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Winesburg；　Ohio

by　SHERWOOD　ANDERSON





CONTENTS



THE　TALES　AND　THE　PERSONS


THE　BOOK　OF　THE　GROTESQUE

HANDS；　concerning　Wing　Biddlebaum

PAPER　PILLS；　concerning　Doctor　Reefy

MOTHER；　concerning　Elizabeth　Willard

THE　PHILOSOPHER；　concerning　Doctor　Parcival

NOBODY　KNOWS；　concerning　Louise　Trunnion

GODLINESS；　a　Tale　in　Four　Parts
　　　　　　　I；　concerning　Jesse　Bentley
　　　　　　　II；　also　concerning　Jesse　Bentley
　　　　　　　III　Surrender；　concerning　Louise　Bentley
　　　　　　　IV　Terror；　concerning　David　Hardy







To　the　memory　of　my　mother；

EMMA　SMITH　ANDERSON；

whose　keen　observations　on　the　life　about
her　first　awoke　in　me　the　hunger　to　see
beneath　the　surface　of　lives；
this　book　is　dedicated。




THE　TALES
AND　THE　PERSONS




THE　BOOK　OF
THE　GROTESQUE




THE　WRITER；　an　old　man　with　a　white　mustache；　had　some　difficulty　in　getting　into　bed。　　The　windows　of　the　house　in　which　he　lived　were　high　and　he　wanted　to　look　at　the　trees　when　he　awoke　in　the　morning。　　A　carpenter　came　to　fix　the　bed　so　that　it　would　be　on　a　level　with　the　window。

Quite　a　fuss　was　made　about　the　matter。　　The　car…　penter；　who　had　been　a　soldier　in　the　Civil　War；　came　into　the　writer's　room　and　sat　down　to　talk　of　building　a　platform　for　the　purpose　of　raising　the　bed。　　The　writer　had　cigars　lying　about　and　the　car…　penter　smoked。

For　a　time　the　two　men　talked　of　the　raising　of　the　bed　and　then　they　talked　of　other　things。　　The　soldier　got　on　the　subject　of　the　war。　　The　writer；　in　fact；　led　him　to　that　subject。　　The　carpenter　had　once　been　a　prisoner　in　Andersonville　prison　and　had　lost　a　brother。　　The　brother　had　died　of　starvation；　and　whenever　the　carpenter　got　upon　that　subject　he　cried。　　He；　like　the　old　writer；　had　a　white　mustache；　and　when　he　cried　he　puckered　up　his　lips　and　the　mustache　bobbed　up　and　down。　　The　weeping　old　man　with　the　cigar　in　his　mouth　was　ludicrous。　　The　plan　the　writer　had　for　the　raising　of　his　bed　was　forgotten　and　later　the　carpenter　did　it　in　his　own　way　and　the　writer；　who　was　past　sixty；　had　to　help　himself　with　a　chair　when　he　went　to　bed　at　night。

In　his　bed　the　writer　rolled　over　on　his　side　and　lay　quite　still。　　For　years　he　had　been　beset　with　no…　tions　concerning　his　heart。　　He　was　a　hard　smoker　and　his　heart　fluttered。　　The　idea　had　got　into　his　mind　that　he　would　some　time　die　unexpectedly　and　always　when　he　got　into　bed　he　thought　of　that。　　It　did　not　alarm　him。　　The　effect　in　fact　was　quite　a　special　thing　and　not　easily　explained。　　It　made　him　more　alive；　there　in　bed；　than　at　any　other　time。　Perfectly　still　he　lay　and　his　body　was　old　and　not　of　much　use　any　more；　but　something　inside　him　was　altogether　young。　　He　was　like　a　pregnant　woman；　only　that　the　thing　inside　him　was　not　a　baby　but　a　youth。　　No；　it　wasn't　a　youth；　it　was　a　woman；　young；　and　wearing　a　coat　of　mail　like　a　knight。　　It　is　absurd；　you　see；　to　try　to　tell　what　was　inside　the　old　writer　as　he　lay　on　his　high　bed　and　listened　to　the　fluttering　of　his　heart。　　The　thing　to　get　at　is　what　the　writer；　or　the　young　thing　within　the　writer；　was　thinking　about。

The　old　writer；　like　all　of　the　people　in　the　world；　had　got；　during　his　long　fife；　a　great　many　notions　in　his　head。　　He　had　once　been　quite　handsome　and　a　number　of　women　had　been　in　love　with　him。　And　then；　of　course；　he　had　known　people；　many　people；　known　them　in　a　peculiarly　intimate　way　that　was　different　from　the　way　in　which　you　and　I　know　people。　　At　least　that　is　what　the　writer　thought　and　the　thought　pleased　him。　　Why　quarrel　with　an　old　man　concerning　his　thoughts？

In　the　bed　the　writer　had　a　dream　that　was　not　a　dream。　　As　he　grew　somewhat　sleepy　but　was　still　conscious；　figures　began　to　appear　before　his　eyes。　He　imagined　the　young　indescribable　thing　within　himself　was　driving　a　long　procession　of　figures　be…　fore　his　eyes。

You　see　the　interest　in　all　this　lies　in　the　figures　that　went　before　the　eyes　of　the　writer。　　They　were　all　grotesques。　　All　of　the　men　and　women　the　writer　had　ever　known　had　become　grotesques。

The　grotesques　were　not　all　horrible。　　Some　were　amusing；　some　almost　beautiful；　and　one；　a　woman　all　drawn　out　of　shape；　hurt　the　old　man　by　her　grotesqueness。　　When　she　passed　he　made　a　noise　like　a　small　dog　whimpering。　　Had　you　come　into　the　room　you　might　have　supposed　the　old　man　had　unpleasant　dreams　or　perhaps　indigestion。

For　an　hour　the　procession　of　grotesques　passed　before　the　eyes　of　the　old　man；　and　then；　although　it　was　a　painful　thing　to　do；　he　crept　out　of　bed　and　began　to　write。　　Some　one　of　the　grotesques　had　made　a　deep　impression　on　his　mind　and　he　wanted　to　describe　it。

At　his　desk　the　writer　worked　for　an　hour。　　In　the　end　he　wrote　a　book　which　he　called　〃The　Book　of　the　Grotesque。〃　It　was　never　published；　but　I　saw　it　once　and　it　made　an　indelible　impression　on　my　mind。　　The　book　had　one　central　thought　that　is　very　strange　and　has　always　remained　with　me。　　By　re…　membering　it　I　have　been　able　to　understand　many　people　and　things　that　I　was　never　able　to　under…　stand　before。　　The　thought　was　involved　but　a　simple　statement　of　it　would　be　something　like　this：

That　in　the　beginning　when　the　world　was　young　there　were　a　great　many　thoughts　but　no　such　thing　as　a　truth。　　Man　made　the　truths　himself　and　each　truth　was　a　composite　of　a　great　many　vague　thoughts。　　All　about　in　the　world　were　the　truths　and　they　were　all　beautiful。

The　old　man　had　listed　hundreds　of　the　truths　in　his　book。　　I　will　not　try　to　tell　you　of　all　of　them。　There　was　the　truth　of　virginity　and　the　truth　of　passion；　the　truth　of　wealth　and　of　poverty；　of　thrift　and　of　profligacy；　of　carelessness　and　abandon。　Hundreds　and　hundreds　were　the　truths　and　they　were　all　beautiful。

And　then　the　people　came　along。　　Each　as　he　ap…　peared　snatched　up　one　of　the　truths　and　some　who　were　quite　strong　snatched　up　a　dozen　of　them。

It　was　the　truths　that　made　the　people　grotesques。　The　old　man　had　quite　an　elaborate　theory　concern…　ing　the　matter。　　It　was　his　notion　that　the　moment　one　of　the　people　took　one　of　the　truths　to　himself；　called　it　his　truth；　and　tried　to　live　his　life　by　it；　he　became　a　grotesque　and　the　truth　he　embraced　became　a　falsehood。

You　can　see　for　yourself　how　the　old　man；　who　had　spent　all　of　his　life　writing　and　was　filled　with　words；　would　write　hundreds　of　pages　concerning　this　matter。　　The　subject　would　become　so　big　in　his　mind　that　he　himself　would　be　in　danger　of　becom…　ing　a　grotesque。　　He　didn't；　I　suppose；　for　the　same　reason　that　he　never　published　the　book。　　It　was　the　young　thing　inside　him　that　saved　the　old　man。

Concerning　the　old　carpenter　who　fixed　the　bed　for　the　writer；　I　only　mentioned　him　because　he；


THE　BOOK　OF　THE　GROTESQUE　　　　　7

like　many　of　what　are　called　very　common　people；　became　the　nearest　thing　to　what　is　understandable　and　lovable　of　all　the　grotesques　in　the　writer's　book。



HANDS

UPON　THE　HALF　decayed　veranda　of　a　small　frame　house　that　stood　near　the　edge　of　a　ravine　near　the　town　of　Winesburg；　Ohio；　a　fat　little　old　man　walked　nervously　up　and　down。　　Across　a　long　field　that　had　been　seeded　for　clover　but　that　had　produced　only　a　dense　crop　of　yellow　mustard　weeds；　he　could　see　the　public　highway　along　which　went　a　wagon　filled　with　berry　pickers　returning　from　the　fields。　　The　berry　pickers；　youths　and　maidens；　laughed　and　shouted　boisterously。　　A　boy　clad　in　a　blue　shirt　leaped　from　the　wagon　and　attempted　to　drag　after　him　one　of　the　maidens；　who　screamed　and　protested　shrilly。　　The　feet　of　the　boy　in　the　road　kicked　up　a　cloud　of　dust　that　floated　across　the　face　of　the　departing　sun。　　Over　the　long　field　came　a　thin　girlish　voice。　　〃Oh；　you　Wing　Biddlebaum；　comb　your　hair；　it's　falling　into　your　eyes；〃　commanded　the　voice　to　the　man；　who　was　bald　and　whose　ner…　vous　little　hands　fiddled　about　the　bare　white　fore…　head　as　though　arranging　a　mass　of　tangled　locks。

Wing　Biddlebaum；　forever　frightened　and　beset　by　a　ghostly　band　of　doubts；　did　not　think　of　himself　as　in　any　way　a　part　of　the　life　of　the　town　where　he　had　lived　for　twenty　years。　　Among　all　the　people　of　Winesburg　but　one　had　come　close　to　him。　　With　George　Willard；　son　of　Tom　Willard；　the　proprietor　of　the　New　Willard　House；　he　had　formed　some…　thing　like　a　friendship。　　George　Willard　was　the　re…　porter　on　the　Winesburg　Eagle　and　sometimes　in　the　evenings　he　walked　out　along　the　highway　to　Wing　Biddlebaum's　house。　　Now　as　the　old　man　walked　up　and　down　on　the　veranda；　his　hands　moving　nervously　about；　he　was　hoping　that　George　Willard　would　come　and　spend　the　evening　with　him。　　After　the　wagon　containing　the　berry　pickers　had　passed；　he　went　across　the　field　through　the　tall　mustard　weeds　and　climbing　a　rail　fence　peered　anxiously　along　the　road　to　the　town。　　For　a　moment　he　stood　thus；　rubbing　his　hands　together　and　looking　up　and　down　the　road；　and　then；　fear　overcoming　him；　ran　back　to　walk　again　upon　the　porch　on　his　own　house。

In　the　presence　of　George　Willard；　Wing　Bid…　dlebaum；　who　for　twenty　years　had　been　the　town　mystery；　lost　something　of　his　timidity；　and　his　shadowy　personality；　submerged　in　a　sea　of　doubts；　came　forth　to　look　at　the　world。　　With　the　young　reporter　at　his　side；　he　ventured　in　the　light　of　day　into　Main　Street　or　strode　up　and　down　on　the　rick…　ety　front　porch　of　his　own　house；　talking　excitedly。　The　voice　that　had　been　low　and　trembling　became　shrill　and　loud。　　The　bent　figure　straightened。　　With　a　kind　of　wriggle；　like　a　fish　returned　to　the　brook　by　the　fisherman；　Biddlebaum　the　silent　began　to　talk；　striving　to　put　into　words　the　ideas　that　had　been　accumulated　by　his　mind　during　long　years　of　silence。

Wing　Biddlebaum　talked　much　with　his　hands。　The　slender　expressive　fingers；　forever　active；　for…　ever　striving　to　conceal　themselves　in　his　pockets　or　behind　his　back；　came　forth　and　became　the　piston　rods　of　his　machinery　of　expression。

The　story　of　Wing　Biddlebaum　is　a　story　of　hands。　Their　restless　activity；　like　unto　the　beating　of　the　wings　of　an　imprisoned　bird；　had　given　him　his　name。　　Some　obscure　poet　of　the　town　had　thought　of　it。　　The　hands　alarmed　their　owner。　　He　wanted　to　keep　them　hidden　away　and