carson mccullers - the heart is a lonely hunter-第10部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


favor　my　Father　more　than　any　person　I　ever　knowed。'　
'Me？　You　say　/　favor　him？'　
'I　don't　mean　in　the　face　or　in　any　kind　of　looks。　I　was　
speaking　about　the　shape　and　color　of　your　souls。'　
Bubber　sat　looking　from　one　to　the　other。　His　napkin　was　tied　
around　his　neck　and　in　his　hand　he　still　held　his　empty　spoon。　
'What　all　does　God　eat？'　he　asked。　
Mick　got　up　from　the　table　and　stood　in　the　doorway；　ready　to　
leave。　Sometimes　it　was　fun　to　devil　Portia。　She　started　on　the　
same　tune　and　said　the　same　thing　over　and　over—like　that　
was　all　she　knew。　
'Folks　like　you　and　my　Father　who　don't　attend　the　

church　can't　never　have　nair　peace　at　all。　Now　take　me　here—I　
believe　and　I　haves　peace。　And　Bubber；　he　haves　his　peace　
too。　And　my　Highboy　and　my　Willie　likewise。　And　it　seem　to　
me　just　from　looking　at　him　this　here　Mr。　Singer　haves　peace　
too。　I　done　felt　that　the　first　time　I　seen　him。'　
'Have　it　your　own　way；'　Mick　said。　'You're　crazier　than　any　
father　of　yours　could　ever　be。'　
'But　you　haven't　never　loved　God　nor　even　nair　person。　You　
hard　and　tough　as　cowhide。　But　just　the　same　I　knows　you。　
This　afternoon　you　going　to　roam　all　over　the　place　without　
never　being　satisfied。　You　going　to　traipse　all　arpund　like　you　
haves　to　find　something　lost。　You　going　to　work　yourself　up　
with　excitement　Your　heart　going　to　beat　hard　enough　to　kill　
you　because　you　don't　love　and　don't　have　peace。　And　then　
some　day　you　going　to　bust　loose　and　be　ruined。　Won't　
nothing　help　you　then。'　
'What；　Portia？'　Bubber　asked。　'What　kind　of　things　does　He　
eat？'　
Mick　laughed　and　stamped　out　of　the　room。　
She　did　roam　around　the　house　during　the　afternoon　because　
she　could　not　get　settled。　Some　days　were　just　like　that。　For　
one　thing　the　thought　of　the　violin　kept　worrying　her。　She　
could　never　have　made　it　like　a　real　one—and　after　all　those　
weeks　of　planning　the　very　thought　of　it　made　her　sick。　But　


how　could　she　have　been　so　sure　the　idea　would　work？　So　
dumb？　Maybe　when　people　longed　for　a　thing　that　bad　the　
longing　made　them　trust　in　anything　that　might　give　it　to　them。　
Mick　did　not　want　to　go　back　into　the　rooms　where　the　family　
stayed。　And　she　did　not　want　to　have　to　talk　to　any　of　the　
boarders。　No　place　was　left　but　the　street—and　there　the　sun　
was　too　burning　hot。　She　wandered　aimlessly　up　and　down　the　
hall　and　kept　pushing　back　her　rumpled　hair　with　the　palm　of　
her　hand。　'Hell；'　she　said　aloud　to　herself。　'Next　to　a　real　piano　
I　sure　would　rather　have　some　place　to　myself　than　anything　I　
know。'　
That　Portia　had　a　certain　kind　of　niggery　craziness；　but　she　
was　O。K。　She　never　would　do　anything　mean　to　Bubber　or　
Ralph　on　the　sly　like　some　colored　girls。　But　Portia　had　said　
that　she　never　loved　anybody。　Mick　stopped　walk…44　

ing　and　stood　very　still；　rubbing　her　fist　on　the　top　of　her　head。　
What　would　Portia　think　if　she　really　knew？　Just　what　would　
she　think？　
She　had　always　kept　things　to　herself。　That　was　one　sure　truth。　
Mick　went　slowly　up　the　stairs。　She　passed　the　first　landing　
and　went　on　to　the　second。　Some　of　the　doors　were　open　to　
make　a　draught　and　there　were　many　sounds　in　the　house。　
Mick　stopped　on　the　last　flight　of　stairs　and　sat　down。　If　Miss　
Brown　turned　on　her　radio　she　could　hear　the　music。　Maybe　
some　good　program　would　come　on。　
She　put　her　head　on　her　knees　and　tied　knots　in　the　strings　of　
her　tennis　shoes。　What　would　Portia　say　if　she　knew　that　
always　there　had　been　one　person　after　another？　And　every　
time　it　was　like　some　part　of　her　would　bust　in　a　hundred　
pieces。　
But　she　had　always　kept　it　to　herself　and　no　person　had　ever　
known。　
Mick　sat　on　the　steps　a　long　time。　Miss　Brown　did　not　turn　on　
her　radio　and　there　was　nothing　but　the　noises　that　people　
made。　She　thought　a　long　time　and　kept　hitting　her　thighs　with　
her　fists。　Her　face　felt　like　it　was　scattered　in　pieces　and　she　
could　not　keep　it　straight。　The　feeling　was　a　whole　lot　worse　
than　being　hungry　for　any　dinner；　yet　it　was　like　that。　I　want—　
I　want—I　want—was　all　that　she　could　think　about—but　just　


what　this　real　want　was　she　did　not　know。　
After　about　an　hour　there　was　the　sound　of　a　doorknob　being　
turned　on　the　landing　above。　Mick　looked　up　quickly　and　it　
was　Mister　Singer。　He　stood　in　the　hall　for　a　few　minutes　and　
his　face　was　sad　and　calm。　Then　he　went　across　to　the　
bathroom。　His　company　did　not　come　out　with　him。　From　
where　she　was　sitting　she　could　see　part　of　the　room；　and　the　
company　was　asleep　on　the　bed　with　a　sheet　pulled　over　him。　
She　waited　for　Mister　Singer　to　come　out　of　the　bathroom。　
Her　cheeks　were　very　hot　and　she　felt　them　with　her　hands。　
Maybe　it　was　true　that　she　came　up　on　these　top　steps　
sometimes　so　she　could　see　Mister　Singer　while　she　was　
listening　to　Miss　Brown's　radio　on　the　floor　below。　She　
wondered　what　kind　of　music　he　heard　in　his　mind　that　his　
ears　couldn't　hear。　Nobody　

45　
knew。　And　what　kind　of　things　he　would　say　if　he　could　talk。　
Nobody　knew　that　either。　
Mick　waited；　and　after　a　while　he　came　out　into　the　hall　again。　
She　hoped　he　would　look　down　and　smile　at　her。　And　then　
when　he　got　to　his　door　he　did　glance　down　and　nod　his　head。　
Mick's　grin　was　wide　and　trembling。　He　went　into　his　room　
and　shut　the　door。　It　might　have　been　he　meant　to　invite　her　in　
to　see　him。　Mick　wanted　suddenly　to　go　into　his　room。　
Sometime　soon　when　he　didn't　have　company　she　would　really　
go　in　and　see　Mister　Singer。　She　really　would　do　that。　
The　hot　afternoon　passed　slowly　and　Mick　still　sat　on　the　
steps　by　herself。　The　fellow　Motsart's　music　was　in　her　mind　
again。　It　was　funny；　but　Mister　Singer　reminded　her　of　this　
music。　She　wished　there　was　some　place　where　she　could　go　
to　hum　it　out　loud。　Some　kind　of　music　was　too　private　to　sing　
in　a　house　cram　full　of　people。　It　was　funny；　too；　how　
lonesome　a　person　could　be　in　a　crowded　house。　Mick　tried　to　
think　of　some　good　private　place　where　she　could　go　and　be　
by　herself　and　study　about　this　music。　But　though　she　thought　
about　this　a　long　time　she　knew　in　the　beginning　that　there　
was　no　good　place。　
l_j　ATE　in　the　afternoon　Jake　Blount　awoke　with　the　feeling　
that　he　had　slept　enough。　The　room　hi　which　he　lay　was　small　


and　neat；　furnished　with　a　bureau；　a　table；　a　bed；　and　a　few　
chairs。　On　the　bureau　an　electric　fan　turned　its　face　slowly　
from　one　wall　to　another；　and　as　the　breeze　from　it　passed　
Jake's　face　he　thought　of　cool　water。　By　the　window　a　man　sat　
before　the　table　and　stared　down　at　a　chess　game　laid　out　
before　him。　In　the　daylight　the　room　was　not　familiar　to　Jake；　
but　he　recognized　the　man's　face　instantly　and　it　was　as　though　
he　had　known　him　a　very　long　time。　
Many　memories　were　confused　in　Jake's　mind。　He　lay　
motionless　with　his　eyes　open　and　his　hands　turned　palm　
upward。　His　hands　were　huge　and　very　brown　against　the　
white　sheet。　When　he　held　them　up　to　his　face　he　saw　that　
they　were　scratched　and　bruised—and　the　veins　were46　

I　

swollen　as　though　he　had　been　grasping　hard　at　something　for　
a　long　time。　His　face　looked　tired　and　unkempt。　His　brown　
hair　fell　down　over　his　forehead　and　his　mustache　was　awry。　
Even　his　wing…shaped　eyebrows　were　rough　and　tousled。　As　
he　lay　there　his　lips　moved　once　or　twice　and　his　mustache　
jerked　with　a　nervous　quiver。　。　
After　a　while　he　sat　up　and　gave　himself　a　thump　on　the　f　
side　of　his　head　with　one　of　his　big　fists　to　straighten　himself　
out。　When　he　moved；　the　man　playing　chess　looked　up　quickly　
and　smiled　at　him。　
'God；　I'm　thirsty；'　Jake　said。　'I　feel　like　the　whole　Russian　army　
marched　through　my　mouth　in　its　stocking　feet。'　The　man　
looked　at　him；　still　smiling；　and　then　suddenly　he　reached　
down　on　the　other　side　of　the　table　and　brought　up　a　frosted　
pitcher　of　ice　water　and　a　glass。　Jake　drank　in　great　panting　
gulps—standing　half…naked　in　the　middle　of　the　room；　his　
head　thrown　back　and　one　of　his　hands　closed　in　a　tense　fist。　
He　finished　four　glasses　before　he　took　a　deep　breath　and　
relaxed　a　little。　
Instantly　certain　recollections　came　to　him。　He　couldn't　
remember　coming　home　with　this　man；　but　things　that　had　
happened　later　were　clearer　now。　He　had　waked　up　soaking　in　
a　tub　of　cold　water；　and　afterward　they　drank　coffee　and　
talked。　He　had　got　a　lot　of　things　off　his　chest　and　the　man　had　


listened。　He　had　talked　himself　hoarse；　but　he　could　remember　
the　expressions　on　the　man's　face　better　than　anything　that　was　
said。　They　had　gone　to　bed　in　the　morning　with　the　shade　
pulled　down　so　no　light　could　come　in。　At　first　he　would　keep　
waking　up　with　nightmares　and　have　to　turn　the　light　on　to　get　
himself　clear　again。　The　light　would　wake　this　fellow　also；　but　
he　hadn't　complained　at　all。　
'How　come　you　didn't　kick　me　out　last　night？'　The　man　only　
smiled　again。　Jake　wondered　why　he　was　so　quiet。　He　looked　
around　for　his　clothes　and　saw　that　his　suitcase　was　on　the　
floor　by　the　bed。　He　couldn't　remember　how　he　had　got　it　back　
from　the　restaurant　where　he　owed　for　the　drinks。　His　books；　a　
white　suit；　and　some　shirts　were　all　there　as　he　had　packed　
them。　Quickly　he　began　to　dress　himself。　
An　electric　coffee…pot　was　perking　on　the　table　by　the

47　
time　he　had　his　clothes　on。　The　man　reached　into　the　pocket　of　
the　vest　that　hung　over　the　back　of　a　chair。　He　brought　out　a　
card　and　Jake　took　it　questioningly。　The　man's　name—John　
Singer—was　engraved　in　the　center；　and　beneath　this；　written　
in　ink　with　the　same　elaborate　precision　as　the　engraving；　
there　was　a　brief　message。　
I　am　a　deaf…mute；　but　I　read　the　lips　and　understand　what　is　
said　to　me。　Please　do　not　shout。　
The　shock　made　Jake　feel　light　and　vacant。　He　and　John　
Singer　just　looked　at　each　other。　
'I　wonder　how　long　it　would　have　taken　me　to　find　that　out；'　he　
said。　
Singer　looked　very　carefully　at　his　lips　when　he　spoke…he　had　
noticed　that　before。　But　a　dummy！　
They　sat　at　the　table　and　drank　hot　coffee　out　of　blue　cups。　
The　room　was　cool　and　the　half…drawn　shades　softened　the　
hard　glare　from　the　windows。　Singer　brought　from　his　closet　a　
tin　box　that　conta