The Reverend Hartman was a tall man with a brown beard.  His wife, a stout, nervous woman, was the daughter of a manufacturer of underwear at Cleveland, Ohio.  The minister himself was rather a favorite in the town.  The elders of the church liked him because he was quiet and unpretentious and Mrs. White, the banker’s wife, thought him scholarly and refined.

The Presbyterian Church held itself somewhat aloof from the other churches of Winesburg.  It was larger and more imposing and its minister was better paid.  He even had a carriage of his own and on summer evenings sometimes drove about town with his wife.  Through Main Street and up and down Buckeye Street he went, bowing gravely to the people, while his wife, afire with secret pride, looked at him out of the corners of her eyes and worried lest the horse become frightened and run away.

For a good many years after he came to Winesburg things went well with Curtis Hartman.  He was not one to arouse keen enthusiasm among the worshippers in his church but on the other hand he made no enemies.  In reality he was much in earnest and sometimes suffered prolonged periods of remorse because he could not go crying the word of God in the highways and byways of the town.  He wondered if the flame of the spirit really burned in him and dreamed of a day when a strong sweet new current of power would come like a great wind into his voice and his soul and the people would tremble before the spirit of God made manifest in him.  “I am a poor stick and that will never really happen to me,” he mused dejectedly, and then a patient smile lit up his features.  “Oh well, I suppose I’m doing well enough,” he added philosophically.

The room in the bell tower of the church, where on Sunday mornings the minister prayed for an increase in him of the power of God, had but one window.  It was long and narrow and swung outward on a hinge like a door.  On the window, made of little leaded panes, was a design showing the Christ laying his hand upon the head of a child.  One Sunday morning in the summer as he sat by his desk in the room with a large Bible opened before him, and the sheets of his sermon scattered about, the minister was shocked to see, in the upper room of the house next door, a woman lying in her bed and smoking a cigarette while she read a book.  Curtis Hartman went on tiptoe to the window and closed it softly.  He was horror stricken at the thought of a woman smoking and trembled also to think that his eyes, just raised from the pages of the book of God, had looked upon the bare shoulders and white throat of a woman.  With his brain in a whirl he went down into the pulpit and preached a long sermon without once thinking of his gestures or his voice.  The sermon attracted unusual attention because of its power and clearness.  “I wonder if she is listening, if my voice is carrying a message into her soul,” he thought and began to hope that on future Sunday mornings he might be able to say words that would touch and awaken the woman apparently far gone in secret sin.