viernes, 6 de marzo de 2015

Short Stories: Sherwood Anderson - The door of the trap - Links to more Short Stories

Sherwood Anderson

Winifred Walker understood some things clearly enough. She understood that when a man is put behind iron bars he is in prison. Marriage was marriage to her.
It was that to her husband Hugh Walker, too, as he found out. Still he didn't understand. It might have been better had he understood, then he might at least have found himself. He didn't. After his marriage five or six years passed like shadows of wind blown trees playing on a wall. He was in a drugged, silent state. In the morning and evening every day he saw his wife. Occasionally something happened within him and he kissed her. Three children were born. He taught mathematics in the little college at Union Valley, Illinois, and waited.
For what? He began to ask himself that question. It came to him at first faintly like an echo. Then it became an insistent question. "I want answering," the question seemed to say. "Stop fooling along. Give your attention to me."
Hugh walked through the streets of the Illinois town. "Well, I'm married. I have children," he muttered.
He went home to his own house. He did not have to live within his income from the little college, and so the house was rather large and comfortably furnished. There was a negro woman who took care of the children and another who cooked and did the housework. One of the women was in the habit of crooning low soft negro songs. Sometimes Hugh stopped at the house door and listened. He could see through the glass in the door into the room where his family was gathered. Two children played with blocks on the floor. His wife sat sewing. The old negress sat in a rocking chair with his youngest child, a baby, in her arms. The whole room seemed under the spell of the crooning voice. Hugh fell under the spell. He waited in silence. The voice carried him far away somewhere, into forests, along the edges of swamps. There was nothing very definite about his thinking. He would have given a good deal to be able to be definite.
He went inside the house. "Well, here I am," his mind seemed to say, "here I am. This is my house, these are my children."

He looked at his wife Winifred. She had grown a little plump since their marriage. "Perhaps it is the mother in her coming out, she has had three children," he thought.
The crooning old negro woman went away, taking the youngest child with her. He and Winifred held a fragmentary conversation. "Have you been well to-day, dear?" she asked. "Yes," he answered.
If the two older children were intent on their play his chain of thought was not broken. His wife never broke it as the children did when they came running to pull and tear at him. Throughout the early evening, after the children went to bed, the surface of the shell of him was not broken at all. A brother college professor and his wife came in or he and Winifred went to a neighbor's house. There was talk. Even when he and Winifred were alone together in the house there was talk. "The shutters are becoming loose," she said. The house was an old one and had green shutters. They were continually coming loose and at night blew back and forth on their hinges making a loud banging noise.


Algernon Blackwood

Ambrose Bierce

Ana María Shua

Anton Chekhov

Arthur Conan Doyle

Charlie Fish

Charlie Taylor

David Foster Wallace

Edgar Allan Poe

Edith Wharton

Egerton Castle

Elizabeth Louisa Moresby

Ellis Parker Butler

Ernest William Hornung

Gabriel García Márquez

G.K. Chesterton

Guy de Maupassant

Honore De Balzac

James Matthew Barrie

John Banim

Joseph Conrad

Leonid Nikoláievich Andréyev

Louis Becke

Lyman Frank Baum

Mikhail Petrovich Artsybashev

Oscar Wilde

Rex Ellingwood Beach

Sherwood Anderson

Timothy Shay Arthur

Willa Cather

William Black

Short Stories: Sherwood Anderson - The door of the trap - Links to more Short Stories 

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