CHAPTER IV

by Sinclair Lewis

　　I"THE Clarks have invited some folks to their house to meet us, tonight,"said Kennicott, as he unpacked his suit-case."Oh, that is nice of them!""You bet. I told you you'd like 'em. Squarest people on earth. Uh,Carrie----Would you mind if I sneaked down to the office for an hour,just to see how things are?""Why, no. Of course not. I know you're keen to get back to work.""Sure you don't mind?""Not a bit. Out of my way. Let me unpack."But the advocate of freedom in marriage was as much disappointed asa drooping bride at the alacrity with which he took that freedom andescaped to the world of men's affairs. She gazed about their bedroom,and its full dismalness crawled over her: the awkward knuckly L-shapeof it; the black walnut bed with apples and spotty pears carved on theheadboard; the imitation maple bureau, with pink-daubed scent-bottlesand a petticoated pin-cushion on a marble slab uncomfortably like agravestone; the plain pine washstand and the garlanded water-pitcher andbowl. The scent was of horsehair and plush and Florida Water."How could people ever live with things like this?" she shuddered. Shesaw the furniture as a circle of elderly judges, condemning her to deathby smothering. The tottering brocade chair squeaked, "Choke her--chokeher--smother her." The old linen smelled of the tomb. She was alone inthis house, this strange still house, among the shadows of dead thoughtsand haunting repressions. "I hate it! I hate it!" she panted. "Why did Iever----"She remembered that Kennicott's mother had brought these familyrelics from the old home in Lac-qui-Meurt. "Stop it! They're perfectlycomfortable things. They're--comfortable. Besides----Oh, they'rehorrible! We'll change them, right away."Then, "But of course he HAS to see how things are at the office----"She made a pretense of busying herself with unpacking. The chintz-lined,silver-fitted bag which had seemed so desirable a luxury in St. Paul wasan extravagant vanity here. The daring black chemise of frail chiffonand lace was a hussy at which the deep-bosomed bed stiffened in disgust,and she hurled it into a bureau drawer, hid it beneath a sensible linenblouse.She gave up unpacking. She went to the window, with a purely literarythought of village charm--hollyhocks and lanes and apple-cheekedcottagers. What she saw was the side of the Seventh-Day AdventistChurch--a plain clapboard wall of a sour liver color; the ash-pileback of the church; an unpainted stable; and an alley in which a Forddelivery-wagon had been stranded. This was the terraced garden below herboudoir; this was to be her scenery for----"I mustn't! I mustn't! I'm nervous this afternoon. Am I sick? . . . GoodLord, I hope it isn't that! Not now! How people lie! How these storieslie! They say the bride is always so blushing and proud and happy whenshe finds that out, but--I'd hate it! I'd be scared to death! Someday but----Please, dear nebulous Lord, not now! Bearded sniffy oldmen sitting and demanding that we bear children. If THEY had to bearthem----! I wish they did have to! Not now! Not till I've got hold ofthis job of liking the ash-pile out there! . . . I must shut up. I'mmildly insane. I'm going out for a walk. I'll see the town by myself. Myfirst view of the empire I'm going to conquer!"She fled from the house.She stared with seriousness at every concrete crossing, everyhitching-post, every rake for leaves; and to each house she devoted allher speculation. What would they come to mean? How would they look sixmonths from now? In which of them would she be dining? Which of thesepeople whom she passed, now mere arrangements of hair and clothes, wouldturn into intimates, loved or dreaded, different from all the otherpeople in the world?As she came into the small business-section she inspected a broad-beamedgrocer in an alpaca coat who was bending over the apples and celery on aslanted platform in front of his store. Would she ever talk to him? Whatwould he say if she stopped and stated, "I am Mrs. Dr. Kennicott. Someday I hope to confide that a heap of extremely dubious pumpkins as awindow-display doesn't exhilarate me much."(The grocer was Mr. Frederick F. Ludelmeyer, whose market is at thecorner of Main Street and Lincoln Avenue. In supposing that only she wasobservant Carol was ignorant, misled by the indifference of cities. Shefancied that she was slipping through the streets invisible; but whenshe had passed, Mr. Ludelmeyer puffed into the store and coughed at hisclerk, "I seen a young woman, she come along the side street. I bet sheiss Doc Kennicott's new bride, good-looker, nice legs, but she wore ahell of a plain suit, no style, I wonder will she pay cash, I bet shegoes to Howland & Gould's more as she does here, what you done with theposter for Fluffed Oats?")IIWhen Carol had walked for thirty-two minutes she had completely coveredthe town, east and west, north and south; and she stood at the corner ofMain Street and Washington Avenue and despaired.Main Street with its two-story brick shops, its story-and-a-half woodenresidences, its muddy expanse from concrete walk to walk, its huddleof Fords and lumber-wagons, was too small to absorb her. The broad,straight, unenticing gashes of the streets let in the grasping prairieon every side. She realized the vastness and the emptiness of the land.The skeleton iron windmill on the farm a few blocks away, at the northend of Main Street, was like the ribs of a dead cow. She thought of thecoming of the Northern winter, when the unprotected houses would crouchtogether in terror of storms galloping out of that wild waste. Theywere so small and weak, the little brown houses. They were shelters forsparrows, not homes for warm laughing people.She told herself that down the street the leaves were a splendor. Themaples were orange; the oaks a solid tint of raspberry. And the lawnshad been nursed with love. But the thought would not hold. At best thetrees resembled a thinned woodlot. There was no park to rest the eyes.And since not Gopher Prairie but Wakamin was the county-seat, there wasno court-house with its grounds.She glanced through the fly-specked windows of the most pretentiousbuilding in sight, the one place which welcomed strangers anddetermined their opinion of the charm and luxury of Gopher Prairie--theMinniemashie House. It was a tall lean shabby structure, three storiesof yellow-streaked wood, the corners covered with sanded pine slabspurporting to symbolize stone. In the hotel office she could see astretch of bare unclean floor, a line of rickety chairs with brasscuspidors between, a writing-desk with advertisements in mother-of-pearlletters upon the glass-covered back. The dining-room beyond was a jungleof stained table-cloths and catsup bottles.She looked no more at the Minniemashie House.A man in cuffless shirt-sleeves with pink arm-garters, wearing a linencollar but no tie, yawned his way from Dyer's Drug Store across to thehotel. He leaned against the wall, scratched a while, sighed, and in abored way gossiped with a man tilted back in a chair. A lumber-wagon,its long green box filled with large spools of barbed-wire fencing,creaked down the block. A Ford, in reverse, sounded as though itwere shaking to pieces, then recovered and rattled away. In the Greekcandy-store was the whine of a peanut-roaster, and the oily smell ofnuts.There was no other sound nor sign of life.She wanted to run, fleeing from the encroaching prairie, demanding thesecurity of a great city. Her dreams of creating a beautiful town wereludicrous. Oozing out from every drab wall, she felt a forbidding spiritwhich she could never conquer.She trailed down the street on one side, back on the other, glancinginto the cross streets. It was a private Seeing Main Street tour. Shewas within ten minutes beholding not only the heart of a place calledGopher Prairie, but ten thousand towns from Albany to San Diego:Dyer's Drug Store, a corner building of regular and unreal blocks ofartificial stone. Inside the store, a greasy marble soda-fountain withan electric lamp of red and green and curdled-yellow mosaicshade. Pawed-over heaps of tooth-brushes and combs and packages ofshaving-soap. Shelves of soap-cartons, teething-rings, garden-seeds,and patent medicines in yellow "packages-nostrums" for consumption, for"women's diseases"--notorious mixtures of opium and alcohol, inthe very shop to which her husband sent patients for the filling ofprescriptions.From a second-story window the sign "W. P. Kennicott, Phys. & Surgeon,"gilt on black sand.A small wooden motion-picture theater called "The Rosebud Movie Palace."Lithographs announcing a film called "Fatty in Love."Howland & Gould's Grocery. In the display window, black, overripebananas and lettuce on which a cat was sleeping. Shelves lined with redcrepe paper which was now faded and torn and concentrically spotted.Flat against the wall of the second story the signs of lodges--theKnights of Pythias, the Maccabees, the Woodmen, the Masons.Dahl & Oleson's Meat Market--a reek of blood.A jewelry shop with tinny-looking wrist-watches for women. In front ofit, at the curb, a huge wooden clock which did not go.A fly-buzzing saloon with a brilliant gold and enamel whisky sign acrossthe front. Other saloons down the block. From them a stink of stalebeer, and thick voices bellowing pidgin German or trolling out dirtysongs--vice gone feeble and unenterprising and dull--the delicacy of amining-camp minus its vigor. In front of the saloons, farmwives sittingon the seats of wagons, waiting for their husbands to become drunk andready to start home.A tobacco shop called "The Smoke House," filled with young men shakingdice for cigarettes. Racks of magazines, and pictures of coy fatprostitutes in striped bathing-suits.A clothing store with a display of "ox-blood-shade Oxfords with bull-dogtoes." Suits which looked worn and glossless while they were still new,flabbily draped on dummies like corpses with painted cheeks.The Bon Ton Store--Haydock & Simons'--the largest shop in town. Thefirst-story front of clear glass, the plates cleverly bound at the edgeswith brass. The second story of pleasant tapestry brick. One window ofexcellent clothes for men, interspersed with collars of floral piquewhich showed mauve daisies on a saffron ground. Newness and an obviousnotion of neatness and service. Haydock & Simons. Haydock. She had met aHaydock at the station; Harry Haydock; an active person of thirty-five.He seemed great to her, now, and very like a saint. His shop was clean!Axel Egge's General Store, frequented by Scandinavian farmers. In theshallow dark window-space heaps of sleazy sateens, badly woven galateas,canvas shoes designed for women with bulging ankles, steel and red glassbuttons upon cards with broken edges, a cottony blanket, a granite-warefrying-pan reposing on a sun-faded crepe blouse.Sam Clark's Hardware Store. An air of frankly metallic enterprise. Gunsand churns and barrels of nails and beautiful shiny butcher knives.Chester Dashaway's House Furnishing Emporium. A vista of heavy oakrockers with leather seats, asleep in a dismal row.Billy's Lunch. Thick handleless cups on the wet oilcloth-coveredcounter. An odor of onions and the smoke of hot lard. In the doorway ayoung man audibly sucking a toothpick.The warehouse of the buyer of cream and potatoes. The sour smell of adairy.The Ford Garage and the Buick Garage, competent one-story brickand cement buildings opposite each other. Old and new cars ongrease-blackened concrete floors. Tire advertisements. The roaring ofa tested motor; a racket which beat at the nerves. Surly young men inkhaki union-overalls. The most energetic and vital places in town.A large warehouse for agricultural implements. An impressive barricadeof green and gold wheels, of shafts and sulky seats, belongingto machinery of which Carol knew nothing--potato-planters,manure-spreaders, silage-cutters, disk-harrows, breaking-plows.A feed store, its windows opaque with the dust of bran, a patentmedicine advertisement painted on its roof.Ye Art Shoppe, Prop. Mrs. Mary Ellen Wilks, Christian Science Libraryopen daily free. A touching fumble at beauty. A one-room shanty ofboards recently covered with rough stucco. A show-window delicately richin error: vases starting out to imitate tree-trunks but running offinto blobs of gilt--an aluminum ash-tray labeled "Greetings fromGopher Prairie"--a Christian Science magazine--a stamped sofa-cushionportraying a large ribbon tied to a small poppy, the correct skeins ofembroidery-silk lying on the pillow. Inside the shop, a glimpse of badcarbon prints of bad and famous pictures, shelves of phonograph recordsand camera films, wooden toys, and in the midst an anxious small womansitting in a padded rocking chair.A barber shop and pool room. A man in shirt sleeves, presumably DelSnafflin the proprietor, shaving a man who had a large Adam's apple.Nat Hicks's Tailor Shop, on a side street off Main. A one-storybuilding. A fashion-plate showing human pitchforks in garments whichlooked as hard as steel plate.On another side street a raw red-brick Catholic Church with a varnishedyellow door.The post-office--merely a partition of glass and brass shutting offthe rear of a mildewed room which must once have been a shop. A tiltedwriting-shelf against a wall rubbed black and scattered with officialnotices and army recruiting-posters.The damp, yellow-brick schoolbuilding in its cindery grounds.The State Bank, stucco masking wood.The Farmers' National Bank. An Ionic temple of marble. Pure, exquisite,solitary. A brass plate with "Ezra Stowbody, Pres't."A score of similar shops and establishments.Behind them and mixed with them, the houses, meek cottages or large,comfortable, soundly uninteresting symbols of prosperity.In all the town not one building save the Ionic bank which gave pleasureto Carol's eyes; not a dozen buildings which suggested that, in thefifty years of Gopher Prairie's existence, the citizens had realizedthat it was either desirable or possible to make this, their commonhome, amusing or attractive.It was not only the unsparing unapologetic ugliness and the rigidstraightness which overwhelmed her. It was the planlessness, the flimsytemporariness of the buildings, their faded unpleasant colors. Thestreet was cluttered with electric-light poles, telephone poles,gasoline pumps for motor cars, boxes of goods. Each man had builtwith the most valiant disregard of all the others. Between a largenew "block" of two-story brick shops on one side, and the fire-brickOverland garage on the other side, was a one-story cottage turned intoa millinery shop. The white temple of the Farmers' Bank was elbowed backby a grocery of glaring yellow brick. One store-building had a patchygalvanized iron cornice; the building beside it was crowned withbattlements and pyramids of brick capped with blocks of red sandstone.She escaped from Main Street, fled home.She wouldn't have cared, she insisted, if the people had been comely.She had noted a young man loafing before a shop, one unwashed handholding the cord of an awning; a middle-aged man who had a way ofstaring at women as though he had been married too long and tooprosaically; an old farmer, solid, wholesome, but not clean--his facelike a potato fresh from the earth. None of them had shaved for threedays."If they can't build shrines, out here on the prairie, surely there'snothing to prevent their buying safety-razors!" she raged.She fought herself: "I must be wrong. People do live here. It CAN'T beas ugly as--as I know it is! I must be wrong. But I can't do it. I can'tgo through with it."She came home too seriously worried for hysteria; and when she foundKennicott waiting for her, and exulting, "Have a walk? Well, likethe town? Great lawns and trees, eh?" she was able to say, with aself-protective maturity new to her, "It's very interesting."IIIThe train which brought Carol to Gopher Prairie also brought Miss BeaSorenson.Miss Bea was a stalwart, corn-colored, laughing young woman, and she wasbored by farm-work. She desired the excitements of city-life, and theway to enjoy city-life was, she had decided, to "go get a yob as hiredgirl in Gopher Prairie." She contentedly lugged her pasteboard telescopefrom the station to her cousin, Tina Malmquist, maid of all work in theresidence of Mrs. Luke Dawson."Vell, so you come to town," said Tina."Ya. Ay get a yob," said Bea."Vell. . . . You got a fella now?""Ya. Yim Yacobson.""Vell. I'm glat to see you. How much you vant a veek?""Sex dollar.""There ain't nobody pay dat. Vait! Dr. Kennicott, I t'ink he marry agirl from de Cities. Maybe she pay dat. Vell. You go take a valk.""Ya," said Bea.So it chanced that Carol Kennicott and Bea Sorenson were viewing MainStreet at the same time.Bea had never before been in a town larger than Scandia Crossing, whichhas sixty-seven inhabitants.As she marched up the street she was meditating that it didn't hardlyseem like it was possible there could be so many folks all in one placeat the same time. My! It would take years to get acquainted with themall. And swell people, too! A fine big gentleman in a new pink shirtwith a diamond, and not no washed-out blue denim working-shirt. A lovelylady in a longery dress (but it must be an awful hard dress to wash).And the stores!Not just three of them, like there were at Scandia Crossing, but morethan four whole blocks!The Bon Ton Store--big as four barns--my! it would simply scare a personto go in there, with seven or eight clerks all looking at you. And themen's suits, on figures just like human. And Axel Egge's, like home,lots of Swedes and Norskes in there, and a card of dandy buttons, likerubies.A drug store with a soda fountain that was just huge, awful long, andall lovely marble; and on it there was a great big lamp with the biggestshade you ever saw--all different kinds colored glass stuck together;and the soda spouts, they were silver, and they came right out of thebottom of the lamp-stand! Behind the fountain there were glass shelves,and bottles of new kinds of soft drinks, that nobody ever heard of.Suppose a fella took you THERE!A hotel, awful high, higher than Oscar Tollefson's new red barn; threestories, one right on top of another; you had to stick your head backto look clear up to the top. There was a swell traveling man inthere--probably been to Chicago, lots of times.Oh, the dandiest people to know here! There was a lady going by, youwouldn't hardly say she was any older than Bea herself; she wore a dandynew gray suit and black pumps. She almost looked like she was lookingover the town, too. But you couldn't tell what she thought. Bea wouldlike to be that way--kind of quiet, so nobody would get fresh. Kindof--oh, elegant.A Lutheran Church. Here in the city there'd be lovely sermons, andchurch twice on Sunday, EVERY Sunday!And a movie show!A regular theater, just for movies. With the sign "Change of bill everyevening." Pictures every evening!There were movies in Scandia Crossing, but only once every two weeks,and it took the Sorensons an hour to drive in--papa was such a tightwadhe wouldn't get a Ford. But here she could put on her hat any evening,and in three minutes' walk be to the movies, and see lovely fellows indress-suits and Bill Hart and everything!How could they have so many stores? Why! There was one just for tobaccoalone, and one (a lovely one--the Art Shoppy it was) for pictures andvases and stuff, with oh, the dandiest vase made so it looked just likea tree trunk!Bea stood on the corner of Main Street and Washington Avenue. The roarof the city began to frighten her. There were five automobiles on thestreet all at the same time--and one of 'em was a great big car thatmust of cost two thousand dollars--and the 'bus was starting for a trainwith five elegant-dressed fellows, and a man was pasting up red billswith lovely pictures of washing-machines on them, and the jeweler waslaying out bracelets and wrist-watches and EVERYTHING on real velvet.What did she care if she got six dollars a week? Or two! It was worthwhile working for nothing, to be allowed to stay here. And think how itwould be in the evening, all lighted up--and not with no lamps, but withelectrics! And maybe a gentleman friend taking you to the movies andbuying you a strawberry ice cream soda!Bea trudged back."Vell? You lak it?" said Tina."Ya. Ay lak it. Ay t'ink maybe Ay stay here," said Bea.IVThe recently built house of Sam Clark, in which was given the party towelcome Carol, was one of the largest in Gopher Prairie. It had a cleansweep of clapboards, a solid squareness, a small tower, and a largescreened porch. Inside, it was as shiny, as hard, and as cheerful as anew oak upright piano.Carol looked imploringly at Sam Clark as he rolled to the door andshouted, "Welcome, little lady! The keys of the city are yourn!"Beyond him, in the hallway and the living-room, sitting in a vast primcircle as though they were attending a funeral, she saw the guests. Theywere WAITING so! They were waiting for her! The determination to be allone pretty flowerlet of appreciation leaked away. She begged of Sam,"I don't dare face them! They expect so much. They'll swallow me in onemouthful--glump!--like that!""Why, sister, they're going to love you--same as I would if I didn'tthink the doc here would beat me up!""B-but----I don't dare! Faces to the right of me, faces in front of me,volley and wonder!"She sounded hysterical to herself; she fancied that to Sam Clark shesounded insane. But he chuckled, "Now you just cuddle under Sam's wing,and if anybody rubbers at you too long, I'll shoo 'em off. Here we go!Watch my smoke--Sam'l, the ladies' delight and the bridegrooms' terror!"His arm about her, he led her in and bawled, "Ladies and worser halves,the bride! We won't introduce her round yet, because she'll never getyour bum names straight anyway. Now bust up this star-chamber!"They tittered politely, but they did not move from the social securityof their circle, and they did not cease staring.Carol had given creative energy to dressing for the event. Her hair wasdemure, low on her forehead with a parting and a coiled braid. Now shewished that she had piled it high. Her frock was an ingenue slipof lawn, with a wide gold sash and a low square neck, which gave asuggestion of throat and molded shoulders. But as they looked her overshe was certain that it was all wrong. She wished alternately that shehad worn a spinsterish high-necked dress, and that she had dared toshock them with a violent brick-red scarf which she had bought inChicago.She was led about the circle. Her voice mechanically produced saferemarks:"Oh, I'm sure I'm going to like it here ever so much," and "Yes, we didhave the best time in Colorado--mountains," and "Yes, I lived in St.Paul several years. Euclid P. Tinker? No, I don't REMEMBER meeting him,but I'm pretty sure I've heard of him."Kennicott took her aside and whispered, "Now I'll introduce you to them,one at a time.""Tell me about them first.""Well, the nice-looking couple over there are Harry Haydock and hiswife, Juanita. Harry's dad owns most of the Bon Ton, but it's Harry whoruns it and gives it the pep. He's a hustler. Next to him is Dave Dyerthe druggist--you met him this afternoon--mighty good duck-shot.The tall husk beyond him is Jack Elder--Jackson Elder--owns theplaning-mill, and the Minniemashie House, and quite a share in theFarmers' National Bank. Him and his wife are good sports--him and Samand I go hunting together a lot. The old cheese there is Luke Dawson,the richest man in town. Next to him is Nat Hicks, the tailor.""Really? A tailor?""Sure. Why not? Maybe we're slow, but we are democratic. I go huntingwith Nat same as I do with Jack Elder.""I'm glad. I've never met a tailor socially. It must be charming to meetone and not have to think about what you owe him. And do you----Wouldyou go hunting with your barber, too?""No but----No use running this democracy thing into the ground.Besides, I've known Nat for years, and besides, he's a mighty good shotand----That's the way it is, see? Next to Nat is Chet Dashaway. Greatfellow for chinning. He'll talk your arm off, about religion or politicsor books or anything."Carol gazed with a polite approximation to interest at Mr. Dashaway,a tan person with a wide mouth. "Oh, I know! He's the furniture-storeman!" She was much pleased with herself."Yump, and he's the undertaker. You'll like him. Come shake hands withhim.""Oh no, no! He doesn't--he doesn't do the embalming and allthat--himself? I couldn't shake hands with an undertaker!""Why not? You'd be proud to shake hands with a great surgeon, just afterhe'd been carving up people's bellies."She sought to regain her afternoon's calm of maturity. "Yes. You'reright. I want--oh, my dear, do you know how much I want to like thepeople you like? I want to see people as they are.""Well, don't forget to see people as other folks see them as they are!They have the stuff. Did you know that Percy Bresnahan came from here?Born and brought up here!""Bresnahan?""Yes--you know--president of the Velvet Motor Company of Boston,Mass.--make the Velvet Twelve--biggest automobile factory in NewEngland.""I think I've heard of him.""Sure you have. Why, he's a millionaire several times over! Well, Percecomes back here for the black-bass fishing almost every summer, and hesays if he could get away from business, he'd rather live here thanin Boston or New York or any of those places. HE doesn't mind Chet'sundertaking.""Please! I'll--I'll like everybody! I'll be the community sunbeam!"He led her to the Dawsons.Luke Dawson, lender of money on mortgages, owner of Northern cut-overland, was a hesitant man in unpressed soft gray clothes, with bulgingeyes in a milky face. His wife had bleached cheeks, bleached hair,bleached voice, and a bleached manner. She wore her expensive greenfrock, with its passementeried bosom, bead tassels, and gaps between thebuttons down the back, as though she had bought it second-hand and wasafraid of meeting the former owner. They were shy. It was "Professor"George Edwin Mott, superintendent of schools, a Chinese mandarin turnedbrown, who held Carol's hand and made her welcome.When the Dawsons and Mr. Mott had stated that they were "pleased to meether," there seemed to be nothing else to say, but the conversation wenton automatically."Do you like Gopher Prairie?" whimpered Mrs. Dawson."Oh, I'm sure I'm going to be ever so happy.""There's so many nice people." Mrs. Dawson looked to Mr. Mott for socialand intellectual aid. He lectured:"There's a fine class of people. I don't like some of these retiredfarmers who come here to spend their last days--especially the Germans.They hate to pay school-taxes. They hate to spend a cent. But the restare a fine class of people. Did you know that Percy Bresnahan came fromhere? Used to go to school right at the old building!""I heard he did.""Yes. He's a prince. He and I went fishing together, last time he washere."The Dawsons and Mr. Mott teetered upon weary feet, and smiled at Carolwith crystallized expressions. She went on:"Tell me, Mr. Mott: Have you ever tried any experiments with any of thenew educational systems? The modern kindergarten methods or the Garysystem?""Oh. Those. Most of these would-be reformers are simplynotoriety-seekers. I believe in manual training, but Latin andmathematics always will be the backbone of sound Americanism, no matterwhat these faddists advocate--heaven knows what they do want--knitting,I suppose, and classes in wiggling the ears!"The Dawsons smiled their appreciation of listening to a savant. Carolwaited till Kennicott should rescue her. The rest of the party waitedfor the miracle of being amused.Harry and Juanita Haydock, Rita Simons and Dr. Terry Gould--the youngsmart set of Gopher Prairie. She was led to them. Juanita Haydock flungat her in a high, cackling, friendly voice:"Well, this is SO nice to have you here. We'll have some goodparties--dances and everything. You'll have to join the Jolly Seventeen.We play bridge and we have a supper once a month. You play, of course?""N-no, I don't.""Really? In St. Paul?""I've always been such a book-worm.""We'll have to teach you. Bridge is half the fun of life." Juanita hadbecome patronizing, and she glanced disrespectfully at Carol's goldensash, which she had previously admired.Harry Haydock said politely, "How do you think you're going to like theold burg?""I'm sure I shall like it tremendously.""Best people on earth here. Great hustlers, too. Course I've had lotsof chances to go live in Minneapolis, but we like it here. Real he-town.Did you know that Percy Bresnahan came from here?"Carol perceived that she had been weakened in the biological struggleby disclosing her lack of bridge. Roused to nervous desire to regainher position she turned on Dr. Terry Gould, the young and pool-playingcompetitor of her husband. Her eyes coquetted with him while she gushed:"I'll learn bridge. But what I really love most is the outdoors. Can'twe all get up a boating party, and fish, or whatever you do, and have apicnic supper afterwards?""Now you're talking!" Dr. Gould affirmed. He looked rather too obviouslyat the cream-smooth slope of her shoulder. "Like fishing? Fishing is mymiddle name. I'll teach you bridge. Like cards at all?""I used to be rather good at bezique."She knew that bezique was a game of cards--or a game of something else.Roulette, possibly. But her lie was a triumph. Juanita's handsome,high-colored, horsey face showed doubt. Harry stroked his nose and saidhumbly, "Bezique? Used to be great gambling game, wasn't it?"While others drifted to her group, Carol snatched up the conversation.She laughed and was frivolous and rather brittle. She could notdistinguish their eyes. They were a blurry theater-audience before whichshe self-consciously enacted the comedy of being the Clever Little Brideof Doc Kennicott:"These-here celebrated Open Spaces, that's what I'm going out for. I'llnever read anything but the sporting-page again. Will converted me onour Colorado trip. There were so many mousey tourists who were afraidto get out of the motor 'bus that I decided to be Annie Oakley, the WildWestern Wampire, and I bought oh! a vociferous skirt which revealedmy perfectly nice ankles to the Presbyterian glare of all the Iowayschoolma'ams, and I leaped from peak to peak like the nimble chamoys,and----You may think that Herr Doctor Kennicott is a Nimrod, but youought to have seen me daring him to strip to his B. V. D.'s and goswimming in an icy mountain brook."She knew that they were thinking of becoming shocked, but JuanitaHaydock was admiring, at least. She swaggered on:"I'm sure I'm going to ruin Will as a respectable practitioner----Is hea good doctor, Dr. Gould?"Kennicott's rival gasped at this insult to professional ethics, and hetook an appreciable second before he recovered his social manner."I'll tell you, Mrs. Kennicott." He smiled at Kennicott, to imply thatwhatever he might say in the stress of being witty was not to countagainst him in the commercio-medical warfare. "There's some peoplein town that say the doc is a fair to middlin' diagnostician andprescription-writer, but let me whisper this to you--but for heaven'ssake don't tell him I said so--don't you ever go to him for anythingmore serious than a pendectomy of the left ear or a strabismus of thecardiograph."No one save Kennicott knew exactly what this meant, but they laughed,and Sam Clark's party assumed a glittering lemon-yellow color of brocadepanels and champagne and tulle and crystal chandeliers and sportingduchesses. Carol saw that George Edwin Mott and the blanched Mr. andMrs. Dawson were not yet hypnotized. They looked as though they wonderedwhether they ought to look as though they disapproved. She concentratedon them:"But I know whom I wouldn't have dared to go to Colorado with! Mr.Dawson there! I'm sure he's a regular heart-breaker. When we wereintroduced he held my hand and squeezed it frightfully.""Haw! Haw! Haw!" The entire company applauded. Mr. Dawson was beatified.He had been called many things--loan-shark, skinflint, tightwad,pussyfoot--but he had never before been called a flirt."He is wicked, isn't he, Mrs. Dawson? Don't you have to lock him up?""Oh no, but maybe I better," attempted Mrs. Dawson, a tint on her pallidface.For fifteen minutes Carol kept it up. She asserted that she was goingto stage a musical comedy, that she preferred cafe parfait to beefsteak,that she hoped Dr. Kennicott would never lose his ability to make loveto charming women, and that she had a pair of gold stockings. They gapedfor more. But she could not keep it up. She retired to a chair behindSam Clark's bulk. The smile-wrinkles solemnly flattened out in the facesof all the other collaborators in having a party, and again they stoodabout hoping but not expecting to be amused.Carol listened. She discovered that conversation did not exist in GopherPrairie. Even at this affair, which brought out the young smart set,the hunting squire set, the respectable intellectual set, and the solidfinancial set, they sat up with gaiety as with a corpse.Juanita Haydock talked a good deal in her rattling voice but it wasinvariably of personalities: the rumor that Raymie Wutherspoon was goingto send for a pair of patent leather shoes with gray buttoned tops; therheumatism of Champ Perry; the state of Guy Pollock's grippe; and thedementia of Jim Howland in painting his fence salmon-pink.Sam Clark had been talking to Carol about motor cars, but he felthis duties as host. While he droned, his brows popped up and down. Heinterrupted himself, "Must stir 'em up." He worried at his wife, "Don'tyou think I better stir 'em up?" He shouldered into the center of theroom, and cried:"Let's have some stunts, folks.""Yes, let's!" shrieked Juanita Haydock."Say, Dave, give us that stunt about the Norwegian catching a hen.""You bet; that's a slick stunt; do that, Dave!" cheered Chet Dashaway.Mr. Dave Dyer obliged.All the guests moved their lips in anticipation of being called on fortheir own stunts."Ella, come on and recite 'Old Sweetheart of Mine,' for us," demandedSam.Miss Ella Stowbody, the spinster daughter of the Ionic bank, scratchedher dry palms and blushed. "Oh, you don't want to hear that old thingagain.""Sure we do! You bet!" asserted Sam."My voice is in terrible shape tonight.""Tut! Come on!"Sam loudly explained to Carol, "Ella is our shark at elocuting. She'shad professional training. She studied singing and oratory and dramaticart and shorthand for a year, in Milwaukee."Miss Stowbody was reciting. As encore to "An Old Sweetheart of Mine,"she gave a peculiarly optimistic poem regarding the value of smiles.There were four other stunts: one Jewish, one Irish, one juvenile, andNat Hicks's parody of Mark Antony's funeral oration.During the winter Carol was to hear Dave Dyer's hen-catchingimpersonation seven times, "An Old Sweetheart of Mine" nine times, theJewish story and the funeral oration twice; but now she was ardentand, because she did so want to be happy and simple-hearted, she was asdisappointed as the others when the stunts were finished, and the partyinstantly sank back into coma.They gave up trying to be festive; they began to talk naturally, as theydid at their shops and homes.The men and women divided, as they had been tending to do all evening.Carol was deserted by the men, left to a group of matrons who steadilypattered of children, sickness, and cooks--their own shop-talk. She waspiqued. She remembered visions of herself as a smart married woman ina drawing-room, fencing with clever men. Her dejection was relieved byspeculation as to what the men were discussing, in the corner betweenthe piano and the phonograph. Did they rise from these housewifelypersonalities to a larger world of abstractions and affairs?She made her best curtsy to Mrs. Dawson; she twittered, "I won't have myhusband leaving me so soon! I'm going over and pull the wretch'sears." She rose with a jeune fille bow. She was self-absorbed andself-approving because she had attained that quality of sentimentality.She proudly dipped across the room and, to the interest and commendationof all beholders, sat on the arm of Kennicott's chair.He was gossiping with Sam Clark, Luke Dawson, Jackson Elder of theplaning-mill, Chet Dashaway, Dave Dyer, Harry Haydock, and EzraStowbody, president of the Ionic bank.Ezra Stowbody was a troglodyte. He had come to Gopher Prairie in 1865.He was a distinguished bird of prey--swooping thin nose, turtle mouth,thick brows, port-wine cheeks, floss of white hair, contemptuous eyes.He was not happy in the social changes of thirty years. Three decadesago, Dr. Westlake, Julius Flickerbaugh the lawyer, Merriman Peedy theCongregational pastor and himself had been the arbiters. That was asit should be; the fine arts--medicine, law, religion, andfinance--recognized as aristocratic; four Yankees democraticallychatting with but ruling the Ohioans and Illini and Swedes and Germanswho had ventured to follow them. But Westlake was old, almost retired;Julius Flickerbaugh had lost much of his practice to livelier attorneys;Reverend (not The Reverend) Peedy was dead; and nobody was impressed inthis rotten age of automobiles by the "spanking grays" which Ezra stilldrove. The town was as heterogeneous as Chicago. Norwegians and Germansowned stores. The social leaders were common merchants. Selling nailswas considered as sacred as banking. These upstarts--the Clarks, theHaydocks--had no dignity. They were sound and conservative in politics,but they talked about motor cars and pump-guns and heaven only knewwhat new-fangled fads. Mr. Stowbody felt out of place with them. Buthis brick house with the mansard roof was still the largest residence intown, and he held his position as squire by occasionally appearing amongthe younger men and reminding them by a wintry eye that without thebanker none of them could carry on their vulgar businesses.As Carol defied decency by sitting down with the men, Mr. Stowbody waspiping to Mr. Dawson, "Say, Luke, when was't Biggins first settled inWinnebago Township? Wa'n't it in 1879?""Why no 'twa'n't!" Mr. Dawson was indignant. "He come out from Vermontin 1867--no, wait, in 1868, it must have been--and took a claim on theRum River, quite a ways above Anoka.""He did not!" roared Mr. Stowbody. "He settled first in Blue EarthCounty, him and his father!"("What's the point at issue?") Carol whispered to Kennicott.("Whether this old duck Biggins had an English setter or a Llewellyn.They've been arguing it all evening!")Dave Dyer interrupted to give tidings, "D' tell you that Clara Bigginswas in town couple days ago? She bought a hot-water bottle--expensiveone, too--two dollars and thirty cents!""Yaaaaaah!" snarled Mr. Stowbody. "Course. She's just like her grandadwas. Never save a cent. Two dollars and twenty--thirty, was it?--twodollars and thirty cents for a hot-water bottle! Brick wrapped up in aflannel petticoat just as good, anyway!""How's Ella's tonsils, Mr. Stowbody?" yawned Chet Dashaway.While Mr. Stowbody gave a somatic and psychic study of them, Carolreflected, "Are they really so terribly interested in Ella's tonsils,or even in Ella's esophagus? I wonder if I could get them away frompersonalities? Let's risk damnation and try.""There hasn't been much labor trouble around here, has there, Mr.Stowbody?" she asked innocently."No, ma'am, thank God, we've been free from that, except maybe withhired girls and farm-hands. Trouble enough with these foreign farmers;if you don't watch these Swedes they turn socialist or populist or somefool thing on you in a minute. Of course, if they have loans you canmake 'em listen to reason. I just have 'em come into the bank for atalk, and tell 'em a few things. I don't mind their being democrats,so much, but I won't stand having socialists around. But thank God, weain't got the labor trouble they have in these cities. Even Jack Elderhere gets along pretty well, in the planing-mill, don't you, Jack?""Yep. Sure. Don't need so many skilled workmen in my place, and it'sa lot of these cranky, wage-hogging, half-baked skilled mechanics thatstart trouble--reading a lot of this anarchist literature and unionpapers and all.""Do you approve of union labor?" Carol inquired of Mr. Elder."Me? I should say not! It's like this: I don't mind dealing with my menif they think they've got any grievances--though Lord knows what's comeover workmen, nowadays--don't appreciate a good job. But still, if theycome to me honestly, as man to man, I'll talk things over with them. ButI'm not going to have any outsider, any of these walking delegates, orwhatever fancy names they call themselves now--bunch of rich grafters,living on the ignorant workmen! Not going to have any of those fellowsbutting in and telling ME how to run MY business!"Mr. Elder was growing more excited, more belligerent and patriotic. "Istand for freedom and constitutional rights. If any man don't like myshop, he can get up and git. Same way, if I don't like him, he gits.And that's all there is to it. I simply can't understand all thesecomplications and hoop-te-doodles and government reports and wage-scalesand God knows what all that these fellows are balling up the laborsituation with, when it's all perfectly simple. They like what I pay'em, or they get out. That's all there is to it!""What do you think of profit-sharing?" Carol ventured.Mr. Elder thundered his answer, while the others nodded, solemnly andin tune, like a shop-window of flexible toys, comic mandarins and judgesand ducks and clowns, set quivering by a breeze from the open door:"All this profit-sharing and welfare work and insurance and old-agepension is simply poppycock. Enfeebles a workman's independence--andwastes a lot of honest profit. The half-baked thinker that isn't drybehind the ears yet, and these suffragettes and God knows what allbuttinskis there are that are trying to tell a business man how to runhis business, and some of these college professors are just about asbad, the whole kit and bilin' of 'em are nothing in God's world butsocialism in disguise! And it's my bounden duty as a producer to resistevery attack on the integrity of American industry to the last ditch.Yes--SIR!"Mr. Elder wiped his brow.Dave Dyer added, "Sure! You bet! What they ought to do is simply tohang every one of these agitators, and that would settle the whole thingright off. Don't you think so, doc?""You bet," agreed Kennicott.The conversation was at last relieved of the plague of Carol'sintrusions and they settled down to the question of whether the justiceof the peace had sent that hobo drunk to jail for ten days or twelve.It was a matter not readily determined. Then Dave Dyer communicated hiscarefree adventures on the gipsy trail:"Yep. I get good time out of the flivver. 'Bout a week ago I motoreddown to New Wurttemberg. That's forty-three----No, let's see: It'sseventeen miles to Belldale, and 'bout six and three-quarters, call itseven, to Torgenquist, and it's a good nineteen miles from there to NewWurttemberg--seventeen and seven and nineteen, that makes, uh, let mesee: seventeen and seven 's twenty-four, plus nineteen, well say plustwenty, that makes forty-four, well anyway, say about forty-threeor -four miles from here to New Wurttemberg. We got started aboutseven-fifteen, prob'ly seven-twenty, because I had to stop and fill theradiator, and we ran along, just keeping up a good steady gait----"Mr. Dyer did finally, for reasons and purposes admitted and justified,attain to New Wurttemberg.Once--only once--the presence of the alien Carol was recognized. ChetDashaway leaned over and said asthmatically, "Say, uh, have you beenreading this serial 'Two Out' in Tingling Tales? Corking yarn! Gosh, thefellow that wrote it certainly can sling baseball slang!"The others tried to look literary. Harry Haydock offered, "Juanita isa great hand for reading high-class stuff, like 'Mid the Magnolias' bythis Sara Hetwiggin Butts, and 'Riders of Ranch Reckless.' Books. Butme," he glanced about importantly, as one convinced that no other herohad ever been in so strange a plight, "I'm so darn busy I don't havemuch time to read.""I never read anything I can't check against," said Sam Clark.Thus ended the literary portion of the conversation, and for sevenminutes Jackson Elder outlined reasons for believing that thepike-fishing was better on the west shore of Lake Minniemashie than onthe east--though it was indeed quite true that on the east shore NatHicks had caught a pike altogether admirable.The talk went on. It did go on! Their voices were monotonous,thick, emphatic. They were harshly pompous, like men in thesmoking-compartments of Pullman cars. They did not bore Carol. Theyfrightened her. She panted, "They will be cordial to me, because my manbelongs to their tribe. God help me if I were an outsider!"Smiling as changelessly as an ivory figurine she sat quiescent, avoidingthought, glancing about the living-room and hall, noting their betrayalof unimaginative commercial prosperity. Kennicott said, "Dandy interior,eh? My idea of how a place ought to be furnished. Modern." She lookedpolite, and observed the oiled floors, hard-wood staircase, unusedfireplace with tiles which resembled brown linoleum, cut-glass vasesstanding upon doilies, and the barred, shut, forbidding unit bookcasesthat were half filled with swashbuckler novels and unread-looking setsof Dickens, Kipling, O. Henry, and Elbert Hubbard.She perceived that even personalities were failing to hold the party.The room filled with hesitancy as with a fog. People cleared theirthroats, tried to choke down yawns. The men shot their cuffs and thewomen stuck their combs more firmly into their back hair.Then a rattle, a daring hope in every eye, the swinging of a door, thesmell of strong coffee, Dave Dyer's mewing voice in a triumphant, "Theeats!" They began to chatter. They had something to do. They couldescape from themselves. They fell upon the food--chicken sandwiches,maple cake, drug-store ice cream. Even when the food was gone theyremained cheerful. They could go home, any time now, and go to bed!They went, with a flutter of coats, chiffon scarfs, and good-bys.Carol and Kennicott walked home."Did you like them?" he asked."They were terribly sweet to me.""Uh, Carrie----You ought to be more careful about shocking folks.Talking about gold stockings, and about showing your ankles toschoolteachers and all!" More mildly: "You gave 'em a good time, but I'dwatch out for that, 'f I were you. Juanita Haydock is such a damn cat. Iwouldn't give her a chance to criticize me.""My poor effort to lift up the party! Was I wrong to try to amuse them?""No! No! Honey, I didn't mean----You were the only up-and-coming personin the bunch. I just mean----Don't get onto legs and all that immoralstuff. Pretty conservative crowd."She was silent, raw with the shameful thought that the attentive circlemight have been criticizing her, laughing at her."Don't, please don't worry!" he pleaded."Silence.""Gosh; I'm sorry I spoke about it. I just meant----But they were crazyabout you. Sam said to me, 'That little lady of yours is the slickestthing that ever came to this town,' he said; and Ma Dawson--I didn'thardly know whether she'd like you or not, she's such a dried-up oldbird, but she said, 'Your bride is so quick and bright, I declare, shejust wakes me up.'"Carol liked praise, the flavor and fatness of it, but she was soenergetically being sorry for herself that she could not taste thiscommendation."Please! Come on! Cheer up!" His lips said it, his anxious shoulder saidit, his arm about her said it, as they halted on the obscure porch oftheir house."Do you care if they think I'm flighty, Will?""Me? Why, I wouldn't care if the whole world thought you were this orthat or anything else. You're my--well, you're my soul!"He was an undefined mass, as solid-seeming as rock. She found hissleeve, pinched it, cried, "I'm glad! It's sweet to be wanted! You musttolerate my frivolousness. You're all I have!"He lifted her, carried her into the house, and with her arms about hisneck she forgot Main Street.