The Ballad of the Sad Cafe

Cousin Lymon is both a love interest and an antagonist in “The Ballad of the Sad Café.” He and Miss Amelia quickly develop a symbiotic, codependent relationship. However, they are also foils to one another. Cousin Lymon’s room is decorated and comfortable but Miss Amelia’s is basic and spare. Miss Amelia, who does not care for material objects, showers Cousin Lymon with the gifts he craves. They are even opposites physically, as Miss Amelia is big and strong while Cousin Lymon is small enough for her to carry him: “When a path leads through a bog or a stretch of blackened water see Miss Amelia bend down to let Cousin Lymon scramble on her back—and see her wading forward with the hunchback settled on her shoulders, clinging to her ears or to her broad forehead” (240). This image of Cousin Lymon on Miss Amelia’s back captures the one-sided nature of their relationship: Miss Amelia provides for and spoils Cousin Lymon, refusing to hold him accountable as she does others. In turn, he treats her as a means to an end, willing to take advantage of her by grabbing her ears as she carries him.

Cousin Lymon’s relationship with Miss Amelia’s ex-husband Marvin Macy replicates but reverses this dynamic. Cousin Lymon is seemingly besotted with Marvin, even though Marvin treats him horribly, ignoring and even hurting him. When this wounds Miss Amelia, Cousin Lymon manipulates her jealousy to elicit even more preferential treatment. Finally, when Marvin and Miss Amelia fight, Cousin Lymon betrays her: “at the instant Miss Amelia grasped the throat of Marvin the hunchback sprang forward and sailed through the air as though he had grown hawk wings. He landed on the broad strong back of Miss Amelia and clutched at her neck with his clawed little fingers” (67). Cousin Lymon parleys Miss Amelia’s ability to carry him into a predatory maneuver. McCullers describes him as a hawk, swooping in to tilt the fight in Marvin’s favor, wounding Miss Amelia both physically and emotionally. His “clawed little fingers” are no longer “clinging to her”—now, he uses his smaller stature to suffocate his patron.

Marvin Macy, the primary antagonist of “The Ballad of the Sad Café,” is Miss Amelia’s ex-husband. He is described as a morally corrupt man who briefly changed his ways in pursuit of Miss Amelia, only to revert to his evil ways once their short-lived marriage ended: “Marvin Macy, however, grew to be bold and fearless and cruel. His heart turned tough as the horns of Satan, and until the time when he loved Miss Amelia he brought to his brother and the good woman who raised him nothing but shame and trouble” (29). McCullers compares Marvin’s heart to the horns of Satan, a hyperbolic simile that equates Marvin with the source of all sin in Christian mythology. This image cements Marvin’s position as a villain who causes trouble wherever he goes. In the story, Marvin is a static character: He returns to town and ruins Miss Amelia’s life by stealing Cousin Lymon from her as vengeance for her leaving him.

Marvin’s corrupt nature manifests in his actions and his physical appearance. McCullers describes his physical attributes with revolting sensory language: “His voice was wet and slimy, as he always had too much spit in his mouth. And the tunes he sang glided slowly from his throat like eels. His strong fingers picked the strings with dainty skill, and everything he sang both lured and exasperated” (61). Slimy and snake-like in a way that once again evokes Satan, Marvin is both seductive and repulsive: His music is alluring, but his singing slithers like eels gliding in saliva. This imagery echoes his treatment of Cousin Lymon, whom he attracts by being domineering and abusive. Marvin does not change in the course of the story; he is closer to a force of nature that completely destabilizes Miss Amelia, her café, and the town.

In “Wunderkind,” 13-year-old Frances is the protagonist and point of view character. She worries about living up to being a wunderkind and fears that her skill at the piano is fading. After another talented student, Heime, is praised more, Frances obsessively compares his performance to her own: “Why was it Heime had done so much better at that concert than she? At school sometimes, when she was supposed to be watching someone do a geometry problem on the blackboard, the question would twist knife-like inside her” (82). Frances’s entire life revolves around her piano playing; she has given up everything for her music. Because the piano is the central part of her identity, not being a wunderkind would be a disastrous loss—damage she feels keenly “twist knife-like inside her.”

Frances’s anxiety is increased by her warm and filial relationship with her understanding and loving teacher. Mr. Bilderbach sees Frances as a daughter and encourages her as a father figure. In the face of his expectations and hope, however, Frances crumbles. Feeling like she has lost the ability to play with emotion, she gives up: “In retreat, she looked down at the piano. Her lips shook like jelly and a surge of noiseless tears made the white keys blur in a watery line. ‘I can’t,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know why, but I just can’t—can’t any more’” (89). The decision is couched in military language: Frances panics and wants to “retreat” from the instrument that now feels like a site of combat; her tears “surge” in a way that the notes no longer do. Additionally, her tears blur her view of the piano keys, representing her disconnection from the music—a physical representation of the psychological barrier between her and the notes.

Bitsy Barlow, the protagonist of “The Jockey,” struggles to process the tragic injury of his best friend and fellow jockey, McGuire: After a serious accident, McGuire’s legs are different lengths, so he can no longer race horses. In contrast, the men who benefit from the horse races—the horse’s owner, Bitsy’s trainer, and their bookie—show little sympathy for Bitsy’s angst or McGuire’s fate. Surrounded by partying restaurant goers, Bitsy feels deeply lonely and isolated. When Bitsy confronts the men, he makes a point of calling out their callousness and highlighting the fact that they feel free to enjoy themselves while those who enable their lifestyles suffer. Bitsy feels as though he is owed sympathy or recognition; when he doesn’t receive it, he retreats into drinking and resentment.

Bitsy’s physicality complements his sense of helplessness and insignificance: “He was so small that the edge of the table top reached almost to his belt, and when he gripped the corner with his wiry hands he didn’t have to stoop” (98). Bitsy’s slight jockey frame heightens the power differential between him and the three men he confronts; even standing, he is shorter than they are sitting. This size disparity mirrors the dynamic of their relationship, in which the bigger men see Bitsy and men like him as tools for profit rather than people. Despite this, Bitsy refuses to accept the men’s disdain; he criticizes them passionately, keeping his head held high.

Mr. Brook, the point-of-view character in “Madame Zilensky and the King of Finland,” is an introverted music professor who mostly keeps to himself. Despite this, he is an avid observer who enjoys the eccentricities of his colleagues: “Often, when confronted with some grave and incongruous situation, he would feel a little inside tickle, which stiffened his long, mild face and sharpened the light in his gray eyes” (104). Mr. Brook enjoys knowing about the “incongruous” lives of others, which amuse him and allow him to inwardly judge them. When new instructor, Madame Zilensky, arrives, Mr. Brook is quickly suspicious that her improbable stories about her life are inventions. At first, he feels an obligation to confront her. But when he does so, he realizes that she lies to supplement her boring life. Experiencing sudden deep sympathy, he decides to accept her tales, connecting with her in a way that marks a change in his character.

His connection with Madame Zilensky allows Mr. Brook to experience an “incongruous situation” himself for the first time. As he grades assignments, he notices his neighbors’ dog walking outside oddly: “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” (112). Mr. Brook has a flash of how Madame Zilensky perceives and narrates her life. Like her, as he performs the mundane tasks of his profession, he lives a moment of the fantastical. The dog walking backwards is a strange mystery—and an episode that his colleagues would not believe. Before he sees the dog, the town around him looks boring and sad. But the dog offers him an imaginative escape like the ones Madame Zilensky resorts to.

In “The Sojourner,” protagonist John Ferris confronts his fear of aging after the death of his father: “The shock of death had made him aware of youth already passed. His hair receding and the veins in his now naked temples were pulsing and prominent” (115). This fear is only amplified when he runs into his ex-wife, Elizabeth, whose new family and happy home make John’s loneliness all the more apparent. John’s life in Europe seems free, but the funeral and dinner with Elizabeth force him to take stock and realize that by refusing to connect with his partner, Jeannine, and her son, Valentin, Ferris has withdrawn from love and meaning. He remembers feeling deeply in love with Elizabeth, and reflects on how empty his life feels without those emotions.

The evening transforms Ferris completely. When he returns to Europe, he commits to trying to cultivate the love that he hasn’t valued before. He embraces Valentin, trying to compel a love for the boy to ward off his sense of loss and purposelessness: “Again, the terror the acknowledgement of wasted years and death. Valentin, responsive and confident, still nestled in his arms […] With inner desperation he pressed the child close—as though an emotion as protean as his love could dominate the pulse of time” (125). John seeks love from the child as a means to combat his fear of death and aging. His pursuit of it is a response to his anxiety, though he knows love can stop neither time nor death. Through his desperation, he demonstrates a shift in perspective about his life. He commits to being a paternal presence in the child’s life, loving him and eliciting love in return.

Martin Meadows, the protagonist of “A Domestic Dilemma,” faces his wife Emily’s addiction to alcohol. After Martin moved his family to New York from Alabama for work, Emily struggled to adjust to the loneliness of her new situation, turning to alcohol and neglecting her parental duties. This creates anxiety for Martin, who no longer sees home as a haven: “It used to be that at this point he would relax and begin to think with pleasure of his home. But in this last year nearness brought only a sense of tension and he did not anticipate the journey’s end” (129). Martin worries about the effect of Emily’s worsening condition on his children. As she increasingly endangers them with neglect and accidental physical harm, Martin takes on a greater share of the parental duties. Though he does not mind this rejection of gender conformity, the dynamic pits him between his family members: He is unable to help Emily while also protecting their children.

Martin is conflicted; he both resents and loves Emily. He is bitter over how her behavior may impact the children’s memories of their childhood. However, at the end of the story, when he sees Emily sleeping, his love for her rises up: “As Martin watched the tranquil slumber of his wife the ghost of the old anger vanished. All thoughts of blame or blemish were distant from him now” (139-40). The love Martin feels for Emily is strong and overwhelms his anger. The sleeping Emily reminds him of the woman he married, not the frightening person who drunkenly stumbles around the house. As Martin lets love push away his ill will, he affirms The Mysteries of Love and Affection, sure in his commitment to Emily. The story thus gestures to the possibility of recovery and familial restoration.