was an untrammelled spirit: his the same heaven-sent attribute for finding life good which enabled the Jews to give young Jesus of Nazareth with two stars in His eyes, sucking His mother's breast, and a fairy tale that has conquered the whole Western earth; which gave King Arthur to a dull world, and sent baron and knight and lads who had more than coronets to flap
pennons in Syria, seeking a dream. Later, from a railed balcony—Mendelssohn impervious in iron—I saw him for the last time. The moon had crawled up the sky like a fat spider and planes of light
and shadow were despair for the Vorticist schools. (Even those who carved those strange flat-handed creatures on the Temple of Rameses must have dreamed New Orleans by moonlight.)
About the symbolical stolidity of a cop he darted and spun on his crutch like a water beetle about a rock. His voice rose and fell, his crutch-end, arcing in the street lamp, described- a rectangle upon the pavement and within this rectangle he became motionless with one movement, like a bird alighting. "This is my room," he proclaimed hoarsely, "now, how ca;n you arrest me, huh?
Where's your warrant for entering my room, fellow?"
"I've sent for a warrant," the officer told him. "But I'll get you anyway. You can't stay there all night; you got to leave soon to get a drink."
"I got a drink on me, fellow, and you know it."
"Yeh? Where is it?"
" 'S all right," replied the other, cunningly, "you can't get it without a warrant."
The policeman leaned toward him, pawing at his sorry clothing. "Take your hands off me," he screamed. He stood miraculously on his single leg and his crutch spun about his head like a propeller blade. "Arrest me in my own room! Arrest me! Where's laws and justice? Ain't I a
member of greatest republic on earth? Ain't every laborer got his own home, and ain't this mine? Beat it, you damn Republican. Got a gov'ment job: thinks he can do whatever he wants," he informed the bystanders with hoarse cunning. He swept the crutch back to his armpit, and struck an attitude. "Listen, men. I was born American citizen and I been a good citizen all my life. When America needs men, who's first to say 'America, take me'? I am, until railroad cut off my leg. And did I do anything to railroad for cutting off my leg? Did I go to railroad president and say, 'Say, do you know you cut off my leg?' No, sir. I said I been good American citizen all my life—all my life I worked hard. I been laboring man, and ain't every laboring man got his own room, and ain't this mine? Now, I ask you, one gentleman to 'nother, can damn Republican come in laboring man's room and arrest him?" He turned again to the cop. "You big coward, come on and arrest me. I got no gun; can't shoot you if I wanted. Come in and arrest me! Come on, now, I dare you. Can't no Republican come in my room without a warrant." Down the street, clanging among the shivering golden wings of street lights, came the wagon at last. As it stopped at the curb, he hopped nimbly toward it. "Yes, sir," he croaked as he was helped in, "I'm American citizen and laboring man, but when a friend sends car for me, why, I'll go. Yes, sir, never refused a friend in my life, even if he's rich and I ain't nothing but self-respecting American citizen." Half-way in, he turned for recapitulation.
"I'm laboring man, own property in town, but I got rich friends. Sam Gompers was my friend; he
wouldn't stood by and let damn Republican arrest me, but now poor Sam's dead. Dead and gone, boys, but he was my friend, friend all laboring men." "Come on, come on," interrupted the officer. "All right, Ed." He was thrust abruptly in and the wagon clanged away. "So long, cap," he shouted back, the tires sucked over the wet pavement and around the corner; clanging from sight and sound he went, while his voice came hoarsely among the shadows and intermittent light.
"So long, cap." The policeman turned, his comfortably broad back looked [sic] in the light, passed to dark and from shadow to light again; then his heavy footfall faded away. And one thought of Caesar mounting his chariot among cast roses and the shouts of the rabble, and riving along the Via Appia while beggars crept out to see and centurions clashed their shields in the light of golden pennons flapping across the dawn."
"His voice had the hoarseness of vocal cords long dried with alcohol, and he was crippled. I first noticed him when he swung himself across my path with apelike agility and demanded a quarter for bread. His gray thatch and his eyes as wild and soft as a faun's, his neck muscles moving as smooth as an athlete's to the thrust of his crutch, stopped me; his garrulous assurance—"Say, you are a young man now, and you got both legs. But some day you may need a bite of bread and a cup of coffee, just a cup of coffee, to keep the damp out of your bones; and you may stop a gentleman like I'm stopping you, and he may be my son—I was a good one in my day,
fellow." I had prided myself at the time on my appearance; that I did not look even like a prospective bum, wearing then tweeds which came from the Strand; but who knows what life may do to us? Anyway, to have such a breath fondly on one's neck in this nation and time was worth a quarter. Fifteen minutes later I saw him again, handily swinging himself into a movie theater where was one of those million-dollar pictures of dukes and adultery and champagne and lots of girls in mosquito netting and lamp shades.
Truly, his was an untrammelled spirit: his the same heaven-sent attribute for finding life good which enabled the Jews to give young Jesus of Nazareth with two stars in His eyes, sucking His mother's breast, and a fairy tale that has conquered the whole Western earth; which gave King Arthur to a dull world, and sent baron and knight and lads who had more than coronets to flap
pennons in Syria, seeking a dream. Later, from a railed balcony—Mendelssohn impervious in iron—I saw him for the last time. The moon had crawled up the sky like a fat spider and planes of light
and shadow were despair for the Vorticist schools. (Even those who carved those strange flat-handed creatures on the Temple of Rameses must have dreamed New Orleans by moonlight.)
About the symbolical stolidity of a cop he darted and spun on his crutch like a water beetle about a rock. His voice rose and fell, his crutch-end, arcing in the street lamp, described- a rectangle upon the pavement and within this rectangle he became motionless with one movement, like a bird alighting. "This is my room," he proclaimed hoarsely, "now, how ca;n you arrest me, huh?
Where's your warrant for entering my room, fellow?"
"I've sent for a warrant," the officer told him. "But I'll get you anyway. You can't stay there all night; you got to leave soon to get a drink."
"I got a drink on me, fellow, and you know it."
"Yeh? Where is it?"
" 'S all right," replied the other, cunningly, "you can't get it without a warrant."
The policeman leaned toward him, pawing at his sorry clothing. "Take your hands off me," he screamed. He stood miraculously on his single leg and his crutch spun about his head like a propeller blade. "Arrest me in my own room! Arrest me! Where's laws and justice? Ain't I a
member of greatest republic on earth? Ain't every laborer got his own home, and ain't this mine? Beat it, you damn Republican. Got a gov'ment job: thinks he can do whatever he wants," he informed the bystanders with hoarse cunning. He swept the crutch back to his armpit, and struck an attitude. "Listen, men. I was born American citizen and I been a good citizen all my life. When America needs men, who's first to say 'America, take me'? I am, until railroad cut off my leg. And did I do anything to railroad for cutting off my leg? Did I go to railroad president and say, 'Say, do you know you cut off my leg?' No, sir. I said I been good American citizen all my life—all my life I worked hard. I been laboring man, and ain't every laboring man got his own room, and ain't this mine? Now, I ask you, one gentleman to 'nother, can damn Republican come in laboring man's room and arrest him?" He turned again to the cop. "You big coward, come on and arrest me. I got no gun; can't shoot you if I wanted. Come in and arrest me! Come on, now, I dare you. Can't no Republican come in my room without a warrant." Down the street, clanging among the shivering golden wings of street lights, came the wagon at last. As it stopped at the curb, he hopped nimbly toward it. "Yes, sir," he croaked as he was helped in, "I'm American citizen and laboring man, but when a friend sends car for me, why, I'll go. Yes, sir, never refused a friend in my life, even if he's rich and I ain't nothing but self-respecting American citizen." Half-way in, he turned for recapitulation.
"I'm laboring man, own property in town, but I got rich friends. Sam Gompers was my friend; he
wouldn't stood by and let damn Republican arrest me, but now poor Sam's dead. Dead and gone, boys, but he was my friend, friend all laboring men." "Come on, come on," interrupted the officer. "All right, Ed." He was thrust abruptly in and the wagon clanged away. "So long, cap," he shouted back, the tires sucked over the wet pavement and around the corner; clanging from sight and sound he went, while his voice came hoarsely among the shadows and intermittent light.
"So long, cap." The policeman turned, his comfortably broad back looked [sic] in the light, passed to dark and from shadow to light again; then his heavy footfall faded away. And one thought of Caesar mounting his chariot among cast roses and the shouts of the rabble, and riving along the Via Appia while beggars crept out to see and centurions clashed their shields in the light of golden pennons flapping across the dawn."
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