carson mccullers - the heart is a lonely hunter-第27章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


the　high　pumps　made　her　slip　and　her　stomach　hit　this　pipe。　
Her　breath　was　stopped。　She　lay　quiet　with　her　eyes　closed。　
The　partyFor　a　long　time　she　remembered　how　
she　thought　it　would　be；　how　she　imagined　the　new　people　at　
Vocational。　And　about　the　bunch　she　wanted　to　be　with　every　
day。　She　would　feel　different　in　the　halls　now；　knowing　that　
they　were　not　something　special　but　like　any　other　kids。　It　was　

O。K。　about　the　ruined　party。　But　it　was　all　over。　It　was　the　
end。　
Mick　climbed　out　of　the　ditch。　Some　kids　were　playing　around　
the　little　pots　of　flames。　The　fire　made　a　red　glow　and　there　
were　long；　quick　shadows。　One　boy　had　gone　home　and　put　on　
a　dough…face　bought　in　advance　for　Hal
99


lowe'en。　Nothing　was　changed　about　the　party　except　her。　


She　walked　home　slowly。　When　she　passed　kids　she　didn't　
speak　or　look　at　them。　The　decoration　in　the　hall　was　torn　
down　and　the　house　seemed　very　empty　because　everyone　had　
gone　outside。　In　the　bathroom　she　took　off　the　blue　evening　
dress。　The　hem　was　torn　and　she　folded　it　so　the　raggedy　place　
wouldn't　show。　The　rhinestone　tiara　was　lost　somewhere。　Her　
old　shorts　and　shirt　were　lying　on　the　floor　just　where　she　had　
left　them。　She　put　them　on。　She　was　too　big　to　wear　shorts　any　
more　after　this。　No　more　after　this　night　Not　any　more。　
Mick　stood　out　on　the　front　porch。　Her　face　was　very　white　
without　the　paint。　She　cupped　her　hands　before　her　mouth　and　
took　a　deep　breath。　'Everybody　go　home！　The　door　is　shut！　
The　party　is　over！'　
In　the　quiet；　secret　night　she　was　by　herself　again。　It　was　not　
late—yellow　squares　of　light　snowed　in　the　windows　of　the　
houses　along　the　streets。　She　walked　slow；　with　her　hands　in　
her　pockets　and　her　head　to　one　side。　For　a　long　time　she　
walked　without　noticing　the　direction。　
Then　the　houses　were　far　apart　from　each　other　and　there　were　
yards　with　big　trees　in　them　and　black　shrubbery。　She　looked　
around　and　saw　she　was　near　this　house　where　she　had　gone　
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