carson mccullers - the heart is a lonely hunter-第60部分

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The　summer　evening　came　slowly。　The　sun　sank　down　behind　
a　ragged　line　of　trees　in　the　distance　and　the　sky　paled。　The　
twilight　was　languid　and　soft。　There　was　a　white　full　moon；　
and　low　purple　clouds　lay　over　the　horizon。　The　earth；　the　
trees；　the　unpainted　rural　dwellings　darkened　slowly。　At　
intervals　mild　summer　lightning　quivered　in　the　air。　Singer　
watched　all　of　this　intently　until　at　last　the　night　had　come；　
and　his　own　face　was　reflected　in　the　glass　before　him。　
Children　staggered　up　and　down　the　aisle　of　the　car　with　
dripping　paper　cups　of　water。　An　old　man　in　overalls　who　had　
the　seat　before　Singer　drank　whiskey　from　time　to　time　from　a　
Coca…Cola　bottle。　Between　swallows　he　plugged　the　bottle　
carefully　with　a　wad　of　paper。　A　little　girl　on　the　right　combed　
her　hair　with　a　sticky　red　lollipop。　Shoeboxes　were　opened　
and　trays　of　supper　were　brought　in　from　the　dining…car。　
Singer　did　not　eat。　He　leaned　back　in　his　seat　and　kept　
desultory　account　of　all　that　went　on　around　him。　At　last　the　
car　settled　down。　Children　lay　on　the　broad　plush　seats　and　
slept；　while　men　and　women　

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doubled　up　with　their　pillows　and　rested　as　best　they　could。　
Singer　did　not　sleep。　He　pressed　his　face　close　against　the　
glass　and　strained　to　see　into　the　night。　The　darkness　was　
heavy　and　velvety。　Sometimes　there　was　a　patch　of　moonlight　
or　the　flicker　of　a　lantern　from　the　window　of　some　house　
along　the　way。　From　the　moon　he　saw　that　the　train　had　turned　
from　its　southward　course　and　was　headed　toward　the　east。　
The　eagerness　he　felt　was　so　keen　that　his　nose　was　too　
pinched　to　breathe　through　and　his　cheeks　were　scarlet。　He　sat　
there；　his　face　pressed　close　against　the　cold；　sooty　glass　of　
the　window；　through　most　of　the　long　night　journey。　
The　train　was　more　than　an　hour　late；　and　the　fresh；　bright　
summer　morning　was　well　under　way　when　they　arrived。　
Singer　went　immediately　to　the　hotel；　a　very　good　hotel　where　
he　had　made　reservations　in　advance。　He　unpacked　his　bags　
and　arranged　the　presents　he　would　take　to　Antonapoulos　on　
the　bed。　From　the　menu　the　bellboy　brought　him　he　selected　a　
luxurious　breakfast—broiled　bluefish；　hominy；　French　toast；　


and　hot　black　coffee。　After　breakfast　he　rested　before　the　
electric　fan　in　his　underwear。　At　noon　he　began　to　dress。　He　
bathed　and　shaved　and　laid　out　fresh　linen　and　his　best　
seersucker　suit　At　three　o'clock　the　hospital　was　open　for　
visiting　hours。　It　was　Tuesday　and　the　eighteenth　of　July。　
At　the　asylum　he　sought　Antonapoulos　first　in　the　sick　ward　
where　he　had　been　confined　before。　But　at　the　doorway　of　the　
room　he　saw　immediately　that　his　friend　was　not　there。　Next　
he　found　his　way　through　the　corridors　to　the　office　where　he　
had　been　taken　the　time　before。　He　had　his　question　already　
written　on　one　of　the　cards　he　carried　about　with　him。　The　
person　behind　the　desk　was　not　the　same　as　the　one　who　had　
been　there　before。　He　was　a　young　man；　almost　a　boy；　with　a　
half…formed；　immature　face　and　a　lank　mop　of　hair。　Singer　
handed　him　the　card　and　stood　quietly；　his　arms　heaped　with　
packages；　his　weight　resting　on　his　heels。　
The　young　man　shook　his　head。　He　leaned　over　the　desk　and　
scribbled　loosely　on　a　pad　of　paper。　Singer　read　what　he　had　
written　and　the　spots　of　color　drained　from　his　cheekbones　
instantly。　He　looked　at　the　note　a　long　time；278　

his　eyes　cut　sideways　and　his　head　bowed。　For　it　was　written　
there　that　Antonapoulos　was　dead。　
On　the　way　back　to　the　hotel　he　was　careful　not　to　crush　the　
fruit　he　had　brought　with　him。　He　took　the　packages　up　to　his　
room　and　then　wandered　down　to　the　lobby。　Behind　a　potted　
palm　tree　there　was　a　slot　machine。　He　inserted　a　nickel　but　
when　he　tried　to　pull　the　lever　he　found　that　the　machine　was　
jammed。　Over　this　incident　he　made　a　great　to…do。　He　
cornered　the　clerk　and　furiously　demonstrated　what　had　
happened。　His　face　was　deathly　pale　and　he　was　so　beside　
himself　that　tears　rolled　down　the　ridges　of　his　nose。　He　
flailed　his　hands　and　even　stamped　once　with　his　long；　
narrow；　elegantly　shoed　foot　on　the　plush　carpet。　Nor　was　he　
satisfied　when　his　coin　was　refunded；　but　insisted　on　checking　
out　immediately。　He　packed　his　bag　and　was　obliged　to　work　
energetically　to　make　it　close　again。　For　in　addition　to　the　
articles　he　had　brought　with　him　he　carried　away　three　towels；　
two　cakes　of　soap；　a　pen　and　a　bottle　of　ink；　a　roll　of　toilet　
paper；　and　a　Holy　Bible。　He　paid　his　bill　and　walked　to　the　


railway　station　to　put　his　belongings　in　custody。　The　train　did　
not　leave　until　nine　in　the　evening　and　he　had　the　empty　
afternoon　before　him。　
This　town　was　smaller　than　the　one　in　which　he　lived。　The　
business　streets　intersected　to　form　the　shape　of　a　cross。　The　
stores　had　a　countrified　look；　there　were　harnesses　and　sacks　
of　feed　in　half　of　the　display　windows。　Singer　walked　
listlessly　along　the　sidewalks。　His　throat　felt　swollen　and　he　
wanted　to　swallow　but　was　unable　to　do　so。　To　relieve　this　
strangled　feeling　he　bought　a　drink　in　one　of　the　drugstores。　
He　idled　in　the　barber　shop　and　purchased　a　few　trifles　at　the　
ten…cent　store。　He　looked　no　one　full　in　the　face　and　his　head　
drooped　down　to　one　side　like　a　sick　animal's。　
The　afternoon　was　almost　ended　when　a　strange　thing　
happened　to　Singer。　He　had　been　walking　slowly　and　
irregularly　along　the　curb　of　the　street。　The　sky　was　overcast　
and　the　air　humid。　Singer　did　not　raise　his　head；　but　as　he　
passed　the　town　pool　room　he　caught　a　sidewise　glance　of　
something　that　disturbed　him。　He　passed　the　pool　room　and　
then　stopped　in　the　middle　of　the　street。　Listlessly　he　retraced　
his　steps　and　stood　before　the　open　

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door　of　the　place。　There　were　three　mutes　inside　and　they　
were　talking　with　their　hands　together。　All　three　of　them　were　
coatless。　They　wore　bowler　hats　and　bright　ties。　Each　of　them　
held　a　glass　of　beer　in　his　left　hand。　There　was　a　certain　
brotherly　resemblance　between　them。　
Singer　went　inside。　For　a　moment　he　had　trouble　taking　his　
hand　from　his　pocket。　Then　clumsily　he　formed　a　word　of　
greeting。　He　was　clapped　on　the　shoulder。　A　cold　drink　was　
ordered。　They　surrounded　him　and　the　fingers　of　their　hands　
shot　out　like　pistons　as　they　questioned　him。　
He　told　his　own　name　and　the　name　of　the　town　where　he　
lived。　After　that　he　could　think　of　nothing　else　to　tell　about　
himself。　He　asked　if　they　knew　Spiros　Antonapoulos。　They　
did　not　know　him。　Singer　stood　with　his　hands　dangling　loose。　
His　head　was　still　inclined　to　one　side　and　his　glance　was　
oblique。　He　was　so　listless　and　cold　that　the　three　mutes　in　the　
bowler　hats　looked　at　him　queerly。　After　a　while　they　left　him　


out　of　their　conversation。　And　when　they　had　paid　for　the　
rounds　of　beers　and　were　ready　to　depart　they　did　not　suggest　
that　he　join　them。　
Although　Singer　had　been　adrift　on　the　streets　for　half　a　day　
he　almost　missed　his　train。　It　was　not　clear　to　him　how　this　
happened　or　how　he　had　spent　the　hours　before。　He　reached　
the　station　two　minutes　before　the　train　pulled　out；　and　barely　
had　time　to　drag　his　luggage　aboard　and　find　a　seat。　The　car　he　
chose　was　almost　empty。　When　he　was　settled　he　opened　the　
crate　of　strawberries　and　picked　them　over　with　finicky　care。　
The　berries　were　of　a　giant　size；　large　as　walnuts　and　in　full…
blown　ripeness。　The　green　leaves　at　the　top　of　the　rich…colored　
fruit　were　like　tiny　bouquets。　Singer　put　a　berry　in　his　mouth　
and　though　the　juice　had　a　lush；　wild　sweetness　there　was　
already　a　subtle　flavor　of　decay。　He　ate　until　his　palate　was　
dulled　by　the　taste　and　then　rewrapped　the　crate　and　placed　it　
on　the　rack　above　him。　At　midnight　he　drew　the　window…
shade　and　lay　down　on　the　seat。　He　was　curled　in　a　ball；　his　
coat　pulled　over　his　face　and　head。　In　this　position　he　lay　in　a　
stupor　of　half…sleep　for　about　twelve　hours。　The　conductor　had　
to　shake　him　when　they　arrived。　
Singer　left　his　luggage　in　the　middle　of　the　station　floor。　Then　
he　walked　to　the　shop。　He　greeted　the　jeweler　for　whom　he　
worked　with　a　listless　turn　of　his　head。　When280　
he　went　out　again　there　was　something　heavy　in　his　pocket　For　a　
while　he　rambled　with　bent　head　along　the　streets。　But　the　
unrefracted　brilliance　of　the　sun；　the　humid　heat；　oppressed　him。　He　
returned　to　his　room　with　swollen　eyes　and　an　aching　head。　After　
resting　he　drank　a　glass　of　iced　coffee　and　smoked　a　cigarette。　Then　
when　he　had　washed　the　ash　tray　and　the　glass　he　brought　out　a　pistol　
from　his　pocket　and　put　a　bullet　in　his　chest。　

Part　Three　

August　21；1939　
Morning　

J。　WILL　not　be　hurried；'　Doctor　Copeland　said。　'Just　let　me　be。　Kindly　
allow　me　to　sit　here　in　peace　a　moment。'　
'Father；　us　not　trying　to　rush　you。　But　it　time　now　to　get　gone　from　
here。'　
Doctor　Copeland　rocked　stubbornly；　his　gray　shawl　drawn　close　
around　his　shoulders。　Although　the　morning　was　warm　and　fresh；　a　
small　wood　fire　burned　in　the　stove。　The　kitchen　was　bare　of　all　

furniture　except　the　chair　in　which　he　sat。　The　other　rooms　were　
empty；　too。　Most　of　the　furniture　had　been　moved　to　Portia's　house；　
and　the　rest　was　tied　to　the　automobile　outside。　All　was　in　readiness　
except　his　own　mind。　But　how　could　he　leave　when　there　was　neither　
beginning　nor　end；　neither　truth　nor　purpose　in　his　thoughts？　He　put　
up　his　hand　to　steady　his　trembling　head　and　continued　to　rock　
himself　slowly　in　the　creaking　
chair。　
Behind　the　closed　door　he　heard　their　voices：　'I　done　all　I　can。　He　
determined　to　sit　there　till　he　good　and　ready　to　leave。'　
'Buddy　and　me　done　wrapped　the　china　plates　and'　
'Us　should　have　left　before　the　dew　dried；'　said　the　old　man。　'As　is；　
night　liable　to　catch　us　on　the　road。'　
Their　voices　quieted。　Footsteps　echoed　in　the　empty　hallway　and　he　
could　hear　them　no　more。　On　the　floor　beside　him　was　a　cup　and　
saucer。　He　filled　it　with　coffee　from　the　pot　on　the　top　of　the　stove。　
As　he　rocked　he　drank　
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the　coffee　and　warmed　his　fingers　in　the　steam。　This　could　not　
truly　be　the　end。　Other　voices　called　wordless　in　his　heart。　The　
voice　of　Jesus