carson mccullers - the heart is a lonely hunter-第40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！


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　would　not　wish　you　to　know　about。　He　
thinks　he　and　I　have　a　secret　together　but　I　do　not　know　what　
it　is。　And　let　me　write　you　something　hard　to　believe。　He　can　
drink　three　pints　of　Happy　Days　whiskey　and　still　talk　and　
walk　on　his　feet　and　not　wish　for　the　bed。　You　will　not　believe　
this　but　it　is　true。　
I　rent　my　room　from　the　girl's　mother　for　16　per　month。　The　
girl　used　to　dress　in　short　trousers　like　a　boy　but　now　she　
wears　a　blue　skirt　and　a　blouse。　She　is　not　yet　a　young　lady。　I　
like　her　to　come　and　see　me。　She　comes　all　the　time　now　that　I　
have　a　radio　for　them。　She　likes　music。　I　wish　I　knew　what　it　
is　she　hears。　She　knows　I　am　deaf　but　she　thinks　I　know　about　
music。　
The　black　man　is　sick　with　consumption　but　there　is　not　a　
good　hospital　for　him　to　go　to　here　because　he　is　black。　He　is　a　
doctor　and　he　works　more　than　anyone　I　have　ever　seen。　He　
does　not　talk　like　a　black　man　at　all。　Other　Negroes　I　find　it　
hard　to　understand　because　their　tongues　do　not　move　enough　
for　the　words。　This　black　man　frightens　me　sometimes。　His　
eyes　are　hot　and　bright。　He　asked　me　to　a　party　and　I　went。　He　
has　many　books。　However；　he　does　not　own　any　mystery　
books。　He　does　not　drink　or　eat　meat　or　attend　the　movies。　
Yah　Freedom　and　pirates。　Yah　Capital　and　Democrats；　says　
the　ugly　one　with　the　mustache。　Then　he　contradicts　himself　
and　says；　Freedom　is　the　greatest　of　all　ideals。　I　just　got　to　get　
a　chance　to　write　this　music　in　me　and　be　a　musician。　I　got　to　
have　a　chance　says　the　girl。　We　are　not　allowed　to　serve；　says　
the184　
black　Doctor。　That　is　the　Godlike　need　for　my　people。　Aha；　
says　the　owner　of　the　New　York　Cafe〃。　He　is　a　thoughtful　one。　
That　is　the　way　they　talk　when　they　come　to　my　room。　Those　
words　in　their　heart　do　not　let　them　rest；　so　they　are　always　
very　busy。　Then　you　would　think　when　they　are　together　they　
would　be　like　those　of　the　Society　who　meet　at　the　convention　
in　Macon　this　week。　But　that　is　not　so。　They　all　came　to　my　


room　at　the　same　time　today。　They　sat　like　they　were　from　
different　cities。　They　were　even　rude；　and　you　know　how　I　
have　always　said　that　to　be　rude　and　not　attend　to　the　feelings　
of　others　is　wrong。　So　it　was　like　that。　I　do　not　understand；　so　I　
write　it　to　you　because　I　think　you　will　understand。　I　have　
queer　feelings。　But　I　have　written　of　this　matter　enough　and　I　
know　you　axe　weary　of　it。　I　am　also。　
It　has　been　five　months　and　twenty…one　days　now。　All　of　that　
time　I　have　been　alone　without　you。　The　only　thing　I　can　
imagine　is　when　I　will　be　with　you　again。　If　I　cannot　come　to　
you　soon　I　do　not　know　what　
Singer　put　his　head　down　on　the　bench　and　rested。　The　smell　
and　the　feel　of　the　slick　wood　against　his　cheek　reminded　him　
of　his　schooldays。　His　eyes　closed　and　he　felt　sick。　There　was　
only　the　face　of　Antonapoulos　in　his　mind；　and　his　longing　for　
his　friend　was　so　sharp　that　he　held　his　breath。　After　some　
time　Singer　sat　up　and　reached　for　his　pen。　
The　gift　I　ordered　for　you　did　not　come　in　time　for　the　
Christmas　box。　I　expect　it　shortly。　I　believe　you　will　like　it　and　
be　amused。　I　think　of　us　always　and　remember　everything。　I　
long　for　the　food　you　used　to　make。　At　the　New　York　Cafe　it　
is　much　worse　than　it　used　to　be。　I　found　a　cooked　fly　in　my　
soup　not　long　ago。　It　was　mixed　with　the　vegetables　and　the　
noodles　like　letters。　But　that　is　nothing。　The　way　I　need　you　is　
a　loneliness　I　cannot　bear。　Soon　I　will　come　again。　My　
vacation　is　not　due　for　six　months　more　but　I　think　I　can　
arrange　it　before　then。　

185　

I　think　I　will　have　to。　I　am　not　meant　to　be　alone　and　without　
you　who　understand。　
Always；　
JOHN　SINGER　
It　was　two　o'clock　in　the　morning　before　he　was　home　again。　
The　big；　crowded　house　was　in　darkness；　but　he　felt　his　way　
carefully　up　three　flights　of　stairs　and　did　not　stumble。　He　
took　from　his　pockets　the　cards　he　carried　about　with　him；　his　
watch；　and　his　fountain　pen。　Then　he　folded　his　clothes　neatly　
over　the　back　of　his　chair。　His　gray…flannel　pajamas　were　
warm　and　soft。　Almost　as　soon　as　he　pulled　the　blankets　to　his　


chin　he　was　asleep。　
Out　of　the　blackness　of　sleep　a　dream　formed。　There　were　dull　
yellow　lanterns　lighting　up　a　dark　flight　of　stone　steps。　
Antonapoulos　kneeled　at　the　top　of　these　steps。　He　was　naked　
and　he　fumbled　with　something　that　he　held　above　his　head　
and　gazed　at　it　as　though　in　prayer。　He　himself　knelt　halfway　
down　the　steps。　He　was　naked　and　cold　and　he　could　not　take　
his　eyes　from　Antonapoulos　and　the　thing　he　held　above　him。　
Behind　him　on　the　ground　he　felt　the　one　with　the　mustache　
and　the　girl　and　the　black　man　and　the　last　one。　They　knelt　
naked　and　he　felt　their　eyes　on　him。　And　behind　them　there　
were　uncounted　crowds　of　kneeling　people　in　the　darkness。　
His　own　hands　were　huge　windmills　and　he　stared　fascinated　
at　the　unknown　thing　that　Antonapoulos　held。　The　yellow　
lanterns　swayed　to　and　fro　in　the　darkness　and　all　else　was　
motionless。　Then　suddenly　there　was　a　ferment。　In　the　
upheaval　the　steps　collapsed　and　he　felt　himself　falling　
downward。　He　awoke　with　a　jerk。　The　early　light　whitened　the　
window。　He　felt　afraid。　
Such　a　long　time　had　passed　that　something　might　have　
happened　to　his　friend。　Because　Antonapoulos　did　not　write　to　
him　he　would　not　know。　Perhaps　his　friend　had　fallen　and　hurt　
himself。　He　felt　such　an　urge　to　be　with　him　once　more　that　he　
would　arrange　it　at　any　cost—and　immediately。　
In　the　post…office　that　morning　he　found　a　notice　in　his　box　
that　a　package　had　come　for　him。　It　was　the　gift　he　had　
ordered　for　Christmas　that　did　not　arrive　in　time。　The　gift　was　
a　very　fine　one。　He　had　bought　it　on　the　install…186　

187　

ment　plan　to　be　paid　for　over　a　period　of　two　years。　The　gift　
was　a　moving…picture　machine　for　private　use；　with　a　half…
dozen　of　the　Mickey　Mouse　and　Popeye　comedies　that　
Antonapoulos　enjoyed。　
Singer　was　the　last　to　reach　the　store　that　morning。　He　handed　
the　jeweler　for　whom　he　worked　a　formal　written　request　for　
leave　on　Friday　and　Saturday。　And　although　there　were　four　
weddings　on　hand　that　week；　the　jeweler　nodded　that　he　could　
go。　
He　did　not　let　anyone　know　of　the　trip　beforehand；　but　on　


leaving　he　tacked　a　note　to　his　door　saying　that　he　would　be　
absent　for　several　days　because　of　business。　He　traveled　at　
night；　and　the　train　reached　the　place　of　his　destination　just　as　
the　red　winter　dawn　was　breaking。　
In　the　afternoon；　a　little　before　time　for　the　visiting　hour；　he　
went　out　to　the　asylum。　His　arms　were　loaded　with　the　parts　of　
the　moving…picture　machine　and　the　basket　of　fruit　he　carried　
his　friend。　He　went　immediately　to　the　ward　where　he　had　
visited　Antonapoulos　before。　
The　corridor；　the　door；　the　rows　of　beds　were　just　as　he　
remembered　them。　He　stood　at　the　threshold　and　looked　
eagerly　for　his　friend。　But　he　saw　at　once　that　though　all　the　
chairs　were　occupied；　Antonapoulos　was　not　there。　
Singer　put　down　his　packages　and　wrote　at　the　bottom　of　one　
of　his　cards；　'Where　is　Spiros　Antonapoulos？'　A　nurse　came　
into　the　room　and　he　handed　her　the　card。　She　did　not　
understand。　She　shook　her　head　and　raised　her　shoulders。　He　
went　out　into　the　corridor　and　handed　the　card　to　everyone　he　
met。　Nobody　knew。　There　was　such　a　panic　in　him　that　he　
began　motioning　with　his　hands。　At　last　he　met　an　interne　in　a　
white　coat。　He　plucked　at　the　interne's　elbow　and　gave　him　the　
card。　The　interne　read　it　carefully　and　then　guided　him　
through　several　halls。　They　came　to　a　small　room　where　a　
young　woman　sat　at　a　desk　before　some　papers。　She　read　the　
card　and　then　looked　through　some　files　in　a　drawer。　
Tears　of　nervousness　and　fear　swam　in　Singer's　eyes。　The　
young　woman　began　deliberately　to　write　on　a　pad　of　paper；　
and　he　could　not　restrain　himself　from　twisting　around　to　see　
immediately　what　was　being　written　about　his　friend。　

Mr。　Antonapoulos　has　been　transferred　to　the　infirmary。　He　is　
ill　with　nephritis。　I　will　have　someone　show　you　the　way。　

On　the　way　through　the　corridors　he　stoppe