carson mccullers - the heart is a lonely hunter-第22部分

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so　many　times　in　the　summer。　Her　feet　had　just　taken　her　here　
without　her　knowing。　When　she　came　to　the　house　she　waited　
to　be　sure　no　person　could　see。　Then　she　went　through　the　side　
yard。　
The　radio　was　on　as　usual。　For　a　second　she　stood　by　the　
window　and　watched　the　people　inside。　The　bald…headed　man　
and　the　gray…haired　lady　were　playing　cards　at　a　table。　Mick　
sat　on　the　ground。　This　was　a　very　fine　and　secret　place。　Close　
around　were　thick　cedars　so　that　she　was　completely　hidden　
by　herself。　The　radio　was　no　good　tonight—somebody　sang　
popular　songs　that　all　ended　in　the　same　way。　It　was　like　she　
was　empty。　She　reached　in　her　pockets　and　felt　around　with　
her　fingers。　There　were　raisins　and　a　buckeye　and　a　string　of　
beads—　one　cigarette　with　matches。　She　lighted　the　cigarette　
and　put　her　arms　around　her　knees。　It　was　like　she　was　so　
empty　there　wasn't　even　a　feeling　or　thought　in　her。　
One　program　came　on　after　another；　and　all　of　them100　
CARSON　McCULLERS　

were　punk。　She　didn't　especially　care。　She　smoked　and　picked　


a　little　bunch　of　grass　blades。　After　a　while　a　new　announcer　
started　talking。　He　mentioned　Beethoven。　She　had　read　in　the　
library　about　that　musician—his　name　was　pronounced　with　
an　a　and　spelled　with　double　e。　He　was　a　German　fellow　like　
Mozart　When　he　was　living　he　spoke　in　a　foreign　language　
and　lived　in　a　foreign　place—　like　she　wanted　to　do。　The　
announcer　said　they　were　going　to　play　his　third　symphony。　
She　only　halfway　listened　because　she　wanted　to　walk　some　
more　and　she　didn't　care　much　what　they　played。　Then　the　
music　started。　Mick　raised　her　head　and　her　fist　went　up　to　her　
throat。　
How　did　it　come？　For　a　minute　the　opening　balanced　from　one　
side　to　the　other。　Like　a　walk　or　march。　Like　God　strutting　in　
the　night。　The　outside　of　her　was　suddenly　froze　and　only　that　
first　part　of　the　music　was　hot　inside　her　heart。　She　could　not　
even　hear　what　sounded　after；　but　she　sat　there　waiting　and　
froze；　with　her　fists　tight。　After　a　while　the　music　came　again；　
harder　and　loud。　It　didn't　have　anything　to　do　with　God。　This　
was　her；　Mick　Kelly；　walking　in　the　daytime　and　by　herself　at　
night。　In　the　hot　sun　and　in　the　dark　with　all　the　plans　and　
feelings。　This　music　was　her—the　real　plain　her。　
She　could　not　listen　good　enough　to　hear　it　alL　The　music　
boiled　inside　her。　Which？　To　hang　on　to　certain　wonderful　
parts　and　think　them　over　so　that　later　she　would　not　forget—　
or　should　she　let　go　and　listen　to　each　part　that　came　without　
thinking　or　trying　to　remember？　Golly！　The　whole　world　was　
this　music　and　she　could　not　listen　hard　enough。　Then　at　last　
the　opening　music　came　again；　with　all　the　different　
instruments　bunched　together　for　each　note　like　a　hard；　tight　
fist　that　socked　at　her　heart　And　the　first　part　was　over。　
This　music　did　not　take　a　long　time　or　a　short　time。　It　did　not　
have　anything　to　do　with　time　going　by　at　all。　She　sat　with　her　
arms　held　tight　around　her　legs；　biting　her　salty　knee　very　
hard。　It　might　have　been　five　minutes　she　listened　or　half　the　
night。　The　second　part　was　black…colored—a　slow　march。　Not　
sad；　but　like　the　whole　world　was　dead　and　black　and　there　
was　no　use　thinking　back　how　it　was　before。　One　of　those　
horn　kind　of　instruments　played　a　sad　and　silver　tune。　Then　
the　music　rose　up　angry　


and　with　excitement　underneath。　And　finally　the　black　march　
again。　
But　maybe　the　last　part　of　the　symphony　was　the　music　she　
loved　the　best—glad　and　like　the　greatest　people　in　the　world　
running　and　springing　up　in　a　hard；　free　way。　Wonderful　
music　nice　this　was　the　worst　hurt　there　could　be。　The　whole　
world　was　this　symphony；　and　there　was　not　enough　of　her　to　
listen。　
It　was　over；　and　she　sat　very　stiff　with　her　arms　around　her　
knees。　Another　program　came　on　the　radio　and　she　put　her　
fingers　in　her　ears。　The　music　left　only　this　bad　hurt　in　her；　
and　a　blankness。　She　could　not　remember　any　of　the　
symphony；　not　even　the　last　few　notes。　She　tried　to　remember；　
but　no　sound　at　all　came　to　her。　Now　that　it　was　over　there　
was　only　her　heart　like　a　rabbit　and　this　terrible　hurt。　
The　radio　and　the　lights　in　the　house　were　turned　off。　The　
night　was　very　dark。　Suddenly　Mick　began　hitting　her　thigh　
with　her　fists。　She　pounded　the　same　muscle　with　all　her　
strength　until　the　tears　came　down　her　face。　But　she　could　not　
feel　this　hard　enough。　The　rocks　under　the　bush　were　sharp。　
She　grabbed　a　handful　of　them　and　began　scraping　them　up　
and　down　on　the　same　spot　until　her　hand　was　bloody。　Then　
she　fell　back　to　the　ground　and　lay　looking　up　at　the　night。　
With　the　fiery　hurt　in　her　leg　she　felt　better。　She　was　limp　on　
the　wet　grass；　and　after　a　while　her　breath　came　slow　and　easy　
again。　
Why　hadn't　the　explorers　known　by　looking　at　the　sky　that　the　
world　was　round？　The　sky　was　curved；　like　the　inside　of　a　
huge　glass　ball；　very　dark　blue　with　the　sprinkles　of　bright　
stars。　The　night　was　quiet。　There　was　the　smell　of　warm　
cedars。　She　was　not　trying　to　think　of　the　music　at　all　when　it　
came　back　to　her。　The　first　part　happened　hi　her　mind　just　as　it　
had　been　played。　She　listened　in　a　quiet；　slow　way　and　thought　
the　notes　out　like　a　problem　in　geometry　so　she　would　
remember。　She　could　see　the　shape　of　the　sounds　very　clear　
and　she　would　not　forget　them。　
Now　she　felt　good。　She　whispered　some　words　out　loud：　'Lord　
forgiveth　me；　for　I　knoweth　not　what　I　do。'　Why　did　she　think　
of　that？　Everybody　in　the　past　few　years　knew　there　wasn't　


any　real　God。　When　she　thought　of　what　she102　

used　to　imagine　was　God　she　could　only　see　Mister　Singer　
with　a　long；　white　sheet　around　him。　God　was　silent—　maybe　
that　was　why　she　was　reminded。　She　said　the　words　again；　just　
as　she　would　speak　them　to　Mister　Singer：　'Lord　forgiveth　me；　
for　I　knoweth　not　what　I　do。'　
This　part　of　the　music　was　beautiful　and　clear。　She　could　sing　
it　now　whenever　she　wanted　to。　Maybe　later　on；　when　she　had　
just　waked　up　some　morning；　more　of　the　music　would　come　
back　to　her。　If　ever　she　heard　the　symphony　again　there　would　
be　other　parts　to　add　to　what　was　already　in　her　mind。　And　
maybe　if　she　could　hear　it　four　more　times；　just　four　more　
times；　she　would　know　it　all。　Maybe。　
Once　again　she　listened　to　this　opening　part　of　the　music。　
Then　the　notes　grew　slower　and　soft　and　it　was　like　she　was　
sinking　down　slowly　into　the　dark　ground。　
Mick　awoke　with　a　jerk。　The　air　had　turned　chilly；　and　as　she　
was　coming　up　out　of　the　sleep　she　dreamed　old　Etta　Kelly　
was　taking　all　the　cover。　'Gimme　some　blanket　
'　she　tried　to　say。　Then　she　opened　her　eyes。　The　sky　
was　very　black　and　all　the　stars　were　gone。　The　grass　was　wet。　
She　got　up　in　a　hurry　because　her　Dad　would　be　worried。　Then　
she　remembered　the　music。　She　couldn't　tell　whether　the　time　
was　midnight　or　three　in　the　morning；　so　she　started　beating　it　
for　home　in　a　rush。　The　air　had　a　smell　in　it　like　autumn。　The　
music　was　loud　and　quick　in　her　mind；　and　she　ran　faster　and　
faster　on　the　sidewalks　leading　to　the　home　block。　

B　

。　Y　OCTOBER　the　days　were　blue　and　cool。　Biff　Brannon　
changed　his　light　seersucker　trousers　for　dark…blue　serge　ones。　
Behind　the　counter　of　the　cafe　he　installed　a　machine　that　
made　hot　chocolate。　Mick　was　very　partial　to　hot　chocolate；　
and　she　came　in　three　or　four　times　a　week　to　drink　a　cup。　He　
served　it　to　her　for　a　nickel　instead　of　a　dime　and　he　wanted　to　
give　it　to　her　free。　He　watched　her　as　she　stood　behind　the　
counter　and　he　was　troubled　and　sad。　He　wanted　to　reach　out　
his　hand　and　touch　her　sunburned；　tousled　hair—but　not　as　he　
had　ever　touched　

a　woman。　In　him　there　was　an　uneasiness；　and　when　he　spoke　
to　her　his　voice　had　a　rough；　strange　sound。　
There　were　many　worries　on　his　mind。　For　one　thing；　Alice　
was　not　well。　She　worked　downstairs　as　usual　from　seven　in　
the　morning　until　ten　at　night；　but　she　walked　very　slowly　and　
brown　circles　were　beneath　her　eyes。　It　was　in　the　business　
that　she　showed　this　illness　most　plainly。　One　Sunday；　when　
she　wrote　out　the　day's　menu　on　the　typewriter；　she　marked　
the　special　dinner　with　chicken　a　la　king　at　twenty　cents　
instead　of　fifty；　and　did　not　discover　the　mistake　until　several　
customers　had　already　ordered　and　were　ready　to　pay。　Another　
time　she　gave　back　two　fives　and　three　ones　as　change　for　ten　
dollars。　Biff　would　stand　looking　at　her　for　a　long　time；　
rubbing　his　nose　thoughtfully　and　with　his　eyes　half…closed。　
They　did　not　speak　of　this　together。　At　night　he　worked　
downstairs　while　she　slept；　and　during　the　morning　she　
managed　the　restaurant　alone。　When　they　worked　together　he　
stayed　behind　the　cash　register　and　looked　after　the　kitchen　
and　the　tables；　as　was　their　custom。　They　did　not　talk　except　
on　matters　of　business；　but　Biff　would　stand　watching　her　
with　his　face　puzzled。　
Then　in　the　afternoon　of　the　eighth　of　October　there　was　a　
sudden　cry　of　pain　from　the　room　where　they　slept。　Biff　
hurried　upstairs。　Within　an　hour　they　had　taken　Alice　to　the　
hospital　and　the　doctor　had　removed　from　her　a　tumor　almost　
the　size　of　a　newborn　child。　And　then　within　another　hour　
Alice　was　dead。　
Biff　sat　by　her　bed　at　the　hospital　in　stunned　reflection。　He　
had　been　present　when　she　died。　Her　eyes　had　been　drugged　
and　misty　from　the　ether　and　then　they　hardened　like　glass。　
The　nurse　and　the　doctor　withdrew　from　the　room。　He　
continued　to　look　into　her　face。　Except　for　the　bluish　pallor　
there　was　little　difference。　He　noted　each　detail　about　her　as　
though　he　had　net　watched　her　every　day　for　twenty…one　years。　
Then　gradually　as　he　sat　there　his　thoughts　turned　to　a　picture　
that　had　long　been　stored　inside　him。　
The　cold　green　ocean　and　a　hot　gold　strip　of　sand。　The　little　
children　playing　on　the　edge　of　the　silky　line　of　foam。　The　


sturdy　brown　baby　girl；　the　thin　little　naked　boys；　the　half…
grown　children　running　and　calling　out　to　each　other104　

with　sweet；　shrill　voices。　Children　were　here　whom　he　knew；　
Mick　and　his　niece；　Baby；　and　there　were　also　strange　young　
faces　no　one　had　ever　seen　before。　Bi