{"id":27216,"date":"2026-03-28T00:26:36","date_gmt":"2026-03-28T04:26:36","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=27216"},"modified":"2026-03-28T00:26:39","modified_gmt":"2026-03-28T04:26:39","slug":"truman-capote-miriam","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/truman-capote-miriam\/27216\/","title":{"rendered":"Truman Capote: Miriam"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Synopsis:<\/strong> \u201cMiriam\u201d is a short story by Truman Capote, published in June 1945 in Mademoiselle magazine. Mrs. H. T. Miller is a sixty-one-year-old widow living in New York, where she leads a solitary life marked by tranquility and routine. One snowy night, while waiting in line to get into the movie theater, she meets Miriam, a peculiar girl with silver hair who asks her for help getting into the movie. Although Mrs. Miller readily agrees, she soon begins to sense something about Miriam that unsettles her and causes her to distance herself. However, that will not be the last time she sees the girl.<\/p>\n\n\n

\n
\n
\"Truman<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

Miriam<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Truman Capote
(Full story)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For several years, Mrs. H. T. Miller had lived alone in a pleasant apartment (two rooms with kitchenette) in a remodeled brownstone near the East River. She was a widow: Mr. H. T. Miller had left a reasonable amount of insurance. Her interests were narrow, she had no friends to speak of, and she rarely journeyed farther than the corner grocery. The other people in the house never seemed to notice her: her clothes were matter-of-fact, her hair iron-gray, clipped and casually waved; she did not use cosmetics, her features were plain and inconspicuous, and on her last birthday she was sixty-one. Her activities were seldom spontaneous: she kept the two rooms immaculate, smoked an occasional cigarette, prepared her own meals and tended a canary.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then she met Miriam. It was snowing that night. Mrs. Miller had finished drying the supper dishes and was thumbing through an afternoon paper when she saw an advertisement of a picture playing at a neighborhood theatre. The title sounded good, so she struggled into her beaver coat, laced her galoshes and left the apartment, leaving one light burning in the foyer: she found nothing more disturbing than a sensation of darkness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The snow was fine, falling gently, not yet making an impression on the pavement. The wind from the river cut only at street crossings. Mrs. Miller hurried, her head bowed, oblivious as a mole burrowing a blind path. She stopped at a drugstore and bought a package of peppermints.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A long line stretched in front of the box office; she took her place at the end. There would be (a tired voice groaned) a short wait for all seats. Mrs. Miller rummaged in her leather handbag till she collected exactly the correct change for admission. The line seemed to be taking its own time and, looking around for some distraction, she suddenly became conscious of a little girl standing under the edge of the marquee.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her hair was the longest and strangest Mrs. Miller had ever seen: absolutely silver-white, like an albino\u2019s. It flowed waist-length in smooth, loose lines. She was thin and fragilely constructed. There was a simple, special elegance in the way she stood with her thumbs in the pockets of a tailored plum-velvet coat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Miller felt oddly excited, and when the little girl glanced toward her, she smiled warmly. The little girl walked over and said, \u201cWould you care to do me a favor?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019d be glad to, if I can,\u201d said Mrs. Miller.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, it\u2019s quite easy. I merely want you to buy a ticket for me; they won\u2019t let me in otherwise. Here, I have the money.\u201d And gracefully she handed Mrs. Miller two dimes and a nickel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They went over to the theatre together. An usherette directed them to a lounge; in twenty minutes the picture would be over.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI feel just like a genuine criminal,\u201d said Mrs. Miller gaily, as she sat down. \u201cI mean that sort of thing\u2019s against the law, isn\u2019t it? I do hope I haven\u2019t done the wrong thing. Your mother knows where you are, dear? I mean she does, doesn\u2019t she?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The little girl said nothing. She unbuttoned her coat and folded it across her lap. Her dress underneath was prim and dark blue. A gold chain dangled about her neck, and her fingers, sensitive and musical-looking, toyed with it. Examining her more attentively, Mrs. Miller decided the truly distinctive feature was not her hair, but her eyes; they were hazel, steady, lacking any childlike quality whatsoever and, because of their size, seemed to consume her small face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Miller offered a peppermint. \u201cWhat\u2019s your name, dear?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMiriam,\u201d she said, as though, in some curious way, it were information already familiar.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy, isn\u2019t that funny\u2014my name\u2019s Miriam, too. And it\u2019s not a terribly common name either. Now, don\u2019t tell me your last name\u2019s Miller!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cJust Miriam.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut isn\u2019t that funny?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cModerately,\u201d said Miriam, and rolled the peppermint on her tongue.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Miller flushed and shifted uncomfortably. \u201cYou have such a large vocabulary for such a little girl.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo I?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, yes,\u201d said Mrs. Miller, hastily changing the topic to: \u201cDo you like the movies?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI really wouldn\u2019t know,\u201d said Miriam. \u201cI\u2019ve never been before.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Women began filling the lounge; the rumble of the newsreel bombs exploded in the distance. Mrs. Miller rose, tucking her purse under her arm. \u201cI guess I\u2019d better be running now if I want to get a seat,\u201d she said. \u201cIt was nice to have met you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miriam nodded ever so slightly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


It snowed all week. Wheels and footsteps moved soundlessly on the street, as if the business of living continued secretly behind a pale but impenetrable curtain. In the falling quiet there was no sky or earth, only snow lifting in the wind, frosting the window glass, chilling the rooms, deadening and hushing the city. At all hours it was necessary to keep a lamp lighted, and Mrs. Miller lost track of the days: Friday was no different from Saturday and on Sunday she went to the grocery: closed, of course.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That evening she scrambled eggs and fixed a bowl of tomato soup. Then, after putting on a flannel robe and cold-creaming her face, she propped herself up in bed with a hot-water bottle under her feet. She was reading the Times<\/em> when the doorbell rang. At first she thought it must be a mistake and whoever it was would go away. But it rang and rang and settled to a persistent buzz. She looked at the clock: a little after eleven; it did not seem possible, she was always asleep by ten.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Climbing out of bed, she trotted barefoot across the living room. \u201cI\u2019m coming, please be patient.\u201d The latch was caught; she turned it this way and that way and the bell never paused an instant. \u201cStop it,\u201d she cried. The bolt gave way and she opened the door an inch. \u201cWhat in heaven\u2019s name?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHello,\u201d said Miriam.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh \u2026 why, hello,\u201d said Mrs. Miller, stepping hesitantly into the hall. \u201cYou\u2019re that little girl.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI thought you\u2019d never answer, but I kept my finger on the button; I knew you were home. Aren\u2019t you glad to see me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Miller did not know what to say. Miriam, she saw, wore the same plum-velvet coat and now she had also a beret to match; her white hair was braided in two shining plaits and looped at the ends with enormous white ribbons.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSince I\u2019ve waited so long, you could at least let me in,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s awfully late.\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miriam regarded her blankly. \u201cWhat difference does that make? Let me in. It\u2019s cold out here and I have on a silk dress.\u201d Then, with a gentle gesture, she urged Mrs. Miller aside and passed into the apartment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She dropped her coat and beret on a chair. She was indeed wearing a silk dress. White silk. White silk in February. The skirt was beautifully pleated and the sleeves long; it made a faint rustle as she strolled about the room. \u201cI like your place,\u201d she said. \u201cI like the rug, blue\u2019s my favorite color.\u201d She touched a paper rose in a vase on the coffee table. \u201cImitation,\u201d she commented wanly. \u201cHow sad. Aren\u2019t imitations sad?\u201d She seated herself on the sofa, daintily spreading her skirt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat do you want?\u201d asked Mrs. Miller.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSit down,\u201d said Miriam. \u201cIt makes me nervous to see people stand.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Miller sank to a hassock. \u201cWhat do you want?\u201d she repeated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou know, I don\u2019t think you\u2019re glad I came.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For a second time Mrs. Miller was without an answer; her hand motioned vaguely. Miriam giggled and pressed back on a mound of chintz pillows. Mrs. Miller observed that the girl was less pale than she remembered; her cheeks were flushed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow did you know where I lived?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miriam frowned. \u201cThat\u2019s no question at all. What\u2019s your name? What\u2019s mine?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut I\u2019m not listed in the phone book.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, let\u2019s talk about something else.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Miller said, \u201cYour mother must be insane to let a child like you wander around at all hours of the night\u2014and in such ridiculous clothes. She must be out of her mind.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miriam got up and moved to a corner where a covered bird cage hung from a ceiling chain. She peeked beneath the cover. \u201cIt\u2019s a canary,\u201d she said. \u201cWould you mind if I woke him? I\u2019d like to hear him sing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLeave Tommy alone,\u201d said Mrs. Miller, anxiously. \u201cDon\u2019t you dare wake him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCertainly,\u201d said Miriam. \u201cBut I don\u2019t see why I can\u2019t hear him sing.\u201d And then, \u201cHave you anything to eat? I\u2019m starving! Even milk and a jam sandwich would be fine.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLook,\u201d said Mrs. Miller, arising from the hassock, \u201clook\u2014if I make some nice sandwiches will you be a good child and run along home? It\u2019s past midnight, I\u2019m sure.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s snowing,\u201d reproached Miriam. \u201cAnd cold and dark.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, you shouldn\u2019t have come here to begin with,\u201d said Mrs. Miller, struggling to control her voice. \u201cI can\u2019t help the weather. If you want anything to eat you\u2019ll have to promise to leave.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miriam brushed a braid against her cheek. Her eyes were thoughtful, as if weighing the proposition. She turned toward the bird cage. \u201cVery well,\u201d she said, \u201cI promise.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n


How old is she? Ten? Eleven?<\/em> Mrs. Miller, in the kitchen, unsealed a jar of strawberry preserves and cut four slices of bread. She poured a glass of milk and paused to light a cigarette. And why has she come?<\/em> Her hand shook as she held the match, fascinated, till it burned her finger. The canary was singing; singing as he did in the morning and at no other time. \u201cMiriam,\u201d she called, \u201cMiriam, I told you not to disturb Tommy.\u201d There was no answer. She called again; all she heard was the canary. She inhaled the cigarette and discovered she had lighted the cork-tip end and\u2014oh, really, she mustn\u2019t lose her temper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She carried the food in on a tray and set it on the coffee table. She saw first that the bird cage still wore its night cover. And Tommy was singing. It gave her a queer sensation. And no one was in the room. Mrs. Miller went through an alcove leading to her bedroom; at the door she caught her breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miriam glanced up and in her eyes there was a look that was not ordinary. She was standing by the bureau, a jewel case opened before her. For a minute she studied Mrs. Miller, forcing their eyes to meet, and she smiled. \u201cThere\u2019s nothing good here,\u201d she said. \u201cBut I like this.\u201d Her hand held a cameo brooch. \u201cIt\u2019s charming.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSuppose\u2014perhaps you\u2019d better put it back,\u201d said Mrs. Miller, feeling suddenly the need of some support. She leaned against the door frame; her head was unbearably heavy; a pressure weighted the rhythm of her heartbeat. The light seemed to flutter defectively. \u201cPlease, child\u2014a gift from my husband \u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut it\u2019s beautiful and I want it,\u201d said Miriam. \u201cGive it to me.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

As she stood, striving to shape a sentence which would somehow save the brooch, it came to Mrs. Miller there was no one to whom she might turn; she was alone; a fact that had not been among her thoughts for a long time. Its sheer emphasis was stunning. But here in her own room in the hushed snow-city were evidences she could not ignore or, she knew with startling clarity, resist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


Miriam ate ravenously, and when the sandwiches and milk were gone, her fingers made cobweb movements over the plate, gathering crumbs. The cameo gleamed on her blouse, the blond profile like a trick reflection of its wearer. \u201cThat was very nice,\u201d she sighed, \u201cthough now an almond cake or a cherry would be ideal. Sweets are lovely, don\u2019t you think?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Miller was perched precariously on the hassock, smoking a cigarette. Her hair net had slipped lopsided and loose strands straggled down her face. Her eyes were stupidly concentrated on nothing and her cheeks were mottled in red patches, as though a fierce slap had left permanent marks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIs there a candy\u2014a cake?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Miller tapped ash on the rug. Her head swayed slightly as she tried to focus her eyes. \u201cYou promised to leave if I made the sandwiches,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDear me, did I?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt was a promise and I\u2019m tired and I don\u2019t feel well at all.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMustn\u2019t fret,\u201d said Miriam. \u201cI\u2019m only teasing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She picked up her coat, slung it over her arm, and arranged her beret in front of a mirror. Presently she bent close to Mrs. Miller and whispered, \u201cKiss me good night.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPlease\u2014I\u2019d rather not,\u201d said Mrs. Miller.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miriam lifted a shoulder, arched an eyebrow. \u201cAs you like,\u201d she said, and went directly to the coffee table, seized the vase containing the paper roses, carried it to where the hard surface of the floor lay bare, and hurled it downward. Glass sprayed in all directions and she stamped her foot on the bouquet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then slowly she walked to the door, but before closing it she looked back at Mrs. Miller with a slyly innocent curiosity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


Mrs. Miller spent the next day in bed, rising once to feed the canary and drink a cup of tea; she took her temperature and had none, yet her dreams were feverishly agitated; their unbalanced mood lingered even as she lay staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. One dream threaded through the others like an elusively mysterious theme in a complicated symphony, and the scenes it depicted were sharply outlined, as though sketched by a hand of gifted intensity: a small girl, wearing a bridal gown and a wreath of leaves, led a gray procession down a mountain path, and among them there was unusual silence till a woman at the rear asked, \u201cWhere is she taking us?\u201d \u201cNo one knows,\u201d said an old man marching in front. \u201cBut isn\u2019t she pretty?\u201d volunteered a third voice. \u201cIsn\u2019t she like a frost flower \u2026 so shining and white?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Tuesday morning she woke up feeling better; harsh slats of sunlight, slanting through Venetian blinds, shed a disrupting light on her unwholesome fancies. She opened the window to discover a thawed, mild-as-spring day; a sweep of clean new clouds crumpled against a vastly blue, out-of-season sky; and across the low line of rooftops she could see the river and smoke curving from tugboat stacks in a warm wind. A great silver truck plowed the snow-banked street, its machine sound humming on the air.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After straightening the apartment, she went to the grocer\u2019s, cashed a check and continued to Schrafft\u2019s where she ate breakfast and chatted happily with the waitress. Oh, it was a wonderful day\u2014more like a holiday\u2014and it would be so foolish to go home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She boarded a Lexington Avenue bus and rode up to Eighty-sixth Street; it was here that she had decided to do a little shopping.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She had no idea what she wanted or needed, but she idled along, intent only upon the passers-by, brisk and preoccupied, who gave her a disturbing sense of separateness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was while waiting at the corner of Third Avenue that she saw the man: an old man, bowlegged and stooped under an armload of bulging packages; he wore a shabby brown coat and a checkered cap. Suddenly she realized they were exchanging a smile: there was nothing friendly about this smile, it was merely two cold flickers of recognition. But she was certain she had never seen him before.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was standing next to an El pillar, and as she crossed the street he turned and followed. He kept quite close; from the corner of her eye she watched his reflection wavering on the shopwindows.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then in the middle of the block she stopped and faced him. He stopped also and cocked his head, grinning. But what could she say? Do? Here, in broad daylight, on Eighty-sixth Street? It was useless and, despising her own helplessness, she quickened her steps.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now Second Avenue is a dismal street, made from scraps and ends; part cobblestone, part asphalt, part cement; and its atmosphere of desertion is permanent. Mrs. Miller walked five blocks without meeting anyone, and all the while the steady crunch of his footfalls in the snow stayed near. And when she came to a florist\u2019s shop, the sound was still with her. She hurried inside and watched through the glass door as the old man passed; he kept his eyes straight ahead and didn\u2019t slow his pace, but he did one strange, telling thing: he tipped his cap.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


\u201cSix white ones, did you say?\u201d asked the florist. \u201cYes,\u201d she told him, \u201cwhite roses.\u201d From there she went to a glassware store and selected a vase, presumably a replacement for the one Miriam had broken, though the price was intolerable and the vase itself (she thought) grotesquely vulgar. But a series of unaccountable purchases had begun, as if by prearranged plan: a plan of which she had not the least knowledge or control.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She bought a bag of glazed cherries, and at a place called the Knickerbocker Bakery she paid forty cents for six almond cakes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Within the last hour the weather had turned cold again; like blurred lenses, winter clouds cast a shade over the sun, and the skeleton of an early dusk colored the sky; a damp mist mixed with the wind and the voices of a few children who romped high on mountains of gutter snow seemed lonely and cheerless. Soon the first flake fell, and when Mrs. Miller reached the brownstone house, snow was falling in a swift screen and foot tracks vanished as they were printed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


The white roses were arranged decoratively in the vase. The glazed cherries shone on a ceramic plate. The almond cakes, dusted with sugar, awaited a hand. The canary fluttered on its swing and picked at a bar of seed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At precisely five the doorbell rang. Mrs. Miller knew<\/em> who it was. The hem of her housecoat trailed as she crossed the floor. \u201cIs that you?\u201d she called.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNaturally,\u201d said Miriam, the word resounding shrilly from the hall. \u201cOpen this door.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGo away,\u201d said Mrs. Miller.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPlease hurry \u2026 I have a heavy package.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGo away,\u201d said Mrs. Miller. She returned to the living room, lighted a cigarette, sat down and calmly listened to the buzzer; on and on and on. \u201cYou might as well leave. I have no intention of letting you in.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Shortly the bell stopped. For possibly ten minutes Mrs. Miller did not move. Then, hearing no sound, she concluded Miriam had gone. She tiptoed to the door and opened it a sliver; Miriam was half-reclining atop a cardboard box with a beautiful French doll cradled in her arms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cReally, I thought you were never coming,\u201d she said peevishly. \u201cHere, help me get this in, it\u2019s awfully heavy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was not spell-like compulsion that Mrs. Miller felt, but rather a curious passivity; she brought in the box, Miriam the doll. Miriam curled up on the sofa, not troubling to remove her coat or beret, and watched disinterestedly as Mrs. Miller dropped the box and stood trembling, trying to catch her breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThank you,\u201d she said. In the daylight she looked pinched and drawn, her hair less luminous. The French doll she was loving wore an exquisite powdered wig and its idiot glass eyes sought solace in Miriam\u2019s. \u201cI have a surprise,\u201d she continued. \u201cLook into my box.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kneeling, Mrs. Miller parted the flaps and lifted out another doll; then a blue dress which she recalled as the one Miriam had worn that first night at the theatre; and of the remainder she said, \u201cIt\u2019s all clothes. Why?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBecause I\u2019ve come to live with you,\u201d said Miriam, twisting a cherry stem. \u201cWasn\u2019t it nice of you to buy me the cherries \u2026?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut you can\u2019t! For God\u2019s sake go away\u2014go away and leave me alone!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2026 and the roses and the almond cakes? How really wonderfully generous. You know, these cherries are delicious. The last place I lived was with an old man; he was terribly poor and we never had good things to eat. But I think I\u2019ll be happy here.\u201d She paused to snuggle her doll closer. \u201cNow, if you\u2019ll just show me where to put my things \u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Miller\u2019s face dissolved into a mask of ugly red lines; she began to cry, and it was an unnatural, tearless sort of weeping, as though, not having wept for a long time, she had forgotten how. Carefully she edged backward till she touched the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


She fumbled through the hall and down the stairs to a landing below. She pounded frantically on the door of the first apartment she came to; a short, redheaded man answered and she pushed past him. \u201cSay, what the hell is this?\u201d he said. \u201cAnything wrong, lover?\u201d asked a young woman who appeared from the kitchen, drying her hands. And it was to her that Mrs. Miller turned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cListen,\u201d she cried, \u201cI\u2019m ashamed behaving this way but\u2014well, I\u2019m Mrs. H. T. Miller and I live upstairs and \u2026\u201d She pressed her hands over her face. \u201cIt sounds so absurd.\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The woman guided her to a chair, while the man excitedly rattled pocket change. \u201cYeah?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI live upstairs and there\u2019s a little girl visiting me, and I suppose that I\u2019m afraid of her. She won\u2019t leave and I can\u2019t make her and\u2014she\u2019s going to do something terrible. She\u2019s already stolen my cameo, but she\u2019s about to do something worse\u2014something terrible!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The man asked, \u201cIs she a relative, huh?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Miller shook her head. \u201cI don\u2019t know who she is. Her name\u2019s Miriam, but I don\u2019t know for certain who she is.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou gotta calm down, honey,\u201d said the woman, stroking Mrs. Miller\u2019s arm. \u201cHarry here\u2019ll tend to this kid. Go on, lover.\u201d And Mrs. Miller said, \u201cThe door\u2019s open\u20145A.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After the man left, the woman brought a towel and bathed Mrs. Miller\u2019s face. \u201cYou\u2019re very kind,\u201d Mrs. Miller said. \u201cI\u2019m sorry to act like such a fool, only this wicked child \u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSure honey,\u201d consoled the woman. \u201cNow, you better take it easy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Miller rested her head in the crook of her arm; she was quiet enough to be asleep. The woman turned a radio dial; a piano and a husky voice filled the silence and the woman, tapping her foot, kept excellent time. \u201cMaybe we oughta go up too,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t want to see her again. I don\u2019t want to be anywhere near her.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cUh-huh, but what you shoulda done, you shoulda called a cop.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Presently they heard the man on the stairs. He strode into the room frowning and scratching the back of his neck. \u201cNobody there,\u201d he said, honestly embarrassed. \u201cShe musta beat it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHarry, you\u2019re a jerk,\u201d announced the woman. \u201cWe been sitting here the whole time and we woulda seen \u2026\u201d she stopped abruptly, for the man\u2019s glance was sharp.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI looked all over,\u201d he said, \u201cand there just ain\u2019t nobody there. Nobody, understand?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTell me,\u201d said Mrs. Miller, rising, \u201ctell me, did you see a large box? Or a doll?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, ma\u2019am, I didn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And the woman, as if delivering a verdict, said, \u201cWell, for cryinoutloud.\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n


Mrs. Miller entered her apartment softly; she walked to the center of the room and stood quite still. No, in a sense it had not changed: the roses, the cakes, and the cherries were in place. But this was an empty room, emptier than if the furnishings and familiars were not present, lifeless and petrified as a funeral parlor. The sofa loomed before her with a new strangeness: its vacancy had a meaning that would have been less penetrating and terrible had Miriam been curled on it. She gazed fixedly at the space where she remembered setting the box and, for a moment, the hassock spun desperately. And she looked through the window; surely the river was real, surely snow was falling\u2014but then, one could not be certain witness to anything: Miriam, so vividly there\u2014and yet, where was she? Where, where?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As though moving in a dream, she sank to a chair. The room was losing shape; it was dark and getting darker and there was nothing to be done about it; she could not lift her hand to light a lamp.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Suddenly, closing her eyes, she felt an upward surge, like a diver emerging from some deeper, greener depth. In times of terror or immense distress, there are moments when the mind waits, as though for a revelation, while a skein of calm is woven over thought; it is like a sleep, or a supernatural trance; and during this lull one is aware of a force of quiet reasoning: well, what if she had never really known a girl named Miriam? that she had been foolishly frightened on the street? In the end, like everything else, it was of no importance. For the only thing she had lost to Miriam was her identity, but now she knew she had found again the person who lived in this room, who cooked her own meals, who owned a canary, who was someone she could trust and believe in: Mrs. H. T. Miller.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Listening in contentment, she became aware of a double sound: a bureau drawer opening and closing; she seemed to hear it long after completion\u2014opening and closing. Then gradually, the harshness of it was replaced by the murmur of a silk dress and this, delicately faint, was moving nearer and swelling in intensity till the walls trembled with the vibration and the room was caving under a wave of whispers. Mrs. Miller stiffened and opened her eyes to a dull, direct stare.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHello,\u201d said Miriam.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

THE END<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cMiriam\u201d is a short story by Truman Capote, published in June 1945 in Mademoiselle magazine. Mrs. H. T. Miller is a sixty-one-year-old widow living in New York, where she leads a solitary life marked by tranquility and routine. One snowy night, while waiting in line to get into the movie theater, she meets Miriam, a peculiar girl with silver hair who asks her for help getting into the movie. Although Mrs. Miller readily agrees, she soon begins to sense something about Miriam that unsettles her and causes her to distance herself. However, that will not be the last time she sees the girl.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":27215,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[559],"tags":[572,786,570],"class_list":["post-27216","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories","tag-horror-en","tag-truman-capote-en","tag-united-states","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-33"],"acf":[],"taxonomy_info":{"category":[{"value":559,"label":"Short stories"}],"post_tag":[{"value":572,"label":"Horror"},{"value":786,"label":"Truman Capote"},{"value":570,"label":"United States"}]},"featured_image_src_large":["https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/03\/Truman-Capote-Miriam.webp",768,768,false],"author_info":{"display_name":"Juan Pablo Guevara","author_link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/author\/spartakku\/"},"comment_info":"","category_info":[{"term_id":559,"name":"Short stories","slug":"short-stories","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":559,"taxonomy":"category","description":"","parent":0,"count":419,"filter":"raw","cat_ID":559,"category_count":419,"category_description":"","cat_name":"Short stories","category_nicename":"short-stories","category_parent":0}],"tag_info":[{"term_id":572,"name":"Horror","slug":"horror-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":572,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":127,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":786,"name":"Truman Capote","slug":"truman-capote-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":786,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":2,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":570,"name":"United States","slug":"united-states","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":570,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":294,"filter":"raw"}],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27216","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=27216"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27216\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":27217,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27216\/revisions\/27217"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/27215"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=27216"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=27216"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=27216"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}