Raintree County (86 page)

Preacher Jarvey felt his hand squeezed. He opened his eyes. The Widow Passifee was talking fast. Strands of loose yellow hair had fallen around her heatflushed cheeks. Her eyes glittered, and her wide young mouth made sounds that were husky and musical.

—Of course, I hadn't no proof of it, she said. Just what I suspicioned. But a course I never dreamed what was a-goin' to happen.
Well, it was about eleven o'clock at night, time for any selfrespectin' body to be in bed, and I crept up to her fence and got in among some sumac bushes that was right by the fence so's I could have a good view of the house. I was even figgerin' maybe I might climb over and see if I could have a real good see. I guess curiosity got the better of me. But just then, I heard their voices, and the front screen opened and shut, and here come Mr. Shawnessy walkin' down off the porch, he never looked back once but just went right down the path and out into the road and toward town. I was just about to climb out a there and go home myself when I seen it.

The Preacher filled his own glass and the Widow's from the jug. Heartshaped, the wide face of Mrs. Passifee was very close to his own. His thick lenses were washed with yellow waves of light. He watched her soft mouth trembling with excitement.

—Go on, Sister, he said.

—So then there I was ready to go, when all a sudden I heard the screen door open again—mind you it wasn't ten minutes after he'd left—and all a sudden here
she
come right down the steps of the verandah and out on the lawn. Well, she was nekkid as the day she was born. Her hair was all let down. The woman's plumb crazy, I said to myself.

—Praise the Lord! the Reverend said. Go on, Sister.

—She was just a little slim thing, hardly nothin' to her, compared to a woman like me. Well, she took out and begun to run around the lawn and to throw back her head and dance. She went here and there all over the yard and threw up her arms, never sayin' a word or makin' a sound. It was warm or she'd a caught her death a cold. After a while she run to that there fountain down in front a the house where them two nekkid children is and stepped right down into it. She's goin' to drownd herself, I says. But no, not her. She puts her face right up in the spray a the fountain and stood right there and let the water run over her nekkid body. She looked jist like a statue, Reverend, white and still in the starlight. There I was—not more'n twenty feet away, a-layin' there sweatin' and scared I was goin' to make a noise. It was so close I could see a birthmark she had on her body. Then she ran out on the grass again, her body a-shinin' from the water, and she run and threw herself on the grass and rolled back and forth like a child, and then she begun to cry or laugh, I couldn't
tell which, and then there was some kind of a noise from that field next to her place where Bill Jacobs keeps that big bull a hisn, and she heard it, and she jumped up and run like she was shot up to the house and went in.

—Sister Passifee, lust is a dreadful thing! O, hit is a terrible thing! Praise the Lord!

—Praise the Lord! Sister Passifee said, sipping thoughtfully at her glass and allowing the Preacher to squeeze her hand.

—Sister, the Lord means for us to chastise these errin' creatures. But let us not be too hard on them, Sister. Judge not that ye be not judged. A man may be tempted by too much beauty, Sister, and the Devil may rise in him. Alas, I have known what it is to sin, Sister.

—Me, too, Sister Passifee said, sipping thoughtfully. More wine, Brother Jarvey?

Brother Jarvey's eyes were closed. He was beginning to wag his big head. His voice had become loud like a horn, monotonously chanting.

—Let us pray for these sinners. They were sore tempted, Sister, and they sinned. Down on your knees, Sister. Hosanna!

—Hosanna, Sister Passifee said, obediently going to her knees. Maybe you can't blame 'em too much. Sometimes it's pretty hard to resist the Devil.

—Let us pray, Sister, the Reverend said, dropping to his knees before her and winding his arms around her.

Sister Passifee nestled meekly in his embrace.

—Lord, you have placed this poor weak woman in my arms, Preacher Jarvey said. What shall I do with her?

—Just go on and pray as hard as you want, Brother Jarvey. My daughter Libby's down at the school and nobody'll bother us.

—I lift up my eyes unto thy hills, O Zion, he shouted.

His eyes, opening, perceived the triumphant twin thrust of Sister Passifee's bosom in the white dress.

He felt a momentary sadness that left him stranded and deprived of strength. He waited. Thin sap of the earth smitten into bloom by the sun flowed in his veins, a soft fire. He closed his eyes.

An island of white sands and trees darkfronded enclosed his vision. A tall stone column stood in Cretan groves, and the young women gathered at the base to pelt the shaft with petals. Light hands and
flowery lips made adoration and ecstasy at the base of the column in Crete.

The hour has come. Lo! it is here! Now I will prepare for the feast. I will make myself known unto you. It is the joyous noon, and the celebrants dash flowers and wine on each other's faces. Naked, they run on Cretan lawns. They do not know that the god himself is waiting in a green wood. His large savage eyes have selected the whitest of the nymphs, whose lips are wet with the wine of festival. He shrugs and lowers his wrinkled front, the loose folds of his breast are shaken with desire. He rakes the ground with great feet. He is amorous of the most voluptuous nymph, her of the twin disturbing hills. He has remembered his ritual day, the noontide rites of the wine, the flung flowers, and the shaken seed. He is approaching, he will make himself known in the form of a . . .

. . .

—Bull is worth more than man in the sum of things.

The Perfessor lit a cigar and leaned on the fence, looking over at the white bull with a happy expression.

—Where's this heifer? the Senator said. Let's have some action around here.

—The Greeks, the Perfessor went on, addressing his remarks to Mr. Shawnessy, were right to make a god of bull. Christianity debased God by making him a grieving and gibbeted Jesus. Fact is, man may well envy bull. Bull is pure feeling, has no silly moral anxiety, exists entirely for the propulsion of life.

—Bull doesn't know love, Mr. Shawnessy said. Look at him. He's just a phallus with a prodigious engine attached.

—Love? the Perfessor said. What is love? Why, John, your bull is your perfect lover. His sexual frenzy is much stronger than man's. Man's a popgun to him.

—Love is moral, Mr. Shawnessy said. Passion's a form of discrimination. From among a thousand doors, it chooses one. There's no great love without great conscience. But your bull's no picker and chooser. To him, one cow's as good as another.
Jupiter erectus conscientiam non habet.

—Let's have some action around here, jocundly bellowed the Senator. Where's this heifer?

—It's true, the Perfessor said, that love and sex desire have nothing
in common. The sex impulse is a vicious appetite like hunger. We brought it with us out of the jungle and put some clothes on it, that's all. In its pure form, i.e., anywhere below the human level, sexual congress is always a criminal attack. The female of the species is coerced with hooves, claws, horns, and anything else necessary. The male's bigger for a good reason—he has to whip his snatch before he can have it. The female submits, hating it. Wolves love snarling, cats clawing, horses biting. Female spiders eat the male after the sex act, to get even. All mammals without exception use their teeth when they love. The human kiss, that remarkable perversion of Nature, is descended from the love-bite. By the way, did I ever show you my scars?

The Perfessor shook soundlessly.

—Bring on this heifer, the Senator said. Professor, how about another drink?

The Perfessor obliged by passing his bottle up and down the fence.

—As for love faithful unto death, and so forth, the Perfessor went on, all that's a late development in the human race. It's derived not from the sex act but the mating impulse. The only unselfish love exhibited by Nature in her unspoiled—i.e., non-human—form is that shown by the mother for her child. She attaches the male to her during the family period not because she loves the big tramp but because it helps provide for and protect the babies. From the softening influence of mother love transmitted to the male offspring come all the noble passions of mankind—tenderness, devotion, fidelity, glorification of the love object, and so on. In short, romantic human love is an invention of the ladies.

—To the ladies, then, Mr. Shawnessy said gallantly, God bless them. For the garden they have made and adorned with their hands and in which you and I are permitted to wander.

—I've enjoyed my picnics in it, the Perfessor said. But I've never found sexual chastity one of the requirements for admission. It's only necessary that the park be beautiful. But let's not have any gatekeepers. Nature doesn't award any blueribbons to chastity. The prizewinning bull of Raintree County is a bastard and a begetter of bastards. Look at the beautiful flowers. They are all bastards. All the beauty in the world was made by Eros, who is blind.

—Professor, you're a poacher in the human garden. To you this
great preserve is like the king's park in which the deer are all alike and fair game. There's nothing in Nature to forbid you, but you haven't made the most delicious of all discoveries.

—And what is that?

—That the human garden in which one wanders is occupied by only one other person, that good and beautiful and passionate and faithful woman to whom we all aspire. In her, we rediscover Eve and regain Paradise.

—How many Eves have you been Adam to?

—One Eve in several reincarnations.

—I suppose, the Perfessor said, falling amiably into his vein of self-criticism, that I have known too few good women.

He looked shrewdly at the top of the brick tower standing above the iron fence and narrowed his eyes.

—Matter of fact, John, he said, I have known in my time the wildest assortment of bitches that God in His wisdom ever permitted one poor old boy to be bullied withal. But I have no regrets. They were gallant girls all. I loved them all as hard as I could, and I refuse to make any distinction between them and the so-called good women. To our immoral part and our only path to immortality, each one was just the happy valley where the wandering one came home.

—It's about time! the Senator said.

Raintree County's prize bull raised his head and peered at a festive procession.

Mr. Jacobs and another man were bringing a pretty brown heifer down the lane. The men began to talk in hearty voices. The Perfessor produced a fresh bottle, which went up and down the fence and came back empty.

—I wonder, the Senator said, if she has any idea what's going to hit her.

He passed out cigars, and all the men lit up and smoked. Mr. Jacobs opened the gate, and the other man led the heifer through, retaining his hold on the halter.

The great white bull watched the intruders. He pawed the ground.

—He's getting up steam, the Senator said.

—The contestants will please take their respective positions on the playing field, the Perfessor said, taking out his notebook. Spectators are requested to hang on to their hats.

—Here we go! the Senator said.

SENATOR JONES GUEST AS STOCKBREEDERS HOLD MEET ONLY ONE LADY PRESENT

(Epic Fragment from the
Cosmic Enquirer
)

The Raintree County Stockbreeders Association today held a meeting at which the Hon. Garwood B. Jones was the guest of honor, sharing the limelight with . . .

A great white bull, eight feet tall, walked on his hindlegs like a man, stabbed the air with blind hooves. Guttural shouts shook the fence. The Senator's cigar fell from his mouth. The heifer staggered. . . .

Squealing delicately, Mrs. Passifee upset with a motion of her arm the little table next to the sofa, and looking sideways watched the stone jug and two tumblers scatter on the floor.

—It's all right, she whispered. Nothing's broke but one of the glasses.

Preacher Jarvey made no reply. His brows were bent into a majestic frown.

Listen, I am the god. I was waiting in a cavern of this island. From among all the vestals, I select you. Do you run from me, little frightened sacrifice? Do you hear the thundering hooves of the god behind you? Do you feel the hot breath of the god on your slight shoulders? Listen, I hear your cries, your virginal complainings. Our island is small, and you cannot escape me. You shall be made to feel the power of the . . .

—Lord help me! Mrs. Passifee sighed resignedly. I'm a poor weak woman.

The Preacher said nothing, but closed his eyes.

Who can love god as god would be loved? Only the most beautiful of mortals. Only the most tender and compliant. But who can love god as god would be loved?

—Sakes alive! Mrs. Passifee said, gasping for breath. You're a strong man, Brother Jarvey.

O, I remember how they reared the great stone shaft in the sacred isle. I remember the sweet assault of all the unwearied dancers. Pull down over the column garland after garland of flowers. Wreathe and
ring it with tightening vines. Dash wine and the petals of roses against it. Dash it with waves of the warm sea.

Even the god shall enjoy the pastime of mortals. Great is his rage, he is tall in his amorous fury, goodly Dionysus. Bring grapes, he tramples them, raking the ground with his horns. Let him forget that he is god, goodly Dionysus. Let him be only desire on the peak of fulfillment. Let him be only feeling and fury in doing . . .

. . .

—The act of love, said the Perfessor, leaning on the fence and watching intently, bottle in hand, is an extraordinary thing. At such times we are like runners passing a torch. We pant and fall exhausted that the race may go on.

—Gentlemen, the Senator said, his mouth open, his cigar dead between his lips, I am reminded of my youth. How often does he get to do this?