carson mccullers - the heart is a lonely hunter-第49章

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Jake　Blount　stood　beside　Doctor　Copeland。　'I　know　your　face。　
We　run　into　each　other　once　before—on　the　steps　outside。'　
Doctor　Copeland　moved　his　tongue　precisely　as　though　he　
clipped　out　his　words　with　scissors。　'I　was　not　aware　that　we　
were　acquainted；'　he　said。　Then　his　stiff　body　seemed　to　
shrink。　He　stepped　back　until　he　was　just　outside　the　threshold　
of　the　room。　
Biff　Brannon　smoked　his　cigarette　composedly。　The　smoke　
lay　in　thin　layers　across　the　room。　He　turned　to　Mick　and　


when　he　looked　at　her　a　blush　reddened　his　face。　He　half…
closed　his　eyes　and　in　a　moment　his　face　was　bloodless　once　
more。　'And　how　are　you　getting　on　with　your　business　now？'　
'What　business？'　Mick　asked　suspiciously。　
'Just　the　business　of　living；'　he　said。　'School—and　so　forth。'　
'O。K。；　I　reckon；'　she　said。　
Each　one　of　them　looked　at　Singer　as　though　in　expectation。　
He　was　puzzled。　He　offered　refreshments　and　smiled。　
Jake　rubbed　his　lips　with　the　palm　of　his　hand。　He　left　off　
trying　to　make　conversation　with　Doctor　Copeland　and　sat　
down　on　the　bed　beside　Biff。　'You　know　who　it　is　that　used　to　
write　those　bloody　warnings　in　red　chalk　on　the　fences　and　
walls　around　the　mills？'180　

181　

。No；'　Biff　said。　'What　bloody　warnings？'　
'Mostly　from　the　Old　Testament　I　been　wondering　about　that　for　
a　long　time。'　
Each　person　addressed　his　words　mainly　to　the　mute。　Their　
thoughts　seemed　to　converge　in　him　as　the　spokes　of　a　wheel　lead　
to　the　center　hub。　
The　cold　has　been　very　unusual；'　BifE　said　finally。　The　other　day　
I　was　looking　through　some　old　records　and　I　found　that　in　the　
year　1919　the　thermometer　got　down　to　ten　degrees　Fahrenheit。　
It　was　only　sixteen　degrees　this　morning；　and　that's　the　coldest　
since　the　big　freeze　that　year。'　
There　were　icicles　hanging　off　the　roof　of　the　coal　house　this　
morning；'　Mick　said。　
cWe　didn't　take　in　enough　money　last　week　to　meet　the　payroll；'　
Jake　said。　
They　discussed　the　weather　some　more。　Each　one　seemed　to　be　
waiting　for　the　others　to　go。　Then　on　an　impulse　they　all　rose　to　
leave　at　the　same　time。　Doctor　Cope…land　went　first　and　the　
others　followed　him　immediately。　When　they　were　gone　Singer　
stood　alone　in　the　room；　and　as　he　did　not　understand　the　
situation　he　wanted　to　forget　it　He　decided　to　write　to　
Antonapoulos　that　night　
The　fact　that　Antonapoulos　could　not　read　did　not　prevent　
Singer　from　writing　to　him。　He　had　always　known　that　his　friend　
was　unable　to　make　out　the　meaning　of　words　on　paper；　but　as　
the　months　went　by　he　began　to　imagine　that　perhaps　he　had　
been　mistaken；　that　perhaps　Antonapoulos　only　kept　his　
knowledge　of　letters　a　secret　from　everyone。　Also；　it　was　possible　

there　might　be　a　deaf…mute　at　the　asylum　who　could　read　his　
letters　and　then　explain　them　to　his　friend。　He　thought　of　several　
justifications　for　his　letters；　for　he　always　felt　a　great　need　to　
write　to　his　friend　when　he　was　bewildered　or　sad。　Once　written；　
however；　these　letters　were　never　mailed。　He　cut　out　the　comic　
strips　from　the　morning　and　evening　papers　and　sent　them　to　his　
friend　each　Sunday。　And　every　month　he　mailed　a　postal　money　
order。　But　the　long　letters　he　wrote　to　Antonapoulos　
accumulated　in　his　pockets　until　he　would　destroy　them。　
When　the　four　people　had　gone；　Singer　slipped　on　his　

warm　gray　overcoat　and　his　gray　felt　hat　and　left　his　room。　He　always　
wrote　his　letters　at　the　store。　Also；　he　had　promised　to　deliver　a　
certain　piece　of　work　the　next　morning；　and　he　wanted　to　finish　it　
now　so　that　there　would　be　no　question　of　delay。　The　night　was　sharp　
and　frosty。　The　moon　was　full　and　rimmed　with　a　golden　light。　The　
rooftops　were　black　against　the　starlit　sky。　As　he　walked　he　thought　
of　ways　to　begin　his　letter；　but　he　had　already　reached　the　store　
before　the　first　sentence　was　clear　in　his　mind。　He　let　himself　into　the　
dark　store　with　his　key　and　switched　on　the　front　lights。　
He　worked　at　the　very　end　of　the　store。　A　cloth　curtain　separated　his　
place　from　the　rest　of　the　shop　so　that　it　was　like　a　small　private　
room。　Besides　his　workbench　and　chair　there　was　a　heavy　safe　in　the　
corner；　a　lavatory　with　a　greenish　mirror；　and　shelves　full　of　boxes　
and　worn…out　clocks。　Singer　rolled　up　the　top　of　his　bench　and　
removed　from　its　felt　case　the　silver　platter　he　had　promised　to　have　
ready。　Although　the　store　was　cold　he　took　off　his　coat　and　turned　up　
the　blue…striped　cuffs　of　his　shirt　so　that　they　would　not　get　in　his　
way。　
For　a　long　time　he　worked　at　the　monogram　in　the　center　of　the　
platter。　With　delicate；　concentrated　strokes　he　guided　the　scriver　on　
the　silver。　As　he　worked　his　eyes　had　a　curiously　penetrating　look　of　
hunger。　He　was　thinking　of　his　letter　to　his　friend　Antonapoulos。　
Midnight　had　passed　before　the　work　was　finished。　When　he　put　the　
platter　away　his　forehead　was　damp　with　excitement。　He　cleared　his　
bench　and　began　to　write。　He　loved　to　shape　words　with　a　pen　on　
paper　and　he　formed　the　letters　with　as　much　care　as　if　the　paper　had　
been　a　plate　of　silver。　
My　Only　Friend：　
I　see　from　our　magazine　that　the　Society　meets　this　year　at　a　
convention　in　Macon。　They　will　have　speakers　and　a　four…course　
banquet。　I　imagine　it。　Remember　we　always　planned　to　attend　one　of　
the　conventions　but　we　never　did。　I　wish　now　that　we　had。　I　wish　we　
were　going　to　this　one　and　I　have　imagined　how　it　would　be。　But　of　
course　I　could　never　go　without　you。　They　will　come　from　many　
states　and　they　will　all　be　full　of　words　and　long　dreams　from　the182　


heart。　There　is　also　to　be　a　special　service　at　one　of　the　
churches　and　some　kind　of　a　contest　with　a　gold　medal　for　the　
prize。　I　write　that　I　imagine　all　this。　I　both　do　and　do　not。　My　
hands　have　been　still　so　long　that　it　is　difficult　to　remember　
how　it　is。　And　when　I　imagine　the　convention　I　think　of　all　the　
guests　being　like　you；　my　Friend。　
I　stood　before　our　home　the　other　day。　Other　people　live　in　it　
now。　Do　you　remember　the　big　oak　tree　in　front？　The　
branches　were　cut　back　so　as　not　to　interfere　with　the　
telephone　wires　and　the　tree　died。　The　limbs　are　rotten　and　
there　is　a　hollow　place　in　the　trunk。　Also；　the　cat　here　at　the　
store　（the　one　you　used　to　stroke　and　fondle）　ate　something　
poisonous　and　died。　It　was　very　sad。　
Singer　held　the　pen　poised　above　the　paper。　He　sat　for　a　long　
while；　erect　and　tense；　without　continuing　the　letter。　Then　he　
stood　up　and　lighted　himself　a　cigarette。　The　room　was　cold　
and　the　air　had　a　sour　stale　odor—the　mixed　smells　of　
kerosene　and　silver　polish　and　tobacco。　He　put　on　his　overcoat　
and　muffler　and　began　writing　again　with　slow　determination。　
You　remember　the　four　people　I　told　you　about　when　I　was　
there。　I　drew　their　pictures　for　you；　the　black　man；　the　young　
girl；　the　one　with　the　mustache；　and　the　man　who　owns　the　
New　York　Cafe。　There　are　some　things　I　should　like　to　tell　
you　about　them　but　how　to　put　them　in　words　I　am　not　sure。　
They　are　all　very　busy　people。　In　fact　they　are　so　busy　that　it　
will　be　hard　for　you　to　picture　them。　I　do　not　mean　that　they　
work　at　their　jobs　all　day　and　night　but　that　they　have　much　
business　in　their　minds　always　that　does　not　let　them　rest。　
They　come　up　to　my　room　and　talk　to　me　until　I　do　not　
understand　how　a　person　can　open　and　shut　his　or　her　mouth　
so　much　without　being　weary。　（However；　the　New　York　Cafe　
owner　is　different—he　is　not　just　like　the　others。　He　has　a　very　
black　beard　so　that　he　has　to　shave　twice　daily；　and　he　owns　
one　of　these　electric　razors。　He　watches。　The　others　all　have　
something　

183　
they　hate。　And　they　all　have　something　they　love　more　than　
eating　or　sleeping　or　wine　or　friendly　company。　That　is　why　
they　are　always　so　busy。）　
The　one　with　the　mustache　I　think　is　crazy。　Sometimes　he　


speaks　his　words　very　clear　like　my　teacher　long　ago　at　the　
school。　Other　times　he　speaks　such　a　language　that　I　cannot　
follow。　Sometimes　he　is　dressed　in　a　plain　suit；　and　the　next　
time　he　will　be　black　with　dirt　and　smelling　bad　and　in　the　
overalls　he　wears　to　work。　He　will　shake　his　fist　and　say　ugly　
drunken　words　that　I　wo