1910: Quentin Compson (at Harvard) receives a letter from his father saying Rosa died after two weeks in a coma
Then on the table before Quentin, lying on the open text book beneath the lamp, the white oblong on envelope, the familiar blurred mechanical Jefferson Jan 10 1910 Miss and then, opened, the My dear son in his father's sloped fine hand Miss Rosa Coldfield was buried yesterday. She remained in the coma for almost two weeks and two days ago she died without regaining consciousness (p141)
1909: Quentin goes with Rosa to the old house at Sutpen's Hundred
that very September evening when Mr Compson stopped talking at last because it was now time to go, . . . And she (Miss Coldfield) had on the shawl, as he had known she would, and the bonnet (black once but faded now to that fierce muted metallic green of old peacock feathers) and the black reticule almost as large as a carpet bag containing all the keys the house possessed: . . . that evening twelve miles behind the fat mare in the moonless September dust (pp142-43)
1866: Sutpen proposes to Rosa that they have sex, and 'if it was a boy they would marry'; outraged, Rosa returns to Jefferson
if he hadn't been a demon his children wouldn't have needed protection from him and she wouldn't have had to go out there and be betrayed by the old meat and find instead of a widowed Agamemnon to her Cassandra an ancient stiff-jointed Pyramus to her eager though untried Thisbe who could approach her in this unbidden April's compounded demonry and suggest that they breed together for test and sample and if it was a boy they would marry; would not have had to be blown back to town on the initial blast of that horror and outrage to eat of gall and wormwood stolen through paling fences at dawn:" (p144) he had suggested to Miss Rosa that they try it first and if it was a boy and lived, they would be married. (p228)
1869: Milly gives birth to Sutpen's child; after hearing him tell Milly 'it's too bad you're not a mare,' Wash kills him
this not fixed at all since when the moment came for him to admit he had been wrong she would have the same trouble with him she had with her father, he would be dead too since she doubtless foresaw the scythe if for no other reason than that it would be the final outrage and affront like the hammer and nails in her father's business - that scythe, symbolic laurel of a caesar's triumph - that rusty scythe loaned by the demon himself to Jones more than two years ago to cut the weeds away from the shanty doorway to smooth the path for rutting - that rusty blade garlanded with each successive days's gaudy ribbon or cheap bead for the (how did she put it? slut wasn't all, was it?) to walk in - (p145) while Jones sat on the porch where the rusty scythe had leaned for two years, so that she [the midwife] could tell how she heard the horse and then the demon entered and stood over the pallet with the riding whip in his hand and looked down at the mother and the child and said, 'Well, Milly, too bad you're not a mare like Penelope. Then I could give you a decent stall in the stable' and turned and went out and the old negress squatted there and heard them, the voices, he and Jones: 'Stand back. Dont you touch me, Wash.' - 'I'm going to tech you, Kernel' and she heard the whip too though not the scythe, (p151)
1866: after failing to restore his plantation, Sutpen opens a 'little crossroads store' with Wash Jones as an assistant
so that he didn't even need to be a demon now but just mad impotent old man who had realised at last that his dream of restoring Sutpen's Hundred was not only vain but that what he had left of it would never support him and his family and so running his little crossroads store with a stock of plowshares and hame strings and calico and kerosene and cheap beads and ribbons and a clientele of freed niggers and (what is it? the word? white what? - Yes, trash) with Jones for clerk and who knows maybe what delusions of making money out of the store to rebuild the plantation; (p147)
1868: Sutpen 'seduces' Wash's 15-year-old granddaughter Milly
running his little country store now for his bread and meat, haggling tediously over nickels and dimes with rapacious and poverty-stricken whites and negroes, who at one time could have galloped for ten miles in any direction without crossing his own boundary, using out of his meagre stock the cheap ribbons and beads and the stale violently-colored candy with which even an old man can seduce a fifteen-year-old country girl, to ruin the granddaughter of his partner, this Jones (p149)
1869: with Clytie, Judith runs the store until she sells it to get money to buy a tombstone
And no tears, no bereavement this time too, whether or not it was because she had no time to mourn since she ran the store herself now until she found a buyer for it, . . . hailed by women and children with pails and baskets, whereupon she or Clytie would go to the store, unlock it, serve the customer, lock the store and return: until she sold the store at last and spent the money for a tombstone. (p152)
1908: while hunting quail, Quentin and his father visit the Sutpen graveyard
"You told me; how was it? you and your father shooting quail, the gray day after it had rained all night and the ditch the horses couldn't cross so you and your father got down and gave the reins to - what was his name? the nigger on the mule? Luster. - Luster to lead them around the ditch" and he and his father crossed just as the rain began to come down again gray and solid and slow, making no sound, Quentin not aware yet of just where they were because he had been riding with his head lowered against the drizzle, until he looked up the slope before them where the wet yellow sedge dried upward into the rain like melting gold and saw the grove, the clump of cedars on the crest of the hill dissolving in the rain . . . It was dark among the cedars, the light more dark than gray even, the quiet rain, the faint pearly globules, materialising on the gun barrels and the five headstones like drops of not-quite-congealed meltings from cold candles on the marble: the two flat heavy vaulted slabs, the other three headstones leaning a little awry, (pp152-53)
1831: Charles Bon born in New Orleans
Charles Bon. Born in New Orleans, Louisiana. Died at Sutpen's Hundred, Mississippi, May 3, 1865. Aged 33 years and 5 months. (p155)
1859: Bon's son, Charles Etienne Saint-Valery Bon, born in New Orleans
Charles Etienne Saint-Valery Bon. 1859-1884 (p155)
1870: Bon's 'octoroon widow' and son Charles spend a week at Sutpen's Hundred with Judith and Clytie
But there was one afternoon in the summer of '70 when one of these graves (there were only three here then) was actually watered by tears. Your grandfather saw it; . . . He didn't know at the time how the octoroon came to be here, how Judith could even have known about her to write her where Bon was dead. But there she was, with the eleven-year-old boy who looked more like eight. (pp156-57)
1871: learning he's an orphan, Judith sends Clytie to New Orleans to get Charles, who then lives with them as 'a negro'
And your grandfather never knew if it was Clytie who watched, kept in touch by some means, waited for the day, the moment, to come, the hour when the little boy would be an orphan, and so went herself to fetch him; or it was Judith who did the waiting and the watching and sent Clytie for him that winter, that December of 1871; (p159) And your grandfather did not know either just which of them it was who told him that he was, must be, a negro, who could neither have heard yet nor recognized the term 'nigger,' who even had no word for it in the tongue he knew (p161)
1881: Charles arrested for fighting at 'a negro ball'; Judith retains General Compson to defend him in court
and your grandfather saw him, the boy (only a man now) handcuffed to an officer, his other arm in a sling and his head bandaged . . . your grandfather gradually learning what had happened or as much of it as he could since the Court itself couldn't get very much out of the witnesses, . . . a negro ball held in a cabin a few miles from Sutpen's Hundred and he there, present and your grandfather never to know how often he had done this before, whether he had gone there to engage in the dancing or for the dice game in progress in the kitchen where the trouble started, trouble which he and not the negroes started . . . so that at this point all truth, all evidence vanished into a moiling clump of negro backs and heads and black arms and hands clutching sticks of stove wood and cooking implements and razors, the white man the focal point of it and using a knife which he had produced from somewhere . . . no cause, no reason for it; none to ever know exactly what happened, what curses and ejaculations which might have indicated what it was that drove him and only your grandfather to fumble, grope, grasp the presence of that furious protest, that indictment of heaven's ordering, (p164)
1882: Charles marries a 'coal-black' woman, returns to Yoknapatawpha, and has a child who is named Jim Bond
and he, Charles Etienne Saint-Valery Bon, already returned (not home again; returned) before your grandfather learned how he had come back, appeared, with a coal black and ape-like woman and an authentic wedding license, . . . a year later and after their son was born, . . . their son was born in one of the dilapidated slave cabins which he had rebuilt after renting his parcel of land from Judith); (pp166-67)
1884: Judith dies of 'yellow fever' caught while nursing Charles E. S-V. Bon, who dies of the same disease
it was the County Medical Officer who told your grandfather that he had yellow fever and that Judith had had him moved into the big house and was nursing him and now Judith had the disease too, . . . it was Judith who died first. (p170)
1900: playing with other children, Quentin sees Jim Bond and Clytie at Sutpen's old house
But you were not listening, because you knew it all already, had learned it, absorbed it already without the medium of speech somehow from having been born and living beside it, with it, as children will and do: so that what your father was saying did not tell you anything so much as it struck, word by word, the resonant strings of remembering, who had been here before, seen these graves more than once in the rambling expeditions of boyhood whose aim was more than the mere hunting of game, just as you had seen the old house too, been familiar with how it would look before you even saw it, became large enough to go out there one day with four or five other boys of your size and age and dare one another to evoke the ghost, since it would have to be haunted . . . and you and Luster had both been there that day when the five of you, the five boys all of an age, began daring one another to enter the house long before you reached it, coming up from the rear, into the old street of the slave quarters - a jungle of sumach and persimmon and briers and honeysuckle, and the rotting piles of what had once been log walls and stone chimneys and shingle roofs among the undergrowth except one, that one; you coming up to it; you didn't see the old woman at all at first because you were watching the boy, the Jim Bond, the hulking slack-mouthed saddle-colored boy a few years older and bigger than you were, (p172-73)