DEPARTURE
YOUNG GEORGE WILLARD got out of bed at four in
the morning. It was April and the young tree leaves
were just coming out of their buds. The trees along
the residence streets in Winesburg are maple and
the seeds are winged. When the wind blows they
whirl crazily about, filling the air and making a carpet underfoot.
George came downstairs into the hotel office carrying a brown leather bag. His trunk was packed
for departure. Since two o'clock he had been awake
thinking of the journey he was about to take and
wondering what he would find at the end of his
journey. The boy who slept in the hotel office lay
on a cot by the door. His mouth was open and he
snored lustily. George crept past the cot and went
out into the silent deserted main street. The east was
pink with the dawn and long streaks of light climbed
into the sky where a few stars still shone.
Beyond the last house on Trunion Pike in Winesburg there is a great stretch of open fields. The fields
are owned by farmers who live in town and drive
homeward at evening along Trunion Pike in light
creaking wagons. In the fields are planted berries
and small fruits. In the late afternoon in the hot
summers when the road and the fields are covered
with dust, a smoky haze lies over the great flat basin
of land. To look across it is like looking out across
the sea. In the spring when the land is green the
effect is somewhat different. The land becomes a
wide green billiard table on which tiny human insects toil up and down.
All through his boyhood and young manhood
George Willard had been in the habit of walking on
Trunion Pike. He had been in the midst of the great
open place on winter nights when it was covered
with snow and only the moon looked down at him;
he had been there in the fall when bleak winds blew
and on summer evenings when the air vibrated with
the song of insects. On the April morning he wanted
to go there again, to walk again in the silence. He
did walk to where the road dipped down by a little
stream two miles from town and then turned and
walked silently back again. When he got to Main
Street clerks were sweeping the sidewalks before the
stores. "Hey, you George. How does it feel to be
going away?" they asked.
The westbound train leaves Winesburg at seven
forty-five in the morning. Tom Little is conductor.
His train runs from Cleveland to where it connects
with a great trunk line railroad with terminals in
Chicago and New York. Tom has what in railroad
circles is called an "easy run." Every evening he
returns to his family. In the fall and spring he
spends his Sundays fishing in Lake Erie. He has a
round red face and small blue eyes. He knows the
people in the towns along his railroad better than a
city man knows the people who live in his apartment building.
George came down the little incline from the New
Willard House at seven o'clock. Tom Willard carried
his bag. The son had become taller than the father.
On the station platform everyone shook the young
man's hand. More than a dozen people waited
about. Then they talked of their own affairs. Even
Will Henderson, who was lazy and often slept until
nine, had got out of bed. George was embarrassed.
Gertrude Wilmot, a tall thin woman of fifty who
worked in the Winesburg post office, came along
the station platform. She had never before paid any
attention to George. Now she stopped and put out
her hand. In two words she voiced what everyone
felt. "Good luck," she said sharply and then turning
went on her way.
When the train came into the station George felt
relieved. He scampered hurriedly aboard. Helen
White came running along Main Street hoping to
have a parting word with him, but he had found a
seat and did not see her. When the train started Tom
Little punched his ticket, grinned and, although he
knew George well and knew on what adventure he
was just setting out, made no comment. Tom had
seen a thousand George Willards go out of their
towns to the city. It was a commonplace enough
incident with him. In the smoking car there was a
man who had just invited Tom to go on a fishing
trip to Sandusky Bay. He wanted to accept the invitation and talk over details.
George glanced up and down the car to be sure
no one was looking, then took out his pocketbook
and counted his money. His mind was occupied
with a desire not to appear green. Almost the last
words his father had said to him concerned the matter of his behavior when he got to the city. "Be a
sharp one," Tom Willard had said. "Keep your eyes
on your money. Be awake. That's the ticket. Don't
let anyone think you're a greenhorn."
After George counted his money he looked out of
the window and was surprised to see that the train
was still in Winesburg.
The young man, going out of his town to meet
the adventure of life, began to think but he did not
think of anything very big or dramatic. Things like
his mother's death, his departure from Winesburg,
the uncertainty of his future life in the city, the serious and larger aspects of his life did not come into
his mind.
He thought of little things--Turk Smollet wheeling boards through the main street of his town in
the morning, a tall woman, beautifully gowned,
who had once stayed overnight at his father's hotel,
Butch Wheeler the lamp lighter of Winesburg hurrying through the streets on a summer evening and
holding a torch in his hand, Helen White standing
by a window in the Winesburg post office and putting a stamp on an envelope.
The young man's mind was carried away by his
growing passion for dreams. One looking at him
would not have thought him particularly sharp.
With the recollection of little things occupying his
mind he closed his eyes and leaned back in the car
seat. He stayed that way for a long time and when
he aroused himself and again looked out of the car
window the town of Winesburg had disappeared
and his life there had become but a background on
which to paint the dreams of his manhood.
Sophistication