The Other Woman by Sherwood Anderson
From The Little Review
I am in love with my wife, he saida superfluous remark, as I had
not questioned his attachment to the woman he had married. We walked
for ten minutes and then he said it again. I turned to look at him. He
began to talk and told me the tale I am now about to set down.
The thing he had on his mind happened during what must have been the
most eventful week of his life. He was to be married on Friday
afternoon. On Friday of the week before he got a telegram announcing
his appointment to a government position. Something else happened that
made him very proud and glad. In secret he was in the habit of writing
verses and during the year before several of them had been printed in
poetry magazines. One of the societies that give prizes for what they
think the best poems published during the year put his name at the head
of their list. The story of his triumph was printed in the newspapers
of his home city, and one of them also printed his picture.
As might have been expected, he was excited and in a rather highly
strung nervous state all during that week. Almost every evening he went
to call on his fiancÃ©e, the daughter of a judge. When he got there the
house was filled with people and many letters, telegrams and packages
were being received. He stood a little to one side and men and women
kept coming to speak with him. They congratulated him upon his success
in getting the government position and on his achievement as a poet.
Everyone seemed to be praising him, and when he went home to bed he
could not sleep. On Wednesday evening he went to the theatre and it
seemed to him that people all over the house recognized him. Everyone
nodded and smiled. After the first act five or six men and two women
left their seats to gather about him. A little group was formed.
Strangers sitting along the same row of seats stretched their necks and
looked. He had never received so much attention before, and now a fever
of expectancy took possession of him.
As he explained when he told me of his experience, it was for him an
altogether abnormal time. He felt like one floating in air. When he got
into bed after seeing so many people and hearing so many words of
praise his head whirled round and round. When he closed his eyes a
crowd of people invaded his room. It seemed as though the minds of all
the people of his city were centered on himself. The most absurd
fancies took possession of him. He imagined himself riding in a
carriage through the streets of a city. Windows were thrown open and
people ran out at the doors of houses. There he is. That's him, they
shouted, and at the words a glad cry arose. The carriage drove into a
street blocked with people. A hundred thousand pairs of eyes looked up
at him. There you are! What a fellow you have managed to make of
yourself! the eyes seemed to be saying.
My friend could not explain whether the excitement of the people was
due to the fact that he had written a new poem or whether, in his new
government position, he had performed some notable act. The apartment
where he lived at that time was on a street perched along the top of a
cliff far out at the edge of the city and from his bedroom window he
could look down over trees and factory roofs to a river. As he could
not sleep and as the fancies that kept crowding in upon him only made
him more excited, he got out of bed and tried to think.
As would be natural under such circumstances, he tried to control
his thoughts, but when he sat by the window and was wide awake a most
unexpected and humiliating thing happened. The night was clear and
fine. There was a moon. He wanted to dream of the woman who was to be
his wife, think out lines for noble poems or make plans that would
affect his career. Much to his surprise his mind refused to do anything
of the sort.
At a corner of the street where he lived there was a small cigar
store and newspaper stand run by a fat man of forty and his wife, a
small active woman with bright grey eyes. In the morning he stopped
there to buy a paper before going down to the city. Sometimes he saw
only the fat man, but often the man had disappeared and the woman
waited on him. She was, as he assured me at least twenty times in
telling me his tale, a very ordinary person with nothing special or
notable about her, but for some reason he could not explain being in
her presence stirred him profoundly. During that week in the midst of
his distraction she was the only person he knew who stood out clear and
distinct in his mind. When he wanted so much to think noble thoughts,
he could think only of her. Before he knew what was happening his
imagination had taken hold of the notion of having a love affair with
I could not understand myself, he declared, in telling me the
story. At night, when the city was quiet and when I should have been
asleep, I thought about her all the time. After two or three days of
that sort of thing the consciousness of her got into my daytime
thoughts. I was terribly muddled. When I went to see the woman who is
now my wife I found that my love for her was in no way affected by my
vagrant thoughts. There was but one woman in the world I wanted to live
with me and to be my comrade in undertaking to improve my own character
and my position in the world, but for the moment, you see, I wanted
this other woman to be in my arms. She had worked her way into my
being. On all sides people were saying I was a big man who would do big
things, and there I was. That evening when I went to the theatre I
walked home because I knew I would be unable to sleep, and to satisfy
the annoying impulse in myself I went and stood on the sidewalk before
the tobacco shop. It was a two story building, and I knew the woman
lived upstairs with her husband. For a long time I stood in the
darkness with my body pressed against the wall of the building and then
I thought of the two of them up there, no doubt in bed together. That
made me furious.
Then I grew more furious at myself. I went home and got into bed
shaken with anger. There are certain books of verse and some prose
writings that have always moved me deeply, and so I put several books
on a table by my bed.
The voices in the books were like the voices of the dead. I did not
hear them. The words printed on the lines would not penetrate into my
consciousness. I tried to think of the woman I loved, but her figure
had also become something far away, something with which I for the
moment seemed to have nothing to do. I rolled and tumbled about in the
bed. It was a miserable experience.
On Thursday morning I went into the store. There stood the woman
alone. I think she knew how I felt. Perhaps she had been thinking of me
as I had been thinking of her. A doubtful hesitating smile played about
the corners of her mouth. She had on a dress made of cheap cloth, and
there was a tear on the shoulder. She must have been ten years older
than myself. When I tried to put my pennies on the glass counter behind
which she stood my hand trembled so that the pennies made a sharp
rattling noise. When I spoke the voice that came out of my throat did
not sound like anything that had ever belonged to me. It barely arose
above a thick whisper. 'I want you,' I said. 'I want you very much.
Can't you run away from your husband? Come to me at my apartment at
The woman did come to my apartment at seven. That morning she did
not say anything at all. For a minute perhaps we stood looking at each
other. I had forgotten everything in the world but just her. Then she
nodded her head and I went away. Now that I think of it I cannot
remember a word I ever heard her say. She came to my apartment at seven
and it was dark. You must understand this was in the month of October.
I had not lighted a light and I had sent my servant away.
During that day I was no good at all. Several men came to see me at
my office, but I got all muddled up in trying to talk with them. They
attributed my rattle-headedness to my approaching marriage and went
It was on that morning, just the day before my marriage, that I got
a long and very beautiful letter from my fiancÃ©e. During the night
before she also had been unable to sleep and had got out of bed to
write the letter. Everything she said in it was very sharp and real,
but she herself, as a living thing, seemed to have receded into the
distance. It seemed to me that she was like a bird, flying far away in
distant skies, and I was like a perplexed bare-footed boy standing in
the dusty road before a farm house and looking at her receding figure.
I wonder if you will understand what I mean?
In regard to the letter. In it she, the awakening woman, poured out
her heart. She of course knew nothing of life, but she was a woman. She
lay, I suppose, in her bed feeling nervous and wrought up as I had been
doing. She realized that a great change was about to take place in her
life and was glad and afraid too. There she lay thinking of it all.
Then she got out of bed and began talking to me on the bit of paper.
She told me how afraid she was and how glad too. Like most young women
she had heard things whispered. In the letter she was very sweet and
fine. 'For a long time, after we are married, we will forget we are a
man and woman,' she wrote. 'We will be human beings. You must remember
that I am ignorant and often I will be very stupid. You must love me
and be very patient and kind. When I know more, when after a long time
you have taught me the way of life, I will try to repay you. I will
love you tenderly and passionately. The possibility of that is in me,
or I would not want to marry at all. I am afraid but I am also happy.
O, I am so glad our marriage time is near at hand.'
Now you see clearly enough into what a mess I had got. In my
office, after I read my fiancÃ©e's letter, I became at once very
resolute and strong. I remember that I got out of my chair and walked
about, proud of the fact that I was to be the husband of so noble a
woman. Right away I felt concerning her as I had been feeling, about
myself before I found out what a weak thing I was. To be sure I took a
strong resolution that I would not be weak. At nine that evening I had
planned to run in to see my fiancÃ©e. 'I'm all right now,' I said to
myself. 'The beauty of her character has saved me from myself. I will
go home now and send the other woman away.' In the morning I had
telephoned to my servant and told him that I did not want him to be at
the apartment that evening and I now picked up the telephone to tell
him to stay at home.
Then a thought came to me. 'I will not want him there in any
event,' I told myself. 'What will he think when he sees a woman coming
to my place on the evening before the day I am to be married?' I put
the telephone down and prepared to go home. 'If I want my servant out
of the apartment it is because I do not want him to hear me talk with
the woman. I cannot be rude to her. I will have to make some kind of an
explanation,' I said to myself.
The woman came at seven o'clock, and, as you may have guessed, I
let her in and forgot the resolution I had made. It is likely I never
had any intention of doing anything else. There was a bell on my door,
but she did not ring, but knocked very softly. It seems to me that
everything she did that evening was soft and quiet but very determined
and quick. Do I make myself clear? When she came I was standing just
within the door, where I had been standing and waiting for a half hour.
My hands were trembling as they had trembled in the morning when her
eyes looked at me and when I tried to put the pennies on the counter in
the store. When I opened the door she stepped quickly in and I took her
into my arms. We stood together in the darkness. My hands no longer
trembled. I felt very happy and strong.
Although I have tried to make everything clear I have not told you
what the woman I married is like. I have emphasized, you see, the other
woman. I make the blind statement that I love my wife, and to a man of
your shrewdness that means nothing at all. To tell the truth, had I not
started to speak of this matter I would feel more comfortable. It is
inevitable that I give you the impression that I am in love with the
tobacconist's wife. That's not true. To be sure I was very conscious of
her all during the week before my marriage, but after she had come to
me at my apartment she went entirely out of my mind.
Am I telling the truth? I am trying very hard to tell what happened
to me. I am saying that I have not since that evening thought of the
woman who came to my apartment. Now, to tell the facts of the case,
that is not true. On that evening I went to my fiancÃ©e at nine, as she
had asked me to do in her letter. In a kind of way I cannot explain the
other woman went with me. This is what I meanyou see I had been
thinking that if anything happened between me and the tobacconist's
wife I would not be able to go through with my marriage. 'It is one
thing or the other with me,' I had said to myself.
As a matter of fact I went to see my beloved on that evening filled
with a new faith in the outcome of our life together. I am afraid I
muddle this matter in trying to tell it. A moment ago I said the other
woman, the tobacconist's wife, went with me. I do not mean she went in
fact. What I am trying to say is that something of her faith in her own
desires and her courage in seeing things through went with me. Is that
clear to you? When I got to my fiancÃ©e's house there was a crowd of
people standing about. Some were relatives from distant places I had
not seen before. She looked up quickly when I came into the room. My
face must have been radiant. I never saw her so moved. She thought her
letter had affected me deeply, and of course it had. Up she jumped and
ran to meet me. She was like a glad child. Right before the people who
turned and looked inquiringly at us, she said the thing that was in her
mind. 'O, I am so happy,' she cried. 'You have understood. We will be
two human beings. We will not have to be husband and wife.'
As you may suppose, everyone laughed, but I did not laugh. The
tears came into my eyes. I was so happy I wanted to shout. Perhaps you
understand what I mean. In the office that day when I read the letter
my fiancÃ©e had written I had said to myself, 'I will take care of the
dear little woman.' There was something smug, you see, about that. In
her house when she cried out in that way, and when everyone laughed,
what I said to myself was something like this: 'We will take care of
ourselves.' I whispered something of the sort into her ears. To tell
you the truth I had come down off my perch. The spirit of the other
woman did that to me. Before all the people gathered about I held my
fiancÃ©e close and we kissed. They thought it very sweet of us to be so
affected at the sight of each other. What they would have thought had
they known the truth about me God only knows!
Twice now I have said that after that evening I never thought of
the other woman at all. That is partially true but sometimes in the
evening when I am walking alone in the street or in the park as we are
walking now, and when evening comes softly and quickly as it has come
to-night, the feeling of her comes sharply into my body and mind. After
that one meeting I never saw her again. On the next day I was married
and I have never gone back into her street. Often however as I am
walking along as I am doing now, a quick sharp earthy feeling takes
possession of me. It is as though I were a seed in the ground and the
warm rains of the spring had come. It is as though I were not a man but
And now you see I am married and everything is all right. My
marriage is to me a very beautiful fact. If you were to say that my
marriage is not a happy one I could call you a liar and be speaking the
absolute truth. I have tried to tell you about this other woman. There
is a kind of relief in speaking of her. I have never done it before. I
wonder why I was so silly as to be afraid that I would give you the
impression I am not in love with my wife. If I did not instinctively
trust your understanding I would not have spoken. As the matter stands
I have a little stirred myself up. To-night I shall think of the other
woman. That sometimes occurs. It will happen after I have gone to bed.
My wife sleeps in the next room to mine and the door is always left
open. There will be a moon to-night, and when there is a moon long
streaks of light fall on her bed. I shall awake at midnight to-night.
She will be lying asleep with one arm thrown over her head.
What is that I am talking about? A man does not speak of his wife
lying in bed. What I am trying to say is that, because of this talk, I
shall think of the other woman to-night. My thoughts will not take the
form they did the week before I was married. I will wonder what has
become of the woman. For a moment I will again feel myself holding her
close. I will think that for an hour I was closer to her than I have
ever been to anyone else. Then I will think of the time when I will be
as close as that to my wife. She is still, you see, an awakening woman.
For a moment I will close my eyes and the quick, shrewd, determined
eyes of that other woman will look into mine. My head will swim and
then I will quickly open my eyes and see again the dear woman with whom
I have undertaken to live out my life. Then I will sleep and when I
awake in the morning it will be as it was that evening when I walked
out of my dark apartment after having had the most notable experience
of my life. What I mean to say, you understand, is that, for me, when I
awake, the other woman will be utterly gone.
Copyright, 1920, by Margaret C. Anderson. Copyright, 1921, by