carson mccullers - the heart is a lonely hunter-第17部分

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Portia　finally。　'Look　to　me　like　you　and　Highboy　must　of　got　
into　somebody's　gin　bottle。'　
'No；　ma'am；'　said　Highboy　very　politely。　'Us　haven't　had　
anything　since　Saturday。　Us　have　just　been　enjoying　our　
horseshoe　game。'　
Doctor　Copeland　still　did　not　speak；　and　they　all　kept　glancing　
at　him　and　waiting。　The　room　was　close　and　the　quietness　
made　everyone　nervous。　
'I　do　haves　the　hardest　time　with　them　boys'　clothes；'76　
Portia　said。　'I　washes　both　of　them　white　suits　ever　Saturday　
and　I　presses　them　twice　a　week。　And　look　at　them　now。　
Course　they　don't　wear　them　except　when　they　gets　home　
from　work。　But　after　two　days　they　seems　to　be　potty　black。　I　
ironed　them　pants　just　last　night　and　now　there　not　a　crease　
left。'　
Still　Doctor　Copeland　was　silent。　He　kept　his　eyes　on　his　son's　
face；　but　when　Willie　noticed　this　he　bit　his　rough；　blunt　
fingers　and　stared　at　his　feet。　Doctor　Copeland　felt　his　pulse　
hammering　at　his　wrists　and　temples。　He　coughed　and　held　his　
fist　to　his　chest。　He　wanted　to　speak　to　his　son；　but　he　could　
think　of　nothing　to　say。　The　old　bitterness　came　up　in　him　and　
he　did　not　have　time　to　cogitate　and　push　it　down。　His　pulse　
hammered　in　him　and　he　was　confused。　But　they　all　looked　at　
him；　and　the　silence　was　so　strong　that　he　had　to　speak。　
His　voice　was　high　and　it　did　not　sound　as　though　it　came　
from　himself。　'William；　I　wonder　how　much　of　all　the　things　I　
have　said　to　you　when　you　were　a　child　have　stayed　in　your　
mind。'　
'I　don't　know　what　you　m…m…means；'　Willie　said。　
The　words　came　before　Doctor　Copeland　knew　what　he　would　
say。　'I　mean　that　to　you　and　Hamilton　and　Karl　Marx　I　gave　all　
that　was　in　me。　And　I　put　all　of　my　trust　and　hope　in　you。　And　
all　I　get　is　blank　misunderstanding　and　idleness　and　
indifference。　Of　all　I　have　put　in　nothing　has　remained。　All　has　


been　taken　away　from　me。　All　that　I　have　tried　to　do'　
'Hush；'　said　Portia。　〃Father；　you　promised　me　that　us　would　
not　quarrel。　This　here　is　crazy。　Us　can't　afford　to　quarrel。'　
Portia　got　up　and　started　toward　the　front　door。　Willie　and　
Highboy　followed　quickly。　Doctor　Copeland　was　the　last　to　
come。　
They　stood　in　the　dark　before　the　front　door。　Doctor　Copeland　
tried　to　speak；　but　his　voice　seemed　lost　some…。。　where　deep　
inside　him。　Willie　and　Portia　and　Highboy　stood　in　a　group　
together。　
With　one　arm　Portia　held　to　her　husband　and　brother　and　with　
the　other　she　reached　out　to　Doctor　Copeland。　'Less　us　all　
make　up　now　before　us　goes。　I　can't　stand　

77　

this　here　fighting　between　us。　Less　us　not　ever　quarrel　no　
more。'　
In　silence　Doctor　Copeland　shook　hands　again　with　each　of　
them。　'I　am　sorry；'　he　said。　
'It　quite　all　right　with　me；'　said　Highboy　politely。　
'It　quite　all　right　with　me　too；'　Willie　mumbled。　
Portia　held　all　of　their　hands　together。　'Us　just　can't　afford　to　
quarrel。'　
They　said　good…bye；　and　Doctor　Copeland　watched　them　from　
the　dark　front　porch　as　they　went　together　up　the　street。　Their　
footsteps　as　they　walked　away　had　a　lonesome　sound　and　he　
felt　weak　and　tired。　When　they　were　a　block　away　William　
began　playing　his　harmonica　again。　The　music　was　sad　and　
empty。　He　stayed　on　the。　front　porch　until　he　could　neither　see　
nor　hear　them　any　longer。　
Doctor　Copeland　turned　off　the　lights　in　his　house　and　sat　in　
the　dark　before　the　stove。　But　peace　would　not　come　to　him。　
He　wanted　to　remove　Hamilton　and　Karl　Marx　and　William　
from　his　mind。　Each　word　that　Portia　had　said　to　him　came　
back　in　a　loud；　hard　way　to　his　memory。　He　got　up　suddenly　
and　turned　on　the　light。　He　settled　himself　at　the　table　with　his　
books　by　Spinoza　and　William　Shakespeare　and　Karl　Marx。　
When　he　read　the　Spinoza　aloud　to　himself　the　words　had　a　
rich；　dark　sound。　
He　thought　of　the　white　man　of　whom　they　had　spoken。　It　


would　be　good　if　the　white　man　could　help　him　with　Augustus　
Benedict　Mady　Lewis；　the　deaf　patient。　It　would　be　good　to　
write　to　the　white　man　even　if　he　did　not　have　this　reason　and　
these　questions　to　ask。　Doctor　Copeland　held　his　head　in　his　
hands　and　from　his　throat　there　came　the　strange　sound　like　a　
kind　of　singing　moan。　He　remembered　the　white　man's　face　
when　he　smiled　behind　the　yellow　match　flame　on　that　rainy　
night—and　peace　was　in　him。　

B　

Y　MIDSUMMER　Singer　had　visitors　more　often　than　any　other　
person　in　the　house。　From　his　room　in　the　evening　there　was　
nearly　always　the　sound　of　a　voice。　After　dinner　at　the　New　
York　Cafe　he　bathed　and　dressed　himself　in78　

79　
one　of　his　cool　wash　suits　and　as　a　rule　did　not　go　out　again。　
The　room　was　cool　and　pleasant。　He　had　an　icebox　in　the　
closet　where　he　kept　bottles　of　cold　beer　and　fruit　drinks。　He　
was　never　busy　or　in　a　hurry。　And　always　he　met　his　guests　at　
the　door　with　a　welcome　smile。　
Mick　loved　to　go　up　to　Mister　Singer's　room。　Even　if　he　was　a　
deaf…and…dumb　mute　he　understood　every　word　she　said　to　
him。　Talking　with　him　was　like　a　game。　Only　there　was　a　
whole　lot　more　to　it　than　any　game。　It　was　like　finding　out　
new　things　about　music。　She　would　tell　him　some　of　her　plans　
that　she　would　not　tell　anybody　else。　He　let　her　meddle　with　
his　cute　little　chess　men。　Once　when　she　was　excited　and　
caught　her　shirt…tail　in　the　electric　fan　he　acted　in　such　a　
kindly　way　that　she　was　not　embarrassed　at　all。　Except　for　her　
Dad；　Mister　Singer　was　the　nicest　man　she　knew。　
When　Doctor　Copeland　wrote　the　note　to　John　Singer　about　
Augustus　Benedict　Mady　Lewis　there　was　a　polite　reply　and　
an　invitation　for　him　to　make　a　call　when　he　found　the　
opportunity。　Doctor　Copeland　went　to　the　back　of　the　house　
and　sat　with　Portia　awhile　in　the　kitchen。　Then　he　climbed　the　
stairs　to　the　white　man's　room。　There　was　truly　none　of　the　
quiet　insolence　about　this　man。　They　had　a　lemonade　together　
and　the　mute　wrote　down　the　answer　to　the　questions　he　


wished　to　know。　This　man　was　different　from　any　person　of　
the　white　race　whom　Doctor　Copeland　had　ever　encountered。　
Afterward　he　pondered　about　this　white　man　a　long　time。　
Then　later；　inasmuch　as　he　had　been　invited　in　a　cordial　
manner　to　return；　he　made　another　visit。　
Jake　Blount　came　every　week。　When　he　walked　up　to　Singer's　
room　the　whole　stairway　shook。　Usually　he　car…A　ried　a　
paper　sack　of　beers。　Often　his　voice　would　come　out　y　loud　
and　angry　from　the　room。　But　before　he　left　his　voice　
gradually　quieted。　When　he　descended　the　stairs　he　did　not　
carry　the　sack　of　beers　any　longer；　and　he　walked　away　
thoughtfully　without　seeming　to　notice　where　he　was　going。　
Even　Biff　Brannon　came　to　the　mute's　room　one　night。　But　as　
he　could　never　stay　away　from　the　restaurant　for　long；　he　left　
in　a　half…hour。　
Singer　was　always　the　same　to　everyone。　He　sat　in　a　
straight　chair　by　the　window　with　his　hands　stuffed　tight　into　
his　pockets；　and　nodded　or　smiled　to　show　his　guests　that　he　
understood。　
If　he　did　not　have　a　visitor　in　the　evening；　Singer　went　to　a　
late　movie。　He　liked　to　sit　back　and　watch　the　actors　talking　
and　walking　about　on　the　screen。　He　never　looked　at　the　title　
of　a　picture　before　going　into　a　movie；　and　no　matter　what　was　
showing　he　watched　each　scene　with　equal　interest。　
Then；　one　day　in　July；　Singer　suddenly　went　away　without　
warning。　He　left　the　door　of　his　room　open；　and　on　the　table　in　
an　envelope　adddessed　to　Mrs。　Kelly　there　were　four　dollars　
for　the　past　week's　rent。　His　few　simple　possessions　were　gone　
and　the　room　was　very　clean　and　bare。　When　his　visitors　came　
and　saw　this　empty　room　they　went　away　with　hurt　surprise。　
No　one　could　imagine　why　he　had　left　like　this。　
Singer　spent　all　of　his　summer　vacation　in　the　town　where　
Antonapoulos　was　being　kept　in　the　asylum。　For　months　he　
had　planned　this　trip　and　imagined　about　each　moment　they　
would　have　together。　Two　weeks　beforehand　his　hotel　
reservation　had　been　made　and　for　a　long　time　he　had　carried　
his　railroad　ticket　in　an　envelope　in　his　pocket。　
Antonapoulos　was　not　changed　at　all。　When　Singer　came　into　
his　room　he　ambled　placidly　to　meet　his　friend。　He　was　even　
fatter　than　before；　but　the　dreamy　smile　on　his　face　was　just　


the　same。　Singer　had　some　packages　in　his　arms　and　the　big　
Greek　gave　them　his　first　attention。　His　presents　were　a　scarlet　
dressing…gown；　soft　bedroom　slippers；　and　two　monogrammed　
nightshirts。　Antonapoulos　looked　beneath　all　the　tissue　papers　
in　the　boxes　very　carefully。　When　he　saw　that　nothing　good　to　
eat　had　been　concealed　there；　he　dumped　the　gifts　disdainfully　
on　his　bed　and　did　not　bother　with　them　any　more。　
The　room　was　large　and　sunny。　Several　beds　were　spaced　in　a　
row　together。　Three　old　men　played　a　game　of　slapjack　in　a　
corner。　They　did　not　notice　Singer　or　Antonapoulos；　and　the　
two　friends　sat　alone　on　the　other　side　of　the　room。　
It　seemed　to　Singer　that　years　had　passed　since　they　had　been　
together。　There　was　so　much　to　say　that　his80　

hands　could　not　shape　the　signs　with　speed　enough。　His　green　
eyes　burned　and　sweat　glittered　on　his　forehead。　The　old　
feeling　of　gaiety　and　bliss　was　so　quick　in　him　again　that　he　
could　not　control　himself。　
Antonapoulos　kept　his　dark；　oily　eyes　on　his　friend　and　did　
not　move。　His　hands　fumbled　languidly　with　the　crotch　of　his　
trousers。　Singer　told　him；　among　other　things；　about　the　
visitors　who　had　been　coming　to　see　him。　He　told　his　friend　
that　they　helped　take　his　mind　away　from　his　lonesomeness。　
He　told　Antonapoulos　that　they　were　strange　people　and　
always　talking—but　that　he　liked　to　have　them　come。　He　drew　
quick　sketches　of　Jake　Blount　and　Mick　and　Doctor　Copeland。　
Then　as　soon　as　he　saw　mat　Antonapoulos　was　not　interested　
Singer　crumpled　the　sketches　and　forgot　about　them。　When　
the　attendant　came　in　to　say　that　their　time　was　up；　Singer　had　
not　finished　half　of　the　things　he　wanted　to　say。　But　he　left　the　
room　very　tired　and　happy。　
The　patients　could　receive　their　friends　only　on　Thursday　and　
Sunday。　On　the　days　when　he　could　not　be　with　
Antonapoulos；　Singer　walked　up　and　down　in　his　room　at　the　
hotel。　
His　second　visit　to　his　friend　was　like　the　first；　except　that　the　
old　men　in　the　room　wa