Collected Stories of Carson McCullers

by Carson McCullers

  Mr. Brook finished off the rest of the brandy. And slowly, when it was almost midnight, a further understanding came to him. The reason for the lies of Madame Zilensky was painful and plain. All her life long Madame Zilensky had worked—at the piano, teaching, and writing those beautiful and immense twelve symphonies. Day and night she had drudged and struggled and thrown her soul into her work, and there was not much of her left over for anything else. Being human, she suffered from this lack and did what she could to make up for it. If she passed the evening bent over a table in the library and later declared that she had spent that time playing cards, it was as though she had managed to do both those things. Through the lies, she lived vicariously. The lie doubled the little of her existence that was left over from work and augmented the little rag end of her personal life.

  Mr. Brook looked into the fire, and the face of Madame Zilensky was in his mind—a severe face, with dark, weary eyes and delicately disciplined mouth. He was conscious of a warmth in his chest, and a feeling of pity, protectiveness, and dreadful understanding. For a while he was in a state of lovely confusion.

  Later on he brushed his teeth and got into his pajamas. He must be practical. What did this clear up? That French, the Pole with the piccolo, Bagdad? And the children, Sigmund, Boris, and Sammy—who were they? Were they really her children after all, or had she simply rounded them up from somewhere? Mr. Brook polished his spectacles and put them on the table by his bed. He must come to an immediate understanding with her. Otherwise, there would exist in the department a situation which could become most problematical. It was two o'clock. He glanced out of his window and saw that the light in Madame Zilensky's workroom was still on. Mr. Brook got into bed, made terrible faces in the dark, and tried to plan what he would say next day.

  Mr. Brook was in his office by eight o'clock. He sat hunched up behind his desk, ready to trap Madame Zilensky as she passed down the corridor. He did not have to wait long, and as soon as he heard her footsteps he called out her name.

  Madame Zilensky stood in the doorway. She looked vague and jaded. "How are you? I had such a fine night's rest," she said.

  "Pray be seated, if you please," said Mr. Brook. "I would like a word with you."

  Madame Zilensky put aside her portfolio and leaned back wearily in the armchair across from him. "Yes?" she asked.

  "Yesterday you spoke to me as I was walking across the campus," he said slowly. "And if I am not mistaken, I believe you said something about a pastry shop and the King of Finland. Is that correct?"

  Madame Zilensky turned her head to one side and stared retrospectively at a corner of the window sill.

  "Something about a pastry shop," he repeated.

  Her tired face brightened. "But of course," she said eagerly. "I told you about the time I was standing in front of this shop and the King of Finland—"

  "Madame Zilensky!" Mr. Brook cried. "There is no King of Finland."

  Madame Zilensky looked absolutely blank. Then, after an instant, she started off again. "I was standing in front of Bjarne's pâtisserie when I turned away from the cakes and suddenly saw the King of Finland—"

  "Madame Zilensky, I just told you that there is no King of Finland."

  "In Helsingfors," she started off again desperately, and again he let her get as far as the King, and then no further.

  "Finland is a democracy," he said. "You could not possibly have seen the King of Finland. Therefore, what you have just said is an untruth. A pure untruth."

  Never afterward could Mr. Brook forget the face of Madame Zilensky at that moment. In her eyes there was astonishment, dismay, and a sort of cornered horror. She had the look of one who watches his whole interior world split open and disintegrate.

  "It is a pity," said Mr. Brook with real sympathy.

  But Madame Zilensky pulled herself together. She raised her chin and said coldly, "I am a Finn."

  "That I do not question," answered Mr. Brook. On second thought, he did question it a little.

  "I was born in Finland and I am a Finnish citizen."

  "That may very well be," said Mr. Brook in a rising voice.

  "In the war," she continued passionately, "I rode a motorcycle and was a messenger."

  "Your patriotism does not enter into it."

  "Just because I am getting out the first papers—"

  "Madame Zilensky!" said Mr. Brook. His hands grasped the edge of the desk. "That is only an irrelevant issue. The point is that you maintained and testified that you saw—that you saw—" But he could not finish. Her face stopped him. She was deadly pale and there were shadows around her mouth. Her eyes were wide open, doomed, and proud. And Mr. Brook felt suddenly like a murderer. A great commotion of feelings—understanding, remorse, and unreasonable love—made him cover his face with his hands. He could not speak until this agitation in his insides quieted down, and then he said very faintly, "Yes. Of course. The King of Finland. And was he nice?"

  An hour later, Mr. Brook sat looking out of the window of his office. The trees along the quiet Westbridge street were almost bare, and the gray buildings of the college had a calm, sad look. As he idly took in the familiar scene, he noticed the Drakes' old Airedale waddling along down the street. It was a thing he had watched a hundred times before, so what was it that struck him as strange? Then he realized with a kind of cold surprise that the old dog was running along backward. Mr. Brook watched the Airedale until he was out of sight, then resumed his work on the canons which had been turned in by the class in counterpoint.

  Correspondence

  113 Whitehall Street

  Darien, Conn.

  United States

  November 3, 1941

  Manoel García,

  Calle São José 120,

  Rio de Janeiro,

  Brazil,

  South America

  Dear Manoel:

  I guess seeing the American address on this letter you already know what it is. Your name was on the list tacked on the blackboard at High School of South American students we could correspond with. I was the one who picked your name.

  Maybe I ought to tell you something about myself. I am a girl going on fourteen years of age and this is my first year at High School. It is hard to describe myself exactly. I am tall and my figure is not very good on account of I have grown too rapidly. My eyes are blue and I don't know exactly what color you would call my hair unless it would be a light brown. I like to play baseball and make scientific experiments (like with a chemical set) and read all kinds of books.

  All my life I wanted to get to travel but the furtherest I have ever been away from home is Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Lately I have thought a whole lot about South America. Since choosing your name off the list I have thought a whole lot about you also and imagined how you arc. I have seen photographs of the harbor in Rio de Janeiro and I can picture you in my mind's eye walking around the beach in the sun. I imagine you with liquid black eyes, brown skin, and black curly hair. I have always been crazy about South Americans although I did not know any of them and I always wanted to travel all over South America and especially to Rio de Janeiro.

  As long as we are going to be friends and correspond I think we ought to know serious things about each other right away. Recently I have thought a whole lot about life. X have pondered over a great many things such as why we were put on the earth. I have decided that I do not believe in God. On the other hand I am not an atheist and I think there is some kind of a reason for everything and life is not in vain. When you die I think I believe that something happens to the soul.

  I have not decided just exactly what I am going to be and it worries me. Sometimes I think I want to be an arctic explorer and other times I plan on being a newspaper reporter and working in to being a writer. For years I wished to be an actress, especially a tragic actress taking sad roles like Greta Garbo. This summer however when I got up a performance of Camille and I played Camille it was a terrible failure. The show was given in our garage and I
can't explain to you what a terrible failure it was. So now I think mostly about newspaper reporting, especially foreign corresponding.

  I do not feel exactly like the other Freshmen at High School. I feel like I am different from them. When I have a girl to spend the night with me on Friday night all they want to do is meet people down at the drug store near here and so forth and at night when we lie in the bed if I bring up serious subjects they are likely to go to sleep. They don't care anything much about foreign countries. It is not that I am terribly unpopular or anything like that but I am just not so crazy about the other Freshmen and they are not so crazy about me.

  I thought a long time about you, Manoel, before writing this letter. And I have this strong feeling we would get along together. Do you like dogs? I have an airdale named Thomas and he is a one man dog. I feel like I have known you for a very long time and that we could discuss all sorts of things together. My Spanish is not so good naturally as this is my first term on it. But I intend to study diligently so that between us we can make out what we are saying when we meet each other.

  I have thought about a lot of things. Would you like to come and spend your summer vacation with me next summer? I think that would be marvelous. Also other plans have been in my mind. Maybe next year after we have a visit together you could stay in my home and go to High School here and I could swap with you and stay in your home and go to South American High School. How does that strike you? I have not yet spoken to my parents about it because I am waiting until I get your opinion on it. I am looking forward exceedingly to hearing from you and find out if I am right about our feeling so much alike about life and other things. You can write to me anything that you want to, as I have said before that I feel I already know you so well. Adiós and I send you every possible good wish.

  Your affectionate friend,

  Henky Evans

  P.S. My first name is really Henrietta but the family and people in the neighborhood all call me Henky because Henrietta sounds sort of sissy. I am sending this air mail so that it will get to you quicker. Adiós again.

  113 Whitehall Street

  Darien, Conn.,

  U.S.A.

  November 25, 1941

  Manoel García,

  Calle São José 120,

  Rio de Janeiro,

  Brazil,

  South America

  Dear Manoel:

  Three weeks have gone by andI would have thought that by now there would be a letter from you. But it is entirely possible that communications take much longer than I had figured on, especially on account of the war. I read all the papers and the state of the world prays on my mind. I had not thought I would write to you again until I heard from you but as I said it must take a long time these days for things to reach foreign countries.

  Today I am not at schooi. Yesterday morning when I woke up I was all broken out and swollen and red so that it looked like I had small pox at least. But when the doctor came he said it was hives. I took medicine and since then I have been sick in bed. I have been studying Latin as I am mighty close to flunking it. I will be glad when these hives go away.

  There was one thing I forgot in my first letter. I think we ought to exchange pictures. Do you have a photograph of yourself, if so please send it as I want to really be sure if you look like what I think you do. I am enclosing a snapshot. The dog scratching himself in the corner is my dog Thomas and the house in the background is our house. The sun was in my eyes and that is why my face is all screwed up like that.

  I was reading a very interesting book the other day about the reincarnation of souls. That means, in case you have not happened to read about it, that you live a lot of lives and are one person in one century and another one later on. It is very interesting. The more I think about it the more I believe it is true. What opinions do you have about it?

  One thing I have always found it hard to realize is that about how when it is winter here it is summer below the equator. Of course I know why this is so, but at the same time it always strikes me as peculiar. Of course you are used to it. I have to keep remembering that it is now spring where you are, even if it is November. While the trees are bare here and the furnace is going it is just starting spring in Rio de Janeiro.

  Every afternoon I wait for the postman. I have a strong feeling or a kind of a hunch that I will hear from you on this afternoon's mail or tomorrow. Communications must take longer than I had figured on even by air mail.

  Affectionately yours,

  Henky Evans

  113 Whitehall Street

  Darien, Conn.,

  U.S.A.

  December 29, 1941

  Manoel García,

  Calie São José 120

  Rio de Janeiro,

  Brazil,

  South America

  Dear Manoel García:

  I cannot possibly understand why I have not heard from you. Didn't you receive my two letters? Many other people in the class have had letters from South Americans a long time ago. Nearly two months have gone by since I started the correspondence.

  Recently it came over me that maybe you have not been able to find anybody who knows English down there and can translate what I wrote. But it seems to me that you would have been able to find somebody and anyway it was understood that the South Americans whose names were on the list were studying English.

  Maybe both the letters were lost. I realize how communications can sometimes go astray, especially on account of the war. But even if one letter was lost it seems to me like the other one would have arrived there all right. I just cannot understand it.

  But perchance there is some reason I do not know about. Maybe you have been very sick in the hospital or maybe your family moved from your last address. I may hear from you very soon and it will all be straightened out. If there has been some such mistake please do not think that I am mad with you for not hearing sooner. I still sincerely want us to be friends and carry on the correspondence because I have always been so crazy about foreign countries and South America and I felt like I knew you right at the first.

  I am all right and I hope you are the same. I won a five pound box of cherry candy in a benefit rafHe given to raise money for the needy at Christmas.

  As soon as you get this please answer and explain what is wrong, otherwise I just cannot understand what has happened. I beg to remain,

  Sincerely yours,

  Henrietta Evans

  113 Whitehall Street

  Darien, Conn.,

  U.S.A.

  January 20, 1942

  Mr. Manoel García,

  Calle São José 120,

  Rio de Janeiro,

  Brazil,

  South America

  Dear Mr. García:

  I have sent you three letters in all good faith and expected you to fulfill your part in the idea of American and South American students corresponding like it was supposed to be. Nearly every other person in the class got letters and some even friendship gifts, even though they were not especially crazy about foreign countries like I was. I expected to hear every day and gave you the benefits of all the doubts. But now I realize what a grave mistake I made.

  All I want to know is this. Why would you have your name put on the list if you did not intend to fulfill your part in the agreement? All I want to say is that if I had known then what I know now I most assuredly would have picked out some other South American.

  Yrs. truly,

  Miss Henrietta Hill Evans

  P.S. I cannot waste any more of my valuable time writing to you.

  A Tree • A Rock • A Cloud

  It was raining that morning, and still very dark. When the boy reached the streetcar café he had almost finished his route and he went in for a cup of coffee. The place was an all-night café owned by a bitter and stingy man called Leo. After the raw, empty street the café seemed friendly and bright: along the counter there were a couple of soldiers, three spinners from the cotton mill, and in a corner a man who sat hunched
over with his nose and half his face down in a beer mug. The boy wore a helmet such as aviators wear. When he went into the café he unbuckled the chin strap and raised the right flap up over his pink little ear; often as he drank his coffee someone would speak to him in a friendly way. But this morning Leo did not look into his face and none of the men were talking. He paid and was leaving the café when a voice called out to him:

  "Son! Hey Son!"

  He turned back and the man in the corner was crooking his finger and nodding to him. He had brought his face out of the beer mug and he seemed suddenly very happy. The man was long and pale, with a big nose and faded orange hair.

  "Hey Son!"

  The boy went toward him. He was an undersized boy of about twelve, with one shoulder drawn higher than the other because of the weight of the paper sack. His face was shallow, freckled, and his eyes were round child eyes.

  "Yeah Mister?"

  The man laid one hand on the paper boy's shoulders, then grasped the boy's chin and turned his face slowly from one side to the other. The boy shrank back uneasily.

  "Say! What's the big idea?"

  The boy's voice was shrill; inside the café it was suddenly very quiet.

  The man said slowly: "I love you."

  All along the counter the men laughed. The boy, who had scowled and sidled away, did not know what to do. He looked over the counter at Leo, and Leo watched him with a weary, brittle jeer. The boy tried to laugh also. But the man was serious and sad.

  "I did not mean to tease you, Son," he said. "Sit down and have a beer with me. There is something I have to explain."