carson mccullers - the heart is a lonely hunter-第44节

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strips　from　the　morning　and　evening　papers　and　sent　them　to　his　
friend　each　Sunday。　And　every　month　he　mailed　a　postal　money　
order。　But　the　long　letters　he　wrote　to　Antonapoulos　
accumulated　in　his　pockets　until　he　would　destroy　them。　
When　the　four　people　had　gone；　Singer　slipped　on　his　

warm　gray　overcoat　and　his　gray　felt　hat　and　left　his　room。　He　always　
wrote　his　letters　at　the　store。　Also；　he　had　promised　to　deliver　a　
certain　piece　of　work　the　next　morning；　and　he　wanted　to　finish　it　
now　so　that　there　would　be　no　question　of　delay。　The　night　was　sharp　
and　frosty。　The　moon　was　full　and　rimmed　with　a　golden　light。　The　
rooftops　were　black　against　the　starlit　sky。　As　he　walked　he　thought　
of　ways　to　begin　his　letter；　but　he　had　already　reached　the　store　
before　the　first　sentence　was　clear　in　his　mind。　He　let　himself　into　the　
dark　store　with　his　key　and　switched　on　the　front　lights。　
He　worked　at　the　very　end　of　the　store。　A　cloth　curtain　separated　his　
place　from　the　rest　of　the　shop　so　that　it　was　like　a　small　private　
room。　Besides　his　workbench　and　chair　there　was　a　heavy　safe　in　the　
corner；　a　lavatory　with　a　greenish　mirror；　and　shelves　full　of　boxes　
and　worn…out　clocks。　Singer　rolled　up　the　top　of　his　bench　and　
removed　from　its　felt　case　the　silver　platter　he　had　promised　to　have　
ready。　Although　the　store　was　cold　he　took　off　his　coat　and　turned　up　
the　blue…striped　cuffs　of　his　shirt　so　that　they　would　not　get　in　his　
way。　
For　a　long　time　he　worked　at　the　monogram　in　the　center　of　the　
platter。　With　delicate；　concentrated　strokes　he　guided　the　scriver　on　
the　silver。　As　he　worked　his　eyes　had　a　curiously　penetrating　look　of　
hunger。　He　was　thinking　of　his　letter　to　his　friend　Antonapoulos。　
Midnight　had　passed　before　the　work　was　finished。　When　he　put　the　
platter　away　his　forehead　was　damp　with　excitement。　He　cleared　his　
bench　and　began　to　write。　He　loved　to　shape　words　with　a　pen　on　
paper　and　he　formed　the　letters　with　as　much　care　as　if　the　paper　had　
been　a　plate　of　silver。　
My　Only　Friend：　
I　see　from　our　magazine　that　the　Society　meets　this　year　at　a　
convention　in　Macon。　They　will　have　speakers　and　a　four…course　
banquet。　I　imagine　it。　Remember　we　always　planned　to　attend　one　of　
the　conventions　but　we　never　did。　I　wish　now　that　we　had。　I　wish　we　
were　going　to　this　one　and　I　have　imagined　how　it　would　be。　But　of　
course　I　could　never　go　without　you。　They　will　come　from　many　
states　and　they　will　all　be　full　of　words　and　long　dreams　from　the182　


heart。　There　is　also　to　be　a　special　service　at　one　of　the　
churches　and　some　kind　of　a　contest　with　a　gold　medal　for　the　
prize。　I　write　that　I　imagine　all　this。　I　both　do　and　do　not。　My　
hands　have　been　still　so　long　that　it　is　difficult　to　remember　
how　it　is。　And　when　I　imagine　the　convention　I　think　of　all　the　
guests　being　like　you；　my　Friend。　
I　stood　before　our　home　the　other　day。　Other　people　live　in　it　
now。　Do　you　remember　the　big　oak　tree　in　front？　The　
branches　were　cut　back　so　as　not　to　interfere　with　the　
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