Requiem for a Nun

256 WILLIAM FAULKNER

name, like a neat and only slightly deformed cockroach: a hybrid,

sexually incapable. But then, she will tell you that too.

TEMPLE

(with bitter sarcasm) Dear Uncle Gavin.

(to Governor)

Oh yes, that too, her bad luck too: to plump for a thing which didn't

even have sex for his weakness, but just murder-

(she stops, sitting motionless, erect, her hands clenched on

her lap, her eyes closed)

If you both would just hush, just let me. I seem to be like trying to

drive a hen into a barrel. Maybe if you would just try to act like you

wanted to keep her out of it, from going into it-

GOVERNOR

Dont call it a barrel. Call it a tunnel. That's a thoroughfare, because

the other end is open too. Go through with it. There was no-sex.

TEMPLE

Not from him. He was worse than a father or uncle. It was worse than

being the wealthy ward of the most indulgent trust or insurance company:

carried to Memphis and shut up in that Manuel Street sporting house like

a ten-year-old bride in a Spanish convent, with the madam herself more

eagle-eyed than any mama-and the Negro maid to guard the door while the

madam would be out, to wherever she would go, wherever the madams of cat

houses go on their afternoons out, to pay police-court fines or

protection or to the bank or maybe just visiting, which would not be so

bad because the maid would unlock the door and come inside and we

could-

(she falters, pauses for less than a second; then quickly)

Yes, that's why-talk. A prisoner of course, and maybe not in a very

gilded cage, but at least the prisoner was. I had perfume by the quart;

some salesgirl chose it of course, and it was the wrong kind, but at

least I had it, and he bought me a fur coat-with nowhere to wear it of

course because he wouldn't let me out, but I had the coat-and snazzy

underwear and negligees, selected also by salesgirls but at least the

best