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Winesburg, Ohio, by Sherwood Anderson
WILLARD, the mother of George Willard, was tall and gaunt and her face was
marked with smallpox scars. Although
she was but forty-five, some obscure disease had taken the fire out of her
figure. Listlessly she went
about the disorderly old hotel looking at the faded wall-paper and the
ragged carpets and, when she was able to be about, doing the work of a
chambermaid among beds soiled by the slumbers of fat traveling men.
Her husband, Tom Willard, a slender, graceful man with square
shoulders, a quick military step, and a black mustache trained to turn
sharply up at the ends, tried to put the wife out of his mind.
The presence of the tall ghostly figure, moving slowly through the
halls, he took as a reproach to himself.
When he thought of her he grew angry and swore.
The hotel was unprofitable and forever on the edge of failure and
he wished himself out of it. He thought of the old house and the woman who lived there
with him as things defeated and done for.
The hotel in which he had begun life so hopefully was now a mere
ghost of what a hotel should be. As
he went spruce and business-like through the streets of Winesburg, he
sometimes stopped and turned quickly about as though fearing that the
spirit of the hotel and of the woman would follow him even into the
streets. "Damn such a life, damn it!" he sputtered aimlessly.
Willard had a passion for village politics and for years had been the
leading Democrat in a strongly Republican community.
Some day, he told himself, the fide of things political will turn
in my favor and the years of ineffectual service count big in the bestowal
of rewards. He dreamed of
going to Congress and even of becoming governor.
Once when a younger member of the party arose at a political
conference and began to boast of his faithful service, Tom Willard grew
white with fury. "Shut
up, you," he roared, glaring about.
"What do you know of service? What are you but a boy? Look at
what I've done here! I was a Democrat here in Winesburg when it was a
crime to be a Democrat. In the old days they fairly hunted us with
Elizabeth and her one son George there was a deep unexpressed bond of
sympathy, based on a girlhood dream that had long ago died. In the son's presence she was timid and reserved, but
sometimes while he hurried about town intent upon his duties as a
reporter, she went into his room and closing the door knelt by a little
desk, made of a kitchen table, that sat near a window.
In the room by the desk she went through a ceremony that was half a
prayer, half a demand, addressed to the skies. In the boyish figure she
yearned to see something half forgotten that had once been a part of
herself recreated. The prayer
concerned that. "Even
though I die, I will in some way keep defeat from you," she cried,
and so deep was her determination that her whole body shook.
Her eyes glowed and she clenched her fists.
"If I am dead and see him becoming a meaningless drab figure
like myself, I will come back," she declared.
"I ask God now to give me that privilege.
I demand it. I will
pay for it. God may beat me
with his fists. I will take
any blow that may befall if but this my boy be allowed to express
something for us both." Pausing uncertainly, the woman stared about
the boy's room. "And do not let him become smart and successful
either," she added vaguely.
communion between George Willard and his mother was outwardly a formal thing
without meaning. When she was
ill and sat by the window in her room he sometimes went in the evening to
make her a visit. They sat by a
window that looked over the roof of a small frame building into Main Street.
By turning their heads they could see through another window, along an
alleyway that ran behind the Main Street stores and into the back door of
Abner Groff's bakery. Sometimes
as they sat thus a picture of village life presented itself to them.
At the back door of his shop appeared Abner Groff with a stick or an
empty milk bottle in his hand. For
a long time there was a feud between the baker and a grey cat that belonged
to Sylvester West, the druggist. The boy and his mother saw the cat creep
into the door of the bakery and presently emerge followed by the baker, who
swore and waved his arms about. The baker's eyes were small and red and his
black hair and beard were filled with flour dust.
Sometimes he was so angry that, although the cat had disappeared, he
hurled sticks, bits of broken glass, and even some of the tools of his trade
about. Once he broke a window
at the back of Sinning's Hardware Store.
In the alley the grey cat crouched behind barrels filled with torn
paper and broken bottles above which flew a black swarm of flies.
Once when she was alone, and after watching a prolonged and
ineffectual outburst on the part of the baker, Elizabeth Willard put her
head down on her long white hands and wept.
After that she did not look along the alleyway any more, but tried to
forget the contest between the bearded man and the cat.
It seemed like a rehearsal of her own life, terrible in its
the evening when the son sat in the room with his mother, the silence made
them both feel awkward. Darkness
came on and the evening train came in at the station.
In the street below feet tramped up and down upon a board sidewalk.
In the station yard, after the evening train had gone, there was a
heavy silence. Perhaps Skinner
Leason, the express agent, moved a truck the length of the station platform.
Over on Main Street sounded a man's voice, laughing.
The door of the express office banged. George Willard arose and
crossing the room fumbled for the doorknob.
Sometimes he knocked against a chair, making it scrape along the
floor. By the window sat the
sick woman, perfectly still, listless.
Her long hands, white and bloodless, could be seen drooping over the
ends of the arms of the chair. "I
think you had better be out among the boys.
You are too much indoors," she said, striving to relieve the
embarrassment of the departure. "I
thought I would take a walk," replied George Willard, who felt awkward
evening in July, when the transient guests who made the New Willard House
their temporary home had become scarce, and the hallways, lighted only by
kerosene lamps turned low, were plunged in gloom, Elizabeth Willard had an
adventure. She had been ill in
bed for several days and her son had not come to visit her. She was alarmed. The
feeble blaze of life that remained in her body was blown into a flame by her
anxiety and she crept out of bed, dressed and hurried along the hallway
toward her son's room, shaking with exaggerated fears. As she went along she steadied herself with her hand, slipped
along the papered walls of the hall and breathed with difficulty.
The air whistled through her teeth.
As she hurried forward she thought how foolish she was.
"He is concerned with boyish affairs," she told herself.
"Perhaps he has now begun to walk about in the evening with
Willard had a dread of being seen by guests in the hotel that had once
belonged to her father and the ownership of which still stood recorded in
her name in the county courthouse. The
hotel was continually losing patronage because of its shabbiness and she
thought of herself as also shabby. Her own room was in an obscure corner and
when she felt able to work she voluntarily worked among the beds, preferring
the labor that could be done when the guests were abroad seeking trade among
the merchants of Winesburg.
the door of her son's room the mother knelt upon the floor and listened for
some sound from within. When
she heard the boy moving about and talking in low tones a smile came to her
lips. George Willard had a
habit of talking aloud to himself and to hear him doing so had always given
his mother a peculiar pleasure. The
habit in him, she felt, strengthened the secret bond that existed between
them. A thousand times she had
whispered to herself of the matter. "He
is groping about, trying to find himself," she thought.
"He is not a dull clod, all words and smartness.
Within him there is a secret something that is striving to grow.
It is the thing I let be killed in myself."
the darkness in the hallway by the door the sick woman arose and started
again toward her own room. She
was afraid that the door would open and the boy come upon her. When she had reached a safe distance and was about to turn a
corner into a second hallway she stopped and bracing herself with her hands
waited, thinking to shake off a trembling fit of weakness that had come upon
her. The presence of the boy in the room had made her happy.
In her bed, during the long hours alone, the little fears that had
visited her had become giants. Now they were all gone.
"When I get back to my room I shall sleep," she murmured
Elizabeth Willard was not to return to her bed and to sleep.
As she stood trembling in the darkness the door of her son's room
opened and the boy's father, Tom Willard, stepped out.
In the light that steamed out at the door he stood with the knob in
his hand and talked. What he
said infuriated the woman.
Willard was ambitious for his son. He
had always thought of himself as a successful man, although nothing he had
ever done had turned out successfully.
However, when he was out of sight of the New Willard House and had no
fear of coming upon his wife, he swaggered and began to dramatize himself as
one of the chief men of the town. He
wanted his son to succeed. He
it was who had secured for the boy the position on the Winesburg Eagle.
Now, with a ring of earnestness in his voice, he was advising
concerning some course of conduct. "I tell you what, George, you've got
to wake up," he said sharply. "Will
Henderson has spoken to me three times concerning the matter.
He says you go along for hours not hearing when you are spoken to and
acting like a gawky girl. What
ails you?" Tom Willard laughed good-naturedly.
"Well, I guess you'll get over it," he said.
"I told Will that. You're
not a fool and you're not a woman. You're
Tom Willard's son and you'll wake up. I'm
not afraid. What you say clears things up.
If being a newspaper man had put the notion of becoming a writer into
your mind that's all right. Only
I guess you'll have to wake up to do that too, eh?"
Willard went briskly along the hallway and down a flight of stairs to the
office. The woman in the
darkness could hear him laughing and talking with a guest who was striving
to wear away a dull evening by dozing in a chair by the office door. She returned to the door of her son's room.
The weakness had passed from her body as by a miracle and she stepped
boldly along. A thousand ideas
raced through her head. When she heard the scraping of a chair and the sound of a pen
scratching upon paper, she again turned and went back along the hallway to
her own room.
definite determination had come into the mind of the defeated wife of the
Winesburg hotel keeper. The determination was the result of long years of
quiet and rather ineffectual thinking.
"Now," she told herself, "I will act.
There is something threatening my boy and I will ward it off."
The fact that the conversation between Tom Willard and his son had been
rather quiet and natural, as though an understanding existed between them,
maddened her. Although for
years she had hated her husband, her hatred had always before been a quite
impersonal thing. He had been
merely a part of something else that she hated.
Now, and by the few words at the door, he had become the thing
personified. In the darkness of
her own room she clenched her fists and glared about.
Going to a cloth bag that hung on a nail by the wall she took out a
long pair of sewing scissors and held them in her hand like a dagger.
"I will stab him," she said aloud.
"He has chosen to be the voice of evil and I will kill him.
When I have killed him something will snap within myself and I will
die also. It will be a release
for all of us."
her girlhood and before her marriage with Tom Willard, Elizabeth had borne a
somewhat shaky reputation in Winesburg.
For years she had been what is called "stage-struck" and
had paraded through the streets with traveling men guests at her father's
hotel, wearing loud clothes and urging them to tell her of life in the
cities out of which they had come. Once she startled the town by putting on
men's clothes and riding a bicycle down Main Street.
her own mind the tall dark girl had been in those days much confused.
A great restlessness was in her and it expressed itself in two ways.
First there was an uneasy desire for change, for some big definite
movement to her life. It was
this feeling that had turned her mind to the stage.
She dreamed of joining some company and wandering over the world,
seeing always new faces and giving something out of herself to all people.
Sometimes at night she was quite beside herself with the thought, but
when she tried to talk of the matter to the members of the theatrical
companies that came to Winesburg and stopped at her father's hotel, she got
nowhere. They did not seem to know what she meant, or if she did get
something of her passion expressed, they only laughed.
"It's not like that," they said. "It's as dull and
uninteresting as this here. Nothing comes of it."
the traveling men when she walked about with them, and later with Tom
Willard, it was quite different. Always
they seemed to understand and sympathize with her.
On the side streets of the village, in the darkness under the trees,
they took hold of her hand and she thought that something unexpressed in
herself came forth and became a part of an unexpressed something in them.
then there was the second expression of her restlessness.
When that came she felt for a time released and happy.
She did not blame the men who walked with her and later she did not
blame Tom Willard. It was
always the same, beginning with kisses and ending, after strange wild
emotions, with peace and then sobbing repentance.
When she sobbed she put her hand upon the face of the man and had
always the same thought. Even
though he were large and bearded she thought he had become suddenly a little
boy. She wondered why he did
not sob also.
her room, tucked away in a corner of the old Willard House, Elizabeth
Willard lighted a lamp and put it on a dressing table that stood by the
door. A thought had come into
her mind and she went to a closet and brought out a small square box and set
it on the table. The box
contained material for makeup and had been left with other things by a
theatrical company that had once been stranded in Winesburg.
Elizabeth Willard had decided that she would be beautiful.
Her hair was still black and there was a great mass of it braided and
coiled about her head. The scene that was to take place in the office below
began to grow in her mind. No ghostly worn-out figure should confront Tom Willard, but
something quite unexpected and startling.
Tall and with dusky cheeks and hair that fell in a mass from her
shoulders, a figure should come striding down the stairway before the
startled loungers in the hotel office. The figure would be silent--it would
be swift and terrible. As a
tigress whose cub had been threatened would she appear, coming out of the
shadows, stealing noiselessly along and holding the long wicked scissors in
a little broken sob in her throat, Elizabeth Willard blew out the light that
stood upon the table and stood weak and trembling in the darkness.
The strength that had been as a miracle in her body left and she half
reeled across the floor, clutching at the back of the chair in which she had
spent so many long days staring out over the tin roofs into the main street
of Winesburg. In the hallway
there was the sound of footsteps and George Willard came in at the door.
Sitting in a chair beside his mother he began to talk.
"I'm going to get out of here," he said.
"I don't know where I shall go or what I shall do but I am going
woman in the chair waited and trembled.
An impulse came to her. "I
suppose you had better wake up," she said. "You think that? You will go to the city and make money,
eh? It will be better for you, you think, to be a business man, to be brisk
and smart and alive?" She waited and trembled.
son shook his head. "I
suppose I can't make you understand, but oh, I wish I could," he said
earnestly. "I can't even
talk to father about it. I
don't try. There isn't any use.
I don't know what I shall do. I just want to go away and look at
people and think."
fell upon the room where the boy and woman sat together.
Again, as on the other evenings, they were embarrassed.
After a time the boy tried again to talk.
"I suppose it won't be for a year or two but I've been thinking
about it," he said, rising and going toward the door.
"Something father said makes it sure that I shall have to go
away." He fumbled with the doorknob.
In the room the silence became unbearable to the woman.
She wanted to cry out with joy because of the words that had come
from the lips of her son, but the expression of joy had become impossible to
her. "I think you had
better go out among the boys. You
are too much indoors," she said. "I
thought I would go for a little walk," replied the son stepping
awkwardly out of the room and closing the door.
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