Chapter III

by Sherwood Anderson

　　Rosalind's life in Chicago had been like a stream that apparently turnsback toward its source. It ran forward, then stopped, turned, twisted.At just the time when her awakening became a half realized thing shewent to work at a new place, a piano factory on the Northwest Sidefacing a branch of the Chicago River. She became secretary to a man whowas treasurer of the company. He was a slender, rather small man ofthirty-eight with thin white restless hands and with gray eyes thatwere clouded and troubled. For the first time she became reallyinterested in the work that ate up her days. Her employer was chargedwith the responsibility of passing upon the credit of the firm'scustomers and was unfitted for the task. He was not shrewd and within ashort time had made two costly mistakes by which the company had lostmoney. "I have too much to do. My time is too much taken up withdetails. I need help here," he had explained, evidently irritated, andRosalind had been engaged to relieve him of details.

　　Her new employer, named Walter Sayers, was the only son of a man who inhis time had been well known in Chicago's social and club life.Everyone had thought him wealthy and he had tried to live up topeople's estimate of his fortune. His son Walter had wanted to be asinger and had expected to inherit a comfortable fortune. At thirty hehad married and three years later when his father died he was alreadythe father of two children.

　　And then suddenly he had found himself quite penniless. He could singbut his voice was not large. It wasn't an instrument with which onecould make money in any dignified way. Fortunately his wife had somemoney of her own. It was her money, invested in the piano manufacturingbusiness, that had secured him the position as treasurer of thecompany. With his wife he withdrew from social life and they went tolive in a comfortable house in a suburb.

　　Walter Sayers gave up music, apparently surrendered even his interestin it. Many men and women from his suburb went to hear the orchestra onFriday afternoons but he did not go. "What's the use of torturingmyself and thinking of a life I cannot lead?" he said to himself. Tohis wife he pretended a growing interest in his work at the factory."It's really fascinating. It's a game, like moving men back and forthon a chess board. I shall grow to love it," he said.

　　He had tried to build up interest in his work but had not beensuccessful. Certain things would not get into his consciousness.Although he tried hard he could not make the fact that profit or lossto the company depended upon his judgment seem important to himself. Itwas a matter of money lost or gained and money meant nothing to him."It's father's fault," he thought. "While he lived money never meantanything to me. I was brought up wrong. I am ill prepared for thebattle of life." He became too timid and lost business that should havecome to the company quite naturally. Then he became too bold in theextension of credit and other losses followed.

　　His wife was quite happy and satisfied with her life. There were fouror five acres of land about the suburban house and she became absorbedin the work of raising flowers and vegetables. For the sake of thechildren she kept a cow. With a young negro gardener she puttered aboutall day, digging in the earth, spreading manure about the roots ofbushes and shrubs, planting and transplanting. In the evening when hehad come home from his office in his car she took him by the arm andled him eagerly about. The two children trotted at their heels. Shetalked glowingly. They stood at a low spot at the foot of the gardenand she spoke of the necessity of putting in tile. The prospect seemedto excite her. "It will be the best land on the place when it'sdrained," she said. She stooped and with a trowel turned over the softblack soil. An odor arose. "See! Just see how rich and black it is!"she exclaimed eagerly. "It's a little sour now because water has stoodon it." She seemed to be apologizing as for a wayward child. "When it'sdrained I shall use lime to sweeten it," she added. She was like amother leaning over the cradle of a sleeping babe. Her enthusiasmirritated him.

　　When Rosalind came to take the position in his office the slow fires ofhatred that had been burning beneath the surface of Walter Savers' lifehad already eaten away much of his vigor and energy. His body sagged inthe office chair and there were heavy sagging lines at the corners ofhis mouth. Outwardly he remained always kindly and cheerful but back ofthe clouded, troubled eyes the fires of hatred burned slowly,persistently. It was as though he was trying to awaken from a troubleddream that gripped him, a dream that frightened a little, that wasunending. He had contracted little physical habits. A sharp papercutter lay on his desk. As he read a letter from one of the firm'scustomers he took it up and jabbed little holes in the leather cover ofhis desk. When he had several letters to sign he took up his pen andjabbed it almost viciously into the inkwell. Then before signing hejabbed it in again. Sometimes he did the thing a dozen times insuccession.

　　Sometimes the things that went on beneath the surface of Walter Sayersfrightened him. In order to do what he called "putting in his Saturdayafternoons and Sundays" he had taken up photography. The camera tookhim away from his own house and the sight of the garden where his wifeand the negro were busy digging, and into the fields and into stretchesof woodland at the edge of the suburban village. Also it took him awayfrom his wife's talk, from her eternal planning for the garden'sfuture. Here by the house tulip bulbs were to be put in in the fall.Later there would be a hedge of lilac bushes shutting off the housefrom the road. The men who lived in the other houses along the suburbanstreet spent their Saturday afternoons and Sunday mornings tinkeringwith motor cars. On Sunday afternoons they took their families driving,sitting up very straight and silent at the driving wheel. They consumedthe afternoon in a swift dash over country roads. The car ate up thehours. Monday morning and the work in the city was there, at the end ofthe road. They ran madly toward it.

　　For a time the use of the camera made Walter Sayers almost happy. Thestudy of light, playing on the trunk of a tree or over the grass in afield appealed to some instinct within. It was an uncertain delicatebusiness. He fixed himself a dark room upstairs in the house and spenthis evenings there. One dipped the films into the developing liquid,held them to the light and then dipped them again. The little nervesthat controlled the eyes were aroused. One felt oneself being enriched,a little--

　　One Sunday afternoon he went to walk in a strip of woodland and cameout upon the slope of a low hill. He had read somewhere that the lowhill country southwest of Chicago, in which his suburb lay, had oncebeen the shore of Lake Michigan. The low hills sprang out of the flatland and were covered with forests. Beyond them the flat lands beganagain. The prairies went on indefinitely, into infinity. People's liveswent on so. Life was too long. It was to be spent in the endless doingover and over of an unsatisfactory task. He sat on the slope and lookedout across the land.

　　He thought of his wife. She was back there, in the suburb in the hills,in her garden making things grow. It was a noble sort of thing to bedoing. One shouldn't be irritated.

　　Well he had married her expecting to have money of his own. Then hewould have worked at something else. Money would not have been involvedin the matter and success would not have been a thing one must seek. Hehad expected his own life would be motivated. No matter how much or howhard he worked he would not have been a great singer. What did thatmatter? There was a way to live--a way of life in which such things didnot matter. The delicate shades of things might be sought after. Beforehis eyes, there on the grass covered flat lands, the afternoon lightwas playing. It was like a breath, a vapor of color blown suddenly frombetween red lips out over the grey dead burned grass. Song might belike that. The beauty might come out of himself, out of his own body.

　　Again he thought of his wife and the sleeping light in his eyes flaredup, it became a flame. He felt himself being mean, unfair. It didn'tmatter. Where did the truth lie? Was his wife, digging in her garden,having always a succession of small triumphs, marching forward with theseasons--well, was she becoming a little old, lean and sharp, a littlevulgarized?

　　It seemed so to him. There was something smug in the way in which shemanaged to fling green growing flowering things over the black land. Itwas obvious the thing could be done and that there was satisfaction indoing it. It was a little like running a business and making money byit. There was a deep seated vulgarity involved in the whole matter. Hiswife put her hands into the black ground. They felt about, caressed theroots of the growing things. She laid hold of the slender trunk of ayoung tree in a certain way--as though she possessed it.

　　One could not deny that the destruction of beautiful things wasinvolved. Weeds grew in the garden, delicate shapely things. Sheplucked them out without thought. He had seen her do it.

　　As for himself, he also had been pulled out of something. Had he notsurrendered to the fact of a wife and growing children? Did he notspend his days doing work he detested? The anger within him burnedbright. The fire came into his conscious self. Why should a weed thatis to be destroyed pretend to a vegetable existence? As for putteringabout with a camera--was it not a form of cheating? He did not want tobe a photographer. He had once wanted to be a singer.

　　He arose and walked along the hillside, still watching the shadows playover the plains below. At night--in bed with his wife--well, was shenot sometimes with him as she was in the garden? Something was pluckedout of him and another thing grew in its place--something she wanted tohave grow. Their love making was like his puttering with a camera--tomake the weekends pass. She came at him a little too determinedly--sure. She was plucking delicate weeds in order that things she haddetermined upon--"vegetables," he exclaimed in disgust--in order thatvegetables might grow. Love was a fragrance, the shading of a tone overthe lips, out of the throat. It was like the afternoon light on theburned grass. Keeping a garden and making flowers grow had nothing todo with it.

　　Walter Sayers' fingers twitched. The camera hung by a strap over hisshoulder. He took hold of the strap and walked to a tree. He swung thebox above his head and brought it down with a thump against the treetrunk. The sharp breaking sound--the delicate parts of the machinebeing broken--was sweet to his ears. It was as though a song had comesuddenly from between his lips. Again he swung the box and againbrought it down against the tree trunk.