VARIETY
THE LAST GENTLEMAN
It was in New York in 1956. I saw Faulkner sitting on a
bench in Washington Square Park.
At the short distance his face reminded me of Charlie Chaplin, and
the way he was inserted rather than seated on the bench had the touch
of a Chaplin comedy. He was flanked by people dozing, reading and
lounging in the sunshine
j
he was a quiet center of great activity as
strollers passed closely by and children raced, skated and shouted up
and down the concrete path. In all the hubbub and movement he sat
quietly, pipe in mouth, clasped hands resting on crossed legs, body
hunched slightly forward.
His
gaze seemed fixed upon something far
but particular, although only the massive buildings of NYU lined the
outer edge of the park.
Close to where Faulkner was seated several children were teasing
a young girl who was learning to skate. As she drew nearer, the skates
flew out from under, and she fell heavily on the concrete a few feet
from Faulkner's knee. The little girl, who was about ten, and more
shocked than hurt by the sudden fall, alternated screams and sobs. Her
cheek bled and she clutched one bruised knee as she tried to rise. People
rushed toward her; they removed the skates and helped her get up, and
one dabbed at her bleeding cheek with a handkerchief. A few minutes
later, when she became calm and left the scene, the crowd disappeared.
I had, somehow, kept my eyes on Faulkner during the skating ac–
cident, and I realized that all through the incident Faulkner had not
moved. He had remained immobile in the noise and movement before
and about him. He still sat as fixed and uninvolved as he had been
when I first noticed him - hands, legs and pipe seemed as detached
as some store-window mannequin. All the anecdotes I had read about
Faulkner's drinking - the Hollywood episodes - came flooding back as
possible explanations. It was because he didn't
look
drunk that I felt
