CHAPTER XXXIII

by Sinclair Lewis

　　FOR a month which was one suspended moment of doubt she saw Erik onlycasually, at an Eastern Star dance, at the shop, where, in thepresence of Nat Hicks, they conferred with immense particularity on thesignificance of having one or two buttons on the cuff of Kennicott's NewSuit. For the benefit of beholders they were respectably vacuous.Thus barred from him, depressed in the thought of Fern, Carol wassuddenly and for the first time convinced that she loved Erik.She told herself a thousand inspiriting things which he would say if hehad the opportunity; for them she admired him, loved him. But she wasafraid to summon him. He understood, he did not come. She forgot herevery doubt of him, and her discomfort in his background. Each day itseemed impossible to get through the desolation of not seeing him. Eachmorning, each afternoon, each evening was a compartment divided from allother units of time, distinguished by a sudden "Oh! I want to see Erik!"which was as devastating as though she had never said it before.There were wretched periods when she could not picture him. Usuallyhe stood out in her mind in some little moment--glancing up from hispreposterous pressing-iron, or running on the beach with Dave Dyer.But sometimes he had vanished; he was only an opinion. She worried thenabout his appearance: Weren't his wrists too large and red? Wasn't hisnose a snub, like so many Scandinavians? Was he at all the gracefulthing she had fancied? When she encountered him on the street she wasas much reassuring herself as rejoicing in his presence. More disturbingthan being unable to visualize him was the darting remembrance of someintimate aspect: his face as they had walked to the boat together at thepicnic; the ruddy light on his temples, neck-cords, flat cheeks.On a November evening when Kennicott was in the country she answered thebell and was confused to find Erik at the door, stooped, imploring, hishands in the pockets of his topcoat. As though he had been rehearsinghis speech he instantly besought:"Saw your husband driving away. I've got to see you. I can't stand it.Come for a walk. I know! People might see us. But they won't if we hikeinto the country. I'll wait for you by the elevator. Take as long as youwant to--oh, come quick!""In a few minutes," she promised.She murmured, "I'll just talk to him for a quarter of an hour and comehome." She put an her tweed coat and rubber overshoes, considering howhonest and hopeless are rubbers, how clearly their chaperonage provedthat she wasn't going to a lovers' tryst.She found him in the shadow of the grain-elevator, sulkily kicking ata rail of the side-track. As she came toward him she fancied that hiswhole body expanded. But he said nothing, nor she; he patted her sleeve,she returned the pat, and they crossed the railroad tracks, found aroad, clumped toward open country."Chilly night, but I like this melancholy gray," he said."Yes."They passed a moaning clump of trees and splashed along the wet road.He tucked her hand into the side-pocket of his overcoat. She caught histhumb and, sighing, held it exactly as Hugh held hers when they wentwalking. She thought about Hugh. The current maid was in for theevening, but was it safe to leave the baby with her? The thought wasdistant and elusive.Erik began to talk, slowly, revealingly. He made for her a picture ofhis work in a large tailor shop in Minneapolis: the steam and heat, andthe drudgery; the men in darned vests and crumpled trousers, men who"rushed growlers of beer" and were cynical about women, who laughed athim and played jokes on him. "But I didn't mind, because I could keepaway from them outside. I used to go to the Art Institute and the WalkerGallery, and tramp clear around Lake Harriet, or hike out to the Gateshouse and imagine it was a chateau in Italy and I lived in it. I was amarquis and collected tapestries--that was after I was wounded in Padua.The only really bad time was when a tailor named Finkelfarb found adiary I was trying to keep and he read it aloud in the shop--it was abad fight." He laughed. "I got fined five dollars. But that's all gonenow. Seems as though you stand between me and the gas stoves--the longflames with mauve edges, licking up around the irons and making thatsneering sound all day--aaaaah!"Her fingers tightened about his thumb as she perceived the hot low room,the pounding of pressing-irons, the reek of scorched cloth, and Erikamong giggling gnomes. His fingertip crept through the opening of herglove and smoothed her palm. She snatched her hand away, stripped offher glove, tucked her hand back into his.He was saying something about a "wonderful person." In her tranquillityshe let the words blow by and heeded only the beating wings of hisvoice.She was conscious that he was fumbling for impressive speech."Say, uh--Carol, I've written a poem about you.""That's nice. Let's hear it.""Damn it, don't be so casual about it! Can't you take me seriously?""My dear boy, if I took you seriously----! I don't want us to be hurtmore than--more than we will be. Tell me the poem. I've never had a poemwritten about me!""It isn't really a poem. It's just some words that I love because itseems to me they catch what you are. Of course probably they won't seemso to anybody else, but----Well----Little and tender and merry and wiseWith eyes that meet my eyes.Do you get the idea the way I do?""Yes! I'm terribly grateful!" And she was grateful--while sheimpersonally noted how bad a verse it was.She was aware of the haggard beauty in the lowering night. Monstroustattered clouds sprawled round a forlorn moon; puddles and rocksglistened with inner light. They were passing a grove of scrub poplars,feeble by day but looming now like a menacing wall. She stopped. Theyheard the branches dripping, the wet leaves sullenly plumping on thesoggy earth."Waiting--waiting--everything is waiting," she whispered. She drew herhand from his, pressed her clenched fingers against her lips. She waslost in the somberness. "I am happy--so we must go home, before we havetime to become unhappy. But can't we sit on a log for a minute and justlisten?""No. Too wet. But I wish we could build a fire, and you could sit onmy overcoat beside it. I'm a grand fire-builder! My cousin Lars and mespent a week one time in a cabin way up in the Big Woods, snowed in.The fireplace was filled with a dome of ice when we got there, but wechopped it out, and jammed the thing full of pine-boughs. Couldn't webuild a fire back here in the woods and sit by it for a while?"She pondered, half-way between yielding and refusal. Her head achedfaintly. She was in abeyance. Everything, the night, his silhouette, thecautious-treading future, was as undistinguishable as though she weredrifting bodiless in a Fourth Dimension. While her mind groped, thelights of a motor car swooped round a bend in the road, and they stoodfarther apart. "What ought I to do?" she mused. "I think----Oh, I won'tbe robbed! I AM good! If I'm so enslaved that I can't sit by the firewith a man and talk, then I'd better be dead!"The lights of the thrumming car grew magically; were upon them; abruptlystopped. From behind the dimness of the windshield a voice, annoyed,sharp: "Hello there!"She realized that it was Kennicott.The irritation in his voice smoothed out. "Having a walk?"They made schoolboyish sounds of assent."Pretty wet, isn't it? Better ride back. Jump up in front here,Valborg."His manner of swinging open the door was a command. Carol was consciousthat Erik was climbing in, that she was apparently to sit in the back,and that she had been left to open the rear door for herself. Instantlythe wonder which had flamed to the gusty skies was quenched, and she wasMrs. W. P. Kennicott of Gopher Prairie, riding in a squeaking old car,and likely to be lectured by her husband.She feared what Kennicott would say to Erik. She bent toward them.Kennicott was observing, "Going to have some rain before the night 'sover, all right.""Yes," said Erik."Been funny season this year, anyway. Never saw it with such a coldOctober and such a nice November. 'Member we had a snow way back onOctober ninth! But it certainly was nice up to the twenty-first, thismonth--as I remember it, not a flake of snow in November so far, hasthere been? But I shouldn't wonder if we'd be having some snow 'most anytime now.""Yes, good chance of it," said Erik."Wish I'd had more time to go after the ducks this fall. By golly, whatdo you think?" Kennicott sounded appealing. "Fellow wrote me from ManTrap Lake that he shot seven mallards and couple of canvas-back in onehour!""That must have been fine," said Erik.Carol was ignored. But Kennicott was blustrously cheerful. He shoutedto a farmer, as he slowed up to pass the frightened team, "There weare--schon gut!" She sat back, neglected, frozen, unheroic heroine ina drama insanely undramatic. She made a decision resolute and enduring.She would tell Kennicott----What would she tell him? She could not saythat she loved Erik. DID she love him? But she would have it out.She was not sure whether it was pity for Kennicott's blindness, orirritation at his assumption that he was enough to fill any woman'slife, which prompted her, but she knew that she was out of the trap,that she could be frank; and she was exhilarated with the adventure ofit . . . while in front he was entertaining Erik:"Nothing like an hour on a duck-pass to make you relish your victualsand----Gosh, this machine hasn't got the power of a fountain pen. Guessthe cylinders are jam-cram-full of carbon again. Don't know but whatmaybe I'll have to put in another set of piston-rings."He stopped on Main Street and clucked hospitably, "There, that'll giveyou just a block to walk. G' night."Carol was in suspense. Would Erik sneak away?He stolidly moved to the back of the car, thrust in his hand, muttered,"Good night--Carol. I'm glad we had our walk." She pressed his hand. Thecar was flapping on. He was hidden from her--by a corner drug store onMain Street!Kennicott did not recognize her till he drew up before the house. Thenhe condescended, "Better jump out here and I'll take the boat aroundback. Say, see if the back door is unlocked, will you?" She unlatchedthe door for him. She realized that she still carried the damp glove shehad stripped off for Erik. She drew it on. She stood in the center ofthe living-room, unmoving, in damp coat and muddy rubbers. Kennicott wasas opaque as ever. Her task wouldn't be anything so lively as havingto endure a scolding, but only an exasperating effort to command hisattention so that he would understand the nebulous things she had totell him, instead of interrupting her by yawning, winding the clock, andgoing up to bed. She heard him shoveling coal into the furnace. He camethrough the kitchen energetically, but before he spoke to her he didstop in the hall, did wind the clock.He sauntered into the living-room and his glance passed from herdrenched hat to her smeared rubbers. She could hear--she could hear,see, taste, smell, touch--his "Better take your coat off, Carrie; lookskind of wet." Yes, there it was:"Well, Carrie, you better----" He chucked his own coat on a chair,stalked to her, went on with a rising tingling voice, "----you bettercut it out now. I'm not going to do the out-raged husband stunt. I likeyou and I respect you, and I'd probably look like a boob if I tried tobe dramatic. But I think it's about time for you and Valborg to call ahalt before you get in Dutch, like Fern Mullins did.""Do you----""Course. I know all about it. What d' you expect in a town that's asfilled with busybodies, that have plenty of time to stick their nosesinto other folks' business, as this is? Not that they've had the nerveto do much tattling to me, but they've hinted around a lot, and anyway,I could see for myself that you liked him. But of course I knew how coldyou were, I knew you wouldn't stand it even if Valborg did try to holdyour hand or kiss you, so I didn't worry. But same time, I hope youdon't suppose this husky young Swede farmer is as innocent and Platonicand all that stuff as you are! Wait now, don't get sore! I'm notknocking him. He isn't a bad sort. And he's young and likes to gas aboutbooks. Course you like him. That isn't the real rub. But haven't youjust seen what this town can do, once it goes and gets moral on you,like it did with Fern? You probably think that two young folks makinglove are alone if anybody ever is, but there's nothing in this townthat you don't do in company with a whole lot of uninvited but awfulinterested guests. Don't you realize that if Ma Westlake and a fewothers got started they'd drive you up a tree, and you'd find yourselfso well advertised as being in love with this Valborg fellow that you'dHAVE to be, just to spite 'em!""Let me sit down," was all Carol could say. She drooped on the couch,wearily, without elasticity.He yawned, "Gimme your coat and rubbers," and while she stripped themoff he twiddled his watch-chain, felt the radiator, peered at thethermometer. He shook out her wraps in the hall, hung them up withexactly his usual care. He pushed a chair near to her and sat bolt up.He looked like a physician about to give sound and undesired advice.Before he could launch into his heavy discourse she desperately got in,"Please! I want you to know that I was going to tell you everything,tonight.""Well, I don't suppose there's really much to tell.""But there is. I'm fond of Erik. He appeals to something in here." Shetouched her breast. "And I admire him. He isn't just a 'young Swedefarmer.' He's an artist----""Wait now! He's had a chance all evening to tell you what a whale ofa fine fellow he is. Now it's my turn. I can't talk artistic,but----Carrie, do you understand my work?" He leaned forward, thickcapable hands on thick sturdy thighs, mature and slow, yet beseeching."No matter even if you are cold, I like you better than anybody inthe world. One time I said that you were my soul. And that still goes.You're all the things that I see in a sunset when I'm driving in fromthe country, the things that I like but can't make poetry of. Do yourealize what my job is? I go round twenty-four hours a day, in mud andblizzard, trying my damnedest to heal everybody, rich or poor. You--that're always spieling about how scientists ought to rule the world,instead of a bunch of spread-eagle politicians--can't you see that I'mall the science there is here? And I can stand the cold and the bumpyroads and the lonely rides at night. All I need is to have you here athome to welcome me. I don't expect you to be passionate--not any moreI don't--but I do expect you to appreciate my work. I bring babies intothe world, and save lives, and make cranky husbands quit being mean totheir wives. And then you go and moon over a Swede tailor because he cantalk about how to put ruchings on a skirt! Hell of a thing for a man tofuss over!"She flew out at him: "You make your side clear. Let me give mine. Iadmit all you say--except about Erik. But is it only you, and the baby,that want me to back you up, that demand things from me? They're all onme, the whole town! I can feel their hot breaths on my neck! Aunt Bessieand that horrible slavering old Uncle Whittier and Juanita and Mrs.Westlake and Mrs. Bogart and all of them. And you welcome them, youencourage them to drag me down into their cave! I won't stand it! Do youhear? Now, right now, I'm done. And it's Erik who gives me the courage.You say he just thinks about ruches (which do not usually go on skirts,by the way!). I tell you he thinks about God, the God that Mrs. Bogartcovers up with greasy gingham wrappers! Erik will be a great man someday, and if I could contribute one tiny bit to his success----""Wait, wait, wait now! Hold up! You're assuming that your Erik will makegood. As a matter of fact, at my age he'll be running a one-man tailorshop in some burg about the size of Schoenstrom.""He will not!""That's what he's headed for now all right, and he's twenty-five or -sixand----What's he done to make you think he'll ever be anything but apants-presser?""He has sensitiveness and talent----""Wait now! What has he actually done in the art line? Has he done onefirst-class picture or--sketch, d' you call it? Or one poem, or playedthe piano, or anything except gas about what he's going to do?"She looked thoughtful."Then it's a hundred to one shot that he never will. Way I understandit, even these fellows that do something pretty good at home and get togo to art school, there ain't more than one out of ten of 'em, maybe oneout of a hundred, that ever get above grinding out a bum living--aboutas artistic as plumbing. And when it comes down to this tailor, why,can't you see--you that take on so about psychology--can't you see thatit's just by contrast with folks like Doc McGanum or Lym Cass that thisfellow seems artistic? Suppose you'd met up with him first in one ofthese reg'lar New York studios! You wouldn't notice him any more 'n arabbit!"She huddled over folded hands like a temple virgin shivering on herknees before the thin warmth of a brazier. She could not answer.Kennicott rose quickly, sat on the couch, took both her hands. "Supposehe fails--as he will! Suppose he goes back to tailoring, and you're hiswife. Is that going to be this artistic life you've been thinking about?He's in some bum shack, pressing pants all day, or stooped over sewing,and having to be polite to any grouch that blows in and jams a dirtystinking old suit in his face and says, 'Here you, fix this, and beblame quick about it.' He won't even have enough savvy to get him a bigshop. He'll pike along doing his own work--unless you, his wife, go helphim, go help him in the shop, and stand over a table all day, pushing abig heavy iron. Your complexion will look fine after about fifteen yearsof baking that way, won't it! And you'll be humped over like an oldhag. And probably you'll live in one room back of the shop. And thenat night--oh, you'll have your artist--sure! He'll come in stinkingof gasoline, and cranky from hard work, and hinting around that if ithadn't been for you, he'd of gone East and been a great artist. Sure!And you'll be entertaining his relatives----Talk about Uncle Whit!You'll be having some old Axel Axelberg coming in with manure on hisboots and sitting down to supper in his socks and yelling at you, 'Hurryup now, you vimmin make me sick!' Yes, and you'll have a squalling bratevery year, tugging at you while you press clothes, and you won't love'em like you do Hugh up-stairs, all downy and asleep----""Please! Not any more!"Her face was on his knee.He bent to kiss her neck. "I don't want to be unfair. I guess love isa great thing, all right. But think it would stand much of that kind ofstuff? Oh, honey, am I so bad? Can't you like me at all? I've--I've beenso fond of you!"She snatched up his hand, she kissed it. Presently she sobbed, "I won'tever see him again. I can't, now. The hot living-room behind the tailorshop----I don't love him enough for that. And you are----Even if I weresure of him, sure he was the real thing, I don't think I could actuallyleave you. This marriage, it weaves people together. It's not easy tobreak, even when it ought to be broken.""And do you want to break it?""No!"He lifted her, carried her up-stairs, laid her on her bed, turned to thedoor."Come kiss me," she whimpered.He kissed her lightly and slipped away. For an hour she heard him movingabout his room, lighting a cigar, drumming with his knuckles on a chair.She felt that he was a bulwark between her and the darkness that grewthicker as the delayed storm came down in sleet.IIHe was cheery and more casual than ever at breakfast. All day she triedto devise a way of giving Erik up. Telephone? The village central wouldunquestionably "listen in." A letter? It might be found. Go to seehim? Impossible. That evening Kennicott gave her, without comment, anenvelope. The letter was signed "E. V."I know I can't do anything but make trouble for you, I think. I am goingto Minneapolis tonight and from there as soon as I can either to NewYork or Chicago. I will do as big things as I can. I--I can't write Ilove you too much--God keep you.Until she heard the whistle which told her that the Minneapolis trainwas leaving town, she kept herself from thinking, from moving. Then itwas all over. She had no plan nor desire for anything.When she caught Kennicott looking at her over his newspaper she fledto his arms, thrusting the paper aside, and for the first time in yearsthey were lovers. But she knew that she still had no plan in life, savealways to go along the same streets, past the same people, to the sameshops.IIIA week after Erik's going the maid startled her by announcing, "There'sa Mr. Valborg down-stairs say he vant to see you."She was conscious of the maid's interested stare, angry at thisshattering of the calm in which she had hidden. She crept down, peepedinto the living-room. It was not Erik Valborg who stood there; it was asmall, gray-bearded, yellow-faced man in mucky boots, canvas jacket, andred mittens. He glowered at her with shrewd red eyes."You de doc's wife?""Yes.""I'm Adolph Valborg, from up by Jefferson. I'm Erik's father.""Oh!" He was a monkey-faced little man, and not gentle."What you done wit' my son?""I don't think I understand you.""I t'ink you're going to understand before I get t'rough! Where is he?""Why, really----I presume that he's in Minneapolis.""You presume!" He looked through her with a contemptuousness such asshe could not have imagined. Only an insane contortion of spelling couldportray his lyric whine, his mangled consonants. He clamored, "Presume!Dot's a fine word! I don't want no fine words and I don't want no morelies! I want to know what you KNOW!""See here, Mr. Valborg, you may stop this bullying right now. I'm notone of your farmwomen. I don't know where your son is, and there's noreason why I should know." Her defiance ran out in face of his immenseflaxen stolidity. He raised his fist, worked up his anger with thegesture, and sneered:"You dirty city women wit' your fine ways and fine dresses! A fathercome here trying to save his boy from wickedness, and you call him abully! By God, I don't have to take nothin' off you nor your husband! Iain't one of your hired men. For one time a woman like you is going tohear de trut' about what you are, and no fine city words to it, needer.""Really, Mr. Valborg----""What you done wit' him? Heh? I'll yoost tell you what you done! He wasa good boy, even if he was a damn fool. I want him back on de farm. Hedon't make enough money tailoring. And I can't get me no hired man! Iwant to take him back on de farm. And you butt in and fool wit' him andmake love wit' him, and get him to run away!""You are lying! It's not true that----It's not true, and if it were, youwould have no right to speak like this.""Don't talk foolish. I know. Ain't I heard from a fellow dot live righthere in town how you been acting wit' de boy? I know what you done!Walking wit' him in de country! Hiding in de woods wit' him! Yes and Iguess you talk about religion in de woods! Sure! Women like you--you'reworse dan street-walkers! Rich women like you, wit' fine husbands andno decent work to do--and me, look at my hands, look how I work, look atthose hands! But you, oh God no, you mustn't work, you're too fine todo decent work. You got to play wit' young fellows, younger as you are,laughing and rolling around and acting like de animals! You let my sonalone, d' you hear?" He was shaking his fist in her face. She couldsmell the manure and sweat. "It ain't no use talkin' to women like you.Get no trut' out of you. But next time I go by your husband!"He was marching into the hall. Carol flung herself on him, her clenchinghand on his hayseed-dusty shoulder. "You horrible old man, you've alwaystried to turn Erik into a slave, to fatten your pocketbook! You'vesneered at him, and overworked him, and probably you've succeeded inpreventing his ever rising above your muck-heap! And now because youcan't drag him back, you come here to vent----Go tell my husband, gotell him, and don't blame me when he kills you, when my husband killsyou--he will kill you----"The man grunted, looked at her impassively, said one word, and walkedout.She heard the word very plainly.She did not quite reach the couch. Her knees gave way, she pitchedforward. She heard her mind saying, "You haven't fainted. This isridiculous. You're simply dramatizing yourself. Get up." But she couldnot move. When Kennicott arrived she was lying on the couch. His stepquickened. "What's happened, Carrie? You haven't got a bit of blood inyour face."She clutched his arm. "You've got to be sweet to me, and kind! I'm goingto California--mountains, sea. Please don't argue about it, because I'mgoing."Quietly, "All right. We'll go. You and I. Leave the kid here with AuntBessie.""Now!""Well yes, just as soon as we can get away. Now don't talk any more.Just imagine you've already started." He smoothed her hair, and not tillafter supper did he continue: "I meant it about California. But I thinkwe better wait three weeks or so, till I get hold of some young fellowreleased from the medical corps to take my practice. And if people aregossiping, you don't want to give them a chance by running away. Can youstand it and face 'em for three weeks or so?""Yes," she said emptily.IVPeople covertly stared at her on the street. Aunt Bessie tried tocatechize her about Erik's disappearance, and it was Kennicott whosilenced the woman with a savage, "Say, are you hinting that Carrie hadanything to do with that fellow's beating it? Then let me tell you, andyou can go right out and tell the whole bloomin' town, that Carrie andI took Val--took Erik riding, and he asked me about getting a better jobin Minneapolis, and I advised him to go to it. . . . Getting much sugarin at the store now?"Guy Pollock crossed the street to be pleasant apropos of California andnew novels. Vida Sherwin dragged her to the Jolly Seventeen. There, withevery one rigidly listening, Maud Dyer shot at Carol, "I hear Erik hasleft town."Carol was amiable. "Yes, so I hear. In fact, he called me up--told me hehad been offered a lovely job in the city. So sorry he's gone. He wouldhave been valuable if we'd tried to start the dramatic associationagain. Still, I wouldn't be here for the association myself, becauseWill is all in from work, and I'm thinking of taking him to California.Juanita--you know the Coast so well--tell me: would you start in at LosAngeles or San Francisco, and what are the best hotels?"The Jolly Seventeen looked disappointed, but the Jolly Seventeen likedto give advice, the Jolly Seventeen liked to mention the expensivehotels at which they had stayed. (A meal counted as a stay.) Before theycould question her again Carol escorted in with drum and fife the topicof Raymie Wutherspoon. Vida had news from her husband. He had beengassed in the trenches, had been in a hospital for two weeks, had beenpromoted to major, was learning French.She left Hugh with Aunt Bessie.But for Kennicott she would have taken him. She hoped that in somemiraculous way yet unrevealed she might find it possible to remain inCalifornia. She did not want to see Gopher Prairie again.The Smails were to occupy the Kennicott house, and quite the hardestthing to endure in the month of waiting was the series of conferencesbetween Kennicott and Uncle Whittier in regard to heating the garage andhaving the furnace flues cleaned.Did Carol, Kennicott inquired, wish to stop in Minneapolis to buy newclothes?"No! I want to get as far away as I can as soon as I can. Let's waittill Los Angeles.""Sure, sure! Just as you like. Cheer up! We're going to have a largewide time, and everything 'll be different when we come back."VIDusk on a snowy December afternoon. The sleeper which would connectat Kansas City with the California train rolled out of St. Paul witha chick-a-chick, chick-a-chick, chick-a-chick as it crossed the othertracks. It bumped through the factory belt, gained speed. Carol couldsee nothing but gray fields, which had closed in on her all the way fromGopher Prairie. Ahead was darkness."For an hour, in Minneapolis, I must have been near Erik. He's stillthere, somewhere. He'll be gone when I come back. I'll never know wherehe has gone."As Kennicott switched on the seat-light she turned drearily to theillustrations in a motion-picture magazine.