CHAPTER X

by Sinclair Lewis

　　CHAPTER XNo apartment-house in Zenith had more resolutely experimented incondensation than the Revelstoke Arms, in which Paul and Zilla Rieslinghad a flat. By sliding the beds into low closets the bedrooms wereconverted into living-rooms. The kitchens were cupboards each containingan electric range, a copper sink, a glass refrigerator, and, veryintermittently, a Balkan maid. Everything about the Arms was excessivelymodern, and everything was compressed--except the garages.The Babbitts were calling on the Rieslings at the Arms. It was aspeculative venture to call on the Rieslings; interesting and sometimesdisconcerting. Zilla was an active, strident, full-blown, high-bosomedblonde. When she condescended to be good-humored she was nervouslyamusing. Her comments on people were saltily satiric and penetrative ofaccepted hypocrisies. "That's so!" you said, and looked sheepish. Shedanced wildly, and called on the world to be merry, but in the midst ofit she would turn indignant. She was always becoming indignant. Life wasa plot against her and she exposed it furiously.She was affable to-night. She merely hinted that Orville Jones wore atoupe, that Mrs. T. Cholmondeley Frink's singing resembled a Ford goinginto high, and that the Hon. Otis Deeble, mayor of Zenith and candidatefor Congress, was a flatulent fool (which was quite true). The Babbittsand Rieslings sat doubtfully on stone-hard brocade chairs in the smallliving-room of the flat, with its mantel unprovided with a fireplace,and its strip of heavy gilt fabric upon a glaring new player-piano, tillMrs. Riesling shrieked, "Come on! Let's put some pep in it! Get out yourfiddle, Paul, and I'll try to make Georgie dance decently."The Babbitts were in earnest. They were plotting for the escape toMaine. But when Mrs. Babbitt hinted with plump smilingness, "DoesPaul get as tired after the winter's work as Georgie does?" then Zillaremembered an injury; and when Zilla Riesling remembered an injury theworld stopped till something had been done about it."Does he get tired? No, he doesn't get tired, he just goes crazy, that'sall! You think Paul is so reasonable, oh, yes, and he loves to make outhe's a little lamb, but he's stubborn as a mule. Oh, if you had to livewith him--! You'd find out how sweet he is! He just pretends to bemeek so he can have his own way. And me, I get the credit for beinga terrible old crank, but if I didn't blow up once in a while and getsomething started, we'd die of dry-rot. He never wants to go any placeand--Why, last evening, just because the car was out of order--andthat was his fault, too, because he ought to have taken it to theservice-station and had the battery looked at--and he didn't want to godown to the movies on the trolley. But we went, and then there was oneof those impudent conductors, and Paul wouldn't do a thing."I was standing on the platform waiting for the people to let me intothe car, and this beast, this conductor, hollered at me, 'Come on, you,move up!' Why, I've never had anybody speak to me that way in all mylife! I was so astonished I just turned to him and said--I thought theremust be some mistake, and so I said to him, perfectly pleasant, 'Wereyou speaking to me?' and he went on and bellowed at me, 'Yes, I was!You're keeping the whole car from starting!' he said, and then I saw hewas one of these dirty ill-bred hogs that kindness is wasted on, and soI stopped and looked right at him, and I said, 'I--beg--your--pardon,I am not doing anything of the kind,' I said, 'it's the people ahead ofme, who won't move up,' I said, 'and furthermore, let me tell you, youngman, that you're a low-down, foul-mouthed, impertinent skunk,' I said,'and you're no gentleman! I certainly intend to report you, and we'llsee,' I said, 'whether a lady is to be insulted by any drunken bum thatchooses to put on a ragged uniform, and I'd thank you,' I said, 'to keepyour filthy abuse to yourself.' And then I waited for Paul to showhe was half a man and come to my defense, and he just stood thereand pretended he hadn't heard a word, and so I said to him, 'Well,' Isaid--""Oh, cut it, cut it, Zill!" Paul groaned. "We all know I'm amollycoddle, and you're a tender bud, and let's let it go at that.""Let it go?" Zilla's face was wrinkled like the Medusa, her voice was adagger of corroded brass. She was full of the joy of righteousness andbad temper. She was a crusader and, like every crusader, she exultedin the opportunity to be vicious in the name of virtue. "Let it go? Ifpeople knew how many things I've let go--""Oh, quit being such a bully.""Yes, a fine figure you'd cut if I didn't bully you! You'd lie abed tillnoon and play your idiotic fiddle till midnight! You're born lazy, andyou're born shiftless, and you're born cowardly, Paul Riesling--""Oh, now, don't say that, Zilla; you don't mean a word of it!" protestedMrs. Babbitt."I will say that, and I mean every single last word of it!""Oh, now, Zilla, the idea!" Mrs. Babbitt was maternal and fussy. Shewas no older than Zilla, but she seemed so--at first. She was placidand puffy and mature, where Zilla, at forty-five, was so bleached andtight-corseted that you knew only that she was older than she looked."The idea of talking to poor Paul like that!""Poor Paul is right! We'd both be poor, we'd be in the poorhouse, if Ididn't jazz him up!""Why, now, Zilla, Georgie and I were just saying how hard Paul's beenworking all year, and we were thinking it would be lovely if the Boyscould run off by themselves. I've been coaxing George to go up to Maineahead of the rest of us, and get the tired out of his system before wecome, and I think it would be lovely if Paul could manage to get awayand join him."At this exposure of his plot to escape, Paul was startled out ofimpassivity. He rubbed his fingers. His hands twitched.Zilla bayed, "Yes! You're lucky! You can let George go, and not have towatch him. Fat old Georgie! Never peeps at another woman! Hasn't got thespunk!""The hell I haven't!" Babbitt was fervently defending his pricelessimmorality when Paul interrupted him--and Paul looked dangerous. He rosequickly; he said gently to Zilla:"I suppose you imply I have a lot of sweethearts.""Yes, I do!""Well, then, my dear, since you ask for it--There hasn't been a time inthe last ten years when I haven't found some nice little girl tocomfort me, and as long as you continue your amiability I shall probablycontinue to deceive you. It isn't hard. You're so stupid."Zilla gibbered; she howled; words could not be distinguished in herslaver of abuse.Then the bland George F. Babbitt was transformed. If Paul was dangerous,if Zilla was a snake-locked fury, if the neat emotions suitable to theRevelstoke Arms had been slashed into raw hatreds, it was Babbitt whowas the most formidable. He leaped up. He seemed very large. He seizedZilla's shoulder. The cautions of the broker were wiped from his face,and his voice was cruel:"I've had enough of all this damn nonsense! I've known you fortwenty-five years, Zil, and I never knew you to miss a chance to takeyour disappointments out on Paul. You're not wicked. You're worse.You're a fool. And let me tell you that Paul is the finest boy God evermade. Every decent person is sick and tired of your taking advantage ofbeing a woman and springing every mean innuendo you can think of.Who the hell are you that a person like Paul should have to ask yourPERMISSION to go with me? You act like you were a combination of QueenVictoria and Cleopatra. You fool, can't you see how people snicker atyou, and sneer at you?"Zilla was sobbing, "I've never--I've never--nobody ever talked to melike this in all my life!""No, but that's the way they talk behind your back! Always! They sayyou're a scolding old woman. Old, by God!"That cowardly attack broke her. Her eyes were blank. She wept. ButBabbitt glared stolidly. He felt that he was the all-powerful officialin charge; that Paul and Mrs. Babbitt looked on him with awe; that healone could handle this case.Zilla writhed. She begged, "Oh, they don't!""They certainly do!""I've been a bad woman! I'm terribly sorry! I'll kill myself! I'll doanything. Oh, I'll--What do you want?"She abased herself completely. Also, she enjoyed it. To the connoisseurof scenes, nothing is more enjoyable than a thorough, melodramatic,egoistic humility."I want you to let Paul beat it off to Maine with me," Babbitt demanded."How can I help his going? You've just said I was an idiot and nobodypaid any attention to me.""Oh, you can help it, all right, all right! What you got to do is to cutout hinting that the minute he gets out of your sight, he'll go chasingafter some petticoat. Matter fact, that's the way you start the boy offwrong. You ought to have more sense--""Oh, I will, honestly, I will, George. I know I was bad. Oh, forgive me,all of you, forgive me--"She enjoyed it.So did Babbitt. He condemned magnificently and forgave piously, and ashe went parading out with his wife he was grandly explanatory to her:"Kind of a shame to bully Zilla, but course it was the only way tohandle her. Gosh, I certainly did have her crawling!"She said calmly, "Yes. You were horrid. You were showing off. You werehaving a lovely time thinking what a great fine person you were!""Well, by golly! Can you beat it! Of course I might of expected you tonot stand by me! I might of expected you'd stick up for your own sex!""Yes. Poor Zilla, she's so unhappy. She takes it out on Paul. She hasn'ta single thing to do, in that little flat. And she broods too much. Andshe used to be so pretty and gay, and she resents losing it. And youwere just as nasty and mean as you could be. I'm not a bit proud ofyou--or of Paul, boasting about his horrid love-affairs!"He was sulkily silent; he maintained his bad temper at a high level ofoutraged nobility all the four blocks home. At the door he left her, inself-approving haughtiness, and tramped the lawn.With a shock it was revealed to him: "Gosh, I wonder if she wasright--if she was partly right?" Overwork must have flayed him toabnormal sensitiveness; it was one of the few times in his life when hehad queried his eternal excellence; and he perceived the summer night,smelled the wet grass. Then: "I don't care! I've pulled it off. We'regoing to have our spree. And for Paul, I'd do anything."IIThey were buying their Maine tackle at Ijams Brothers', the SportingGoods Mart, with the help of Willis Ijams, fellow member of theBoosters' Club. Babbitt was completely mad. He trumpeted and danced. Hemuttered to Paul, "Say, this is pretty good, eh? To be buying the stuff,eh? And good old Willis Ijams himself coming down on the floor to waiton us! Say, if those fellows that are getting their kit for the NorthLakes knew we were going clear up to Maine, they'd have a fit, eh? . . .Well, come on, Brother Ijams--Willis, I mean. Here's your chance! We'rea couple of easy marks! Whee! Let me at it! I'm going to buy out thestore!"He gloated on fly-rods and gorgeous rubber hip-boots, on tents withcelluloid windows and folding chairs and ice-boxes. He simple-heartedlywanted to buy all of them. It was the Paul whom he was always vaguelyprotecting who kept him from his drunken desires.But even Paul lightened when Willis Ijams, a salesman with poetry anddiplomacy, discussed flies. "Now, of course, you boys know." he said,"the great scrap is between dry flies and wet flies. Personally, I'm fordry flies. More sporting.""That's so. Lots more sporting," fulminated Babbitt, who knew verylittle about flies either wet or dry."Now if you'll take my advice, Georgie, you'll stock up well on thesepale evening dims, and silver sedges, and red ants. Oh, boy, there's afly, that red ant!""You bet! That's what it is--a fly!" rejoiced Babbitt."Yes, sir, that red ant," said Ijams, "is a real honest-to-God FLY!""Oh, I guess ole Mr. Trout won't come a-hustling when I drop one ofthose red ants on the water!" asserted Babbitt, and his thick wristsmade a rapturous motion of casting."Yes, and the landlocked salmon will take it, too," said Ijams, who hadnever seen a landlocked salmon."Salmon! Trout! Say, Paul, can you see Uncle George with his khaki pantson haulin' 'em in, some morning 'bout seven? Whee!"IIIThey were on the New York express, incredibly bound for Maine,incredibly without their families. They were free, in a man's world, inthe smoking-compartment of the Pullman.Outside the car window was a glaze of darkness stippled with the goldof infrequent mysterious lights. Babbitt was immensely conscious, inthe sway and authoritative clatter of the train, of going, of going on.Leaning toward Paul he grunted, "Gosh, pretty nice to be hiking, eh?"The small room, with its walls of ocher-colored steel, was filled mostlywith the sort of men he classified as the Best Fellows You'll EverMeet--Real Good Mixers. There were four of them on the long seat; a fatman with a shrewd fat face, a knife-edged man in a green velour hat,a very young young man with an imitation amber cigarette-holder, andBabbitt. Facing them, on two movable leather chairs, were Paul and alanky, old-fashioned man, very cunning, with wrinkles bracketinghis mouth. They all read newspapers or trade journals, boot-and-shoejournals, crockery journals, and waited for the joys of conversation.It was the very young man, now making his first journey by Pullman, whobegan it."Say, gee, I had a wild old time in Zenith!" he gloried. "Say, if afellow knows the ropes there he can have as wild a time as he can in NewYork!""Yuh, I bet you simply raised the old Ned. I figured you were a bad manwhen I saw you get on the train!" chuckled the fat one.The others delightedly laid down their papers."Well, that's all right now! I guess I seen some things in the Arbor younever seen!" complained the boy."Oh, I'll bet you did! I bet you lapped up the malted milk like areg'lar little devil!"Then, the boy having served as introduction, they ignored him andcharged into real talk. Only Paul, sitting by himself, reading at aserial story in a newspaper, failed to join them and all but Babbittregarded him as a snob, an eccentric, a person of no spirit.Which of them said which has never been determined, and does not matter,since they all had the same ideas and expressed them always with thesame ponderous and brassy assurance. If it was not Babbitt who wasdelivering any given verdict, at least he was beaming on the chancellorwho did deliver it."At that, though," announced the first "they're selling quite some boozein Zenith. Guess they are everywhere. I don't know how you fellowsfeel about prohibition, but the way it strikes me is that it's a mightybeneficial thing for the poor zob that hasn't got any will-power but forfellows like us, it's an infringement of personal liberty.""That's a fact. Congress has got no right to interfere with a fellow'spersonal liberty," contended the second.A man came in from the car, but as all the seats were full he stood upwhile he smoked his cigarette. He was an Outsider; he was not one of theOld Families of the smoking-compartment. They looked upon him bleaklyand, after trying to appear at ease by examining his chin in the mirror,he gave it up and went out in silence."Just been making a trip through the South. Business conditions not verygood down there," said one of the council."Is that a fact! Not very good, eh?""No, didn't strike me they were up to normal.""Not up to normal, eh?""No, I wouldn't hardly say they were."The whole council nodded sagely and decided, "Yump, not hardly up tosnuff.""Well, business conditions ain't what they ought to be out West,neither, not by a long shot.""That's a fact. And I guess the hotel business feels it. That's one goodthing, though: these hotels that've been charging five bucks a day--yes,and maybe six--seven!--for a rotten room are going to be darn glad toget four, and maybe give you a little service.""That's a fact. Say, uh, speaknubout hotels, I hit the St. Francis atSan Francisco for the first time, the other day, and, say, it certainlyis a first-class place.""You're right, brother! The St. Francis is a swell place--absolutelyA1.""That's a fact. I'm right with you. It's a first-class place.""Yuh, but say, any of you fellows ever stay at the Rippleton, inChicago? I don't want to knock--I believe in boosting wherever youcan--but say, of all the rotten dumps that pass 'emselves off asfirst-class hotels, that's the worst. I'm going to get those guys, oneof these days, and I told 'em so. You know how I am--well, maybe youdon't know, but I'm accustomed to first-class accommodations, and I'mperfectly willing to pay a reasonable price. I got into Chicago late theother night, and the Rippleton's near the station--I'd never been therebefore, but I says to the taxi-driver--I always believe in taking ataxi when you get in late; may cost a little more money, but, gosh, it'sworth it when you got to be up early next morning and out selling a lotof crabs--and I said to him, 'Oh, just drive me over to the Rippleton.'"Well, we got there, and I breezed up to the desk and said to the clerk,'Well, brother, got a nice room with bath for Cousin Bill?' Saaaay!You'd 'a' thought I'd sold him a second, or asked him to work on YomKippur! He hands me the cold-boiled stare and yaps, 'I dunno, friend,I'll see,' and he ducks behind the rigamajig they keep track of therooms on. Well, I guess he called up the Credit Association and theAmerican Security League to see if I was all right--he certainly tooklong enough--or maybe he just went to sleep; but finally he comes outand looks at me like it hurts him, and croaks, 'I think I can letyou have a room with bath.' 'Well, that's awful nice of you--sorry totrouble you--how much 'll it set me back?' I says, real sweet. 'It'llcost you seven bucks a day, friend,' he says."Well, it was late, and anyway, it went down on myexpense-account--gosh, if I'd been paying it instead of the firm, I'd'a' tramped the streets all night before I'd 'a' let any hick tavernstick me seven great big round dollars, believe me! So I lets it go atthat. Well, the clerk wakes a nice young bell hop--fine lad--not a dayover seventy-nine years old--fought at the Battle of Gettysburg anddoesn't know it's over yet--thought I was one of the Confederates, Iguess, from the way he looked at me--and Rip van Winkle took me up tosomething--I found out afterwards they called it a room, but first Ithought there'd been some mistake--I thought they were putting me in theSalvation Army collection-box! At seven per each and every diem! Gosh!""Yuh, I've heard the Rippleton was pretty cheesy. Now, when I go toChicago I always stay at the Blackstone or the La Salle--first-classplaces.""Say, any of you fellows ever stay at the Birchdale at Terre Haute? Howis it?""Oh, the Birchdale is a first-class hotel."(Twelve minutes of conference on the state of hotels in South Bend,Flint, Dayton, Tulsa, Wichita, Fort Worth, Winona, Erie, Fargo, andMoose Jaw.)"Speaknubout prices," the man in the velour hat observed, fingering theelk-tooth on his heavy watch-chain, "I'd like to know where they getthis stuff about clothes coming down. Now, you take this suit I got on."He pinched his trousers-leg. "Four years ago I paid forty-two fifty forit, and it was real sure-'nough value. Well, here the other day I wentinto a store back home and asked to see a suit, and the fellow yanks outsome hand-me-downs that, honest, I wouldn't put on a hired man. Just outof curiosity I asks him, 'What you charging for that junk?' 'Junk,' hesays, 'what d' you mean junk? That's a swell piece of goods, all wool--'Like hell! It was nice vegetable wool, right off the Ole Plantation!'It's all wool,' he says, 'and we get sixty-seven ninety for it.' 'Oh,you do, do you!' I says. 'Not from me you don't,' I says, and I walksright out on him. You bet! I says to the wife, 'Well,' I said, 'as longas your strength holds out and you can go on putting a few more patcheson papa's pants, we'll just pass up buying clothes."'"That's right, brother. And just look at collars, frinstance--""Hey! Wait!" the fat man protested. "What's the matter with collars? I'mselling collars! D' you realize the cost of labor on collars is stilltwo hundred and seven per cent. above--"They voted that if their old friend the fat man sold collars, then theprice of collars was exactly what it should be; but all other clothingwas tragically too expensive. They admired and loved one another now.They went profoundly into the science of business, and indicated thatthe purpose of manufacturing a plow or a brick was so that it might besold. To them, the Romantic Hero was no longer the knight, the wanderingpoet, the cowpuncher, the aviator, nor the brave young districtattorney, but the great sales-manager, who had an Analysis ofMerchandizing Problems on his glass-topped desk, whose title of nobilitywas "Go-getter," and who devoted himself and all his young samurai tothe cosmic purpose of Selling--not of selling anything in particular,for or to anybody in particular, but pure Selling.The shop-talk roused Paul Riesling. Though he was a player of violinsand an interestingly unhappy husband, he was also a very able salesmanof tar-roofing. He listened to the fat man's remarks on "the value ofhouse-organs and bulletins as a method of jazzing-up the Boys out on theroad;" and he himself offered one or two excellent thoughts on the useof two-cent stamps on circulars. Then he committed an offense againstthe holy law of the Clan of Good Fellows. He became highbrow.They were entering a city. On the outskirts they passed a steel-millwhich flared in scarlet and orange flame that licked at the cadaverousstacks, at the iron-sheathed walls and sullen converters."My Lord, look at that--beautiful!" said Paul."You bet it's beautiful, friend. That's the Shelling-Horton Steel Plant,and they tell me old John Shelling made a good three million bonesout of munitions during the war!" the man with the velour hat saidreverently."I didn't mean--I mean it's lovely the way the light pulls thatpicturesque yard, all littered with junk, right out of the darkness,"said Paul.They stared at him, while Babbitt crowed, "Paul there has certainly gotone great little eye for picturesque places and quaint sights and allthat stuff. 'D of been an author or something if he hadn't gone into theroofing line."Paul looked annoyed. (Babbitt sometimes wondered if Paul appreciated hisloyal boosting.) The man in the velour hat grunted, "Well, personally,I think Shelling-Horton keep their works awful dirty. Bum routing. ButI don't suppose there's any law against calling 'em 'picturesque' if itgets you that way!"Paul sulkily returned to his newspaper and the conversation logicallymoved on to trains."What time do we get into Pittsburg?" asked Babbitt."Pittsburg? I think we get in at--no, that was last year'sschedule--wait a minute--let's see--got a time-table right here.""I wonder if we're on time?""Yuh, sure, we must be just about on time.""No, we aren't--we were seven minutes late, last station.""Were we? Straight? Why, gosh, I thought we were right on time.""No, we're about seven minutes late.""Yuh, that's right; seven minutes late."The porter entered--a negro in white jacket with brass buttons."How late are we, George?" growled the fat man."'Deed, I don't know, sir. I think we're about on time," said theporter, folding towels and deftly tossing them up on the rack above thewashbowls. The council stared at him gloomily and when he was gone theywailed:"I don't know what's come over these niggers, nowadays. They never giveyou a civil answer.""That's a fact. They're getting so they don't have a single bit ofrespect for you. The old-fashioned coon was a fine old cuss--he knewhis place--but these young dinges don't want to be porters orcotton-pickers. Oh, no! They got to be lawyers and professors and Lordknows what all! I tell you, it's becoming a pretty serious problem. Weought to get together and show the black man, yes, and the yellow man,his place. Now, I haven't got one particle of race-prejudice. I'm thefirst to be glad when a nigger succeeds--so long as he stays where hebelongs and doesn't try to usurp the rightful authority and businessability of the white man.""That's the i.! And another thing we got to do," said the man with thevelour hat (whose name was Koplinsky), "is to keep these damnforeigners out of the country. Thank the Lord, we're putting a limit onimmigration. These Dagoes and Hunkies have got to learn that this is awhite man's country, and they ain't wanted here. When we've assimilatedthe foreigners we got here now and learned 'em the principles ofAmericanism and turned 'em into regular folks, why then maybe we'll letin a few more.""You bet. That's a fact," they observed, and passed on to lightertopics. They rapidly reviewed motor-car prices, tire-mileage,oil-stocks, fishing, and the prospects for the wheat-crop in Dakota.But the fat man was impatient at this waste of time. He was a veterantraveler and free of illusions. Already he had asserted that he was"an old he-one." He leaned forward, gathered in their attention by hisexpression of sly humor, and grumbled, "Oh, hell, boys, let's cut outthe formality and get down to the stories!"They became very lively and intimate.Paul and the boy vanished. The others slid forward on the long seat,unbuttoned their vests, thrust their feet up on the chairs, pulled thestately brass cuspidors nearer, and ran the green window-shade down onits little trolley, to shut them in from the uncomfortable strangenessof night. After each bark of laughter they cried, "Say, jever hear theone about--" Babbitt was expansive and virile. When the train stoppedat an important station, the four men walked up and down the cementplatform, under the vast smoky train-shed roof, like a stormy sky, underthe elevated footways, beside crates of ducks and sides of beef, in themystery of an unknown city. They strolled abreast, old friends and wellcontent. At the long-drawn "Alllll aboarrrrrd"--like a mountain call atdusk--they hastened back into the smoking-compartment, and till two ofthe morning continued the droll tales, their eyes damp with cigar-smokeand laughter. When they parted they shook hands, and chuckled, "Well,sir, it's been a great session. Sorry to bust it up. Mighty glad to metyou."Babbitt lay awake in the close hot tomb of his Pullman berth, shakingwith remembrance of the fat man's limerick about the lady who wished tobe wild. He raised the shade; he lay with a puffy arm tucked between hishead and the skimpy pillow, looking out on the sliding silhouettes oftrees, and village lamps like exclamation-points. He was very happy.