ever to see her again and I knew, after some of the
things I said, that I never would see her again."
The old man's voice broke and he shook his head.
"Things went to smash," he said quietly and sadly.
"Out she went through the door and all the life
there had been in the room followed her out. She
took all of my people away. They all went out
through the door after her. That's the way it was."
George Willard turned and went out of Enoch
Robinson's room. In the darkness by the window,
as he went through the door, he could hear the thin
old voice whimpering and complaining. "I'm alone,
all alone here," said the voice. "It was warm and
friendly in my room but now I'm all alone."
AN AWAKENING
BELLE CARPENTER had a dark skin, grey eyes, and
thick lips. She was tall and strong. When black
thoughts visited her she grew angry and wished she
were a man and could fight someone with her fists.
She worked in the millinery shop kept by Mrs. Kate
McHugh and during the day sat trimming hats by a
window at the rear of the store. She was the daugh-
ter of Henry Carpenter,
bookkeeper in the First Na-
tional Bank of Winesburg, and lived with him in a
gloomy old house far out at the end of Buckeye
Street. The house was surrounded by pine trees and
there was no grass beneath the trees. A rusty tin
eaves-trough had slipped from its fastenings at the
back of the house and when the wind blew it beat
against the roof of a small shed, making a dismal
drumming noise that sometimes persisted all through
the night.
When she was a young girl Henry Carpenter
made life almost
unbearable for Belle, but as she
emerged from girlhood into womanhood he lost his
power over her. The
bookkeeper's life was made up
of
innumerable little pettinesses. When he went to
the bank in the morning he stepped into a closet
and put on a black alpaca coat that had become
shabby with age. At night when he returned to his
home he donned another black alpaca coat. Every
evening he pressed the clothes worn in the streets.
He had invented an
arrangement of boards for the
purpose. The
trousers to his street suit were placed
between the boards and the boards were clamped
together with heavy screws. In the morning he
wiped the boards with a damp cloth and stood them
upright behind the dining room door. If they were
moved during the day he was
speechless with anger
and did not recover his
equilibrium for a week.
The bank
cashier was a little bully and was afraid
of his daughter. She, he realized, knew the story of
his
brutaltreatment of her mother and hated him
for it. One day she went home at noon and carried
a
handful of soft mud, taken from the road, into the
house. With the mud she smeared the face of the
boards used for the pressing of
trousers and then
went back to her work feeling
relieved and happy.
Belle Carpenter
occasionally walked out in the
evening with George Willard. Secretly she loved an-
other man, but her love affair, about which no one
knew, caused her much
anxiety. She was in love
with Ed Handby, bartender in Ed Griffith's Saloon,
and went about with the young
reporter as a kind
of
relief to her feelings. She did not think that her
station in life would permit her to be seen in the
company of the bartender and walked about under
the trees with George Willard and let him kiss her
to
relieve a
longing that was very
insistent in her
nature. She felt that she could keep the younger
man within bounds. About Ed Handby she was
somewhat uncertain.
Handby, the bartender, was a tall, broad-shouldered
man of thirty who lived in a room
upstairs above
Griffith's
saloon. His fists were large and his eyes
unusually small, but his voice, as though striving to
conceal the power back of his fists, was soft and
quiet.
At twenty-five the bartender had inherited a large
farm from an uncle in Indiana. When sold, the farm
brought in eight thousand dollars, which Ed spent
in six months. Going to Sandusky, on Lake Erie,
he began an orgy of dissipation, the story of which
afterward filled his home town with awe. Here and
there he went throwing the money about, driving
carriages through the streets, giving wine parties to
crowds of men and women, playing cards for high
stakes and keeping mistresses whose wardrobes cost
him hundreds of dollars. One night at a
resort called
Cedar Point, he got into a fight and ran amuck like
a wild thing. With his fist he broke a large mirror
in the wash room of a hotel and later went about
smashing windows and breaking chairs in dance
halls for the joy of
hearing the glass
rattle on the
floor and
seeing the
terror in the eyes of clerks who
had come from Sandusky to spend the evening at
the
resort with their sweethearts.
The affair between Ed Handby and Belle Carpen-
ter on the surface amounted to nothing. He had suc-
ceeded in spending but one evening in her company.
On that evening he hired a horse and buggy at Wes-
ley Moyer's
livery barn and took her for a drive.
The
conviction that she was the woman his nature
demanded and that he must get her settled upon
him and he told her of his desires. The bartender
was ready to marry and to begin
trying to earn
money for the support of his wife, but so simple
was his nature that he found it difficult to explain
his intentions. His body ached with
physicallongingand with his body he expressed himself. Taking the
milliner into his arms and
holding her
tightly in
spite of her struggles, he kissed her until she became
helpless. Then he brought her back to town and let
her out of the buggy. "When I get hold of you again
I'll not let you go. You can't play with me," he de-
clared as he turned to drive away. Then, jumping
out of the buggy, he gripped her shoulders with his
strong hands. "I'll keep you for good the next time,"
he said. "You might as well make up your mind to
that. It's you and me for it and I'm going to have
you before I get through."
One night in January when there was a new moon
George Willard, who was in Ed Handby's mind the
only
obstacle to his getting Belle Carpenter, went for
a walk. Early that evening George went into Ransom
Surbeck's pool room with Seth Richmond and Art
Wilson, son of the town
butcher. Seth Richmond
stood with his back against the wall and remained
silent, but George Willard talked. The pool room
was filled with Winesburg boys and they talked of
women. The young
reporter got into that vein. He
said that women should look out for themselves,
that the fellow who went out with a girl was not
responsible for what happened. As he talked he
looked about, eager for attention. He held the floor
for five minutes and then Art Wilson began to talk.
Art was
learning the barber's trade in Cal Prouse's
shop and already began to consider himself an au-
thority in such matters as
baseball, horse racing,
drinking, and going about with women. He began
to tell of a night when he with two men from Wines-
burg went into a house of prostitution at the county
seat. The
butcher's son held a cigar in the side of
his mouth and as he talked spat on the floor. "The
women in the place couldn't
embarrass me although
they tried hard enough," he boasted. "One of the
girls in the house tried to get fresh, but I fooled her.
As soon as she began to talk I went and sat in her
lap. Everyone in the room laughed when I kissed
her. I taught her to let me alone."
George Willard went out of the pool room and
into Main Street. For days the weather had been
bitter cold with a high wind blowing down on the
town from Lake Erie, eighteen miles to the north,
but on that night the wind had died away and a
new moon made the night
unusually lovely. With-
out thinking where he was going or what he wanted
to do, George went out of Main Street and began
walking in dimly lighted streets filled with frame
houses.
Out of doors under the black sky filled with stars
he forgot his companions of the pool room. Because
it was dark and he was alone he began to talk aloud.
In a spirit of play he reeled along the street imitating
a
drunken man and then imagined himself a soldier
clad in shining boots that reached to the knees and
wearing a sword that jingled as he walked. As a
soldier he pictured himself as an
inspector, passing
before a long line of men who stood at attention.
He began to examine the accoutrements of the men.
Before a tree he stopped and began to scold. "Your
pack is not in order," he said
sharply. "How many
times will I have to speak of this matter? Everything
must be in order here. We have a difficult task be-
fore us and no difficult task can be done without
order."
Hypnotized by his own words, the young man
stumbled along the board
sidewalksaying more
words. "There is a law for armies and for men too,"
he muttered, lost in
reflection. "The law begins with
little things and spreads out until it covers every-
thing. In every little thing there must be order, in
the place where men work, in their clothes, in their
thoughts. I myself must be
orderly. I must learn that
law. I must get myself into touch with something
orderly and big that swings through the night like
a star. In my little way I must begin to learn some-
thing, to give and swing and work with life, with
the law."
George Willard stopped by a
picket fence near a
street lamp and his body began to tremble. He had
never before thought such thoughts as had just
come into his head and he wondered where they
had come from. For the moment it seemed to him
that some voice outside of himself had been talking
as he walked. He was amazed and
delighted with
his own mind and when he walked on again spoke
of the matter with fervor. "To come out of Ransom
Surbeck's pool room and think things like that," he
whispered. "It is better to be alone. If I talked like
Art Wilson the boys would understand me but they