CHAPTER III

by Sinclair Lewis

　　CHAPTER IIITo George F. Babbitt, as to most prosperous citizens of Zenith, hismotor car was poetry and tragedy, love and heroism. The office was hispirate ship but the car his perilous excursion ashore.Among the tremendous crises of each day none was more dramatic thanstarting the engine. It was slow on cold mornings; there was the long,anxious whirr of the starter; and sometimes he had to drip ether intothe cocks of the cylinders, which was so very interesting that at lunchhe would chronicle it drop by drop, and orally calculate how much eachdrop had cost him.This morning he was darkly prepared to find something wrong, and he feltbelittled when the mixture exploded sweet and strong, and the car didn'teven brush the door-jamb, gouged and splintery with many bruisings byfenders, as he backed out of the garage. He was confused. He shouted"Morning!" to Sam Doppelbrau with more cordiality than he had intended.Babbitt's green and white Dutch Colonial house was one of three in thatblock on Chatham Road. To the left of it was the residence of Mr. SamuelDoppelbrau, secretary of an excellent firm of bathroom-fixture jobbers.His was a comfortable house with no architectural manners whatever; alarge wooden box with a squat tower, a broad porch, and glossy paintyellow as a yolk. Babbitt disapproved of Mr. and Mrs. Doppelbrau as"Bohemian." From their house came midnight music and obscene laughter;there were neighborhood rumors of bootlegged whisky and fast motorrides. They furnished Babbitt with many happy evenings of discussion,during which he announced firmly, "I'm not strait-laced, and I don'tmind seeing a fellow throw in a drink once in a while, but when it comesto deliberately trying to get away with a lot of hell-raising all thewhile like the Doppelbraus do, it's too rich for my blood!"On the other side of Babbitt lived Howard Littlefield, Ph.D., in astrictly modern house whereof the lower part was dark red tapestrybrick, with a leaded oriel, the upper part of pale stucco like spatteredclay, and the roof red-tiled. Littlefield was the Great Scholar of theneighborhood; the authority on everything in the world except babies,cooking, and motors. He was a Bachelor of Arts of Blodgett College,and a Doctor of Philosophy in economics of Yale. He was theemployment-manager and publicity-counsel of the Zenith Street TractionCompany. He could, on ten hours' notice, appear before the board ofaldermen or the state legislature and prove, absolutely, with figuresall in rows and with precedents from Poland and New Zealand, that thestreet-car company loved the Public and yearned over its employees;that all its stock was owned by Widows and Orphans; and that whatever itdesired to do would benefit property-owners by increasing rental values,and help the poor by lowering rents. All his acquaintances turnedto Littlefield when they desired to know the date of the battle ofSaragossa, the definition of the word "sabotage," the future of theGerman mark, the translation of "hinc illae lachrimae," or the number ofproducts of coal tar. He awed Babbitt by confessing that he often sat uptill midnight reading the figures and footnotes in Government reports,or skimming (with amusement at the author's mistakes) the latest volumesof chemistry, archeology, and ichthyology.But Littlefield's great value was as a spiritual example. Despitehis strange learnings he was as strict a Presbyterian and as firm aRepublican as George F. Babbitt. He confirmed the business men in thefaith. Where they knew only by passionate instinct that their system ofindustry and manners was perfect, Dr. Howard Littlefield proved itto them, out of history, economics, and the confessions of reformedradicals.Babbitt had a good deal of honest pride in being the neighbor of such asavant, and in Ted's intimacy with Eunice Littlefield. At sixteenEunice was interested in no statistics save those regarding the agesand salaries of motion-picture stars, but--as Babbitt definitively putit--"she was her father's daughter."The difference between a light man like Sam Doppelbrau and a really finecharacter like Littlefield was revealed in their appearances. Doppelbrauwas disturbingly young for a man of forty-eight. He wore his derby onthe back of his head, and his red face was wrinkled with meaninglesslaughter. But Littlefield was old for a man of forty-two. He was tall,broad, thick; his gold-rimmed spectacles were engulfed in the folds ofhis long face; his hair was a tossed mass of greasy blackness; he puffedand rumbled as he talked; his Phi Beta Kappa key shone against a spottyblack vest; he smelled of old pipes; he was altogether funerealand archidiaconal; and to real-estate brokerage and the jobbing ofbathroom-fixtures he added an aroma of sanctity.This morning he was in front of his house, inspecting the grass parkingbetween the curb and the broad cement sidewalk. Babbitt stopped his carand leaned out to shout "Mornin'!" Littlefield lumbered over and stoodwith one foot up on the running-board."Fine morning," said Babbitt, lighting--illegally early--his secondcigar of the day."Yes, it's a mighty fine morning," said Littlefield."Spring coming along fast now.""Yes, it's real spring now, all right," said Littlefield."Still cold nights, though. Had to have a couple blankets, on thesleeping-porch last night.""Yes, it wasn't any too warm last night," said Littlefield."But I don't anticipate we'll have any more real cold weather now.""No, but still, there was snow at Tiflis, Montana, yesterday," said theScholar, "and you remember the blizzard they had out West three daysago--thirty inches of snow at Greeley, Colorado--and two years ago wehad a snow-squall right here in Zenith on the twenty-fifth of April.""Is that a fact! Say, old man, what do you think about the Republicancandidate? Who'll they nominate for president? Don't you think it'sabout time we had a real business administration?""In my opinion, what the country needs, first and foremost, is a good,sound, business-like conduct of its affairs. What we need is--a businessadministration!" said Littlefield."I'm glad to hear you say that! I certainly am glad to hear you saythat! I didn't know how you'd feel about it, with all your associationswith colleges and so on, and I'm glad you feel that way. What thecountry needs--just at this present juncture--is neither a collegepresident nor a lot of monkeying with foreign affairs, but a good--soundeconomical--business--administration, that will give us a chance to havesomething like a decent turnover.""Yes. It isn't generally realized that even in China the schoolmen aregiving way to more practical men, and of course you can see what thatimplies.""Is that a fact! Well, well!" breathed Babbitt, feeling much calmer, andmuch happier about the way things were going in the world. "Well, it'sbeen nice to stop and parleyvoo a second. Guess I'll have to get down tothe office now and sting a few clients. Well, so long, old man. See youtonight. So long."IIThey had labored, these solid citizens. Twenty years before, the hillon which Floral Heights was spread, with its bright roofs and immaculateturf and amazing comfort, had been a wilderness of rank second-growthelms and oaks and maples. Along the precise streets were still a fewwooded vacant lots, and the fragment of an old orchard. It was brilliantto-day; the apple boughs were lit with fresh leaves like torches ofgreen fire. The first white of cherry blossoms flickered down a gully,and robins clamored.Babbitt sniffed the earth, chuckled at the hysteric robins as he wouldhave chuckled at kittens or at a comic movie. He was, to the eye, theperfect office-going executive--a well-fed man in a correct brown softhat and frameless spectacles, smoking a large cigar, driving a goodmotor along a semi-suburban parkway. But in him was some genius ofauthentic love for his neighborhood, his city, his clan. The winter wasover; the time was come for the building, the visible growth, which tohim was glory. He lost his dawn depression; he was ruddily cheerful whenhe stopped on Smith Street to leave the brown trousers, and to have thegasoline-tank filled.The familiarity of the rite fortified him: the sight of the tall rediron gasoline-pump, the hollow-tile and terra-cotta garage, the windowfull of the most agreeable accessories--shiny casings, spark-plugs withimmaculate porcelain jackets tire-chains of gold and silver. He wasflattered by the friendliness with which Sylvester Moon, dirtiest andmost skilled of motor mechanics, came out to serve him. "Mornin', Mr.Babbitt!" said Moon, and Babbitt felt himself a person of importance,one whose name even busy garagemen remembered--not one of thesecheap-sports flying around in flivvers. He admired the ingenuity of theautomatic dial, clicking off gallon by gallon; admired the smartnessof the sign: "A fill in time saves getting stuck--gas to-day 31 cents";admired the rhythmic gurgle of the gasoline as it flowed into the tank,and the mechanical regularity with which Moon turned the handle."How much we takin' to-day?" asked Moon, in a manner which combined theindependence of the great specialist, the friendliness of a familiargossip, and respect for a man of weight in the community, like George F.Babbitt."Fill 'er up.""Who you rootin' for for Republican candidate, Mr. Babbitt?""It's too early to make any predictions yet. After all, there's stilla good month and two weeks--no, three weeks--must be almost threeweeks--well, there's more than six weeks in all before the Republicanconvention, and I feel a fellow ought to keep an open mind and giveall the candidates a show--look 'em all over and size 'em up, and thendecide carefully.""That's a fact, Mr. Babbitt.""But I'll tell you--and my stand on this is just the same as it was fouryears ago, and eight years ago, and it'll be my stand four years fromnow--yes, and eight years from now! What I tell everybody, and it can'tbe too generally understood, is that what we need first, last, and allthe time is a good, sound business administration!""By golly, that's right!""How do those front tires look to you?""Fine! Fine! Wouldn't be much work for garages if everybody looked aftertheir car the way you do.""Well, I do try and have some sense about it." Babbitt paid his bill,said adequately, "Oh, keep the change," and drove off in an ecstasy ofhonest self-appreciation. It was with the manner of a Good Samaritanthat he shouted at a respectable-looking man who was waiting for atrolley car, "Have a lift?" As the man climbed in Babbitt condescended,"Going clear down-town? Whenever I see a fellow waiting for a trolley,I always make it a practice to give him a lift--unless, of course, helooks like a bum.""Wish there were more folks that were so generous with their machines,"dutifully said the victim of benevolence. "Oh, no, 'tain't a question ofgenerosity, hardly. Fact, I always feel--I was saying to my son just theother night--it's a fellow's duty to share the good things of this worldwith his neighbors, and it gets my goat when a fellow gets stuckon himself and goes around tooting his horn merely because he'scharitable."The victim seemed unable to find the right answer. Babbitt boomed on:"Pretty punk service the Company giving us on these car-lines. Nonsenseto only run the Portland Road cars once every seven minutes. Fellow getsmighty cold on a winter morning, waiting on a street corner with thewind nipping at his ankles.""That's right. The Street Car Company don't care a damn what kind of adeal they give us. Something ought to happen to 'em."Babbitt was alarmed. "But still, of course it won't do to just keepknocking the Traction Company and not realize the difficulties they'reoperating under, like these cranks that want municipal ownership. Theway these workmen hold up the Company for high wages is simply acrime, and of course the burden falls on you and me that have to paya seven-cent fare! Fact, there's remarkable service on all theirlines--considering.""Well--" uneasily."Darn fine morning," Babbitt explained. "Spring coming along fast.""Yes, it's real spring now."The victim had no originality, no wit, and Babbitt fell into a greatsilence and devoted himself to the game of beating trolley cars to thecorner: a spurt, a tail-chase, nervous speeding between the huge yellowside of the trolley and the jagged row of parked motors, shooting pastjust as the trolley stopped--a rare game and valiant.And all the while he was conscious of the loveliness of Zenith. Forweeks together he noticed nothing but clients and the vexing To Rentsigns of rival brokers. To-day, in mysterious malaise, he raged orrejoiced with equal nervous swiftness, and to-day the light of springwas so winsome that he lifted his head and saw.He admired each district along his familiar route to the office: Thebungalows and shrubs and winding irregular drive ways of Floral Heights.The one-story shops on Smith Street, a glare of plate-glass and newyellow brick; groceries and laundries and drug-stores to supply the moreimmediate needs of East Side housewives. The market gardens in DutchHollow, their shanties patched with corrugated iron and stolen doors.Billboards with crimson goddesses nine feet tall advertising cinemafilms, pipe tobacco, and talcum powder. The old "mansions" along NinthStreet, S. E., like aged dandies in filthy linen; wooden castles turnedinto boarding-houses, with muddy walks and rusty hedges, jostledby fast-intruding garages, cheap apartment-houses, and fruit-standsconducted by bland, sleek Athenians. Across the belt of railroad-tracks,factories with high-perched water-tanks and tall stacks-factoriesproducing condensed milk, paper boxes, lighting-fixtures, motor cars.Then the business center, the thickening darting traffic, the crammedtrolleys unloading, and high doorways of marble and polished granite.It was big--and Babbitt respected bigness in anything; in mountains,jewels, muscles, wealth, or words. He was, for a spring-enchantedmoment, the lyric and almost unselfish lover of Zenith. He thought ofthe outlying factory suburbs; of the Chaloosa River with its strangelyeroded banks; of the orchard-dappled Tonawanda Hills to the North,and all the fat dairy land and big barns and comfortable herds. As hedropped his passenger he cried, "Gosh, I feel pretty good this morning!"IIIEpochal as starting the car was the drama of parking it before heentered his office. As he turned from Oberlin Avenue round the cornerinto Third Street, N.E., he peered ahead for a space in the line ofparked cars. He angrily just missed a space as a rival driver slid intoit. Ahead, another car was leaving the curb, and Babbitt slowed up,holding out his hand to the cars pressing on him from behind, agitatedlymotioning an old woman to go ahead, avoiding a truck which bore down onhim from one side. With front wheels nicking the wrought-steel bumperof the car in front, he stopped, feverishly cramped his steering-wheel,slid back into the vacant space and, with eighteen inches of room,manoeuvered to bring the car level with the curb. It was a virileadventure masterfully executed. With satisfaction he locked athief-proof steel wedge on the front wheel, and crossed the street tohis real-estate office on the ground floor of the Reeves Building.The Reeves Building was as fireproof as a rock and as efficient asa typewriter; fourteen stories of yellow pressed brick, with clean,upright, unornamented lines. It was filled with the offices of lawyers,doctors, agents for machinery, for emery wheels, for wire fencing, formining-stock. Their gold signs shone on the windows. The entrance wastoo modern to be flamboyant with pillars; it was quiet, shrewd, neat.Along the Third Street side were a Western Union Telegraph Office,the Blue Delft Candy Shop, Shotwell's Stationery Shop, and theBabbitt-Thompson Realty Company.Babbitt could have entered his office from the street, as customersdid, but it made him feel an insider to go through the corridor ofthe building and enter by the back door. Thus he was greeted by thevillagers.The little unknown people who inhabited the Reeves Buildingcorridors--elevator-runners, starter, engineers, superintendent, and thedoubtful-looking lame man who conducted the news and cigar stand--werein no way city-dwellers. They were rustics, living in a constrictedvalley, interested only in one another and in The Building. TheirMain Street was the entrance hall, with its stone floor, severe marbleceiling, and the inner windows of the shops. The liveliest place on thestreet was the Reeves Building Barber Shop, but this was also Babbitt'sone embarrassment. Himself, he patronized the glittering PompeianBarber Shop in the Hotel Thornleigh, and every time he passed theReeves shop--ten times a day, a hundred times--he felt untrue to his ownvillage.Now, as one of the squirearchy, greeted with honorable salutations bythe villagers, he marched into his office, and peace and dignity wereupon him, and the morning's dissonances all unheard.They were heard again, immediately.Stanley Graff, the outside salesman, was talking on the telephone withtragic lack of that firm manner which disciplines clients: "Say, uh, Ithink I got just the house that would suit you--the Percival House, inLinton.... Oh, you've seen it. Well, how'd it strike you?... Huh?...Oh," irresolutely, "oh, I see."As Babbitt marched into his private room, a coop with semi-partition ofoak and frosted glass, at the back of the office, he reflected how hardit was to find employees who had his own faith that he was going to makesales.There were nine members of the staff, besides Babbitt and his partnerand father-in-law, Henry Thompson, who rarely came to the office. Thenine were Stanley Graff, the outside salesman--a youngish man given tocigarettes and the playing of pool; old Mat Penniman, general utilityman, collector of rents and salesman of insurance--broken, silent, gray;a mystery, reputed to have been a "crack" real-estate man with a firmof his own in haughty Brooklyn; Chester Kirby Laylock, resident salesmanout at the Glen Oriole acreage development--an enthusiastic person witha silky mustache and much family; Miss Theresa McGoun, the swift andrather pretty stenographer; Miss Wilberta Bannigan, the thick, slow,laborious accountant and file-clerk; and four freelance part-timecommission salesmen.As he looked from his own cage into the main room Babbitt mourned,"McGoun's a good stenog., smart's a whip, but Stan Graff and all thosebums--" The zest of the spring morning was smothered in the stale officeair.Normally he admired the office, with a pleased surprise that he shouldhave created this sure lovely thing; normally he was stimulated bythe clean newness of it and the air of bustle; but to-day it seemedflat--the tiled floor, like a bathroom, the ocher-colored metal ceiling,the faded maps on the hard plaster walls, the chairs of varnished paleoak, the desks and filing-cabinets of steel painted in olive drab. Itwas a vault, a steel chapel where loafing and laughter were raw sin.He hadn't even any satisfaction in the new water-cooler! And it was thevery best of water-coolers, up-to-date, scientific, and right-thinking.It had cost a great deal of money (in itself a virtue). It possessed anon-conducting fiber ice-container, a porcelain water-jar (guaranteedhygienic), a drip-less non-clogging sanitary faucet, and machine-painteddecorations in two tones of gold. He looked down the relentless stretchof tiled floor at the water-cooler, and assured himself that no tenantof the Reeves Building had a more expensive one, but he could notrecapture the feeling of social superiority it had given him. Heastoundingly grunted, "I'd like to beat it off to the woods right now.And loaf all day. And go to Gunch's again to-night, and play poker,and cuss as much as I feel like, and drink a hundred and nine-thousandbottles of beer."He sighed; he read through his mail; he shouted "Msgoun," which meant"Miss McGoun"; and began to dictate.This was his own version of his first letter:"Omar Gribble, send it to his office, Miss McGoun, yours of twentieth tohand and in reply would say look here, Gribble, I'm awfully afraid ifwe go on shilly-shallying like this we'll just naturally lose the Allensale, I had Allen up on carpet day before yesterday and got right downto cases and think I can assure you--uh, uh, no, change that: all myexperience indicates he is all right, means to do business, looked intohis financial record which is fine--that sentence seems to be a littleballed up, Miss McGoun; make a couple sentences out of it if you haveto, period, new paragraph."He is perfectly willing to pro rate the special assessment and strikesme, am dead sure there will be no difficulty in getting him to pay fortitle insurance, so now for heaven's sake let's get busy--no, make that:so now let's go to it and get down--no, that's enough--you can tiethose sentences up a little better when you type 'em, Miss McGoun--yoursincerely, etcetera."This is the version of his letter which he received, typed, from MissMcGoun that afternoon: BABBITT-THOMPSON REALTY CO. Homes for Folks Reeves Bldg., Oberlin Avenue & 3d St., N.E Zenith Omar Gribble, Esq., 376 North American Building, Zenith.Dear Mr. Gribble:Your letter of the twentieth to hand. I must say I'm awfully afraid thatif we go on shilly-shallying like this we'll just naturally lose theAllen sale. I had Allen up on the carpet day before yesterday, and gotright down to cases. All my experience indicates that he means to dobusiness. I have also looked into his financial record, which is fine.He is perfectly willing to pro rate the special assessment and therewill be no difficulty in getting him to pay for title insurance.SO LET'S GO! Yours sincerely,As he read and signed it, in his correct flowing business-college hand,Babbitt reflected, "Now that's a good, strong letter, and clear's abell. Now what the--I never told McGoun to make a third paragraph there!Wish she'd quit trying to improve on my dictation! But what I can'tunderstand is: why can't Stan Graff or Chet Laylock write a letter likethat? With punch! With a kick!"The most important thing he dictated that morning was the fortnightlyform-letter, to be mimeographed and sent out to a thousand "prospects."It was diligently imitative of the best literary models of the day; ofheart-to-heart-talk advertisements, "sales-pulling" letters, discourseson the "development of Will-power," and hand-shaking house-organs,as richly poured forth by the new school of Poets of Business. He hadpainfully written out a first draft, and he intoned it now like a poetdelicate and distrait:SAY, OLD MAN! I just want to know can I do you a whaleuva favor? Honest!No kidding! I know you're interested in getting a house, not merely aplace where you hang up the old bonnet but a love-nest for the wife andkiddies--and maybe for the flivver out beyant (be sure and spell thatb-e-y-a-n-t, Miss McGoun) the spud garden. Say, did you ever stopto think that we're here to save you trouble? That's how we make aliving--folks don't pay us for our lovely beauty! Now take a look:Sit right down at the handsome carved mahogany escritoire and shoot usin a line telling us just what you want, and if we can find it we'llcome hopping down your lane with the good tidings, and if we can't, wewon't bother you. To save your time, just fill out the blank enclosed.On request will also send blank regarding store properties in FloralHeights, Silver Grove, Linton, Bellevue, and all East Side residentialdistricts.Yours for service,P.S.--Just a hint of some plums we can pick for you--some genuinebargains that came in to-day:SILVER GROVE.--Cute four-room California bungalow, a.m.i., garage, dandyshade tree, swell neighborhood, handy car line. $3700, $780 down andbalance liberal, Babbitt-Thompson terms, cheaper than rent.DORCHESTER.--A corker! Artistic two-family house, all oak trim, parquetfloors, lovely gas log, big porches, colonial, HEATED ALL-WEATHERGARAGE, a bargain at $11,250.Dictation over, with its need of sitting and thinking instead ofbustling around and making a noise and really doing something, Babbittsat creakily back in his revolving desk-chair and beamed on Miss McGoun.He was conscious of her as a girl, of black bobbed hair against demurecheeks. A longing which was indistinguishable from loneliness enfeebledhim. While she waited, tapping a long, precise pencil-point on thedesk-tablet, he half identified her with the fairy girl of his dreams.He imagined their eyes meeting with terrifying recognition; imaginedtouching her lips with frightened reverence and--She was chirping,"Any more, Mist' Babbitt?" He grunted, "That winds it up, I guess," andturned heavily away.For all his wandering thoughts, they had never been more intimate thanthis. He often reflected, "Nev' forget how old Jake Offutt said a wisebird never goes love-making in his own office or his own home. Starttrouble. Sure. But--"In twenty-three years of married life he had peered uneasily at everygraceful ankle, every soft shoulder; in thought he had treasured them;but not once had he hazarded respectability by adventuring. Now, ashe calculated the cost of repapering the Styles house, he was restlessagain, discontented about nothing and everything, ashamed of hisdiscontentment, and lonely for the fairy girl.