CHAPTER IX

by Sinclair Lewis

　　CHAPTER IXIBABBITT was fond of his friends, he loved the importance of being hostand shouting, "Certainly, you're going to have smore chicken--the idea!"and he appreciated the genius of T. Cholmondeley Frink, but the vigorof the cocktails was gone, and the more he ate the less joyful hefelt. Then the amity of the dinner was destroyed by the nagging of theSwansons.In Floral Heights and the other prosperous sections of Zenith,especially in the "young married set," there were many women who hadnothing to do. Though they had few servants, yet with gas stoves,electric ranges and dish-washers and vacuum cleaners, and tiled kitchenwalls, their houses were so convenient that they had little housework,and much of their food came from bakeries and delicatessens. They hadbut two, one, or no children; and despite the myth that the Great Warhad made work respectable, their husbands objected to their "wastingtime and getting a lot of crank ideas" in unpaid social work, and stillmore to their causing a rumor, by earning money, that they were notadequately supported. They worked perhaps two hours a day, and therest of the time they ate chocolates, went to the motion-pictures, wentwindow-shopping, went in gossiping twos and threes to card-parties,read magazines, thought timorously of the lovers who never appeared,and accumulated a splendid restlessness which they got rid of by naggingtheir husbands. The husbands nagged back.Of these naggers the Swansons were perfect specimens.Throughout the dinner Eddie Swanson had been complaining, publicly,about his wife's new frock. It was, he submitted, too short, too low,too immodestly thin, and much too expensive. He appealed to Babbitt:"Honest, George, what do you think of that rag Louetta went and bought?Don't you think it's the limit?""What's eating you, Eddie? I call it a swell little dress.""Oh, it is, Mr. Swanson. It's a sweet frock," Mrs. Babbitt protested."There now, do you see, smarty! You're such an authority on clothes!"Louetta raged, while the guests ruminated and peeped at her shoulders."That's all right now," said Swanson. "I'm authority enough so I know itwas a waste of money, and it makes me tired to see you not wearing out awhole closetful of clothes you got already. I've expressed my idea aboutthis before, and you know good and well you didn't pay the least bit ofattention. I have to camp on your trail to get you to do anything--"There was much more of it, and they all assisted, all but Babbitt.Everything about him was dim except his stomach, and that was a brightscarlet disturbance. "Had too much grub; oughtn't to eat this stuff,"he groaned--while he went on eating, while he gulped down a chill andglutinous slice of the ice-cream brick, and cocoanut cake as oozy asshaving-cream. He felt as though he had been stuffed with clay; his bodywas bursting, his throat was bursting, his brain was hot mud; and onlywith agony did he continue to smile and shout as became a host on FloralHeights.He would, except for his guests, have fled outdoors and walked off theintoxication of food, but in the haze which filled the room they satforever, talking, talking, while he agonized, "Darn fool to be eatingall this--not 'nother mouthful," and discovered that he was againtasting the sickly welter of melted ice cream on his plate. There wasno magic in his friends; he was not uplifted when Howard Littlefieldproduced from his treasure-house of scholarship the information that thechemical symbol for raw rubber is C10H16, which turns into isoprene,or 2C5H8. Suddenly, without precedent, Babbitt was not merely bored butadmitting that he was bored. It was ecstasy to escape from the table,from the torture of a straight chair, and loll on the davenport in theliving-room.The others, from their fitful unconvincing talk, their expressions ofbeing slowly and painfully smothered, seemed to be suffering from thetoil of social life and the horror of good food as much as himself. Allof them accepted with relief the suggestion of bridge.Babbitt recovered from the feeling of being boiled. He won at bridge.He was again able to endure Vergil Gunch's inexorable heartiness. Buthe pictured loafing with Paul Riesling beside a lake in Maine. It was asoverpowering and imaginative as homesickness. He had never seen Maine,yet he beheld the shrouded mountains, the tranquil lake of evening."That boy Paul's worth all these ballyhooing highbrows put together," hemuttered; and, "I'd like to get away from--everything."Even Louetta Swanson did not rouse him.Mrs. Swanson was pretty and pliant. Babbitt was not an analyst of women,except as to their tastes in Furnished Houses to Rent. He divided theminto Real Ladies, Working Women, Old Cranks, and Fly Chickens. He moonedover their charms but he was of opinion that all of them (save the womenof his own family) were "different" and "mysterious." Yet he had knownby instinct that Louetta Swanson could be approached. Her eyes and lipswere moist. Her face tapered from a broad forehead to a pointed chin,her mouth was thin but strong and avid, and between her brows were twooutcurving and passionate wrinkles. She was thirty, perhaps, or younger.Gossip had never touched her, but every man naturally and instantly roseto flirtatiousness when he spoke to her, and every woman watched herwith stilled blankness.Between games, sitting on the davenport, Babbitt spoke to her with therequisite gallantry, that sonorous Floral Heights gallantry which is notflirtation but a terrified flight from it: "You're looking like a newsoda-fountain to night, Louetta.""Am I?""Ole Eddie kind of on the rampage.""Yes. I get so sick of it.""Well, when you get tired of hubby, you can run off with Uncle George.""If I ran away--Oh, well--""Anybody ever tell you your hands are awful pretty?"She looked down at them, she pulled the lace of her sleeves overthem, but otherwise she did not heed him. She was lost in unexpressedimaginings.Babbitt was too languid this evening to pursue his duty of beinga captivating (though strictly moral) male. He ambled back to thebridge-tables. He was not much thrilled when Mrs. Frink, a smalltwittering woman, proposed that they "try and do some spiritualism andtable-tipping--you know Chum can make the spirits come--honest, he justscares me!"The ladies of the party had not emerged all evening, but now, as the sexgiven to things of the spirit while the men warred against base thingsmaterial, they took command and cried, "Oh, let's!" In the dimnessthe men were rather solemn and foolish, but the goodwives quivered andadored as they sat about the table. They laughed, "Now, you be good orI'll tell!" when the men took their hands in the circle.Babbitt tingled with a slight return of interest in life as LouettaSwanson's hand closed on his with quiet firmness.All of them hunched over, intent. They startled as some one drew astrained breath. In the dusty light from the hall they looked unreal,they felt disembodied. Mrs. Gunch squeaked, and they jumped withunnatural jocularity, but at Frink's hiss they sank into subdued awe.Suddenly, incredibly, they heard a knocking. They stared at Frink'shalf-revealed hands and found them lying still. They wriggled, andpretended not to be impressed.Frink spoke with gravity: "Is some one there?" A thud. "Is one knock tobe the sign for 'yes'?" A thud. "And two for 'no'?" A thud."Now, ladies and gentlemen, shall we ask the guide to put us intocommunication with the spirit of some great one passed over?" Frinkmumbled.Mrs Orville Jones begged, "Oh, let's talk to Dante! We studied him atthe Reading Circle. You know who he was, Orvy.""Certainly I know who he was! The Wop poet. Where do you think I wasraised?" from her insulted husband."Sure--the fellow that took the Cook's Tour to Hell. I've never wadedthrough his po'try, but we learned about him in the U.," said Babbitt."Page Mr. Dannnnnty!" intoned Eddie Swanson."You ought to get him easy, Mr. Frink, you and he being fellow-poets,"said Louetta Swanson."Fellow-poets, rats! Where d' you get that stuff?" protested VergilGunch. "I suppose Dante showed a lot of speed for an old-timer--not thatI've actually read him, of course--but to come right down to hard facts,he wouldn't stand one-two-three if he had to buckle down to practicalliterature and turn out a poem for the newspaper-syndicate every day,like Chum does!""That's so," from Eddie Swanson. "Those old birds could take their time.Judas Priest, I could write poetry myself if I had a whole year for it,and just wrote about that old-fashioned junk like Dante wrote about."Frink demanded, "Hush, now! I'll call him. . . O, Laughing Eyes, emergeforth into the, uh, the ultimates and bring hither the spirit of Dante,that we mortals may list to his words of wisdom.""You forgot to give um the address: 1658 Brimstone Avenue, FieryHeights, Hell," Gunch chuckled, but the others felt that this wasirreligious. And besides--"probably it was just Chum making the knocks,but still, if there did happen to be something to all this, be excitingto talk to an old fellow belonging to--way back in early times--"A thud. The spirit of Dante had come to the parlor of George F. Babbitt.He was, it seemed, quite ready to answer their questions. He was "gladto be with them, this evening."Frink spelled out the messages by running through the alphabet till thespirit interpreter knocked at the right letter.Littlefield asked, in a learned tone, "Do you like it in the Paradiso,Messire?""We are very happy on the higher plane, Signor. We are glad that you arestudying this great truth of spiritualism," Dante replied.The circle moved with an awed creaking of stays and shirt-fronts."Suppose--suppose there were something to this?"Babbitt had a different worry. "Suppose Chum Frink was really one ofthese spiritualists! Chum had, for a literary fellow, always seemed tobe a Regular Guy; he belonged to the Chatham Road Presbyterian Churchand went to the Boosters' lunches and liked cigars and motors and racystories. But suppose that secretly--After all, you never could tellabout these darn highbrows; and to be an out-and-out spiritualist wouldbe almost like being a socialist!"No one could long be serious in the presence of Vergil Gunch. "Ask Dant'how Jack Shakespeare and old Verg'--the guy they named after me--aregettin' along, and don't they wish they could get into the movie game!"he blared, and instantly all was mirth. Mrs. Jones shrieked, and EddieSwanson desired to know whether Dante didn't catch cold with nothing onbut his wreath.The pleased Dante made humble answer.But Babbitt--the curst discontent was torturing him again, and heavily,in the impersonal darkness, he pondered, "I don't--We're all so flip andthink we're so smart. There'd be--A fellow like Dante--I wish I'd readsome of his pieces. I don't suppose I ever will, now."He had, without explanation, the impression of a slaggy cliff and on it,in silhouette against menacing clouds, a lone and austere figure. He wasdismayed by a sudden contempt for his surest friends. He grasped LouettaSwanson's hand, and found the comfort of human warmth. Habit came, aveteran warrior; and he shook himself. "What the deuce is the matterwith me, this evening?"He patted Louetta's hand, to indicate that he hadn't meant anythingimproper by squeezing it, and demanded of Frink, "Say, see if you canget old Dant' to spiel us some of his poetry. Talk up to him. Tell him,'Buena giorna, senor, com sa va, wie geht's? Keskersaykersa a littlepome, senor?'"IIThe lights were switched on; the women sat on the fronts of their chairsin that determined suspense whereby a wife indicates that as soon asthe present speaker has finished, she is going to remark brightly toher husband, "Well, dear, I think per-HAPS it's about time for us tobe saying good-night." For once Babbitt did not break out in blusteringefforts to keep the party going. He had--there was something he wishedto think out--But the psychical research had started them off again.("Why didn't they go home! Why didn't they go home!") Though hewas impressed by the profundity of the statement, he was onlyhalf-enthusiastic when Howard Littlefield lectured, "The United Statesis the only nation in which the government is a Moral Ideal and not justa social arrangement." ("True--true--weren't they EVER going home?") Hewas usually delighted to have an "inside view" of the momentous world ofmotors but to-night he scarcely listened to Eddie Swanson's revelation:"If you want to go above the Javelin class, the Zeeco is a mighty goodbuy. Couple weeks ago, and mind you, this was a fair, square test, theytook a Zeeco stock touring-car and they slid up the Tonawanda hill onhigh, and fellow told me--" ("Zeeco good boat but--Were they planning tostay all night?")They really were going, with a flutter of "We did have the best time!"Most aggressively friendly of all was Babbitt, yet as he burbled he wasreflecting, "I got through it, but for a while there I didn't hardlythink I'd last out." He prepared to taste that most delicate pleasure ofthe host: making fun of his guests in the relaxation of midnight. As thedoor closed he yawned voluptuously, chest out, shoulders wriggling, andturned cynically to his wife.She was beaming. "Oh, it was nice, wasn't it! I know they enjoyed everyminute of it. Don't you think so?"He couldn't do it. He couldn't mock. It would have been like sneering ata happy child. He lied ponderously: "You bet! Best party this year, by along shot.""Wasn't the dinner good! And honestly I thought the fried chicken wasdelicious!""You bet! Fried to the Queen's taste. Best fried chicken I've tasted fora coon's age.""Didn't Matilda fry it beautifully! And don't you think the soup wassimply delicious?""It certainly was! It was corking! Best soup I've tasted since Heck wasa pup!" But his voice was seeping away. They stood in the hall, underthe electric light in its square box-like shade of red glass bound withnickel. She stared at him."Why, George, you don't sound--you sound as if you hadn't really enjoyedit.""Sure I did! Course I did!""George! What is it?""Oh, I'm kind of tired, I guess. Been pounding pretty hard at theoffice. Need to get away and rest up a little.""Well, we're going to Maine in just a few weeks now, dear." "Yuh--" Thenhe was pouring it out nakedly, robbed of reticence. "Myra: I think it'dbe a good thing for me to get up there early.""But you have this man you have to meet in New York about business.""What man? Oh, sure. Him. Oh, that's all off. But I want to hit Maineearly--get in a little fishing, catch me a big trout, by golly!" Anervous, artificial laugh."Well, why don't we do it? Verona and Matilda can run the house betweenthem, and you and I can go any time, if you think we can afford it.""But that's--I've been feeling so jumpy lately, I thought maybe it mightbe a good thing if I kind of got off by myself and sweat it out of me.""George! Don't you WANT me to go along?" She was too wretchedly inearnest to be tragic, or gloriously insulted, or anything save dumpy anddefenseless and flushed to the red steaminess of a boiled beet."Of course I do! I just meant--" Remembering that Paul Riesling hadpredicted this, he was as desperate as she. "I mean, sometimes it's agood thing for an old grouch like me to go off and get it out ofhis system." He tried to sound paternal. "Then when you and the kidsarrive--I figured maybe I might skip up to Maine just a few days aheadof you--I'd be ready for a real bat, see how I mean?" He coaxed herwith large booming sounds, with affable smiles, like a popular preacherblessing an Easter congregation, like a humorous lecturer completing hisstint of eloquence, like all perpetrators of masculine wiles.She stared at him, the joy of festival drained from her face. "Do Ibother you when we go on vacations? Don't I add anything to your fun?"He broke. Suddenly, dreadfully, he was hysterical, he was a yelpingbaby. "Yes, yes, yes! Hell, yes! But can't you understand I'm shot topieces? I'm all in! I got to take care of myself! I tell you, I gotto--I'm sick of everything and everybody! I got to--"It was she who was mature and protective now. "Why, of course! You shallrun off by yourself! Why don't you get Paul to go along, and you boysjust fish and have a good time?" She patted his shoulder--reaching up toit--while he shook with palsied helplessness, and in that moment was notmerely by habit fond of her but clung to her strength.She cried cheerily, "Now up-stairs you go, and pop into bed. We'll fixit all up. I'll see to the doors. Now skip!"For many minutes, for many hours, for a bleak eternity, he lay awake,shivering, reduced to primitive terror, comprehending that he had wonfreedom, and wondering what he could do with anything so unknown and soembarrassing as freedom.