The Dumb Man

by Sherwood Anderson

　　The story concerns three men in a house in a street. If I could say thewords I would sing the story. I would whisper it into the ears ofwomen, of mothers. I would run through the streets saying it over andover. My tongue would be torn loose -- it would rattle against my teeth.

　　The three men are in a room in the house. One is young and dandified.He continually laughs.

　　There is a second man who has a long white beard. He is consumed withdoubt but occasionally his doubt leaves him and he sleeps.

　　A third man there is who has wicked eyes and who moves nervously aboutthe room rubbing his hands together. The three men are waiting --waiting.

　　Upstairs in the house there is a woman standing with her back to awall, in half darkness by a window.

　　That is the foundation of my story and everything I will ever know isdistilled in it.

　　I remember that a fourth man came to the house, a white silent man.Everything was as silent as the sea at night. His feet on the stonefloor of the room where the three men were made no sound.

　　The man with the wicked eyes became like a boiling liquid--he ran backand forth like a caged animal. The old grey man was infected by hisnervousness -- he kept pulling at his beard.

　　The fourth man, the white one, went upstairs to the woman.

　　There she was . . . waiting.

　　How silent the house was -- how loudly all the clocks in the neighborhoodticked. The woman upstairs craved love. That must have been the story.She hungered for love with her whole being. She wanted to create inlove. When the white silent man came into her presence she sprangforward. Her lips were parted. There was a smile on her lips.

　　The white one said nothing. In his eyes there was no rebuke, noquestion. His eyes were as impersonal as stars.

　　Down stairs the wicked one whined and ran back and forth like a littlelost hungry dog. The grey one tried to follow him about but presentlygrew tired and lay down on the floor to sleep. He never awoke again.

　　The dandified fellow lay on the floor too. He laughed and played withhis tiny black mustache.

　　I have no words to tell what happened in my story. I cannot tell thestory.

　　The white silent one may have been Death.

　　The waiting eager woman may have been Life.

　　Both the old grey bearded man and the wicked one puzzle me. I think andthink but cannot understand them. Most of the time however I do notthink of them at all. I keep thinking about the dandified man wholaughed all through my story.

　　If I could understand him I could understand everything. I could runthrough the world telling a wonderful story. I would no longer be dumb.

　　Why was I not given words? Why am I dumb?

　　I have a wonderful story to tell but know no way to tell it.