carson mccullers - the heart is a lonely hunter-第46节

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supper。　


Singer　handed　the　nurse　a　note　explaining　about　the　movie。　
She　called　an　interne　and　then　they　brought　in　a　doctor。　As　the　
three　of　them　consulted　they　looked　curiously　at　Singer。　The　
news　reached　the　patients　and　they　propped　up　on　their　elbows　
excitedly。　Only　Antonapoulos　was　not　disturbed。　
Singer　had　practiced　with　the　movie　beforehand。　He　set　Dp　
the　screen　so　that　it　could　be　watched　by　all　the　patients。　Then　
he　worked　with　the　projector　and　the　film。　The　nurse　took　out　
the　supper　trays　and　the　lights　in　the　ward　were　turned　off。　A　
Mickey　Mouse　comedy　flashed　on　the　screen。　
Singer　watched　his　friend。　At　first　Antonapoulos　was　startled。　
He　heaved　himself　up　for　a　better　view　and　would　have　risen　
from　the　bed　if　the　nurse　had　not　restrained　him。　Then　he　
watched　with　a　beaming　smile。　Singer　could　see　the　other　
patients　calling　out　to　each　other　and　laughing。　Nurses　and　
orderlies　came　in　from　the　hall　and　the　whole　ward　was　in　
commotion。　When　the　Mickey　Mouse　was　finished　Singer　put　
on　a　Popeye　film。　Then　at　the　conclusion　of　this　film　he　felt　
that　the　entertainment　had　lasted　long　enough　for　the　first　
time。　He　switched　on　the　light　and　the　ward　settled　down　
again。　As　the　interne　put　the　machine　under　his　friend's　bed　he　
saw　Antonapoulos　slyly　cut　his　eyes　across　the　ward　to　be　
certain　that　each　person　realized　that　the　machine　was　his。　
Singer　began　to　talk　with　his　hands　again。　He　knew　that　he　
would　soon　be　asked　to　leave；　but　the　thoughts　he　had　stored　
in　his　mind　were　too　big　to　be　said　in　a　short　time。　He　talked　
with　frantic　haste。　In　the　ward　there　was　an　old　man　whose　
head　shook　with　palsy　and　who　picked　feebly190　

t　

at　his　eyebrows。　He　envied　the　old　man　because　he　lived　with　
Antonapoulos　day　after　day。　Singer　would　have　exchanged　
places　with　him　joyfully。　
His　friend　fumbled　for　something　in　his　bosom。　It　was　the　
little　brass　cross　that　he　had　always　worn。　The　dirty　string　had　
been　replaced　by　a　red　ribbon。　Singer　thought　of　the　dream　
and　he　told　that；　also；　to　his　friend。　In　his　haste　the　signs　
sometimes　became　blurred　and　he　had　to　shake　his　hands　and　


begin　all　over。　Antonapoulos　watched　him　with　his　dark；　
drowsy　eyes。　Sitting　motionless　in　his　bright；　rich　garments　he　
seemed　like　some　wise　king　from　a　legend。　
The　interne　in　charge　of　the　ward　allowed　Singer　to　stay　for　an　
hour　past　the　visiting　time。　Then　at　last　he　held　out　his　thin；　
hairy　wrist　and　showed　him　his　watch。　The　patients　were　
settled　for　sleep。　Singer's　hand　faltered。　He　grasped　his　friend　
by　the　arm　and　looked　intently　into　his　eyes　as　he　used　to　do　
each　morning　when　they　parted　for　work。　Finally　Singer　
backed　himself　out　of　the　room。　At　the　doorway　his　hands　
signed　a　broken　farewell　and　then　clenched　into　fists。　
During　the　moonlit　January　nights　Singer　continued　to　walk　
about　the　streets　of　the　town　each　evening　when　he　was　not　
engaged。　The　rumors　about　him　grew　bolder。　An　old　Negro　
woman　told　hundreds　of　people　that　he　knew　the　ways　of　
spirits　come　back　from　the　dead。　A　certain　piece…worker　
claimed　that　he　had　worked　with　the　mute　at　another　mill　
somewhere　else　in　the　state—and　the　tales　he　told　were　
unique。　The　rich　thought　that　he　was　rich　and　the　poor　
considered　him　a　poor　man　like　themselves。　And　as　there　was　
no　way　to　disprove　these　rumors　they　grew　marvelous　and　
very　real。　Each　man　described　the　mute　as　he　wished　him　to　
be。　
8　

HY？　

The　question　flowed　through　Biff　always；　unnoticed；　like　the　
blood　in　his　veins。　He　thought　of　people　and　of　objects　and　of　
ideas　and　the　question　was　in　him。　Midnight；　the　dark　
morning；　noon。　Hitler　and　the　rumors　of　

191　

war。　The　price　of　loin　of　pork　and　the　tax　on。　beer。　Especially　
he　meditated　on　the　puzzle　of　the　mute。　Why；　for　instance；　did　
Singer　go　away　on　the　train　and；　when　he　was　asked　where　he　
had　been；　pretend　that　he　did　not　understand　the　question？　
And　why　did　everyone　persist　in　thinking　the　mute　was　
exactly　as　they　wanted　him　to　be　—when　most　likely　it　was　all　
a　very　queer　mistake？　Singer　sat　at　the　middle　table　three　
times　a　day。　He　ate　what　was　put　before　him—except　cabbage　
and　oysters。　In　the　battling　tumult　of　voices　he　alone　was　
silent。　He　liked　best　little　green　soft　butter　beans　and　he　


stacked　them　in　a　neat　pile　on　the　prongs　of　his　fork。　And　
sopped　their　gravy　with　his　biscuits。　
Biff　thought　also　of　death。　A　curious　incident　occurred。　One　
day　while　rummaging　through　the　bathroom　closet　he　found　a　
bottle　of　Agua　Florida　that　he　had　overlooked　when　taking　
Lucile　the　rest　of　Alice's　cosmetics。　Meditatively　he　held　the　
bottle　of　perfume　in　his　hands。　It　was　four　months　now　since　
her　death—and　each　month　seemed　as　long　and　full　of　leisure　
as　a　year。　He　seldom　thought　of　her。　
Biff　uncorked　the　bottle。　He　stood　shirtless　before　the　mirror　
and　dabbled　some　of　the　perfume　on　his　dark；　hairy　armpits。　
The　scent　made　him　stiffen。　He　exchanged　a　deadly　secret　
glance　with　himself　in　the　mirror　and　stood　motionless。　He　
was　stunned　by　the　memories　brought　to　him　with　the　
perfume；　not　because　of　their　clarity；　but　because　they　
gathered　together　the　whole　long　span　of　years　and　were　
complete。　Biff　rubbed　his　nose　and　looked　sideways　at　
himself。　The　boundary　of　death。　He　felt　in　him　each　minute　
that　he　had　lived　with　her。　And　now　their　life　together　was　
whole　as　only　the　past　can　be　whole。　Abruptly　Biff　turned　
away。　
The　bedroom　was　done　over。　His　entirely　now。　Before　it　had　
been　tacky　and　flossy　and　drab。　There　were　always　stockings　
and　pink　rayon　knickers　with　holes　in　them　hung　on　a　string　
across　the　room　to　dry。　The　iron　bed　had　been　flaked　and　
rusty；　decked　with　soiled　lace　boudoir　pillows。　A　bony　mouser　
from　downstairs　would　arch　its　back　and　rub　mournfully　
against　the　slop　jar。　
All　of　this　he　had　changed。　He　traded　the　iron　bed　for　a　studio　
couch。　There　was　a　thick　red　rug　on　the　floor；　and192　

he　had　bought　a　beautiful　cloth　of　Chinese　blue　to　hang　on　the　
side　of　the　wall　where　the　cracks　were　worst。　He　had　unsealed　
the　fireplace　and　kept　it　laid　with　pine　logs。　Over　the　mantel　
was　a　small　photograph　of　Baby　and　a　colored　picture　of　a　
little　boy　in　velvet　holding　a　ball　in　his　hands。　A　glassed　case　
in　the　corner　held　the　curios　he　had　collected—specimens　of　
butterflies；　a　rare　arrowhead；　a　curious　rock　shaped　like　a　
human　profile。　Blue…silk　cushions　were　on　the　studio　couch；　
and　he　had　borrowed　Lucile's　sewing…machine　to　make　deep　


red　curtains　for　the　windows。　He　loved　the　room。　It　was　both　
luxurious　and　sedate。　On　the　table　there　was　a　little　Japanese　
pagoda　with　glass　pendants　that　tinkled　with　strange　musical　
tones　in　a　draught。　
In　this　room　nothing　reminded　him　of　her。　But　often　he　would　
uncork　the　bottle　of　Agua　Florida　and　touch　the　stopper　to　the　
lobes　of　his　ears　or　to　his　wrists。　The　smell　mingled　with　his　
slow　ruminations。　The　sense　of　the　past　grew　in　him。　
Memories　built　themselves　with　almost　architectural　order。　In　
a　box　where　he　stored　souvenirs　he　came　across　old　pictures　
taken　before　their　marriage。　Alice　sitting　in　a　field　of　daisies。　
Alice　with　him　in　a　canoe　on　the　river。　Also　among　the　
souvenirs　there　was　a　large　bone　hairpin　that　had　belonged　to　
his　mother。　As　a　little　boy　he　had　loved　to　watch　her　comb　and　
knot　her　long　black　hair。　He　had　thought　that　hairpins　were　
curved　as　they　were　to　copy　the　shape　of　a　lady　and　he　would　
sometimes　play　with　them　like　dolls。　At　that　time　he　had　a　
cigar　box　full　of　scraps。　He　loved　the　feel　and　colors　of　
beautiful　cloth　and　he　would　sit　with　his　scraps　for　hours　
under　the　kitchen　table。　But　when　he　was　six　his　mother　took　
the　scraps　away　from　him。　She　was　a　tall；　strong　woman　with　
a　sense　of　duty　like　a　man。　She　had　loved　him　best。　Even　now　
he　sometimes　dreamed　of　her。　And　her　worn　gold　wedding　
ring　stayed　on　his　finger　always。　
Along　with　the　Agua　Florida　he　found　in　the　closet　a　bottle　of　
lemon　rinse　Alice　had　always　used　for　her　hair。　One　day　he　
tried　it　on　himself。　The　lemon　made　his　dark；　white…streaked　
hair　seem　fluffy　and　thick。　He　liked　it。　He　discarded　the　oil　he　
had　used　to　guard　against　baldness　and　rinsed　with　the　lemon　
preparation　regularly。　Certain　

193　

whims　that　he　had　ridiculed　in　Alice　were　now　his　own。　Why？　
Every　morning　Louis；　the　colored　boy　downstairs；　brought　
him　a　cup　of　coffee　to　drink　in　bed。　Often　he　sat　propped　on　
the　pillows　for　an　hour　before　he　got　up　and　dressed。　He　
smoked　a　cigar　and　watched　the　patterns　the　sunlight　made　on　
the　wall。　Deep　hi　meditation　he　ran　his　forefinger　between　his　
long；　crooked　toes。　He　remembered。　
Then　from　noon　until　five　in　the　morning　he　worked　


downstairs。　And　all　day　Sunday。　The　business　was　losing　
money。　There　were　many　slack　hours。　Still　at　meal…times　the　
place　was　usually　full　and　he　saw　hundreds　of　acquaintances　
every　day　as　he　stood　guard　behind　the　cash　register。　
'What　do　you　stand　and　think　about　all　the　time？'　Jake　Blount　
asked　him。　'You　look　like　a　Jew　in　Germany。'　
'I　am　an　eighth　part　Jew；'　Biff　said。　'My　Mother's　grandfa