The Man in the Brown Coat

by Sherwood Anderson

　　Napoleon went down into a battle riding on a horse. Alexander went down into a battle riding on a horse. General Grant got off a horse and walked in a wood. General Hindenburg stood on a hill. The moon came up out of a clump of bushes. I am writing a history of the things men do. I have written three suchhistories and I am but a young man. Already I have written threehundred, four hundred thousand words.My wife is somewhere in this house where for hours now I have beensitting and writing. She is a tall woman with black hair, turning alittle grey. Listen, she is going softly up a flight of stairs. All dayshe goes softly about, doing the housework in our house.I came here to this town from another town in the state of Iowa. Myfather was a workman, a house painter. He did not rise in the world asI have done. I worked my way through college and became an historian.We own this house in which I sit. This is my room in which I work.Already I have written three histories of peoples. I have told howstates were formed and battles fought. You may see my books standingstraight up on the shelves of libraries. They stand up like sentries.I am tall like my wife and my shoulders are a little stooped. AlthoughI write boldly I am a shy man. I like being at work alone in this roomwith the door closed. There are many books here. Nations march back andforth in the books. It is quiet here but in the books a greatthundering goes on. Napoleon rides down a hill and into a battle. General Grant walks in a wood. Alexander rides down a hill and into a battle. My wife has a serious, almost stern look. Sometimes the thoughts I haveconcerning her frighten me. In the afternoon she leaves our house andgoes for a walk. Sometimes she goes to stores, sometimes to visit aneighbor. There is a yellow house opposite our house. My wife goes outat a side door and passes along the street between our house and theyellow house.The side door of our house bangs. There is a moment of waiting. Mywife's face floats across the yellow background of a picture. General Pershing rode down a hill and into a battle. Alexander rode down a hill and into a battle. Little things are growing big in my mind. The window before my deskmakes a little framed place like a picture. Every day I sit staring. Iwait with an odd sensation of something impending. My hand trembles.The face that floats through the picture does something I don'tunderstand. The face floats, then it stops. It goes from the right handside to the left hand side, then it stops.The face comes into my mind and goes out--the face floats in my mind.The pen has fallen from my fingers. The house is silent. The eyes ofthe floating face are turned away from me.My wife is a girl who came here to this town from another town in thestate of Ohio. We keep a servant but my wife often sweeps the floorsand she sometimes makes the bed in which we sleep together. We sittogether in the evening but I do not know her. I cannot shake myselfout of myself. I wear a brown coat and I cannot come out of my coat. Icannot come out of myself. My wife is very gentle and she speaks softlybut she cannot come out of herself.My wife has gone out of the house. She does not know that I know everylittle thought of her life. I know what she thought when she was achild and walked in the streets of an Ohio town. I have heard thevoices of her mind. I have heard the little voices. I heard the voiceof fear crying when she was first overtaken with passion and crawledinto my arms. Again I heard the voices of fear when her lips said wordsof courage to me as we sat together on the first evening after we weremarried and moved into this house.It would be strange if I could sit here, as I am doing now, while myown face floated across the picture made by the yellow house and thewindow. It would be strange and beautiful if I could meet my wife, comeinto her presence.The woman whose face floated across my picture just now knows nothingof me. I know nothing of her. She has gone off, along a street. Thevoices of her mind are talking. I am here in this room, as alone asever any man God made.It would be strange and beautiful if I could float my face across mypicture. If my floating face could come into her presence, if it couldcome into the presence of any man or any woman--that would be a strangeand beautiful thing to have happen. Napoleon went down into a battle riding on a horse. General Grant went into a wood. Alexander went down into a battle riding on a horse. I'll tell you what--sometimes the whole life of this world floats in ahuman face in my mind. The unconscious face of the world stops andstands still before me.Why do I not say a word out of myself to the others? Why, in all ourlife together, have I never been able to break through the wall to mywife?Already I have written three hundred, four hundred thousand words. Arethere no words that lead into life? Some day I shall speak to myself.Some day I shall make a testament unto myself.