CHAPTER XVII

by Sinclair Lewis

　　CHAPTER XVIIITHERE are but three or four old houses in Floral Heights, and in FloralHeights an old house is one which was built before 1880. The largest ofthese is the residence of William Washington Eathorne, president of theFirst State Bank.The Eathorne Mansion preserves the memory of the "nice parts" of Zenithas they appeared from 1860 to 1900. It is a red brick immensity withgray sandstone lintels and a roof of slate in courses of red, green, anddyspeptic yellow. There are two anemic towers, one roofed with copper,the other crowned with castiron ferns. The porch is like an opentomb; it is supported by squat granite pillars above which hang frozencascades of brick. At one side of the house is a huge stained-glasswindow in the shape of a keyhole.But the house has an effect not at all humorous. It embodies the heavydignity of those Victorian financiers who ruled the generation betweenthe pioneers and the brisk "sales-engineers" and created a somberoligarchy by gaining control of banks, mills, land, railroads, mines.Out of the dozen contradictory Zeniths which together make up thetrue and complete Zenith, none is so powerful and enduring yet noneso unfamiliar to the citizens as the small, still, dry, polite, cruelZenith of the William Eathornes; and for that tiny hierarchy the otherZeniths unwittingly labor and insignificantly die.Most of the castles of the testy Victorian tetrarchs are gone now ordecayed into boarding-houses, but the Eathorne Mansion remains virtuousand aloof, reminiscent of London, Back Bay, Rittenhouse Square. Itsmarble steps are scrubbed daily, the brass plate is reverently polished,and the lace curtains are as prim and superior as William WashingtonEathorne himself.With a certain awe Babbitt and Chum Frink called on Eathorne for ameeting of the Sunday School Advisory Committee; with uneasy stillnessthey followed a uniformed maid through catacombs of reception-rooms tothe library. It was as unmistakably the library of a solid old banker asEathorne's side-whiskers were the side-whiskers of a solid old banker.The books were most of them Standard Sets, with the correct andtraditional touch of dim blue, dim gold, and glossy calf-skin. Thefire was exactly correct and traditional; a small, quiet, steady fire,reflected by polished fire-irons. The oak desk was dark and old andaltogether perfect; the chairs were gently supercilious.Eathorne's inquiries as to the healths of Mrs. Babbitt, Miss Babbitt,and the Other Children were softly paternal, but Babbitt had nothingwith which to answer him. It was indecent to think of using the "How'stricks, ole socks?" which gratified Vergil Gunch and Frink and HowardLittlefield--men who till now had seemed successful and urbane. Babbittand Frink sat politely, and politely did Eathorne observe, opening histhin lips just wide enough to dismiss the words, "Gentlemen, before webegin our conference--you may have felt the cold in coming here--so goodof you to save an old man the journey--shall we perhaps have a whiskytoddy?"So well trained was Babbitt in all the conversation that befits a GoodFellow that he almost disgraced himself with "Rather than make trouble,and always providin' there ain't any enforcement officers hiding inthe waste-basket--" The words died choking in his throat. He bowed influstered obedience. So did Chum Frink.Eathorne rang for the maid.The modern and luxurious Babbitt had never seen any one ring for aservant in a private house, except during meals. Himself, in hotels, hadrung for bell-boys, but in the house you didn't hurt Matilda's feelings;you went out in the hall and shouted for her. Nor had he, sinceprohibition, known any one to be casual about drinking. It wasextraordinary merely to sip his toddy and not cry, "Oh, maaaaan, thishits me right where I live!" And always, with the ecstasy of youthmeeting greatness, he marveled, "That little fuzzy-face there, why,he could make me or break me! If he told my banker to call my loans--!Gosh! That quarter-sized squirt! And looking like he hadn't got a singlebit of hustle to him! I wonder--Do we Boosters throw too many fits aboutpep?"From this thought he shuddered away, and listened devoutly to Eathorne'sideas on the advancement of the Sunday School, which were very clear andvery bad.Diffidently Babbitt outlined his own suggestions:"I think if you analyze the needs of the school, in fact, going rightat it as if it was a merchandizing problem, of course the one basicand fundamental need is growth. I presume we're all agreed we won't besatisfied till we build up the biggest darn Sunday School in the wholestate, so the Chatham Road Presbyterian won't have to take anythingoff anybody. Now about jazzing up the campaign for prospects: they'vealready used contesting teams, and given prizes to the kids that bringin the most members. And they made a mistake there: the prizes werea lot of folderols and doodads like poetry books and illustratedTestaments, instead of something a real live kid would want to work for,like real cash or a speedometer for his motor cycle. Course I supposeit's all fine and dandy to illustrate the lessons with these decoratedbook-marks and blackboard drawings and so on, but when it comes down toreal he-hustling, getting out and drumming up customers--or members, Imean, why, you got to make it worth a fellow's while."Now, I want to propose two stunts: First, divide the Sunday School intofour armies, depending on age. Everybody gets a military rank in his ownarmy according to how many members he brings in, and the duffers thatlie down on us and don't bring in any, they remain privates. The pastorand superintendent rank as generals. And everybody has got to givesalutes and all the rest of that junk, just like a regular army, to make'em feel it's worth while to get rank."Then, second: Course the school has its advertising committee, but,Lord, nobody ever really works good--nobody works well just for the loveof it. The thing to do is to be practical and up-to-date, and hire areal paid press-agent for the Sunday School-some newspaper fellow whocan give part of his time.""Sure, you bet!" said Chum Frink."Think of the nice juicy bits he could get in!" Babbitt crowed."Not only the big, salient, vital facts, about how fast the SundaySchool--and the collection--is growing, but a lot of humorous gossipand kidding: about how some blowhard fell down on his pledge to get newmembers, or the good time the Sacred Trinity class of girls had at theirwieniewurst party. And on the side, if he had time, the press-agentmight even boost the lessons themselves--do a little advertising forall the Sunday Schools in town, in fact. No use being hoggish towardthe rest of 'em, providing we can keep the bulge on 'em in membership.Frinstance, he might get the papers to--Course I haven't got a literarytraining like Frink here, and I'm just guessing how the pieces oughtto be written, but take frinstance, suppose the week's lesson is aboutJacob; well, the press-agent might get in something that would havea fine moral, and yet with a trick headline that'd get folks to readit--say like: 'Jake Fools the Old Man; Makes Getaway with Girl andBankroll.' See how I mean? That'd get their interest! Now, course, Mr.Eathorne, you're conservative, and maybe you feel these stunts would beundignified, but honestly, I believe they'd bring home the bacon."Eathorne folded his hands on his comfortable little belly and purredlike an aged pussy:"May I say, first, that I have been very much pleased by your analysisof the situation, Mr. Babbitt. As you surmise, it's necessary in MyPosition to be conservative, and perhaps endeavor to maintain a certainstandard of dignity. Yet I think you'll find me somewhat progressive. Inour bank, for example, I hope I may say that we have as modern a methodof publicity and advertising as any in the city. Yes, I fancy you'llfind us oldsters quite cognizant of the shifting spiritual values of theage. Yes, oh yes. And so, in fact, it pleases me to be able to saythat though personally I might prefer the sterner Presbyterianism of anearlier era--"Babbitt finally gathered that Eathorne was willing.Chum Frink suggested as part-time press-agent one Kenneth Escott,reporter on the Advocate-Times.They parted on a high plane of amity and Christian helpfulness.Babbitt did not drive home, but toward the center of the city. He wishedto be by himself and exult over the beauty of intimacy with WilliamWashington Eathorne.IIA snow-blanched evening of ringing pavements and eager lights.Great golden lights of trolley-cars sliding along the packed snow of theroadway. Demure lights of little houses. The belching glare of a distantfoundry, wiping out the sharp-edged stars. Lights of neighborhood drugstores where friends gossiped, well pleased, after the day's work.The green light of a police-station, and greener radiance on the snow;the drama of a patrol-wagon--gong beating like a terrified heart,headlights scorching the crystal-sparkling street, driver not achauffeur but a policeman proud in uniform, another policeman perilouslydangling on the step at the back, and a glimpse of the prisoner. Amurderer, a burglar, a coiner cleverly trapped?An enormous graystone church with a rigid spire; dim light in theParlors, and cheerful droning of choir-practise. The quivering greenmercury-vapor light of a photo-engraver's loft. Then the storming lightsof down-town; parked cars with ruby tail-lights; white arched entrancesto movie theaters, like frosty mouths of winter caves; electricsigns--serpents and little dancing men of fire; pink-shaded globes andscarlet jazz music in a cheap up-stairs dance-hall; lights of Chineserestaurants, lanterns painted with cherry-blossoms and with pagodas,hung against lattices of lustrous gold and black. Small dirty lamps insmall stinking lunchrooms. The smart shopping-district, with rich andquiet light on crystal pendants and furs and suave surfaces of polishedwood in velvet-hung reticent windows. High above the street, anunexpected square hanging in the darkness, the window of an office wheresome one was working late, for a reason unknown and stimulating. A manmeshed in bankruptcy, an ambitious boy, an oil-man suddenly become rich?The air was shrewd, the snow was deep in uncleared alleys, and beyondthe city, Babbitt knew, were hillsides of snow-drift among wintry oaks,and the curving ice-enchanted river.He loved his city with passionate wonder. He lost the accumulatedweariness of business--worry and expansive oratory; he felt young andpotential. He was ambitious. It was not enough to be a Vergil Gunch,an Orville Jones. No. "They're bully fellows, simply lovely, but theyhaven't got any finesse." No. He was going to be an Eathorne; delicatelyrigorous, coldly powerful."That's the stuff. The wallop in the velvet mitt. Not let anybodyget fresh with you. Been getting careless about my diction. Slang.Colloquial. Cut it out. I was first-rate at rhetoric in college. Themeson--Anyway, not bad. Had too much of this hooptedoodle and good-fellowstuff. I--Why couldn't I organize a bank of my own some day? And Tedsucceed me!"He drove happily home, and to Mrs. Babbitt he was a William WashingtonEathorne, but she did not notice it.IIIYoung Kenneth Escott, reporter on the Advocate-Times was appointedpress-agent of the Chatham Road Presbyterian Sunday School. He gave sixhours a week to it. At least he was paid for giving six hours a week.He had friends on the Press and the Gazette and he was not (officially)known as a press-agent. He procured a trickle of insinuating itemsabout neighborliness and the Bible, about class-suppers, jolly buteducational, and the value of the Prayer-life in attaining financialsuccess.The Sunday School adopted Babbitt's system of military ranks. Quickenedby this spiritual refreshment, it had a boom. It did not become thelargest school in Zenith--the Central Methodist Church kept ahead of itby methods which Dr. Drew scored as "unfair, undignified, un-American,ungentlemanly, and unchristian"--but it climbed from fourth place tosecond, and there was rejoicing in heaven, or at least in that portionof heaven included in the parsonage of Dr. Drew, while Babbitt had muchpraise and good repute.He had received the rank of colonel on the general staff of the school.He was plumply pleased by salutes on the street from unknown smallboys; his ears were tickled to ruddy ecstasy by hearing himself called"Colonel;" and if he did not attend Sunday School merely to be thusexalted, certainly he thought about it all the way there.He was particularly pleasant to the press-agent, Kenneth Escott; he tookhim to lunch at the Athletic Club and had him at the house for dinner.Like many of the cocksure young men who forage about cities in apparentcontentment and who express their cynicism in supercilious slang, Escottwas shy and lonely. His shrewd starveling face broadened with joy atdinner, and he blurted, "Gee whillikins, Mrs. Babbitt, if you knew howgood it is to have home eats again!"Escott and Verona liked each other. All evening they "talked aboutideas." They discovered that they were Radicals. True, they weresensible about it. They agreed that all communists were criminals;that this vers libre was tommy-rot; and that while there ought to beuniversal disarmament, of course Great Britain and the United Statesmust, on behalf of oppressed small nations, keep a navy equal to thetonnage of all the rest of the world. But they were so revolutionarythat they predicted (to Babbitt's irritation) that there would someday be a Third Party which would give trouble to the Republicans andDemocrats.Escott shook hands with Babbitt three times, at parting.Babbitt mentioned his extreme fondness for Eathorne.Within a week three newspapers presented accounts of Babbitt's sterlinglabors for religion, and all of them tactfully mentioned WilliamWashington Eathorne as his collaborator.Nothing had brought Babbitt quite so much credit at the Elks, theAthletic Club, and the Boosters'. His friends had always congratulatedhim on his oratory, but in their praise was doubt, for even in speechesadvertising the city there was something highbrow and degenerate,like writing poetry. But now Orville Jones shouted across the Athleticdining-room, "Here's the new director of the First State Bank!" GroverButterbaugh, the eminent wholesaler of plumbers' supplies, chuckled,"Wonder you mix with common folks, after holding Eathorne's hand!" AndEmil Wengert, the jeweler, was at last willing to discuss buying a housein Dorchester.IVWhen the Sunday School campaign was finished, Babbitt suggested toKenneth Escott, "Say, how about doing a little boosting for Doc Drewpersonally?"Escott grinned. "You trust the doc to do a little boosting for himself,Mr. Babbitt! There's hardly a week goes by without his ringing up thepaper to say if we'll chase a reporter up to his Study, he'll let usin on the story about the swell sermon he's going to preach on thewickedness of short skirts, or the authorship of the Pentateuch. Don'tyou worry about him. There's just one better publicity-grabber in town,and that's this Dora Gibson Tucker that runs the Child Welfare and theAmericanization League, and the only reason she's got Drew beaten isbecause she has got SOME brains!""Well, now Kenneth, I don't think you ought to talk that way about thedoctor. A preacher has to watch his interests, hasn't he? You rememberthat in the Bible about--about being diligent in the Lord's business, orsomething?""All right, I'll get something in if you want me to, Mr. Babbitt, butI'll have to wait till the managing editor is out of town, and thenblackjack the city editor."Thus it came to pass that in the Sunday Advocate-Times, under a pictureof Dr. Drew at his earnestest, with eyes alert, jaw as granite, andrustic lock flamboyant, appeared an inscription--a wood-pulp tabletconferring twenty-four hours' immortality:The Rev. Dr. John Jennison Drew, M.A., pastor of the beautifulChatham Road Presbyterian Church in lovely Floral Heights, is a wizardsoul-winner. He holds the local record for conversions. During hisshepherdhood an average of almost a hundred sin-weary persons per yearhave declared their resolve to lead a new life and have found a harborof refuge and peace.Everything zips at the Chatham Road Church. The subsidiary organizationsare keyed to the top-notch of efficiency. Dr. Drew is especially keenon good congregational singing. Bright cheerful hymns are used at everymeeting, and the special Sing Services attract lovers of music andprofessionals from all parts of the city.On the popular lecture platform as well as in the pulpit Dr. Drew isa renowned word-painter, and during the course of the year he receivesliterally scores of invitations to speak at varied functions both hereand elsewhere.VBabbitt let Dr. Drew know that he was responsible for this tribute. Dr.Drew called him "brother," and shook his hand a great many times.During the meetings of the Advisory Committee, Babbitt had hinted thathe would be charmed to invite Eathorne to dinner, but Eathorne hadmurmured, "So nice of you--old man, now--almost never go out." SurelyEathorne would not refuse his own pastor. Babbitt said boyishly to Drew:"Say, doctor, now we've put this thing over, strikes me it's up to thedominie to blow the three of us to a dinner!""Bully! You bet! Delighted!" cried Dr. Drew, in his manliest way. (Someone had once told him that he talked like the late President Roosevelt.)"And, uh, say, doctor, be sure and get Mr. Eathorne to come. Insiston it. It's, uh--I think he sticks around home too much for his ownhealth."Eathorne came.It was a friendly dinner. Babbitt spoke gracefully of the stabilizingand educational value of bankers to the community. They were, hesaid, the pastors of the fold of commerce. For the first time Eathornedeparted from the topic of Sunday Schools, and asked Babbitt about theprogress of his business. Babbitt answered modestly, almost filially.A few months later, when he had a chance to take part in the StreetTraction Company's terminal deal, Babbitt did not care to go to his ownbank for a loan. It was rather a quiet sort of deal and, if it had comeout, the Public might not have understood. He went to his friend Mr.Eathorne; he was welcomed, and received the loan as a private venture;and they both profited in their pleasant new association.After that, Babbitt went to church regularly, except on spring Sundaymornings which were obviously meant for motoring. He announced to Ted,"I tell you, boy, there's no stronger bulwark of sound conservatism thanthe evangelical church, and no better place to make friends who'llhelp you to gain your rightful place in the community than in your ownchurch-home!"