CHAPTER VI

by Sinclair Lewis

　　IWHEN the first dubious November snow had filtered down, shading withwhite the bare clods in the plowed fields, when the first small firehad been started in the furnace, which is the shrine of a Gopher Prairiehome, Carol began to make the house her own. She dismissed the parlorfurniture--the golden oak table with brass knobs, the moldy brocadechairs, the picture of "The Doctor." She went to Minneapolis, to scamperthrough department stores and small Tenth Street shops devoted toceramics and high thought. She had to ship her treasures, but she wantedto bring them back in her arms.Carpenters had torn out the partition between front parlor and backparlor, thrown it into a long room on which she lavished yellow anddeep blue; a Japanese obi with an intricacy of gold thread on stiffultramarine tissue, which she hung as a panel against the maize wall; acouch with pillows of sapphire velvet and gold bands; chairs which, inGopher Prairie, seemed flippant. She hid the sacred family phonograph inthe dining-room, and replaced its stand with a square cabinet on whichwas a squat blue jar between yellow candles.Kennicott decided against a fireplace. "We'll have a new house in acouple of years, anyway."She decorated only one room. The rest, Kennicott hinted, she'd betterleave till he "made a ten-strike."The brown cube of a house stirred and awakened; it seemed to be inmotion; it welcomed her back from shopping; it lost its mildewedrepression.The supreme verdict was Kennicott's "Well, by golly, I was afraid thenew junk wouldn't be so comfortable, but I must say this divan, orwhatever you call it, is a lot better than that bumpy old sofa we had,and when I look around----Well, it's worth all it cost, I guess."Every one in town took an interest in the refurnishing. The carpentersand painters who did not actually assist crossed the lawn to peerthrough the windows and exclaim, "Fine! Looks swell!" Dave Dyer atthe drug store, Harry Haydock and Raymie Wutherspoon at the Bon Ton,repeated daily, "How's the good work coming? I hear the house is gettingto be real classy."Even Mrs. Bogart.Mrs. Bogart lived across the alley from the rear of Carol's house. Shewas a widow, and a Prominent Baptist, and a Good Influence. She had sopainfully reared three sons to be Christian gentlemen that one of themhad become an Omaha bartender, one a professor of Greek, and one, CyrusN. Bogart, a boy of fourteen who was still at home, the most brazenmember of the toughest gang in Boytown.Mrs. Bogart was not the acid type of Good Influence. She was the soft,damp, fat, sighing, indigestive, clinging, melancholy, depressinglyhopeful kind. There are in every large chicken-yard a number of old andindignant hens who resemble Mrs. Bogart, and when they are served atSunday noon dinner, as fricasseed chicken with thick dumplings, theykeep up the resemblance.Carol had noted that Mrs. Bogart from her side window kept an eye uponthe house. The Kennicotts and Mrs. Bogart did not move in the samesets--which meant precisely the same in Gopher Prairie as it did onFifth Avenue or in Mayfair. But the good widow came calling.She wheezed in, sighed, gave Carol a pulpy hand, sighed, glanced sharplyat the revelation of ankles as Carol crossed her legs, sighed, inspectedthe new blue chairs, smiled with a coy sighing sound, and gave voice:"I've wanted to call on you so long, dearie, you know we're neighbors,but I thought I'd wait till you got settled, you must run in and see me,how much did that big chair cost?""Seventy-seven dollars!""Sev----Sakes alive! Well, I suppose it's all right for them that canafford it, though I do sometimes think----Of course as our pastor saidonce, at Baptist Church----By the way, we haven't seen you there yet,and of course your husband was raised up a Baptist, and I do hopehe won't drift away from the fold, of course we all know there isn'tanything, not cleverness or gifts of gold or anything, that can makeup for humility and the inward grace and they can say what they want toabout the P. E. church, but of course there's no church that has morehistory or has stayed by the true principles of Christianity betterthan the Baptist Church and----In what church were you raised, Mrs.Kennicott?""W-why, I went to Congregational, as a girl in Mankato, but my collegewas Universalist.""Well----But of course as the Bible says, is it the Bible, at least Iknow I have heard it in church and everybody admits it, it's proper forthe little bride to take her husband's vessel of faith, so we all hopewe shall see you at the Baptist Church and----As I was saying, of courseI agree with Reverend Zitterel in thinking that the great trouble withthis nation today is lack of spiritual faith--so few going to church,and people automobiling on Sunday and heaven knows what all. But stillI do think that one trouble is this terrible waste of money, peoplefeeling that they've got to have bath-tubs and telephones in theirhouses----I heard you were selling the old furniture cheap.""Yes!""Well--of course you know your own mind, but I can't help thinking, whenWill's ma was down here keeping house for him--SHE used to run in to SEEme, real OFTEN!--it was good enough furniture for her. But there, there,I mustn't croak, I just wanted to let you know that when you find youcan't depend on a lot of these gadding young folks like the Haydocks andthe Dyers--and heaven only knows how much money Juanita Haydock blows inin a year--why then you may be glad to know that slow old Aunty Bogartis always right there, and heaven knows----" A portentous sigh. "--IHOPE you and your husband won't have any of the troubles, with sicknessand quarreling and wasting money and all that so many of these youngcouples do have and----But I must be running along now, dearie. It'sbeen such a pleasure and----Just run in and see me any time. I hope Willis well? I thought he looked a wee mite peaked."It was twenty minutes later when Mrs. Bogart finally oozed out of thefront door. Carol ran back into the living-room and jerked open thewindows. "That woman has left damp finger-prints in the air," she said.IICarol was extravagant, but at least she did not try to clear herself ofblame by going about whimpering, "I know I'm terribly extravagant but Idon't seem to be able to help it."Kennicott had never thought of giving her an allowance. His mother hadnever had one! As a wage-earning spinster Carol had asserted to herfellow librarians that when she was married, she was going to have anallowance and be business-like and modern. But it was too much troubleto explain to Kennicott's kindly stubbornness that she was a practicalhousekeeper as well as a flighty playmate. She bought a budget-planaccount book and made her budgets as exact as budgets are likely to bewhen they lack budgets.For the first month it was a honeymoon jest to beg prettily, to confess,"I haven't a cent in the house, dear," and to be told, "You're anextravagant little rabbit." But the budget book made her realize howinexact were her finances. She became self-conscious; occasionally shewas indignant that she should always have to petition him for the moneywith which to buy his food. She caught herself criticizing his beliefthat, since his joke about trying to keep her out of the poorhouse hadonce been accepted as admirable humor, it should continue to be hisdaily bon mot. It was a nuisance to have to run down the street afterhim because she had forgotten to ask him for money at breakfast.But she couldn't "hurt his feelings," she reflected. He liked thelordliness of giving largess.She tried to reduce the frequency of begging by opening accounts andhaving the bills sent to him. She had found that staple groceries,sugar, flour, could be most cheaply purchased at Axel Egge's rusticgeneral store. She said sweetly to Axel:"I think I'd better open a charge account here.""I don't do no business except for cash," grunted Axel.She flared, "Do you know who I am?""Yuh, sure, I know. The doc is good for it. But that's yoost a rule Imade. I make low prices. I do business for cash."She stared at his red impassive face, and her fingers had theundignified desire to slap him, but her reason agreed with him. "You'requite right. You shouldn't break your rule for me."Her rage had not been lost. It had been transferred to her husband. Shewanted ten pounds of sugar in a hurry, but she had no money. She ran upthe stairs to Kennicott's office. On the door was a sign advertising aheadache cure and stating, "The doctor is out, back at----" Naturally,the blank space was not filled out. She stamped her foot. She ran downto the drug store--the doctor's club.As she entered she heard Mrs. Dyer demanding, "Dave, I've got to havesome money."Carol saw that her husband was there, and two other men, all listeningin amusement.Dave Dyer snapped, "How much do you want? Dollar be enough?""No, it won't! I've got to get some underclothes for the kids.""Why, good Lord, they got enough now to fill the closet so I couldn'tfind my hunting boots, last time I wanted them.""I don't care. They're all in rags. You got to give me ten dollars----"Carol perceived that Mrs. Dyer was accustomed to this indignity. Sheperceived that the men, particularly Dave, regarded it as an excellentjest. She waited--she knew what would come--it did. Dave yelped,"Where's that ten dollars I gave you last year?" and he looked to theother men to laugh. They laughed.Cold and still, Carol walked up to Kennicott and commanded, "I want tosee you upstairs.""Why--something the matter?""Yes!"He clumped after her, up the stairs, into his barren office. Before hecould get out a query she stated:"Yesterday, in front of a saloon, I heard a German farm-wife beg herhusband for a quarter, to get a toy for the baby--and he refused. Justnow I've heard Mrs. Dyer going through the same humiliation. And I--I'min the same position! I have to beg you for money. Daily! I have justbeen informed that I couldn't have any sugar because I hadn't the moneyto pay for it!""Who said that? By God, I'll kill any----""Tut. It wasn't his fault. It was yours. And mine. I now humbly begyou to give me the money with which to buy meals for you to eat. Andhereafter to remember it. The next time, I sha'n't beg. I shall simplystarve. Do you understand? I can't go on being a slave----"Her defiance, her enjoyment of the role, ran out. She was sobbingagainst his overcoat, "How can you shame me so?" and he was blubbering,"Dog-gone it, I meant to give you some, and I forgot it. I swear I won'tagain. By golly I won't!"He pressed fifty dollars upon her, and after that he remembered to giveher money regularly . . . sometimes.Daily she determined, "But I must have a stated amount--bebusiness-like. System. I must do something about it." And daily shedidn't do anything about it.IIIMrs. Bogart had, by the simpering viciousness of her comments on the newfurniture, stirred Carol to economy. She spoke judiciously to Beaabout left-overs. She read the cookbook again and, like a child witha picture-book, she studied the diagram of the beef which gallantlycontinues to browse though it is divided into cuts.But she was a deliberate and joyous spendthrift in her preparations forher first party, the housewarming. She made lists on every envelopeand laundry-slip in her desk. She sent orders to Minneapolis "fancygrocers." She pinned patterns and sewed. She was irritated whenKennicott was jocular about "these frightful big doings that are goingon." She regarded the affair as an attack on Gopher Prairie's timidityin pleasure. "I'll make 'em lively, if nothing else. I'll make 'em stopregarding parties as committee-meetings."Kennicott usually considered himself the master of the house. At hisdesire, she went hunting, which was his symbol of happiness, and sheordered porridge for breakfast, which was his symbol of morality. Butwhen he came home on the afternoon before the housewarming he foundhimself a slave, an intruder, a blunderer. Carol wailed, "Fix thefurnace so you won't have to touch it after supper. And for heaven'ssake take that horrible old door-mat off the porch. And put on your nicebrown and white shirt. Why did you come home so late? Would you mindhurrying? Here it is almost suppertime, and those fiends are just aslikely as not to come at seven instead of eight. PLEASE hurry!"She was as unreasonable as an amateur leading woman on a first night,and he was reduced to humility. When she came down to supper, when shestood in the doorway, he gasped. She was in a silver sheath, the calyxof a lily, her piled hair like black glass; she had the fragility andcostliness of a Viennese goblet; and her eyes were intense. He wasstirred to rise from the table and to hold the chair for her; and allthrough supper he ate his bread dry because he felt that she would thinkhim common if he said "Will you hand me the butter?"IVShe had reached the calmness of not caring whether her guests likedthe party or not, and a state of satisfied suspense in regard to Bea'stechnique in serving, before Kennicott cried from the bay-window inthe living-room, "Here comes somebody!" and Mr. and Mrs. Luke Dawsonfaltered in, at a quarter to eight. Then in a shy avalanche arrivedthe entire aristocracy of Gopher Prairie: all persons engaged in aprofession, or earning more than twenty-five hundred dollars a year, orpossessed of grandparents born in America.Even while they were removing their overshoes they were peeping at thenew decorations. Carol saw Dave Dyer secretively turn over the goldpillows to find a price-tag, and heard Mr. Julius Flickerbaugh, theattorney, gasp, "Well, I'll be switched," as he viewed the vermilionprint hanging against the Japanese obi. She was amused. But her highspirits slackened as she beheld them form in dress parade, in a long,silent, uneasy circle clear round the living-room. She felt that she hadbeen magically whisked back to her first party, at Sam Clark's."Have I got to lift them, like so many pigs of iron? I don't know that Ican make them happy, but I'll make them hectic."A silver flame in the darkling circle, she whirled around, drew themwith her smile, and sang, "I want my party to be noisy and undignified!This is the christening of my house, and I want you to help me have abad influence on it, so that it will be a giddy house. For me, won't youall join in an old-fashioned square dance? And Mr. Dyer will call."She had a record on the phonograph; Dave Dyer was capering in the centerof the floor, loose-jointed, lean, small, rusty headed, pointed of nose,clapping his hands and shouting, "Swing y' pardners--alamun lef!"Even the millionaire Dawsons and Ezra Stowbody and "Professor" GeorgeEdwin Mott danced, looking only slightly foolish; and by rushing aboutthe room and being coy and coaxing to all persons over forty-five, Carolgot them into a waltz and a Virginia Reel. But when she left them todisenjoy themselves in their own way Harry Haydock put a one-step recordon the phonograph, the younger people took the floor, and all the elderssneaked back to their chairs, with crystallized smiles which meant,"Don't believe I'll try this one myself, but I do enjoy watching theyoungsters dance."Half of them were silent; half resumed the discussions of that afternoonin the store. Ezra Stowbody hunted for something to say, hid a yawn, andoffered to Lyman Cass, the owner of the flour-mill, "How d' you folkslike the new furnace, Lym? Huh? So.""Oh, let them alone. Don't pester them. They must like it, or theywouldn't do it." Carol warned herself. But they gazed at her soexpectantly when she flickered past that she was reconvinced that intheir debauches of respectability they had lost the power of play aswell as the power of impersonal thought. Even the dancers were graduallycrushed by the invisible force of fifty perfectly pure and well-behavedand negative minds; and they sat down, two by two. In twenty minutes theparty was again elevated to the decorum of a prayer-meeting."We're going to do something exciting," Carol exclaimed to her newconfidante, Vida Sherwin. She saw that in the growing quiet her voicehad carried across the room. Nat Hicks, Ella Stowbody, and Dave Dyerwere abstracted, fingers and lips slightly moving. She knew with acold certainty that Dave was rehearsing his "stunt" about the Norwegiancatching the hen, Ella running over the first lines of "An OldSweetheart of Mine," and Nat thinking of his popular parody on MarkAntony's oration."But I will not have anybody use the word 'stunt' in my house," shewhispered to Miss Sherwin."That's good. I tell you: why not have Raymond Wutherspoon sing?""Raymie? Why, my dear, he's the most sentimental yearner in town!""See here, child! Your opinions on house-decorating are sound, but youropinions of people are rotten! Raymie does wag his tail. But the poordear----Longing for what he calls 'self-expression' and no training inanything except selling shoes. But he can sing. And some day whenhe gets away from Harry Haydock's patronage and ridicule, he'll dosomething fine."Carol apologized for her superciliousness. She urged Raymie, and warnedthe planners of "stunts," "We all want you to sing, Mr. Wutherspoon.You're the only famous actor I'm going to let appear on the stagetonight."While Raymie blushed and admitted, "Oh, they don't want to hear me," hewas clearing his throat, pulling his clean handkerchief farther out ofhis breast pocket, and thrusting his fingers between the buttons of hisvest.In her affection for Raymie's defender, in her desire to "discoverartistic talent," Carol prepared to be delighted by the recital.Raymie sang "Fly as a Bird," "Thou Art My Dove," and "When the LittleSwallow Leaves Its Tiny Nest," all in a reasonably bad offertory tenor.Carol was shuddering with the vicarious shame which sensitive peoplefeel when they listen to an "elocutionist" being humorous, or to aprecocious child publicly doing badly what no child should do at all.She wanted to laugh at the gratified importance in Raymie's half-shuteyes; she wanted to weep over the meek ambitiousness which clouded likean aura his pale face, flap ears, and sandy pompadour. She tried to lookadmiring, for the benefit of Miss Sherwin, that trusting admirer of allthat was or conceivably could be the good, the true, and the beautiful.At the end of the third ornithological lyric Miss Sherwin roused fromher attitude of inspired vision and breathed to Carol, "My! That wassweet! Of course Raymond hasn't an unusually good voice, but don't youthink he puts such a lot of feeling into it?"Carol lied blackly and magnificently, but without originality: "Oh yes,I do think he has so much FEELING!"She saw that after the strain of listening in a cultured manner theaudience had collapsed; had given up their last hope of being amused.She cried, "Now we're going to play an idiotic game which I learned inChicago. You will have to take off your shoes, for a starter! After thatyou will probably break your knees and shoulder-blades."Much attention and incredulity. A few eyebrows indicating a verdict thatDoc Kennicott's bride was noisy and improper."I shall choose the most vicious, like Juanita Haydock and myself, asthe shepherds. The rest of you are wolves. Your shoes are the sheep.The wolves go out into the hall. The shepherds scatter the sheep throughthis room, then turn off all the lights, and the wolves crawl in fromthe hall and in the darkness they try to get the shoes away fromthe shepherds--who are permitted to do anything except bite and useblack-jacks. The wolves chuck the captured shoes out into the hall. Noone excused! Come on! Shoes off!"Every one looked at every one else and waited for every one else tobegin.Carol kicked off her silver slippers, and ignored the universal glanceat her arches. The embarrassed but loyal Vida Sherwin unbuttoned herhigh black shoes. Ezra Stowbody cackled, "Well, you're a terror to oldfolks. You're like the gals I used to go horseback-riding with, back inthe sixties. Ain't much accustomed to attending parties barefoot,but here goes!" With a whoop and a gallant jerk Ezra snatched off hiselastic-sided Congress shoes.The others giggled and followed.When the sheep had been penned up, in the darkness the timorous wolvescrept into the living-room, squealing, halting, thrown out of theirhabit of stolidity by the strangeness of advancing through nothingnesstoward a waiting foe, a mysterious foe which expanded and grew moremenacing. The wolves peered to make out landmarks, they touched glidingarms which did not seem to be attached to a body, they quivered with arapture of fear. Reality had vanished. A yelping squabble suddenly rose,then Juanita Haydock's high titter, and Guy Pollock's astonished, "Ouch!Quit! You're scalping me!"Mrs. Luke Dawson galloped backward on stiff hands and knees into thesafety of the lighted hallway, moaning, "I declare, I nev' was soupset in my life!" But the propriety was shaken out of her, and shedelightedly continued to ejaculate "Nev' in my LIFE" as she saw theliving-room door opened by invisible hands and shoes hurling through it,as she heard from the darkness beyond the door a squawling, a bumping,a resolute "Here's a lot of shoes. Come on, you wolves. Ow! Y' would,would you!"When Carol abruptly turned on the lights in the embattled living-room,half of the company were sitting back against the walls, where they hadcraftily remained throughout the engagement, but in the middle of thefloor Kennicott was wrestling with Harry Haydock--their collars tornoff, their hair in their eyes; and the owlish Mr. Julius Flickerbaughwas retreating from Juanita Haydock, and gulping with unaccustomedlaughter. Guy Pollock's discreet brown scarf hung down his back. YoungRita Simons's net blouse had lost two buttons, and betrayed more of herdelicious plump shoulder than was regarded as pure in Gopher Prairie.Whether by shock, disgust, joy of combat, or physical activity, all theparty were freed from their years of social decorum. George Edwin Mottgiggled; Luke Dawson twisted his beard; Mrs. Clark insisted, "I did too,Sam--I got a shoe--I never knew I could fight so terrible!"Carol was certain that she was a great reformer.She mercifully had combs, mirrors, brushes, needle and thread ready. Shepermitted them to restore the divine decency of buttons.The grinning Bea brought down-stairs a pile of soft thick sheets ofpaper with designs of lotos blossoms, dragons, apes, in cobalt andcrimson and gray, and patterns of purple birds flying among sea-greentrees in the valleys of Nowhere."These," Carol announced, "are real Chinese masquerade costumes. I gotthem from an importing shop in Minneapolis. You are to put them on overyour clothes, and please forget that you are Minnesotans, and turn intomandarins and coolies and--and samurai (isn't it?), and anything elseyou can think of."While they were shyly rustling the paper costumes she disappeared. Tenminutes after she gazed down from the stairs upon grotesquely ruddyYankee heads above Oriental robes, and cried to them, "The PrincessWinky Poo salutes her court!"As they looked up she caught their suspense of admiration. They saw anairy figure in trousers and coat of green brocade edged with gold; ahigh gold collar under a proud chin; black hair pierced with jade pins;a languid peacock fan in an out-stretched hand; eyes uplifted to avision of pagoda towers. When she dropped her pose and smiled downshe discovered Kennicott apoplectic with domestic pride--and gray GuyPollock staring beseechingly. For a second she saw nothing in all thepink and brown mass of their faces save the hunger of the two men.She shook off the spell and ran down. "We're going to have a realChinese concert. Messrs. Pollock, Kennicott, and, well, Stowbody aredrummers; the rest of us sing and play the fife."The fifes were combs with tissue paper; the drums were tabourets and thesewing-table. Loren Wheeler, editor of the Dauntless, led the orchestra,with a ruler and a totally inaccurate sense of rhythm. The music was areminiscence of tom-toms heard at circus fortune-telling tents or atthe Minnesota State Fair, but the whole company pounded and puffed andwhined in a sing-song, and looked rapturous.Before they were quite tired of the concert Carol led them in a dancingprocession to the dining-room, to blue bowls of chow mein, with Licheenuts and ginger preserved in syrup.None of them save that city-rounder Harry Haydock had heard of anyChinese dish except chop sooey. With agreeable doubt they venturedthrough the bamboo shoots into the golden fried noodles of the chowmein; and Dave Dyer did a not very humorous Chinese dance with NatHicks; and there was hubbub and contentment.Carol relaxed, and found that she was shockingly tired. She had carriedthem on her thin shoulders. She could not keep it up. She longed forher father, that artist at creating hysterical parties. She thought ofsmoking a cigarette, to shock them, and dismissed the obscene thoughtbefore it was quite formed. She wondered whether they could for fiveminutes be coaxed to talk about something besides the winter topof Knute Stamquist's Ford, and what Al Tingley had said about hismother-in-law. She sighed, "Oh, let 'em alone. I've done enough." Shecrossed her trousered legs, and snuggled luxuriously above her saucerof ginger; she caught Pollock's congratulatory still smile, and thoughtwell of herself for having thrown a rose light on the pallid lawyer;repented the heretical supposition that any male save her husbandexisted; jumped up to find Kennicott and whisper, "Happy, my lord? . . .No, it didn't cost much!""Best party this town ever saw. Only----Don't cross your legs in thatcostume. Shows your knees too plain."She was vexed. She resented his clumsiness. She returned to Guy Pollockand talked of Chinese religions--not that she knew anything whateverabout Chinese religions, but he had read a book on the subject as, onlonely evenings in his office, he had read at least one book on everysubject in the world. Guy's thin maturity was changing in her visionto flushed youth and they were roaming an island in the yellow sea ofchatter when she realized that the guests were beginning that coughwhich indicated, in the universal instinctive language, that theydesired to go home and go to bed.While they asserted that it had been "the nicest party they'd everseen--my! so clever and original," she smiled tremendously, shook hands,and cried many suitable things regarding children, and being sure towrap up warmly, and Raymie's singing and Juanita Haydock's prowess atgames. Then she turned wearily to Kennicott in a house filled with quietand crumbs and shreds of Chinese costumes.He was gurgling, "I tell you, Carrie, you certainly are a wonder, andguess you're right about waking folks up. Now you've showed 'em how,they won't go on having the same old kind of parties and stunts andeverything. Here! Don't touch a thing! Done enough. Pop up to bed, andI'll clear up."His wise surgeon's-hands stroked her shoulder, and her irritation at hisclumsiness was lost in his strength.VFrom the Weekly Dauntless:One of the most delightful social events of recent months was heldWednesday evening in the housewarming of Dr. and Mrs. Kennicott, whohave completely redecorated their charming home on Poplar Street, andis now extremely nifty in modern color scheme. The doctor and his bridewere at home to their numerous friends and a number of novelties indiversions were held, including a Chinese orchestra in original andgenuine Oriental costumes, of which Ye Editor was leader. Daintyrefreshments were served in true Oriental style, and one and all voted adelightful time.VIThe week after, the Chet Dashaways gave a party. The circle of mournerskept its place all evening, and Dave Dyer did the "stunt" of theNorwegian and the hen.