SOPHISTICATION

It was early evening of a day in the late fall and the Winesburg County

Fair had brought crowds of country people into town. The day had been

clear and the night came on warm and pleasant. On the Trunion Pike,

where the road after it left town stretched away between berry fields

now covered with dry brown leaves, the dust from passing wagons arose

in clouds. Children, curled into little balls, slept on the straw

scattered on wagon beds. Their hair was full of dust and their fingers

black and sticky. The dust rolled away over the fields and the

departing sun set it ablaze with colors.

In the main street of Winesburg crowds filled the stores and the

sidewalks. Night came on, horses whinnied, the clerks in the stores ran

madly about, children became lost and cried lustily, an American town

worked terribly at the task of amusing itself.

Pushing his way through the crowds in Main Street, young George Willard

concealed himself in the stairway leading to Doctor Reefy’s office and

looked at the people. With feverish eyes he watched the faces drifting

past under the store lights. Thoughts kept coming into his head and he

did not want to think. He stamped impatiently on the wooden steps and

looked sharply about. “Well, is she going to stay with him all day?

Have I done all this waiting for nothing?” he muttered.

George Willard, the Ohio village boy, was fast growing into manhood and

new thoughts had been coming into his mind. All that day, amid the jam

of people at the Fair, he had gone about feeling lonely. He was about

to leave Winesburg to go away to some city where he hoped to get work

on a city newspaper and he felt grown up. The mood that had taken

possession of him was a thing known to men and unknown to boys. He felt

old and a little tired. Memories awoke in him. To his mind his new

sense of maturity set him apart, made of him a half-tragic figure. He

wanted someone to understand the feeling that had taken possession of

him after his mother’s death.

There is a time in the life of every boy when he for the first time

takes the backward view of life. Perhaps that is the moment when he

crosses the line into manhood. The boy is walking through the street of

his town. He is thinking of the future and of the figure he will cut in

the world. Ambitions and regrets awake within him. Suddenly something

happens; he stops under a tree and waits as for a voice calling his

name. Ghosts of old things creep into his consciousness; the voices

outside of himself whisper a message concerning the limitations of

life. From being quite sure of himself and his future he becomes not at

all sure. If he be an imaginative boy a door is torn open and for the

first time he looks out upon the world, seeing, as though they marched

in procession before him, the countless figures of men who before his

time have come out of nothingness into the world, lived their lives and

again disappeared into nothingness. The sadness of sophistication has

come to the boy. With a little gasp he sees himself as merely a leaf

blown by the wind through the streets of his village. He knows that in

spite of all the stout talk of his fellows he must live and die in

uncertainty, a thing blown by the winds, a thing destined like corn to

wilt in the sun. He shivers and looks eagerly about. The eighteen years

he has lived seem but a moment, a breathing space in the long march of

humanity. Already he hears death calling. With all his heart he wants

to come close to some other human, touch someone with his hands, be

touched by the hand of another. If he prefers that the other be a

woman, that is because he believes that a woman will be gentle, that

she will understand. He wants, most of all, understanding.

When the moment of sophistication came to George Willard his mind

turned to Helen White, the Winesburg banker’s daughter. Always he had

been conscious of the girl growing into womanhood as he grew into

manhood. Once on a summer night when he was eighteen, he had walked

with her on a country road and in her presence had given way to an

impulse to boast, to make himself appear big and significant in her

eyes. Now he wanted to see her for another purpose. He wanted to tell

her of the new impulses that had come to him. He had tried to make her

think of him as a man when he knew nothing of manhood and now he wanted

to be with her and to try to make her feel the change he believed had

taken place in his nature.

As for Helen White, she also had come to a period of change. What

George felt, she in her young woman’s way felt also. She was no longer

a girl and hungered to reach into the grace and beauty of womanhood.

She had come home from Cleveland, where she was attending college, to

spend a day at the Fair. She also had begun to have memories. During

the day she sat in the grand-stand with a young man, one of the

instructors from the college, who was a guest of her mother’s. The

young man was of a pedantic turn of mind and she felt at once he would

not do for her purpose. At the Fair she was glad to be seen in his

company as he was well dressed and a stranger. She knew that the fact

of his presence would create an impression. During the day she was

happy, but when night came on she began to grow restless. She wanted to

drive the instructor away, to get out of his presence. While they sat

together in the grand-stand and while the eyes of former schoolmates

were upon them, she paid so much attention to her escort that he grew

interested. “A scholar needs money. I should marry a woman with money,”

he mused.

Helen White was thinking of George Willard even as he wandered gloomily

through the crowds thinking of her. She remembered the summer evening

when they had walked together and wanted to walk with him again. She

thought that the months she had spent in the city, the going to

theaters and the seeing of great crowds wandering in lighted

thoroughfares, had changed her profoundly. She wanted him to feel and

be conscious of the change in her nature.

The summer evening together that had left its mark on the memory of

both the young man and woman had, when looked at quite sensibly, been

rather stupidly spent. They had walked out of town along a country

road. Then they had stopped by a fence near a field of young corn and

George had taken off his coat and let it hang on his arm. “Well, I’ve

stayed here in Winesburg—yes—I’ve not yet gone away but I’m growing

up,” he had said. “I’ve been reading books and I’ve been thinking. I’m

going to try to amount to something in life.

“Well,” he explained, “that isn’t the point. Perhaps I’d better quit

talking.”

The confused boy put his hand on the girl’s arm. His voice trembled.

The two started to walk back along the road toward town. In his

desperation George boasted, “I’m going to be a big man, the biggest

that ever lived here in Winesburg,” he declared. “I want you to do

something, I don’t know what. Perhaps it is none of my business. I want

you to try to be different from other women. You see the point. It’s

none of my business I tell you. I want you to be a beautiful woman. You

see what I want.”

The boy’s voice failed and in silence the two came back into town and

went along the street to Helen White’s house. At the gate he tried to

say something impressive. Speeches he had thought out came into his

head, but they seemed utterly pointless. “I thought—I used to think—I

had it in my mind you would marry Seth Richmond. Now I know you won’t,”

was all he could find to say as she went through the gate and toward

the door of her house.

On the warm fall evening as he stood in the stairway and looked at the

crowd drifting through Main Street, George thought of the talk beside

the field of young corn and was ashamed of the figure he had made of

himself. In the street the people surged up and down like cattle

confined in a pen. Buggies and wagons almost filled the narrow

thoroughfare. A band played and small boys raced along the sidewalk,

diving between the legs of men. Young men with shining red faces walked

awkwardly about with girls on their arms. In a room above one of the

stores, where a dance was to be held, the fiddlers tuned their

instruments. The broken sounds floated down through an open window and

out across the murmur of voices and the loud blare of the horns of the

band. The medley of sounds got on young Willard’s nerves. Everywhere,

on all sides, the sense of crowding, moving life closed in about him.

He wanted to run away by himself and think. “If she wants to stay with

that fellow she may. Why should I care? What difference does it make to

me?” he growled and went along Main Street and through Hern’s Grocery

into a side street.

George felt so utterly lonely and dejected that he wanted to weep but

pride made him walk rapidly along, swinging his arms. He came to Wesley

Moyer’s livery barn and stopped in the shadows to listen to a group of

men who talked of a race Wesley’s stallion, Tony Tip, had won at the

Fair during the afternoon. A crowd had gathered in front of the barn

and before the crowd walked Wesley, prancing up and down boasting. He

held a whip in his hand and kept tapping the ground. Little puffs of

dust arose in the lamplight. “Hell, quit your talking,” Wesley

exclaimed. “I wasn’t afraid, I knew I had ’em beat all the time. I

wasn’t afraid.”

Ordinarily George Willard would have been intensely interested in the

boasting of Moyer, the horseman. Now it made him angry. He turned and

hurried away along the street. “Old windbag,” he sputtered. “Why does

he want to be bragging? Why don’t he shut up?”

George went into a vacant lot and, as he hurried along, fell over a

pile of rubbish. A nail protruding from an empty barrel tore his

trousers. He sat down on the ground and swore. With a pin he mended the

torn place and then arose and went on. “I’ll go to Helen White’s house,

that’s what I’ll do. I’ll walk right in. I’ll say that I want to see

her. I’ll walk right in and sit down, that’s what I’ll do,” he

declared, climbing over a fence and beginning to run.

On the veranda of Banker White’s house Helen was restless and

distraught. The instructor sat between the mother and daughter. His

talk wearied the girl. Although he had also been raised in an Ohio

town, the instructor began to put on the airs of the city. He wanted to

appear cosmopolitan. “I like the chance you have given me to study the

background out of which most of our girls come,” he declared. “It was

good of you, Mrs. White, to have me down for the day.” He turned to

Helen and laughed. “Your life is still bound up with the life of this

town?” he asked. “There are people here in whom you are interested?” To

the girl his voice sounded pompous and heavy.

Helen arose and went into the house. At the door leading to a garden at

the back she stopped and stood listening. Her mother began to talk.

“There is no one here fit to associate with a girl of Helen’s

breeding,” she said.

Helen ran down a flight of stairs at the back of the house and into the

garden. In the darkness she stopped and stood trembling. It seemed to

her that the world was full of meaningless people saying words. Afire

with eagerness she ran through a garden gate and, turning a corner by

the banker’s barn, went into a little side street. “George! Where are

you, George?” she cried, filled with nervous excitement. She stopped

running, and leaned against a tree to laugh hysterically. Along the

dark little street came George Willard, still saying words. “I’m going

to walk right into her house. I’ll go right in and sit down,” he

declared as he came up to her. He stopped and stared stupidly. “Come

on,” he said and took hold of her hand. With hanging heads they walked

away along the street under the trees. Dry leaves rustled under foot.

Now that he had found her George wondered what he had better do and

say.

At the upper end of the Fair Ground, in Winesburg, there is a half

decayed old grand-stand. It has never been painted and the boards are

all warped out of shape. The Fair Ground stands on top of a low hill

rising out of the valley of Wine Creek and from the grand-stand one can

see at night, over a cornfield, the lights of the town reflected

against the sky.

George and Helen climbed the hill to the Fair Ground, coming by the

path past Waterworks Pond. The feeling of loneliness and isolation that

had come to the young man in the crowded streets of his town was both

broken and intensified by the presence of Helen. What he felt was

reflected in her.

In youth there are always two forces fighting in people. The warm

unthinking little animal struggles against the thing that reflects and

remembers, and the older, the more sophisticated thing had possession

of George Willard. Sensing his mood, Helen walked beside him filled

with respect. When they got to the grand-stand they climbed up under

the roof and sat down on one of the long bench-like seats.

There is something memorable in the experience to be had by going into

a fair ground that stands at the edge of a Middle Western town on a

night after the annual fair has been held. The sensation is one never

to be forgotten. On all sides are ghosts, not of the dead, but of

living people. Here, during the day just passed, have come the people

pouring in from the town and the country around. Farmers with their

wives and children and all the people from the hundreds of little frame

houses have gathered within these board walls. Young girls have laughed

and men with beards have talked of the affairs of their lives. The

place has been filled to overflowing with life. It has itched and

squirmed with life and now it is night and the life has all gone away.

The silence is almost terrifying. One conceals oneself standing

silently beside the trunk of a tree and what there is of a reflective

tendency in his nature is intensified. One shudders at the thought of

the meaninglessness of life while at the same instant, and if the

people of the town are his people, one loves life so intensely that

tears come into the eyes.

In the darkness under the roof of the grand-stand, George Willard sat

beside Helen White and felt very keenly his own insignificance in the

scheme of existence. Now that he had come out of town where the

presence of the people stirring about, busy with a multitude of

affairs, had been so irritating, the irritation was all gone. The

presence of Helen renewed and refreshed him. It was as though her

woman’s hand was assisting him to make some minute readjustment of the

machinery of his life. He began to think of the people in the town

where he had always lived with something like reverence. He had

reverence for Helen. He wanted to love and to be loved by her, but he

did not want at the moment to be confused by her womanhood. In the

darkness he took hold of her hand and when she crept close put a hand

on her shoulder. A wind began to blow and he shivered. With all his

strength he tried to hold and to understand the mood that had come upon

him. In that high place in the darkness the two oddly sensitive human

atoms held each other tightly and waited. In the mind of each was the

same thought. “I have come to this lonely place and here is this

other,” was the substance of the thing felt.

In Winesburg the crowded day had run itself out into the long night of

the late fall. Farm horses jogged away along lonely country roads

pulling their portion of weary people. Clerks began to bring samples of

goods in off the sidewalks and lock the doors of stores. In the Opera

House a crowd had gathered to see a show and further down Main Street

the fiddlers, their instruments tuned, sweated and worked to keep the

feet of youth flying over a dance floor.

In the darkness in the grand-stand Helen White and George Willard

remained silent. Now and then the spell that held them was broken and

they turned and tried in the dim light to see into each other’s eyes.

They kissed but that impulse did not last. At the upper end of the Fair

Ground a half dozen men worked over horses that had raced during the

afternoon. The men had built a fire and were heating kettles of water.

Only their legs could be seen as they passed back and forth in the

light. When the wind blew the little flames of the fire danced crazily

about.

George and Helen arose and walked away into the darkness. They went

along a path past a field of corn that had not yet been cut. The wind

whispered among the dry corn blades. For a moment during the walk back

into town the spell that held them was broken. When they had come to

the crest of Waterworks Hill they stopped by a tree and George again

put his hands on the girl’s shoulders. She embraced him eagerly and

then again they drew quickly back from that impulse. They stopped

kissing and stood a little apart. Mutual respect grew big in them. They

were both embarrassed and to relieve their embarrassment dropped into

the animalism of youth. They laughed and began to pull and haul at each

other. In some way chastened and purified by the mood they had been in,

they became, not man and woman, not boy and girl, but excited little

animals.

It was so they went down the hill. In the darkness they played like two

splendid young things in a young world. Once, running swiftly forward,

Helen tripped George and he fell. He squirmed and shouted. Shaking with

laughter, he roiled down the hill. Helen ran after him. For just a

moment she stopped in the darkness. There was no way of knowing what

woman’s thoughts went through her mind but, when the bottom of the hill

was reached and she came up to the boy, she took his arm and walked

beside him in dignified silence. For some reason they could not have

explained they had both got from their silent evening together the

thing needed. Man or boy, woman or girl, they had for a moment taken

hold of the thing that makes the mature life of men and women in the

modern world possible.