Winesburg, Ohio: A Group of Tales of Ohio Small Town Life
They began to walk along a narrow brick sidewalk between the cracks of
which tall weeds grew. Some of the bricks were missing and the sidewalk
was rough and irregular. He took hold of her hand that was also rough
and thought it delightfully small. “I can’t go far,” she said and her
voice was quiet, unperturbed.
They crossed a bridge that ran over a tiny stream and passed another
vacant lot in which corn grew. The street ended. In the path at the
side of the road they were compelled to walk one behind the other. Will
Overton’s berry field lay beside the road and there was a pile of
boards. “Will is going to build a shed to store berry crates here,”
said George and they sat down upon the boards.
When George Willard got back into Main Street it was past ten o’clock
and had begun to rain. Three times he walked up and down the length of
Main Street. Sylvester West’s Drug Store was still open and he went in
and bought a cigar. When Shorty Crandall the clerk came out at the door
with him he was pleased. For five minutes the two stood in the shelter
of the store awning and talked. George Willard felt satisfied. He had
wanted more than anything else to talk to some man. Around a corner
toward the New Willard House he went whistling softly.
On the sidewalk at the side of Winney’s Dry Goods Store where there was
a high board fence covered with circus pictures, he stopped whistling
and stood perfectly still in the darkness, attentive, listening as
though for a voice calling his name. Then again he laughed nervously.
“She hasn’t got anything on me. Nobody knows,” he muttered doggedly and
went on his way.
GODLINESS
A TALE IN FOUR PARTS
PART ONE
There were always three or four old people sitting on the front porch
of the house or puttering about the garden of the Bentley farm. Three
of the old people were women and sisters to Jesse. They were a
colorless, soft voiced lot. Then there was a silent old man with thin
white hair who was Jesse’s uncle.
The farmhouse was built of wood, a board outer-covering over a
framework of logs. It was in reality not one house but a cluster of
houses joined together in a rather haphazard manner. Inside, the place
was full of surprises. One went up steps from the living room into the
dining room and there were always steps to be ascended or descended in
passing from one room to another. At meal times the place was like a
beehive. At one moment all was quiet, then doors began to open, feet
clattered on stairs, a murmur of soft voices arose and people appeared
from a dozen obscure corners.
Besides the old people, already mentioned, many others lived in the
Bentley house. There were four hired men, a woman named Aunt Callie
Beebe, who was in charge of the housekeeping, a dull-witted girl named
Eliza Stoughton, who made beds and helped with the milking, a boy who
worked in the stables, and Jesse Bentley himself, the owner and
overlord of it all.
By the time the American Civil War had been over for twenty years, that
part of Northern Ohio where the Bentley farms lay had begun to emerge
from pioneer life. Jesse then owned machinery for harvesting grain. He
had built modern barns and most of his land was drained with carefully
laid tile drain, but in order to understand the man we will have to go
back to an earlier day.
The Bentley family had been in Northern Ohio for several generations
before Jesse’s time. They came from New York State and took up land
when the country was new and land could be had at a low price. For a
long time they, in common with all the other Middle Western people,
were very poor. The land they had settled upon was heavily wooded and
covered with fallen logs and underbrush. After the long hard labor of
clearing these away and cutting the timber, there were still the stumps
to be reckoned with. Plows run through the fields caught on hidden
roots, stones lay all about, on the low places water gathered, and the
young corn turned yellow, sickened and died.
When Jesse Bentley’s father and brothers had come into their ownership
of the place, much of the harder part of the work of clearing had been
done, but they clung to old traditions and worked like driven animals.
They lived as practically all of the farming people of the time lived.
In the spring and through most of the winter the highways leading into
the town of Winesburg were a sea of mud. The four young men of the
family worked hard all day in the fields, they ate heavily of coarse,
greasy food, and at night slept like tired beasts on beds of straw.
Into their lives came little that was not coarse and brutal and
outwardly they were themselves coarse and brutal. On Saturday
afternoons they hitched a team of horses to a three-seated wagon and
went off to town. In town they stood about the stoves in the stores
talking to other farmers or to the store keepers. They were dressed in
overalls and in the winter wore heavy coats that were flecked with mud.
Their hands as they stretched them out to the heat of the stoves were
cracked and red. It was difficult for them to talk and so they for the
most part kept silent. When they had bought meat, flour, sugar, and
salt, they went into one of the Winesburg saloons and drank beer. Under
the influence of drink the naturally strong lusts of their natures,
kept suppressed by the heroic labor of breaking up new ground, were
released. A kind of crude and animal-like poetic fervor took possession
of them. On the road home they stood up on the wagon seats and shouted
at the stars. Sometimes they fought long and bitterly and at other
times they broke forth into songs. Once Enoch Bentley, the older one of
the boys, struck his father, old Tom Bentley, with the butt of a
teamster’s whip, and the old man seemed likely to die. For days Enoch
lay hid in the straw in the loft of the stable ready to flee if the
result of his momentary passion turned out to be murder. He was kept
alive with food brought by his mother, who also kept him informed of
the injured man’s condition. When all turned out well he emerged from
his hiding place and went back to the work of clearing land as though
nothing had happened.
The Civil War brought a sharp turn to the fortunes of the Bentleys and
was responsible for the rise of the youngest son, Jesse. Enoch, Edward,
Harry, and Will Bentley all enlisted and before the long war ended they
were all killed. For a time after they went away to the South, old Tom
tried to run the place, but he was not successful. When the last of the
four had been killed he sent word to Jesse that he would have to come
home.
Then the mother, who had not been well for a year, died suddenly, and
the father became altogether discouraged. He talked of selling the farm
and moving into town. All day he went about shaking his head and
muttering. The work in the fields was neglected and weeds grew high in
the corn. Old Tom hired men but he did not use them intelligently. When
they had gone away to the fields in the morning he wandered into the
woods and sat down on a log. Sometimes he forgot to come home at night
and one of the daughters had to go in search of him.
When Jesse Bentley came home to the farm and began to take charge of
things he was a slight, sensitive-looking man of twenty-two. At
eighteen he had left home to go to school to become a scholar and
eventually to become a minister of the Presbyterian Church. All through
his boyhood he had been what in our country was called an “odd sheep”
and had not got on with his brothers. Of all the family only his mother
had understood him and she was now dead. When he came home to take
charge of the farm, that had at that time grown to more than six
hundred acres, everyone on the farms about and in the nearby town of
Winesburg smiled at the idea of his trying to handle the work that had
been done by his four strong brothers.
There was indeed good cause to smile. By the standards of his day Jesse
did not look like a man at all. He was small and very slender and
womanish of body and, true to the traditions of young ministers, wore a
long black coat and a narrow black string tie. The neighbors were
amused when they saw him, after the years away, and they were even more
amused when they saw the woman he had married in the city.
As a matter of fact, Jesse’s wife did soon go under. That was perhaps
Jesse’s fault. A farm in Northern Ohio in the hard years after the
Civil War was no place for a delicate woman, and Katherine Bentley was
delicate. Jesse was hard with her as he was with everybody about him in
those days. She tried to do such work as all the neighbor women about
her did and he let her go on without interference. She helped to do the
milking and did part of the housework; she made the beds for the men
and prepared their food. For a year she worked every day from sunrise
until late at night and then after giving birth to a child she died.
As for Jesse Bentley—although he was a delicately built man there was
something within him that could not easily be killed. He had brown
curly hair and grey eyes that were at times hard and direct, at times
wavering and uncertain. Not only was he slender but he was also short
of stature. His mouth was like the mouth of a sensitive and very
determined child. Jesse Bentley was a fanatic. He was a man born out of
his time and place and for this he suffered and made others suffer.
Never did he succeed in getting what he wanted out of life and he did
not know what he wanted. Within a very short time after he came home to
the Bentley farm he made everyone there a little afraid of him, and his
wife, who should have been close to him as his mother had been, was
afraid also. At the end of two weeks after his coming, old Tom Bentley
made over to him the entire ownership of the place and retired into the
background. Everyone retired into the background. In spite of his youth
and inexperience, Jesse had the trick of mastering the souls of his
people. He was so in earnest in everything he did and said that no one
understood him. He made everyone on the farm work as they had never
worked before and yet there was no joy in the work. If things went well
they went well for Jesse and never for the people who were his
dependents. Like a thousand other strong men who have come into the
world here in America in these later times, Jesse was but half strong.
He could master others but he could not master himself. The running of
the farm as it had never been run before was easy for him. When he came
home from Cleveland where he had been in school, he shut himself off
from all of his people and began to make plans. He thought about the
farm night and day and that made him successful. Other men on the farms
about him worked too hard and were too fired to think, but to think of
the farm and to be everlastingly making plans for its success was a
relief to Jesse. It partially satisfied something in his passionate
nature. Immediately after he came home he had a wing built on to the
old house and in a large room facing the west he had windows that
looked into the barnyard and other windows that looked off across the
fields. By the window he sat down to think. Hour after hour and day
after day he sat and looked over the land and thought out his new place
in life. The passionate burning thing in his nature flamed up and his
eyes became hard. He wanted to make the farm produce as no farm in his
state had ever produced before and then he wanted something else. It
was the indefinable hunger within that made his eyes waver and that
kept him always more and more silent before people. He would have given
much to achieve peace and in him was a fear that peace was the thing he
could not achieve.
All over his body Jesse Bentley was alive. In his small frame was