The Egg by Sherwood Anderson 中英对照

The Egg

[1876-1941]MY

FA

THER was, I am sure, intended by nature to be a cheerful, kindly man. Until

he

was

thirty- four

years

old

he

worked

as

a

farmhand

for

a

man

named

Thomas

Butterworth

whose place lay near the town of Bidwell, Ohio. He had then a horse of his own and on Saturday

evenings drove into town to spend a few hours in social intercourse with other farmhands. In town

he

drank

several

glasses

of

beer

and stood

about

in

Ben

Head's

saloon--crowded

on

Saturday

evenings with visiting farmhands. Songs were sung and glasses thumped on the bar. At ten o'clock

father

drove

home

along

a

lonely

country

road,

made

his

horse

comfortable

for

the

night

and

himself went to bed, quite happy in his position in life. He had at that time no notion of trying to

rise in the world.

It

was

in

the

spring

of

his

thirty-fifth

year

that

father

married

my

mother,

then

a

country

schoolteacher, and in the following spring I came wriggling and crying into the world. Something

happened to the two people. They became ambitious. The American passion for getting up in the

world took possession of them.

It may have been that mother was responsible. Being a schoolteacher she had no doubt read books

and magazines. She had, I presume, read of how Garfield, Lincoln, and other Americans rose from

poverty to fame and greatness and as I lay beside her--in the days of her lying-in--she may have

dreamed that I would someday rule men and cities. At any rate she induced father to give up his

place as a farmhand, sell his horse and embark on an independent enterprise of his own. She was a

tall

silent

woman with

a

long

nose

and

troubled

grey

eyes.

For

herself

she wanted

nothing. For

father and myself she was incurably ambitious.

The first venture into which the two people went turned out badly.

They rented ten acres of poor

stony land on Griggs's Road, eight miles from Bidwell, and launched into chicken raising. I grew

into boyhood on the place and got my first impressions of life there. From the beginning they were

impressions of disaster and if, in my turn, I am a gloomy man inclined to see the darker side of life,

I

attribute

it

to

the fact

that what

should

have

been for

me

the

happy

joyous

days

of childhood

were spent on a chicken farm.

One unversed in such matters can have no notion of the many and tragic things that can happen to

a chicken. It is born out of an egg, lives for a few weeks as a tiny fluffy thing such as you will see

pictured on Easter cards, then becomes hideously naked, eats quantities of corn and meal bought

by

the

sweat

of

your

father's

brow,

gets

diseases

called

pip,

cholera,

and

other

names,

stands

looking with stupid eyes at the sun, becomes sick and dies. A

few hens and now and then a rooster,

intended to serve God's mysterious ends, struggle through to maturity. The hens lay eggs out of

which

come

other chickens

and

the

dreadful cycle

is

thus

made complete. It

is

all

unbelievably

complex.

Most

philosophers

must

have

been

raised

on chicken

farms.

One

hopes for so

much

from a chicken and is so dreadfully disillusioned. Small chickens, just setting out on the journey of

life, look so bright and alert and they are in fact so dreadfully stupid. They are so much like people

they

mix

one

up

in

one's

judgments

of

life.

If

disease

does

not

kill

them

they

wait

until

your

expectations are thoroughly aroused and then walk under the wheels of a wagon--to go squashed

and dead back to their maker. V

ermin

infest their youth, and fortunes must be spent for curative

powders. In later life I have seen how a literature has been built up on the subject of fortunes to be

made out of the raising of chickens. It is intended to be read by the gods who have just eaten of the

tree of the knowledge of good and evil. It is a hopeful literature and declares that much may be

done

by

simple

ambitious

people

who

own

a

few

hens.

Do

not

be

led

astray

by

it. It was

not

written for you. Go hunt for gold on the frozen hills of Alaska, put your faith in the honesty of a

politician,

believe

if

you will

that

the world

is

daily

growing

better

and

that

good will

triumph

over evil, but do not read and believe the literature that is written concerning the hen. It was not

written for you.

I, however, digress. My tale does not primarily concern itself with the hen. If correctly told it will

center on the egg. For ten years my father and mother struggled to make our chicken farm pay and

then they gave up that struggle and began another. They moved into the town of Bidwell, Ohio

and

embarked

in

the

restaurant

business.

After

ten

years

of worry with

incubators

that

did

not

hatch, and with tiny--and in their own way lovely--balls of fluff that passed on into semi-naked

pullerhood and from that into dead henhood, we threw all aside and packing our belongings on a

wagon drove down Griggs's Road toward Bidwell, a tiny caravan of hope looking for a new place

from which to start on our upward journey through life.

We

must

have

been

a

sad

looking

lot,

not,

I

fancy

,

unlike

refugees

fleeing

from

a

battlefield.

Mother and I walked in the road. The wagon that contained our goods had been borrowed for the

day from Mr. Albert Griggs, a neighbor. Out of its sides stuck the legs of cheap chairs and at the

back of the pile of beds, tables, and boxes filled with kitchen utensils was a crate of live chickens,

and on top of that the baby carriage in which I had been wheeled about in my infancy. Why we

stuck

to

the

baby

carriage

I

don't

know.

It was

unlikely

other

children

would

be

born

and

the

wheels were broken. People who have few possessions cling tightly to those they have. That is one

of the facts that make life so discouraging.

Father rode on top of the wagon. He was then a bald-headed man of forty-five, a little fat and from

long association with mother and the chickens he had become habitually silent and discouraged.

All during our ten years on the chicken farm he had worked as a laborer on neighboring farms and

most

of

the

money

he

had

earned

had

been

spent

for

remedies

to

cure

chicken

diseases,

on

Wilmer's

White

Wonder

Cholera

Cure

or

Professor

Bidlow's

Egg

Producer

or

some

other

preparations that mother found advertised in the poultry papers. There were two little patches of

hair on father's head just above his ears. I remember that as a child I used to sit looking at him

when he had gone to sleep in a chair before the stove on Sunday afternoons in the winter. I had at

that rime already begun to read books and have notions of my own and the bald path that led over

the top of his head was, I fancied, something like a broad road, such a road as Caesar might have

made on which to lead his legions out of Rome and into the wonders of an unknown world. The

tufts of hair that grew above father's ears were, I thought, like forests. I fell into a half-sleeping,

half-waking state and dreamed I was a tiny thing going along the road into a far beautiful place

where there were no chicken farms and where life was a happy eggless affair.

One

might

write

a

book concerning

our

flight

from

the chicken

farm

into

town.

Mother

and

I

walked

the

entire

eight

miles--she

to

be

sure

that

nothing

fell

from

the wagon

and

I

to see

the

wonders of the world. On the seat of the wagon beside father was his greatest treasure. I will tell

you of that.

On a chicken farm where hundreds and even thousands of chickens come out of eggs, surprising

things sometimes happen. Grotesques are born out of eggs as out of people. The accident does not

often occur--perhaps once in a thousand births. A

chicken is, you see, born that has four legs, two

pairs of wings, two heads or what not. The things do not live. They go quickiy back to the hand of

their maker that has for a moment trembled. The fact that the poor little things could not live was

one

of

the

tragedies

of

life

to father.

He

had some

sort

of

notion

that

if

he could

but

bring

into

henhood or roosterhood a five-legged hen or a two-headed rooster his fortune would be made. He

dreamed of taking the wonder about to county fairs and of growing rich by exhibiting it to other

farmhands.

At any rate he saved all the little monstrous things that had been born on our chicken farm. They

were preserved in alcohol and put each in its own glass bottle. These he had carefully put into a

box and on our journey into town it was carried on the wagon seat beside him. He drove the horses

with one hand and with the other clung to the box. When we got to our destination the box was

taken down at once and the bottles removed. All during our days as keepers of a restaurant in the

town of Bidwell, Ohio, the grotesques in their little glass bottles sat on a shelf back of the counter.

Mother sometimes protested but father was a rock on the subject of his treasure. The grotesques

were, he declared, valuable. People, he said, liked to look at strange and wonderful things.

Did I say that we embarked in the restaurant business in the town of Bidwell, Ohio? I exaggerated

a little. The town itself lay at the foot of a low hill and on the shore of a small river. The railroad

did

not

run

through

the

town

and

the

station

was

a

mile

away

to

the

north

at

a

place

called

Pickleville. There had been a cider mill and pickle factory at the station, but before the time of our

coming they had both gone out of business. In the morning and in the evening busses came down

to the station along a road called Turner's Pike from the hotel on the main street of Bidwell. Our

going

to

the

out-of- the-way

place

to

embark

in

the

restaurant

business was

mother's

idea.

She

talked of it for a year and then one day went off and rented an empty store building opposite the

railroad station. It was her idea that the restaurant would be profitable. Travelling men, she said,

would be always waiting around to take trains out of town and town people would come to the

station to await incoming trains. They would come to the restaurant to buy pieces of pie and drink

coffee. Now that I am older I know that she had another motive in going. She was ambitious for

me. She wanted me to rise in the world, to get into a town school and become a man of the towns.

At

Pickleville

father

and

mother worked

hard

as

they

always

had

done.

At

first

there

was

the

necessity of putting our place into shape to be a restaurant. That took a month. Father built a shelf

on which he put tins of vegetables. He painted a sign on which he put his name in large red letters.

Below his name was the sharp command--

T HERE

showcase

was

bought

and

filled

with cigars

and

tobacco.

Mother scrubbed

the

floor

and

the walls

of

the

room. I went to school in the town and was glad to be away from the farm and from the presence

of

the

discouraged, sad-looking

chickens. Still

I

was

not

very

joyous.

In

the

evening

I

walked

home from school along Turner's Pike and remembered the children I had seen playing in the town

school yard. A

troop of little girls had gone hopping about and singing. I tried that. Down along

the

frozen road

I went

hopping

solemnly

on

one

leg.

hop

to

the

barber

shop,

I

sang

shrilly. Then I stopped and looked doubtfully about. I was afraid of being seen in my gay mood. It

must have seemed to me that I was doing a thing that should not be done by one who, like myself,

had been raised on a chicken farm where death was a daily visitor.

Mother decided that our restaurant should remain open at night. At ten in the evening a passenger

train went north past our door followed by a local freight. The freight crew had switching to do in

Pickleville

and

when

the

work was

done they

came

to

our restaurant for

hot

coffee

and food.

Sometimes one of them ordered a fried egg. In the morning at four they returned northbound and

again visited us. A

little trade

began to grow up. Mother slept at night and during the day tended

the

restaurant

and

fed

our

boarders

while

father

slept.

He

slept

in

the

same

bed

mother

had

occupied during the night and I went off to the town of Bidwell and to school. During the long

nights, while mother and I slept, father cooked meats that were to go into sandwiches for the lunch

baskets of our boarders. Then an idea in regard to getting up in the world came into his head. The

American spirit took hold of him. He also became ambitious.

In the long nights when there was little to do father had time to think. That was his undoing. He

decided that he had in the past been an unsuccessful man because he had not been cheerful enough

and

that

in

the

future

he would

adopt

a cheerful

outlook

on

life.

In

the

early

morning

he

came

upstairs and got into bed with mother. She woke and the two talked. From my bed in the corner I

listened.

It was father's idea that both he and mother should try to entertain the people who came to eat at

our

restaurant. I cannot

now remember

his words,

but

he

gave

the

impression

of

one

about

to

become in some obscure way a kind of public entertainer. When people, particularly young people

from

the

town

of

Bidwell,

came

into

our

place,

as

on

very

rare

occasions

they

did,

bright

entertaining conversation was to be made. From father's words I gathered that something of the

jolly

innkeeper effect was to be sought. Mother must have been doubtful from the first, but she

said

nothing

discouraging. It was father's

notion

that

a

passion

for

the company

of

himself

and

mother

would

spring

up

in

the

breasts

of

the

younger

people

of

the

town

of

Bidwell.

In

the

evening bright happy groups would come singing down Turner's Pike. They would troop shouting

with joy and laughter into our place. There would be song and festivity. I do not mean to give the

impression

that

father

spoke

so

elaborately

of

the

matter.

He

was

as

I

have

said

an

uncommunicative man.

said over and over. That was as far as he got. My own imagination has filled in the blanks.

For two or three weeks this notion of father's invaded our house. We did not talk much but in our

daily

lives

tried

earnestly

to

make

smiles

take

the

place

of

glum

looks.

Mother

smiled

at

the

boarders

and I, catching

the

infection,

smiled

at

our

cat.

Father

became

a

little

feverish

in

his

anxiety

to

please.

There

was

no

doubt

lurking

somewhere

in

him

a

touch

of

the

spirit

of

the

showman. He did not waste much of his ammunition on the railroad men he served at night but

seemed to be waiting for a young man or woman from Bidwell to come in to show what he could

do. On the counter in the restaurant there was a wire basket kept always filled with eggs, and it

must have been before his eyes when the idea of being entertaining was born in his brain. There

was something pre-natal about the way eggs kept themselves connected with the development of

his idea.

At any rate an egg ruined his new impulse in life. Late one night I was awakened by a

roar

of

anger

coming

from

father's

throat.

Both

mother

and

I

sat

upright

in

our

beds.

With

trembling hands she lighted a lamp that stood on a table by her head. Downstairs the front door of

our restaurant went shut with a bang and in a few minutes father tramped up the stairs. He held an

egg in his hand and his hand trembled as though he were having a chill. There was a half insane

light in his eyes. As he stood glaring at us I was sure he intended throwing the egg at either mother

or

me.

Then

he

laid

it

gently

on

the

table

beside

the

lamp

and

dropped

on

his

knees

beside

mother's bed. He began to cry like a boy and I, carried away by his grief, cried with him. The two

of us filled the little upstairs room with our wailing voices. It is ridiculous, but of the picture we

made I can remember only the fact that mother's hand continually stroked the bald path that ran

across the top of his head. I have forgotten what mother said to him and how she induced him to

tell

her

of

what

had

happened

downstairs.

His

explanation

also

has

gone

out

of

my

mind.

I

remember

only

my

own

grief

and

fright

and

the

shiny

path

over

father's

head

glowing

in

the

lamplight as he knelt by the bed.

As

to

what

happened

downstairs. For some

unexplainable

reason

I

know

the

story

as well

as

though

I

had

been

a

witness

to

my

father's

discomfiture.

One

in

time

gets

to

know

many

unexplainable

things.

On

that

evening

young

Joe

Kane,

son

of

a

merchant

of

Bidwell,

came

to

Pickleville to meet his father, who was expected on the ten o'clock evening train from the south.

The train was three hours late and Joe came into our place to loaf about and to wait for its arrival.

The local freight train came in and the freight crew were fed. Joe was left alone in the restaurant

with father.

From the moment he came into our place the Bidwell young man must have been puzzled by my

father's actions. It was his notion that father was angry at him for hanging around. He noticed that

the

restaurant

keeper

was

apparently

disturbed

by

his

presence

and

he

thought

of

going

out.

However,

it

began

to

rain

and

he

did

not

fancy

the

long walk

to

town

and

back.

He

bought

a

five-cent cigar and ordered a cup of coffee. He had a newspaper in his pocket and took it out and

began to read.

For

a

long

time

father, whom Joe

Kane

had

never

seen

before,

remained

silently

gazing

at

his

visitor. He was no doubt suffering from an attack of stage fright. As so often happens in life he had

thought

so

much

and so

often

of

the situation

that

now confronted

him

that

he was

somewhat

nervous in its presence.

For one thing, he did not know what to do with his hands. He thrust one of them nervously over

the counter and shook hands with Joe Kane.

put his newspaper

down and stared at him. Father's eye lighted on the basket of eggs that sat on the counter and he

began to talk.

He seemed to be angry

.

talked of making an egg stand on its end. He talked, he did, and then he went and broke the end of

the egg.

My father seemed to his visitor to be beside himself at the duplicity of Christopher Columbus. He

muttered and swore. He declared it was wrong to teach children that Christopher Columbus was a

great man when, after all, he cheated at the critical moment. He had declared he would make an

egg stand on end and then when his bluff had been called he had done a trick. Still grumbling at

Columbus, father took an egg from the basket on the counter and began to walk up and down. He

rolled

the

egg

between

the

palms

of

his

hands.

He smiled

genially.

He

began

to

mumble words

regarding the effect to be produced on an egg by the electricity that comes out of the human body.

He declared that without breaking its shell and by virtue of rolling it back and forth in his hands he

could stand the egg on its end. He explained that the warmth of his hands and the gentle

rolling

movement he gave the egg created a new center of gravity, and Joe Kane was mildly interested.

have handled thousands of eggs,

He stood the egg on the counter and it fell on its side. He tried the trick again and again, each time

rolling

the

egg

between

the

palms

of

his

hands

and saying

the words

regarding

the wonders

of

electricity and the laws of gravity. When after a half hour's effort he did succeed in making the egg

stand for a moment,

he looked up to find that his visitor was no longer watching. By the time he

had succeeded in calling Joe Kane's attention to the success of his effort, the egg had again rolled

over and lay on its side.

Afire with the showman's passion and at the same time a good deal disconcerted by the failure of

his first effort, father now took the bottles containing the poultry monstrosities down from their

place on the shelf and began to show them to his visitor.