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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 o ld manservant – a combined gardener and cook – had seen in at least ten years.
It was a big, squarish frame house that had once be en white, decorated with cupolas and spires and scrolled balconies in the heavily li ghtsome style of the seventies, set on what had once been our most select street. But gara ges 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 co quettish decay above the cotton wagons and the gasoline pumps – an eyesore among ey esores. And now Miss Emily had gone to join the representatives of those augus t names were they lay in the cedar- bemused cemetery among the ranked and anonymous gra ves of Union and
Confederate soldiers who fell at the battle of Jeff erson. 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 Co lonel Sartoris, the mayor – he who fathered the edict that no Negro woman should appea r 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 fa
ther
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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 o ld manservant – a combined gardener and cook – had seen in at least ten years.
It was a big, squarish frame house that had once be en white, decorated with cupolas and spires and scrolled balconies in the heavily li ghtsome style of the seventies, set on what had once been our most select street. But gara ges 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 co quettish decay above the cotton wagons and the gasoline pumps – an eyesore among ey esores. And now Miss Emily had gone to join the representatives of those augus t names were they lay in the cedar- bemused cemetery among the ranked and anonymous gra ves of Union and
Confederate soldiers who fell at the battle of Jeff erson. 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 Co lonel Sartoris, the mayor – he who fathered the edict that no Negro woman should appea r 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 fa
ther