The Mortgaged Heart Page 18
The experience between Harry and Mick comes to its abrupt fulfillment and finish. Harry's departure. Mick's oppressive secret. The Kellys' financial condition. Mick's energetic plans and her music.
Singer's death.
***
This outline does not indicate the main web of the story—that of the relations of each main character with the mute. These relations are so gradual and so much a part of the persons themselves that it is impossible to put them down in such blunt notations. However, from these notes a general idea of the time scheme and of sequence can be gathered.
Part III
Singer's death overshadows all of the final section of the book. In actual length this part requires about the same number of pages as does the first part. In technical treatment the similarity between these sections is pronounced. This part takes place during the months of June and July. There are four chapters and each of the main characters is given his last presentation. A rough outline of this conclusive part may be suggested as follows:
Dr. Copeland. The finish of his work and teachings—his departure to the country. Portia, Willie and Highboy start again.
Jake Blount. Jake writes curious social manifestoes and distributes them through the town. The brawl at the Sunny Dixie Show; Jake prepares to leave the town.
Mick Kelly. Mick begins her new work at the ten-cent store.
Biff Brannon. Final scene between Biff, Mick and Jake at the restaurant. Meditations of Biff concluded.
PLACE—THE TOWN
This story, in its essence, could have occurred at any place and in any time. But as the book is written, however, there are many aspects of the content which are peculiar to the America of this decade—and more specifically to the southern part of the United States. The town is never mentioned in the book by its name. The town is located in the very western part of Georgia, bordering the Chattahoochee River and just across the boundary line from Alabama. The population of the town is around 40,000—and about one third of the people in the town are Negroes. This is a typical factory community and nearly all of the business set-up centers around the textile mills and small retail stores.
Industrial organization has made no headway at all among the workers in the town. Conditions of great poverty prevail. The average cotton mill worker is very unlike the miner or a worker in the automobile industry—south of Gastonia, S.C., the average cotton mill worker has been conditioned to a very apathetic, listless state. For the most part he makes no effort to determine the causes of poverty and unemployment. His immediate resentment is directed toward the only social group beneath him—the Negro. When the mills are slack this town is veritably a place of lost and hungry people.
TECHNIQUE AND SUMMARY
This book is planned according to a definite and balanced design. The form is contrapuntal throughout. Like a voice in a fugue each one of the main characters is an entirety in himself—but his personality takes on a new richness when contrasted and woven in with the other characters in the book.
It is in the actual style in which the book will be written that the work's affinity to contrapuntal music is seen most clearly. There are five distinct styles of writing—one for each of the main characters who is treated subjectively and an objective, legendary style for the mute. The object in each of these methods of writing is to come as close as possible to the inner psychic rhythms of the character from whose point of view it is written. This likeness between style and character is fairly plain in the first part—but this closeness progresses gradually in each instance until at the end the style expresses the inner man just as deeply as is possible without lapsing into the unintelligible unconscious.
This book will be complete in all of its phases. No loose ends will be left dangling and at the close there will be a feeling of balanced completion. The fundamental idea of the book is ironic—but the reader is not left with a sense of futility. The book reflects the past and also indicates the future. A few of the people in this book come very near to being heroes and they are not the only human beings of their kind. Because of the essence of these people there is the feeling that, no matter how many times their efforts are wasted and their personal ideals are shown to be false, they will someday be united and they will come into their own.
[The Ballad of Carson McCullers by Oliver Evans, published by Coward-McCann in 1966]
LATER STORIES
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 are. 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. I 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 and I 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 school. 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,
Calle 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 ate the same. I won a five pound box of cherry candy in a benefit raffle 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.
[The New Yorker, February 7, 1942]
ART AND MR. MAHONEY
HE WAS A LARGE MAN, a contractor, and he was the husband of the small, sharp Mrs. Mahoney who was so active in club and cultural affairs. A canny businessman (he owned a brick yard and planing mill ), Mr. Mahoney lumbered with tractable amiability in the lead of the artistic Mrs. Mahoney. Mr. Mahoney was well drilled; he was accustomed to speak of "repertory," to listen to lectures and concerts with the proper expression of meek sorrow. He could talk about abstract art, he had even taken part in two of the Little Theatre productions, once as a butler, the other time as a Roman soldier. Mr. Mahoney, diligently trained, so many times admonished—how could he have brought upon them such disgrace?
The pianist that night was José Iturbi, and it was the first concert of the season, a gala night. The Mahoneys had worked very hard during the Three Arts League drive. Mr. Mahoney had sold more than thirty season tickets on his own. To business acquaintances, the men downtown, he spoke of the projected concerts as "a pride to the community" and "a cultural necessity." The Mahoneys had donated the use of their car and had entertained subscribers at a lawn fete—with three white-coated colored boys handing refreshments, and their newly built Tudor house waxed and flowered for the occasion. The Mahoneys' position as sponsors of art and culture was well earned.
The start of the fatal evening gave no hint of what was to come. Mr. Mahoney sang in the shower and dressed himself with detailed care. He had brought an orchid from Duff's Flower Shop. When Ellie came in from her ro
om—they had adjoining separate rooms in the new house—he was brushed and gleaming in his dinner jacket, and Ellie wore the orchid on the shoulder of her blue crepe dress. She was pleased and, patting his arm, she said: "You look so handsome tonight, Terence. Downright distinguished."
Mr. Mahoney's stout body bridled with happiness, and his ruddy face with the forked-veined temples blushed. "You are always beautiful, Ellie. Always so beautiful. Sometimes I don't understand why you married a—"
She stopped him with a kiss.
There was to be a reception after the concert at the Harlows', and of course the Mahoneys were invited. Mrs. Harlow was the "bell cow" in this pasture of the finer things. Oh, how Ellie did despise such country-raised expressions! But Mr. Mahoney had forgotten all the times he had been called down as he gallantly placed Ellie's wrap about her shoulders.
The irony was that, up until the moment of his ignominy, Mr. Mahoney had enjoyed the concert more than any concert that he had ever heard. There was none of that wriggling, tedious Bach. There was some marchy-sounding music and often he was on foot-patting familiarity with the tunes. As he sat there, enjoying the music, he glanced occasionally at Ellie. Her face bore the expression of fixed, inconsolable grief that it always assumed when she listened to classical concert music. Between the numbers she put her hand to her forehead with a distracted air, as though the endurance of such emotion had been too much for her. Mr. Mahoney clapped his pink, plump hands with gusto, glad of a chance to move and respond.
In the intermission the Mahoneys filed sedately down the aisle to the lobby. Mr. Mahoney found himself stuck with old Mrs. Walker.