Winesburg, Ohio

Doctor Parcival was a large man with a drooping mouth covered by a yellow mustache.  He always wore a dirty white waistcoat out of the pockets of which protruded a number of the kind of black cigars known as stogies.  His teeth were black and irregular and there was something strange about his eyes.  The lid of the left eye twitched; it fell down and snapped up; it was exactly as though the lid of the eye were a window shade and someone stood inside the doctor’s head playing with the cord.

Doctor Parcival had a liking for the boy, George Willard.  It began when George had been working for a year on the Winesburg Eagle and the acquaintanceship was entirely a matter of the doctor’s own making.

In the late afternoon Will Henderson, owner and editor of the Eagle, went over to Tom Willy’s saloon.  Along an alleyway he went and slipping in at the back door of the saloon began drinking a drink made of a combination of sloe gin and soda water.  Will Henderson was a sensualist and had reached the age of forty-five.  He imagined the gin renewed the youth in him.  Like most sensualists he enjoyed talking of women, and for an hour he lingered about gossiping with Tom Willy.  The saloon keeper was a short, broad-shouldered man with peculiarly marked hands.  That flaming kind of birthmark that sometimes paints with red the faces of men and women had touched with red Tom Willy’s fingers and the backs of his hands.  As he stood by the bar talking to Will Henderson he rubbed the hands together.  As he grew more and more excited the red of his fingers deepened.  It was as though the hands had been dipped in blood that had dried and faded.

As Will Henderson stood at the bar looking at the red hands and talking of women, his assistant, George Willard, sat in the office of the Winesburg Eagle and listened to the talk of Doctor Parcival.

Doctor Parcival appeared immediately after Will Henderson had disappeared.  One might have supposed that the doctor had been watching from his office window and had seen the editor going along the alleyway.  Coming in at the front door and finding himself a chair, he lighted one of the stogies and crossing his legs began to talk.  He seemed intent upon convincing the boy of the advisability of adopting a line of conduct that he was himself unable to define.

“If you have your eyes open you will see that although I call myself a doctor I have mighty few patients,” he began.  “There is a reason for that.  It is not an accident and it is not because I do not know as much of medicine as anyone here.  I do not want patients.  The reason, you see, does not appear on the surface.  It lies in fact in my character, which has, if you think about it, many strange turns.  Why I want to talk to you of the matter I don’t know.  I might keep still and get more credit in your eyes.  I have a desire to make you admire me, that’s a fact.  I don’t know why.  That’s why I talk.  It’s very amusing, eh?”

Sometimes the doctor launched into long tales concerning himself.  To the boy the tales were very real and full of meaning.  He began to admire the fat unclean-looking man and, in the afternoon when Will Henderson had gone, looked forward with keen interest to the doctor’s coming.

Doctor Parcival had been in Winesburg about five years.  He came from Chicago and when he arrived was drunk and got into a fight with Albert Longworth, the baggageman.  The fight concerned a trunk and ended by the doctor’s being escorted to the village lockup.  When he was released he rented a room above a shoe-repairing shop at the lower end of Main Street and put out the sign that announced himself as a doctor.  Although he had but few patients and these of the poorer sort who were unable to pay, he seemed to have plenty of money for his needs.  He slept in the office that was unspeakably dirty and dined at Biff Carter’s lunch room in a small frame building opposite the railroad station.  In the summer the lunch room was filled with flies and Biff Carter’s white apron was more dirty than his floor.  Doctor Parcival did not mind.  Into the lunch room he stalked and deposited twenty cents upon the counter.  “Feed me what you wish for that,” he said laughing.  “Use up food that you wouldn’t otherwise sell.  It makes no difference to me.  I am a man of distinction, you see.  Why should I concern myself with what I eat.”

The tales that Doctor Parcival told George Willard began nowhere and ended nowhere.  Sometimes the boy thought they must all be inventions, a pack of lies.  And then again he was convinced that they contained the very essence of truth.

“I was a reporter like you here,” Doctor Parcival began.  “It was in a town in Iowa—­or was it in Illinois?  I don’t remember and anyway it makes no difference.  Perhaps I am trying to conceal my identity and don’t want to be very definite.  Have you ever thought it strange that I have money for my needs although I do nothing?  I may have stolen a great sum of money or been involved in a murder before I came here.  There is food for thought in that, eh?  If you were a really smart newspaper reporter you would look me up.  In Chicago there was a Doctor Cronin who was murdered.  Have you heard of that?  Some men murdered him and put him in a trunk.  In the early morning they hauled the trunk across the city.  It sat on the back of an express wagon and they were on the seat as unconcerned as anything.  Along they went through quiet streets where everyone was asleep.  The sun was just coming up over the lake.  Funny, eh—­just to think of them smoking pipes and chattering as they drove along as unconcerned as I am now.  Perhaps I was one of those men.  That would be a strange turn of things, now wouldn’t it, eh?” Again Doctor Parcival began his tale:  “Well, anyway there I was, a reporter on a paper just as you are here, running about and getting little items to print.  My mother was poor.  She took in washing.  Her dream was to make me a Presbyterian minister and I was studying with that end in view.

“My father had been insane for a number of years.  He was in an asylum over at Dayton, Ohio.  There you see I have let it slip out!  All of this took place in Ohio, right here in Ohio.  There is a clew if you ever get the notion of looking me up.

“I was going to tell you of my brother.  That’s the object of all this.  That’s what I’m getting at.  My brother was a railroad painter and had a job on the Big Four.  You know that road runs through Ohio here.  With other men he lived in a box car and away they went from town to town painting the railroad property-switches, crossing gates, bridges, and stations.

“The Big Four paints its stations a nasty orange color.  How I hated that color!  My brother was always covered with it.  On pay days he used to get drunk and come home wearing his paint-covered clothes and bringing his money with him.  He did not give it to mother but laid it in a pile on our kitchen table.

“About the house he went in the clothes covered with the nasty orange colored paint.  I can see the picture.  My mother, who was small and had red, sad-looking eyes, would come into the house from a little shed at the back.  That’s where she spent her time over the washtub scrubbing people’s dirty clothes.  In she would come and stand by the table, rubbing her eyes with her apron that was covered with soap-suds.

“‘Don’t touch it!  Don’t you dare touch that money,’ my brother roared, and then he himself took five or ten dollars and went tramping off to the saloons.  When he had spent what he had taken he came back for more.  He never gave my mother any money at all but stayed about until he had spent it all, a little at a time.  Then he went back to his job with the painting crew on the railroad.  After he had gone things began to arrive at our house, groceries and such things.  Sometimes there would be a dress for mother or a pair of shoes for me.

“Strange, eh?  My mother loved my brother much more than she did me, although he never said a kind word to either of us and always raved up and down threatening us if we dared so much as touch the money that sometimes lay on the table three days.

“We got along pretty well.  I studied to be a minister and prayed.  I was a regular ass about saying prayers.  You should have heard me.  When my father died I prayed all night, just as I did sometimes when my brother was in town drinking and going about buying the things for us.  In the evening after supper I knelt by the table where the money lay and prayed for hours.  When no one was looking I stole a dollar or two and put it in my pocket.  That makes me laugh now but then it was terrible.  It was on my mind all the time.  I got six dollars a week from my job on the paper and always took it straight home to mother.  The few dollars I stole from my brother’s pile I spent on myself, you know, for trifles, candy and cigarettes and such things.

“When my father died at the asylum over at Dayton, I went over there.  I borrowed some money from the man for whom I worked and went on the train at night.  It was raining.  In the asylum they treated me as though I were a king.

“The men who had jobs in the asylum had found out I was a newspaper reporter.  That made them afraid.  There had been some negligence, some carelessness, you see, when father was ill.  They thought perhaps I would write it up in the paper and make a fuss.  I never intended to do anything of the kind.

“Anyway, in I went to the room where my father lay dead and blessed the dead body.  I wonder what put that notion into my head.  Wouldn’t my brother, the painter, have laughed, though.  There I stood over the dead body and spread out my hands.  The superintendent of the asylum and some of his helpers came in and stood about looking sheepish.  It was very amusing.  I spread out my hands and said, ‘Let peace brood over this carcass.’  That’s what I said.”

Jumping to his feet and breaking off the tale, Doctor Parcival began to walk up and down in the office of the Winesburg Eagle where George Willard sat listening.  He was awkward and, as the office was small, continually knocked against things.  “What a fool I am to be talking,” he said.  “That is not my object in coming here and forcing my acquaintanceship upon you.  I have something else in mind.  You are a reporter just as I was once and you have attracted my attention.  You may end by becoming just such another fool.  I want to warn you and keep on warning you.  That’s why I seek you out.”

Doctor Parcival began talking of George Willard’s attitude toward men.  It seemed to the boy that the man had but one object in view, to make everyone seem despicable.  “I want to fill you with hatred and contempt so that you will be a superior being,” he declared.  “Look at my brother.  There was a fellow, eh?  He despised everyone, you see.  You have no idea with what contempt he looked upon mother and me.  And was he not our superior?  You know he was.  You have not seen him and yet I have made you feel that.  I have given you a sense of it.  He is dead.  Once when he was drunk he lay down on the tracks and the car in which he lived with the other painters ran over him.”

* * *

One day in August Doctor Parcival had an adventure in Winesburg.  For a month George Willard had been going each morning to spend an hour in the doctor’s office.  The visits came about through a desire on the part of the doctor to read to the boy from the pages of a book he was in the process of writing.  To write the book Doctor Parcival declared was the object of his coming to Winesburg to live.

On the morning in August before the coming of the boy, an incident had happened in the doctor’s office.  There had been an accident on Main Street.  A team of horses had been frightened by a train and had run away.  A little girl, the daughter of a farmer, had been thrown from a buggy and killed.

On Main Street everyone had become excited and a cry for doctors had gone up.  All three of the active practitioners of the town had come quickly but had found the child dead.  From the crowd someone had run to the office of Doctor Parcival who had bluntly refused to go down out of his office to the dead child.  The useless cruelty of his refusal had passed unnoticed.  Indeed, the man who had come up the stairway to summon him had hurried away without hearing the refusal.

All of this, Doctor Parcival did not know and when George Willard came to his office he found the man shaking with terror.  “What I have done will arouse the people of this town,” he declared excitedly.  “Do I not know human nature?  Do I not know what will happen?  Word of my refusal will be whispered about.  Presently men will get together in groups and talk of it.  They will come here.  We will quarrel and there will be talk of hanging.  Then they will come again bearing a rope in their hands.”

Doctor Parcival shook with fright.  “I have a presentiment,” he declared emphatically.  “It may be that what I am talking about will not occur this morning.  It may be put off until tonight but I will be hanged.  Everyone will get excited.  I will be hanged to a lamp-post on Main Street.”

Going to the door of his dirty office, Doctor Parcival looked timidly down the stairway leading to the street.  When he returned the fright that had been in his eyes was beginning to be replaced by doubt.  Coming on tiptoe across the room he tapped George Willard on the shoulder.  “If not now, sometime,” he whispered, shaking his head.  “In the end I will be crucified, uselessly crucified.”

Doctor Parcival began to plead with George Willard.  “You must pay attention to me,” he urged.  “If something happens perhaps you will be able to write the book that I may never get written.  The idea is very simple, so simple that if you are not careful you will forget it.  It is this—­that everyone in the world is Christ and they are all crucified.  That’s what I want to say.  Don’t you forget that.  Whatever happens, don’t you dare let yourself forget.”