He was the son of Mrs. Al Robinson who once owned a farm on a side road
leading off Trunion Pike, east of Winesburg and two miles beyond the
town limits. The farmhouse was painted brown and the blinds to all of
the windows facing the road were kept closed. In the road before the
house a flock of chickens, accompanied by two guinea hens, lay in the
deep dust. Enoch lived in the house with his mother in those days and
when he was a young boy went to school at the Winesburg High School.
Old citizens remembered him as a quiet, smiling youth inclined to
silence. He walked in the middle of the road when he came into town and
sometimes read a book. Drivers of teams had to shout and swear to make
him realize where he was so that he would turn out of the beaten track
and let them pass.
When he was twenty-one years old Enoch went to New York City and was a
city man for fifteen years. He studied French and went to an art
school, hoping to develop a faculty he had for drawing. In his own mind
he planned to go to Paris and to finish his art education among the
masters there, but that never turned out.
Nothing ever turned out for Enoch Robinson. He could draw well enough
and he had many odd delicate thoughts hidden away in his brain that
might have expressed themselves through the brush of a painter, but he
was always a child and that was a handicap to his worldly development.
He never grew up and of course he couldn’t understand people and he
couldn’t make people understand him. The child in him kept bumping
against things, against actualities like money and sex and opinions.
Once he was hit by a street car and thrown against an iron post. That
made him lame. It was one of the many things that kept things from
turning out for Enoch Robinson.
In New York City, when he first went there to live and before he became
confused and disconcerted by the facts of life, Enoch went about a good
deal with young men. He got into a group of other young artists, both
men and women, and in the evenings they sometimes came to visit him in
his room. Once he got drunk and was taken to a police station where a
police magistrate frightened him horribly, and once he tried to have an
affair with a woman of the town met on the sidewalk before his lodging
house. The woman and Enoch walked together three blocks and then the
young man grew afraid and ran away. The woman had been drinking and the
incident amused her. She leaned against the wall of a building and
laughed so heartily that another man stopped and laughed with her. The
two went away together, still laughing, and Enoch crept off to his room
trembling and vexed.
The room in which young Robinson lived in New York faced Washington
Square and was long and narrow like a hallway. It is important to get
that fixed in your mind. The story of Enoch is in fact the story of a
room almost more than it is the story of a man.
And so into the room in the evening came young Enoch’s friends. There
was nothing particularly striking about them except that they were
artists of the kind that talk. Everyone knows of the talking artists.
Throughout all of the known history of the world they have gathered in
rooms and talked. They talk of art and are passionately, almost
feverishly, in earnest about it. They think it matters much more than
it does.
And so these people gathered and smoked cigarettes and talked and Enoch
Robinson, the boy from the farm near Winesburg, was there. He stayed in
a corner and for the most part said nothing. How his big blue childlike
eyes stared about! On the walls were pictures he had made, crude
things, half finished. His friends talked of these. Leaning back in
their chairs, they talked and talked with their heads rocking from side
to side. Words were said about line and values and composition, lots of
words, such as are always being said.
Enoch wanted to talk too but he didn’t know how. He was too excited to
talk coherently. When he tried he sputtered and stammered and his voice
sounded strange and squeaky to him. That made him stop talking. He knew
what he wanted to say, but he knew also that he could never by any
possibility say it. When a picture he had painted was under discussion,
he wanted to burst out with something like this: “You don’t get the
point,” he wanted to explain; “the picture you see doesn’t consist of
the things you see and say words about. There is something else,
something you don’t see at all, something you aren’t intended to see.
Look at this one over here, by the door here, where the light from the
window falls on it. The dark spot by the road that you might not notice
at all is, you see, the beginning of everything. There is a clump of
elders there such as used to grow beside the road before our house back
in Winesburg, Ohio, and in among the elders there is something hidden.
It is a woman, that’s what it is. She has been thrown from a horse and
the horse has run away out of sight. Do you not see how the old man who
drives a cart looks anxiously about? That is Thad Grayback who has a
farm up the road. He is taking corn to Winesburg to be ground into meal
at Comstock’s mill. He knows there is something in the elders,
something hidden away, and yet he doesn’t quite know.
“It’s a woman you see, that’s what it is! It’s a woman and, oh, she is
lovely! She is hurt and is suffering but she makes no sound. Don’t you
see how it is? She lies quite still, white and still, and the beauty
comes out from her and spreads over everything. It is in the sky back
there and all around everywhere. I didn’t try to paint the woman, of
course. She is too beautiful to be painted. How dull to talk of
composition and such things! Why do you not look at the sky and then
run away as I used to do when I was a boy back there in Winesburg,
Ohio?”
That is the kind of thing young Enoch Robinson trembled to say to the
guests who came into his room when he was a young fellow in New York
City, but he always ended by saying nothing. Then he began to doubt his
own mind. He was afraid the things he felt were not getting expressed
in the pictures he painted. In a half indignant mood he stopped
inviting people into his room and presently got into the habit of
locking the door. He began to think that enough people had visited him,
that he did not need people any more. With quick imagination he began
to invent his own people to whom he could really talk and to whom he
explained the things he had been unable to explain to living people.
His room began to be inhabited by the spirits of men and women among
whom he went, in his turn saying words. It was as though everyone Enoch
Robinson had ever seen had left with him some essence of himself,
something he could mould and change to suit his own fancy, something
that understood all about such things as the wounded woman behind the
elders in the pictures.
The mild, blue-eyed young Ohio boy was a complete egotist, as all
children are egotists. He did not want friends for the quite simple
reason that no child wants friends. He wanted most of all the people of
his own mind, people with whom he could really talk, people he could
harangue and scold by the hour, servants, you see, to his fancy. Among
these people he was always self-confident and bold. They might talk, to
be sure, and even have opinions of their own, but always he talked last
and best. He was like a writer busy among the figures of his brain, a
kind of tiny blue-eyed king he was, in a six-dollar room facing
Washington Square in the city of New York.
Then Enoch Robinson got married. He began to get lonely and to want to
touch actual flesh-and-bone people with his hands. Days passed when his
room seemed empty. Lust visited his body and desire grew in his mind.
At night strange fevers, burning within, kept him awake. He married a
girl who sat in a chair next to his own in the art school and went to
live in an apartment house in Brooklyn. Two children were born to the
woman he married, and Enoch got a job in a place where illustrations
are made for advertisements.
That began another phase of Enoch’s life. He began to play at a new
game. For a while he was very proud of himself in the role of producing
citizen of the world. He dismissed the essence of things and played
with realities. In the fall he voted at an election and he had a
newspaper thrown on his porch each morning. When in the evening he came
home from work he got off a streetcar and walked sedately along behind
some business man, striving to look very substantial and important. As
a payer of taxes he thought he should post himself on how things are
run. “I’m getting to be of some moment, a real part of things, of the
state and the city and all that,” he told himself with an amusing
miniature air of dignity. Once, coming home from Philadelphia, he had a
discussion with a man met on a train. Enoch talked about the
advisability of the government’s owning and operating the railroads and
the man gave him a cigar. It was Enoch’s notion that such a move on the
part of the government would be a good thing, and he grew quite excited
as he talked. Later he remembered his own words with pleasure. “I gave
him something to think about, that fellow,” he muttered to himself as
he climbed the stairs to his Brooklyn apartment.
To be sure, Enoch’s marriage did not turn out. He himself brought it to
an end. He began to feel choked and walled in by the life in the
apartment, and to feel toward his wife and even toward his children as
he had felt concerning the friends who once came to visit him. He began
to tell little lies about business engagements that would give him
freedom to walk alone in the street at night and, the chance offering,
he secretly re-rented the room facing Washington Square. Then Mrs. Al
Robinson died on the farm near Winesburg, and he got eight thousand
dollars from the bank that acted as trustee of her estate. That took
Enoch out of the world of men altogether. He gave the money to his wife
and told her he could not live in the apartment any more. She cried and
was angry and threatened, but he only stared at her and went his own
way. In reality the wife did not care much. She thought Enoch slightly
insane and was a little afraid of him. When it was quite sure that he
would never come back, she took the two children and went to a village
in Connecticut where she had lived as a girl. In the end she married a
man who bought and sold real estate and was contented enough.
And so Enoch Robinson stayed in the New York room among the people of
his fancy, playing with them, talking to them, happy as a child is
happy. They were an odd lot, Enoch’s people. They were made, I suppose,
out of real people he had seen and who had for some obscure reason made
an appeal to him. There was a woman with a sword in her hand, an old
man with a long white beard who went about followed by a dog, a young
girl whose stockings were always coming down and hanging over her shoe
tops. There must have been two dozen of the shadow people, invented by
the child-mind of Enoch Robinson, who lived in the room with him.
And Enoch was happy. Into the room he went and locked the door. With an
absurd air of importance he talked aloud, giving instructions, making
comments on life. He was happy and satisfied to go on making his living
in the advertising place until something happened. Of course something
did happen. That is why he went back to live in Winesburg and why we
know about him. The thing that happened was a woman. It would be that
way. He was too happy. Something had to come into his world. Something
had to drive him out of the New York room to live out his life an
obscure, jerky little figure, bobbing up and down on the streets of an
Ohio town at evening when the sun was going down behind the roof of
Wesley Moyer’s livery barn.
About the thing that happened. Enoch told George Willard about it one
night. He wanted to talk to someone, and he chose the young newspaper
reporter because the two happened to be thrown together at a time when
the younger man was in a mood to understand.
Youthful sadness, young man’s sadness, the sadness of a growing boy in
a village at the year’s end, opened the lips of the old man. The
sadness was in the heart of George Willard and was without meaning, but
it appealed to Enoch Robinson.
It rained on the evening when the two met and talked, a drizzly wet
October rain. The fruition of the year had come and the night should
have been fine with a moon in the sky and the crisp sharp promise of
frost in the air, but it wasn’t that way. It rained and little puddles
of water shone under the street lamps on Main Street. In the woods in
the darkness beyond the Fair Ground water dripped from the black trees.
Beneath the trees wet leaves were pasted against tree roots that
protruded from the ground. In gardens back of houses in Winesburg dry
shriveled potato vines lay sprawling on the ground. Men who had
finished the evening meal and who had planned to go uptown to talk the
evening away with other men at the back of some store changed their
minds. George Willard tramped about in the rain and was glad that it
rained. He felt that way. He was like Enoch Robinson on the evenings
when the old man came down out of his room and wandered alone in the
streets. He was like that only that George Willard had become a tall
young man and did not think it manly to weep and carry on. For a month
his mother had been very ill and that had something to do with his
sadness, but not much. He thought about himself and to the young that
always brings sadness.
Enoch Robinson and George Willard met beneath a wooden awning that
extended out over the sidewalk before Voight’s wagon shop on Maumee
Street just off the main street of Winesburg. They went together from
there through the rain-washed streets to the older man’s room on the
third floor of the Heffner Block. The young reporter went willingly
enough. Enoch Robinson asked him to go after the two had talked for ten
minutes. The boy was a little afraid but had never been more curious in
his life. A hundred times he had heard the old man spoken of as a
little off his head and he thought himself rather brave and manly to go
at all. From the very beginning, in the street in the rain, the old man
talked in a queer way, trying to tell the story of the room in
Washington Square and of his life in the room. “You’ll understand if
you try hard enough,” he said conclusively. “I have looked at you when
you went past me on the street and I think you can understand. It isn’t
hard. All you have to do is to believe what I say, just listen and
believe, that’s all there is to it.”
It was past eleven o’clock that evening when old Enoch, talking to
George Willard in the room in the Heffner Block, came to the vital
thing, the story of the woman and of what drove him out of the city to
live out his life alone and defeated in Winesburg. He sat on a cot by
the window with his head in his hand and George Willard was in a chair
by a table. A kerosene lamp sat on the table and the room, although
almost bare of furniture, was scrupulously clean. As the man talked
George Willard began to feel that he would like to get out of the chair
and sit on the cot also. He wanted to put his arms about the little old
man. In the half darkness the man talked and the boy listened, filled
with sadness.
“She got to coming in there after there hadn’t been anyone in the room
for years,” said Enoch Robinson. “She saw me in the hallway of the
house and we got acquainted. I don’t know just what she did in her own
room. I never went there. I think she was a musician and played a
violin. Every now and then she came and knocked at the door and I
opened it. In she came and sat down beside me, just sat and looked
about and said nothing. Anyway, she said nothing that mattered.”
The old man arose from the cot and moved about the room. The overcoat
he wore was wet from the rain and drops of water kept falling with a
soft thump on the floor. When he again sat upon the cot George Willard
got out of the chair and sat beside him.
“I had a feeling about her. She sat there in the room with me and she
was too big for the room. I felt that she was driving everything else
away. We just talked of little things, but I couldn’t sit still. I
wanted to touch her with my fingers and to kiss her. Her hands were so
strong and her face was so good and she looked at me all the time.”
The trembling voice of the old man became silent and his body shook as
from a chill. “I was afraid,” he whispered. “I was terribly afraid. I
didn’t want to let her come in when she knocked at the door but I
couldn’t sit still. ‘No, no,’ I said to myself, but I got up and opened
the door just the same. She was so grown up, you see. She was a woman.
I thought she would be bigger than I was there in that room.”
Enoch Robinson stared at George Willard, his childlike blue eyes
shining in the lamplight. Again he shivered. “I wanted her and all the
time I didn’t want her,” he explained. “Then I began to tell her about
my people, about everything that meant anything to me. I tried to keep
quiet, to keep myself to myself, but I couldn’t. I felt just as I did
about opening the door. Sometimes I ached to have her go away and never
come back any more.”
The old man sprang to his feet and his voice shook with excitement.
“One night something happened. I became mad to make her understand me
and to know what a big thing I was in that room. I wanted her to see
how important I was. I told her over and over. When she tried to go
away, I ran and locked the door. I followed her about. I talked and
talked and then all of a sudden things went to smash. A look came into
her eyes and I knew she did understand. Maybe she had understood all
the time. I was furious. I couldn’t stand it. I wanted her to
understand but, don’t you see, I couldn’t let her understand. I felt
that then she would know everything, that I would be submerged, drowned
out, you see. That’s how it is. I don’t know why.”
The old man dropped into a chair by the lamp and the boy listened,
filled with awe. “Go away, boy,” said the man. “Don’t stay here with me
any more. I thought it might be a good thing to tell you but it isn’t.
I don’t want to talk any more. Go away.”
George Willard shook his head and a note of command came into his
voice. “Don’t stop now. Tell me the rest of it,” he commanded sharply.
“What happened? Tell me the rest of the story.”
Enoch Robinson sprang to his feet and ran to the window that looked
down into the deserted main street of Winesburg. George Willard
followed. By the window the two stood, the tall awkward boy-man and the
little wrinkled man-boy. The childish, eager voice carried forward the
tale. “I swore at her,” he explained. “I said vile words. I ordered her
to go away and not to come back. Oh, I said terrible things. At first
she pretended not to understand but I kept at it. I screamed and
stamped on the floor. I made the house ring with my curses. I didn’t
want 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.”