CHAPTER XXIV

by Sinclair Lewis

　　CHAPTER XXIVIHIS visit to Paul was as unreal as his night of fog and questioning.Unseeing he went through prison corridors stinking of carbolic acid toa room lined with pale yellow settees pierced in rosettes, like theshoe-store benches he had known as a boy. The guard led in Paul. Abovehis uniform of linty gray, Paul's face was pale and without expression.He moved timorously in response to the guard's commands; he meeklypushed Babbitt's gifts of tobacco and magazines across the table to theguard for examination. He had nothing to say but "Oh, I'm getting usedto it" and "I'm working in the tailor shop; the stuff hurts my fingers."Babbitt knew that in this place of death Paul was already dead. And ashe pondered on the train home something in his own self seemed to havedied: a loyal and vigorous faith in the goodness of the world, a fear ofpublic disfavor, a pride in success. He was glad that his wife was away.He admitted it without justifying it. He did not care.IIHer card read "Mrs. Daniel Judique." Babbitt knew of her as the widow ofa wholesale paper-dealer. She must have been forty or forty-two but hethought her younger when he saw her in the office, that afternoon. Shehad come to inquire about renting an apartment, and he took her awayfrom the unskilled girl accountant. He was nervously attracted by hersmartness. She was a slender woman, in a black Swiss frock dotted withwhite, a cool-looking graceful frock. A broad black hat shaded her face.Her eyes were lustrous, her soft chin of an agreeable plumpness, and hercheeks an even rose. Babbitt wondered afterward if she was made up, butno man living knew less of such arts.She sat revolving her violet parasol. Her voice was appealing withoutbeing coy. "I wonder if you can help me?""Be delighted.""I've looked everywhere and--I want a little flat, just a bedroom, orperhaps two, and sitting-room and kitchenette and bath, but I want onethat really has some charm to it, not these dingy places or these newones with terrible gaudy chandeliers. And I can't pay so dreadfullymuch. My name's Tanis Judique.""I think maybe I've got just the thing for you. Would you like to chasearound and look at it now?""Yes. I have a couple of hours."In the new Cavendish Apartments, Babbitt had a flat which he had beenholding for Sidney Finkelstein, but at the thought of driving besidethis agreeable woman he threw over his friend Finkelstein, and with anote of gallantry he proclaimed, "I'll let you see what I can do!"He dusted the seat of the car for her, and twice he risked death inshowing off his driving."You do know how to handle a car!" she said.He liked her voice. There was, he thought, music in it and a hint ofculture, not a bouncing giggle like Louetta Swanson's.He boasted, "You know, there's a lot of these fellows that are so scaredand drive so slow that they get in everybody's way. The safest driveris a fellow that knows how to handle his machine and yet isn't scared tospeed up when it's necessary, don't you think so?""Oh, yes!""I bet you drive like a wiz.""Oh, no--I mean--not really. Of course, we had a car--I mean, beforemy husband passed on--and I used to make believe drive it, but I don'tthink any woman ever learns to drive like a man.""Well, now, there's some mighty good woman drivers.""Oh, of course, these women that try to imitate men, and play golf andeverything, and ruin their complexions and spoil their hands!""That's so. I never did like these mannish females.""I mean--of course, I admire them, dreadfully, and I feel so weak anduseless beside them.""Oh, rats now! I bet you play the piano like a wiz.""Oh, no--I mean--not really.""Well, I'll bet you do!" He glanced at her smooth hands, her diamond andruby rings. She caught the glance, snuggled her hands together witha kittenish curving of slim white fingers which delighted him, andyearned:"I do love to play--I mean--I like to drum on the piano, but I haven'thad any real training. Mr. Judique used to say I would 've been agood pianist if I'd had any training, but then, I guess he was justflattering me.""I'll bet he wasn't! I'll bet you've got temperament.""Oh--Do you like music, Mr Babbitt?""You bet I do! Only I don't know 's I care so much for all thisclassical stuff.""Oh, I do! I just love Chopin and all those.""Do you, honest? Well, of course, I go to lots of these highbrowconcerts, but I do like a good jazz orchestra, right up on its toes,with the fellow that plays the bass fiddle spinning it around andbeating it up with the bow.""Oh, I know. I do love good dance music. I love to dance, don't you, Mr.Babbitt?""Sure, you bet. Not that I'm very darn good at it, though.""Oh, I'm sure you are. You ought to let me teach you. I can teachanybody to dance.""Would you give me a lesson some time?""Indeed I would.""Better be careful, or I'll be taking you up on that proposition. I'llbe coming up to your flat and making you give me that lesson.""Ye-es." She was not offended, but she was non-committal. He warnedhimself, "Have some sense now, you chump! Don't go making a fool ofyourself again!" and with loftiness he discoursed:"I wish I could dance like some of these young fellows, but I'll tellyou: I feel it's a man's place to take a full, you might say, a creativeshare in the world's work and mold conditions and have something to showfor his life, don't you think so?""Oh, I do!""And so I have to sacrifice some of the things I might like to tackle,though I do, by golly, play about as good a game of golf as the nextfellow!""Oh, I'm sure you do.... Are you married?""Uh--yes.... And, uh, of course official duties I'm the vice-presidentof the Boosters' Club, and I'm running one of the committees of theState Association of Real Estate Boards, and that means a lot of workand responsibility--and practically no gratitude for it.""Oh, I know! Public men never do get proper credit."They looked at each other with a high degree of mutual respect, and atthe Cavendish Apartments he helped her out in a courtly manner, wavedhis hand at the house as though he were presenting it to her, andponderously ordered the elevator boy to "hustle and get the keys." Shestood close to him in the elevator, and he was stirred but cautious.It was a pretty flat, of white woodwork and soft blue walls. Mrs.Judique gushed with pleasure as she agreed to take it, and as theywalked down the hall to the elevator she touched his sleeve, caroling,"Oh, I'm so glad I went to you! It's such a privilege to meet a man whoreally Understands. Oh! The flats SOME people have showed me!"He had a sharp instinctive belief that he could put his arm around her,but he rebuked himself and with excessive politeness he saw her to thecar, drove her home. All the way back to his office he raged:"Glad I had some sense for once.... Curse it, I wish I'd tried. She's adarling! A corker! A reg'lar charmer! Lovely eyes and darling lips andthat trim waist--never get sloppy, like some women.... No, no, no! She'sa real cultured lady. One of the brightest little women I've met thesemany moons. Understands about Public Topics and--But, darn it, whydidn't I try? . . . Tanis!"IIIHe was harassed and puzzled by it, but he found that he was turningtoward youth, as youth. The girl who especially disturbed him--though hehad never spoken to her--was the last manicure girl on the right in thePompeian Barber Shop. She was small, swift, black-haired, smiling. Shewas nineteen, perhaps, or twenty. She wore thin salmon-colored blouseswhich exhibited her shoulders and her black-ribboned camisoles.He went to the Pompeian for his fortnightly hair-trim. As always, hefelt disloyal at deserting his neighbor, the Reeves Building BarberShop. Then, for the first time, he overthrew his sense of guilt."Doggone it, I don't have to go here if I don't want to! I don't own theReeves Building! These barbers got nothing on me! I'll doggone well getmy hair cut where I doggone well want to! Don't want to hear anythingmore about it! I'm through standing by people--unless I want to. Itdoesn't get you anywhere. I'm through!"The Pompeian Barber Shop was in the basement of the Hotel Thornleigh,largest and most dynamically modern hotel in Zenith. Curving marblesteps with a rail of polished brass led from the hotel-lobby down to thebarber shop. The interior was of black and white and crimson tiles,with a sensational ceiling of burnished gold, and a fountain in whicha massive nymph forever emptied a scarlet cornucopia. Forty barbersand nine manicure girls worked desperately, and at the door six coloredporters lurked to greet the customers, to care reverently for their hatsand collars, to lead them to a place of waiting where, on a carpet likea tropic isle in the stretch of white stone floor, were a dozen leatherchairs and a table heaped with magazines.Babbitt's porter was an obsequious gray-haired negro who did him anhonor highly esteemed in the land of Zenith--greeted him by name. YetBabbitt was unhappy. His bright particular manicure girl was engaged.She was doing the nails of an overdressed man and giggling with him.Babbitt hated him. He thought of waiting, but to stop the powerfulsystem of the Pompeian was inconceivable, and he was instantly waftedinto a chair.About him was luxury, rich and delicate. One votary was having aviolet-ray facial treatment, the next an oil shampoo. Boys wheeled aboutmiraculous electrical massage-machines. The barbers snatchedsteaming towels from a machine like a howitzer of polished nickel anddisdainfully flung them away after a second's use. On the vast marbleshelf facing the chairs were hundreds of tonics, amber and ruby andemerald. It was flattering to Babbitt to have two personal slaves atonce--the barber and the bootblack. He would have been completely happyif he could also have had the manicure girl. The barber snipped at hishair and asked his opinion of the Havre de Grace races, the baseballseason, and Mayor Prout. The young negro bootblack hummed "The CampMeeting Blues" and polished in rhythm to his tune, drawing the shinyshoe-rag so taut at each stroke that it snapped like a banjo string.The barber was an excellent salesman. He made Babbitt feel rich andimportant by his manner of inquiring, "What is your favorite tonic, sir?Have you time to-day, sir, for a facial massage? Your scalp is a littletight; shall I give you a scalp massage?"Babbitt's best thrill was in the shampoo. The barber made his haircreamy with thick soap, then (as Babbitt bent over the bowl, muffled intowels) drenched it with hot water which prickled along his scalp, andat last ran the water ice-cold. At the shock, the sudden burning cold onhis skull, Babbitt's heart thumped, his chest heaved, and his spine wasan electric wire. It was a sensation which broke the monotony of life.He looked grandly about the shop as he sat up. The barber obsequiouslyrubbed his wet hair and bound it in a towel as in a turban, so thatBabbitt resembled a plump pink calif on an ingenious and adjustablethrone. The barber begged (in the manner of one who was a good fellowyet was overwhelmed by the splendors of the calif), "How about a littleEldorado Oil Rub, sir? Very beneficial to the scalp, sir. Didn't I giveyou one the last time?"He hadn't, but Babbitt agreed, "Well, all right."With quaking eagerness he saw that his manicure girl was free."I don't know, I guess I'll have a manicure after all," he droned, andexcitedly watched her coming, dark-haired, smiling, tender, little. Themanicuring would have to be finished at her table, and he would be ableto talk to her without the barber listening. He waited contentedly, nottrying to peep at her, while she filed his nails and the barber shavedhim and smeared on his burning cheeks all the interesting mixtures whichthe pleasant minds of barbers have devised through the revolving ages.When the barber was done and he sat opposite the girl at her table, headmired the marble slab of it, admired the sunken set bowl with its tinysilver taps, and admired himself for being able to frequent so costly aplace. When she withdrew his wet hand from the bowl, it was so sensitivefrom the warm soapy water that he was abnormally aware of the clasp ofher firm little paw. He delighted in the pinkness and glossiness of hernails. Her hands seemed to him more adorable than Mrs. Judique's thinfingers, and more elegant. He had a certain ecstasy in the pain when shegnawed at the cuticle of his nails with a sharp knife. He struggled notto look at the outline of her young bosom and her shoulders, the moreapparent under a film of pink chiffon. He was conscious of her as anexquisite thing, and when he tried to impress his personality on her hespoke as awkwardly as a country boy at his first party:"Well, kinda hot to be working to-day.""Oh, yes, it is hot. You cut your own nails, last time, didn't you!""Ye-es, guess I must 've.""You always ought to go to a manicure.""Yes, maybe that's so. I--""There's nothing looks so nice as nails that are looked after good. Ialways think that's the best way to spot a real gent. There was an autosalesman in here yesterday that claimed you could always tell a fellow'sclass by the car he drove, but I says to him, 'Don't be silly,' I says;'the wisenheimers grab a look at a fellow's nails when they want to tellif he's a tin-horn or a real gent!"'"Yes, maybe there's something to that. Course, that is--with a prettykiddy like you, a man can't help coming to get his mitts done.""Yeh, I may be a kid, but I'm a wise bird, and I know nice folks whenI see um--I can read character at a glance--and I'd never talk so frankwith a fellow if I couldn't see he was a nice fellow."She smiled. Her eyes seemed to him as gentle as April pools. With greatseriousness he informed himself that "there were some roughnecks whowould think that just because a girl was a manicure girl and maybe notawful well educated, she was no good, but as for him, he was a democrat,and understood people," and he stood by the assertion that this was afine girl, a good girl--but not too uncomfortably good. He inquired in avoice quick with sympathy:"I suppose you have a lot of fellows who try to get fresh with you.""Say, gee, do I! Say, listen, there's some of these cigar-store sportsthat think because a girl's working in a barber shop, they can get awaywith anything. The things they saaaaaay! But, believe me, I know how tohop those birds! I just give um the north and south and ask um, 'Say,who do you think you're talking to?' and they fade away like love'syoung nightmare and oh, don't you want a box of nail-paste? It will keepthe nails as shiny as when first manicured, harmless to apply and lastsfor days.""Sure, I'll try some. Say--Say, it's funny; I've been coming here eversince the shop opened and--" With arch surprise. "--I don't believe Iknow your name!""Don't you? My, that's funny! I don't know yours!""Now you quit kidding me! What's the nice little name?""Oh, it ain't so darn nice. I guess it's kind of kike. But my folksain't kikes. My papa's papa was a nobleman in Poland, and there was agentleman in here one day, he was kind of a count or something--""Kind of a no-account, I guess you mean!""Who's telling this, smarty? And he said he knew my papa's papa's folksin Poland and they had a dandy big house. Right on a lake!" Doubtfully,"Maybe you don't believe it?""Sure. No. Really. Sure I do. Why not? Don't think I'm kidding you,honey, but every time I've noticed you I've said to myself, 'That kidhas Blue Blood in her veins!'""Did you, honest?""Honest I did. Well, well, come on--now we're friends--what's thedarling little name?""Ida Putiak. It ain't so much-a-much of a name. I always say to Ma, Isay, 'Ma, why didn't you name me Doloress or something with some classto it?'""Well, now, I think it's a scrumptious name. Ida!""I bet I know your name!""Well, now, not necessarily. Of course--Oh, it isn't so specially wellknown.""Aren't you Mr. Sondheim that travels for the Krackajack Kitchen KutleryKo.?""I am not! I'm Mr. Babbitt, the real-estate broker!""Oh, excuse me! Oh, of course. You mean here in Zenith.""Yep." With the briskness of one whose feelings have been hurt."Oh, sure. I've read your ads. They're swell.""Um, well--You might have read about my speeches.""Course I have! I don't get much time to read but--I guess you think I'man awfully silly little nit!""I think you're a little darling!""Well--There's one nice thing about this job. It gives a girl achance to meet some awfully nice gentlemen and improve her mind withconversation, and you get so you can read a guy's character at the firstglance.""Look here, Ida; please don't think I'm getting fresh--" He was hotlyreflecting that it would be humiliating to be rejected by this child,and dangerous to be accepted. If he took her to dinner, if he were seenby censorious friends--But he went on ardently: "Don't think I'm gettingfresh if I suggest it would be nice for us to go out and have a littledinner together some evening.""I don't know as I ought to but--My gentleman-friend's always wanting totake me out. But maybe I could to-night."IVThere was no reason, he assured himself, why he shouldn't have aquiet dinner with a poor girl who would benefit by association with aneducated and mature person like himself. But, lest some one see them andnot understand, he would take her to Biddlemeier's Inn, on the outskirtsof the city. They would have a pleasant drive, this hot lonely evening,and he might hold her hand--no, he wouldn't even do that. Ida wascomplaisant; her bare shoulders showed it only too clearly; but he'd behanged if he'd make love to her merely because she expected it.Then his car broke down; something had happened to the ignition. And heHAD to have the car this evening! Furiously he tested the spark-plugs,stared at the commutator. His angriest glower did not seem to stir thesulky car, and in disgrace it was hauled off to a garage. With a renewedthrill he thought of a taxicab. There was something at once wealthy andinterestingly wicked about a taxicab.But when he met her, on a corner two blocks from the Hotel Thornleigh,she said, "A taxi? Why, I thought you owned a car!""I do. Of course I do! But it's out of commission to-night.""Oh," she remarked, as one who had heard that tale before.All the way out to Biddlemeier's Inn he tried to talk as an old friend,but he could not pierce the wall of her words. With interminableindignation she narrated her retorts to "that fresh head-barber" and thedrastic things she would do to him if he persisted in saying that shewas "better at gassing than at hoof-paring."At Biddlemeier's Inn they were unable to get anything to drink. Thehead-waiter refused to understand who George F. Babbitt was. Theysat steaming before a vast mixed grill, and made conversation aboutbaseball. When he tried to hold Ida's hand she said with brightfriendliness, "Careful! That fresh waiter is rubbering." But they cameout into a treacherous summer night, the air lazy and a little moonabove transfigured maples."Let's drive some other place, where we can get a drink and dance!" hedemanded."Sure, some other night. But I promised Ma I'd be home early to-night.""Rats! It's too nice to go home.""I'd just love to, but Ma would give me fits."He was trembling. She was everything that was young and exquisite. Heput his arm about her. She snuggled against his shoulder, unafraid,and he was triumphant. Then she ran down the steps of the Inn, singing,"Come on, Georgie, we'll have a nice drive and get cool."It was a night of lovers. All along the highway into Zenith, under thelow and gentle moon, motors were parked and dim figures were clasped inrevery. He held out hungry hands to Ida, and when she patted them he wasgrateful. There was no sense of struggle and transition; he kissed herand simply she responded to his kiss, they two behind the stolid back ofthe chauffeur.Her hat fell off, and she broke from his embrace to reach for it."Oh, let it be!" he implored."Huh? My hat? Not a chance!"He waited till she had pinned it on, then his arm sank about her. Shedrew away from it, and said with maternal soothing, "Now, don't be asilly boy! Mustn't make Ittle Mama scold! Just sit back, dearie, and seewhat a swell night it is. If you're a good boy, maybe I'll kiss you whenwe say nighty-night. Now give me a cigarette."He was solicitous about lighting her cigarette and inquiring as toher comfort. Then he sat as far from her as possible. He was cold withfailure. No one could have told Babbitt that he was a fool with morevigor, precision, and intelligence than he himself displayed. Hereflected that from the standpoint of the Rev. Dr. John Jennison Drewhe was a wicked man, and from the standpoint of Miss Ida Putiak, an oldbore who had to be endured as the penalty attached to eating a largedinner."Dearie, you aren't going to go and get peevish, are you?"She spoke pertly. He wanted to spank her. He brooded, "I don't have totake anything off this gutter-pup! Darn immigrant! Well, let's get itover as quick as we can, and sneak home and kick ourselves for the restof the night."He snorted, "Huh? Me peevish? Why, you baby, why should I be peevish?Now, listen, Ida; listen to Uncle George. I want to put you wise aboutthis scrapping with your head-barber all the time. I've had a lotof experience with employees, and let me tell you it doesn't pay toantagonize--"At the drab wooden house in which she lived he said good-night brieflyand amiably, but as the taxicab drove off he was praying "Oh, my God!"