Collected Stories of Carson McCullers by Carson Mccullers Read Free Book Online Page B

eyes kept their focus on the rain.
    "So gemütlich he is. Ein Edel Mensch! But what can I do? Huh, Hans?"
    "I don't know."
    "Quit looking so pouty. What would you do?"
    He tried to smile. "Have—have you heard from him—he telephoned you or written?"
    "No—but I'm sure it's just his delicateness. He wouldn't want me to feel offended or turn him down."
    "Isn't he engaged to marry Mrs. Levin's daughter next spring?"
    "Yes. But it's a mistake. What would he want with a cow like her?"
    "But Poldi—"
    She smoothed down the back of her hair, holding her arms above her head so that her broad breasts stood out tautly and the muscles of her underarms flexed beneath the thin silk of her dress. "At his concert, you know, I had a feeling he was playing just to me. He looked straight at me every time he bowed. That's the reason he didn't answer my letter—he's so afraid he'll hurt someone and then he can always tell me what he means in his music."
    The adams-apple jutting from Hans' thin neck moved up and down as he swallowed. "You wrote to him?"
    "I had to. An artist cannot subdue the greatest of the things that come to her."
    "What did you say?"
    "I told him how much I love him—that was ten days ago—a week after I saw him first at the Levins'."
    "And you heard nothing?"
    "No. But can't you see how he feels? I knew it would be that way so day before yesterday I wrote another note telling him not to worry—that I would always be the same."
    Hans vaguely traced his hairline with his slender fingers. "But Poldi—there have been so many others—just since I've known you." He got up and put his finger on the photograph next to Casals'.
    The face smiled at him. The lips were thick and topped by a dark moustache. On the neck there was a little round spot. Two years ago she had pointed it out to him so many times, telling him that the hicky where his violin rested used always to be so angry-red. And how she used to stroke it with her finger. How she had called it Fiddler's 111 Luck—and how between them it had gotten down to simply his Zilluck. For several moments he stared at that vague splotch on the picture, wondering if it had been photographed or was simply the smudge from the number of times she had pointed it out to him.
    The eyes stared at him sharp seeing and dark. Hans' knees felt weak; he sat down again.
    "Tell me, Hans, he loves—don't you think so? You think really that he loves me but is only waiting until he feels it's best to reply—you think so?"
    A thin haze seemed to cover everything in the room. "Yes," he said slowly.
    Her expression changed. "Hans!"
    He leaned forward, trembling.
    "You—you look so queer. Your nose is wiggling and your lips shake like you are ready to cry. What—"
    Poldi—
    A sudden laugh broke into her question. "You look like a peculiar little cat my Papa used to have."
    Quickly he moved toward the window so that his face was turned away from her. The rain still slithered down the glass, silvery, half opaque. The lights of the next building were on; they shone softly through the grey twilight. Ach! Hans bit his lips. In one of the windows it looked like—like a woman—Poldi in the arms of a big man with dark hair. And on the window sill looking in, beside the bottle of milk and the mayonnaise jar, was a little yellow cat out in the rain. Slowly Hans' bony knuckles rubbed his eyelids.

Breath from the Sky
    Her peaked, young face stared for a time, unsatisfied, at the softer blue of the sky that fringed the horizon. Then with a quiver of her open mouth she rested her head again on the pillow, tilted the panama hat over her eyes, and lay motionless in the canvas striped chair. Chequered shade patterns jerked over the blanket covering her thin body. Bee drones sounded from the spirea bushes that sprayed out their white blossoms nearby.
    Constance dozed for a moment. She awoke to the smothering smell of hot straw—and Miss Whelan's