Babbitt
When Verona and Ted were gone and Tinka upstairs, Babbitt groaned to his
wife: “Nice family, I must say! I don’t pretend to be any baa-lamb, and
maybe I’m a little cross-grained at breakfast sometimes, but the way
they go on jab-jab-jabbering, I simply can’t stand it. I swear, I feel
like going off some place where I can get a little peace. I do think
after a man’s spent his lifetime trying to give his kids a chance and a
decent education, it’s pretty discouraging to hear them all the time
scrapping like a bunch of hyenas and never--and never-- Curious; here in
the paper it says-- Never silent for one mom-- Seen the morning paper
yet?”
“No, dear.” In twenty-three years of married life, Mrs. Babbitt had seen
the paper before her husband just sixty-seven times.
“Lots of news. Terrible big tornado in the South. Hard luck, all right.
But this, say, this is corking! Beginning of the end for those fellows!
New York Assembly has passed some bills that ought to completely outlaw
the socialists! And there’s an elevator-runners’ strike in New York and
a lot of college boys are taking their places. That’s the stuff! And a
mass-meeting in Birmingham’s demanded that this Mick agitator, this
fellow De Valera, be deported. Dead right, by golly! All these agitators
paid with German gold anyway. And we got no business interfering with
the Irish or any other foreign government. Keep our hands strictly off.
And there’s another well-authenticated rumor from Russia that Lenin is
dead. That’s fine. It’s beyond me why we don’t just step in there and
kick those Bolshevik cusses out.”
“That’s so,” said Mrs. Babbitt.
“And it says here a fellow was inaugurated mayor in overalls--a
preacher, too! What do you think of that!”
“Humph! Well!”
He searched for an attitude, but neither as a Republican, a
Presbyterian, an Elk, nor a real-estate broker did he have any doctrine
about preacher-mayors laid down for him, so he grunted and went on. She
looked sympathetic and did not hear a word. Later she would read the
headlines, the society columns, and the department-store advertisements.
“What do you know about this! Charley McKelvey still doing the sassiety
stunt as heavy as ever. Here’s what that gushy woman reporter says about
last night:”
Never is Society with the big, big S more flattered than when they
are bidden to partake of good cheer at the distinguished and
hospitable residence of Mr. and Mrs. Charles L. McKelvey as they
were last night. Set in its spacious lawns and landscaping, one of
the notable sights crowning Royal Ridge, but merry and homelike
despite its mighty stone walls and its vast rooms famed for their
decoration, their home was thrown open last night for a dance in
honor of Mrs. McKelvey’s notable guest, Miss J. Sneeth of
Washington. The wide hall is so generous in its proportions that it
made a perfect ballroom, its hardwood floor reflecting the charming
pageant above its polished surface. Even the delights of dancing
paled before the alluring opportunities for tête-à-têtes that
invited the soul to loaf in the long library before the baronial
fireplace, or in the drawing-room with its deep comfy armchairs,
its shaded lamps just made for a sly whisper of pretty nothings all
a deux; or even in the billiard room where one could take a cue
and show a prowess at still another game than that sponsored by
Cupid and Terpsichore.
There was more, a great deal more, in the best urban journalistic style
of Miss Elnora Pearl Bates, the popular society editor of the
_Advocate-Times_. But Babbitt could not abide it. He grunted. He
wrinkled the newspaper. He protested: “Can you beat it! I’m willing to
hand a lot of credit to Charley McKelvey. When we were in college
together, he was just as hard up as any of us, and he’s made a million
good bucks out of contracting and hasn’t been any dishonester or bought
any more city councils than was necessary. And that’s a good house of
his--though it ain’t any ‘mighty stone walls’ and it ain’t worth the
ninety thousand it cost him. But when it comes to talking as though
Charley McKelvey and all that booze-hoisting set of his are any blooming
bunch of of, of Vanderbilts, why, it makes me tired!”
Timidly from Mrs. Babbitt: “I would like to see the inside of their
house though. It must be lovely. I’ve never been inside.”
“Well, I have! Lots of--couple of times. To see Chaz about business
deals, in the evening. It’s not so much. I wouldn’t _want_ to go there
to dinner with that gang of, of high-binders. And I’ll bet I make a
whole lot more money than some of those tin-horns that spend all they
got on dress-suits and haven’t got a decent suit of underwear to their
name! Hey! What do you think of this!”
Mrs. Babbitt was strangely unmoved by the tidings from the Real Estate
and Building column of the _Advocate-Times_:
Ashtabula Street, 496--J. K. Dawson to
Thomas Mullally, April 17, 15.7 × 112.2,
mtg. $4000................ Nom.
And this morning Babbitt was too disquieted to entertain her with items
from Mechanics’ Liens, Mortgages Recorded, and Contracts Awarded. He
rose. As he looked at her his eyebrows seemed shaggier than usual.
Suddenly:
“Yes, maybe-- Kind of shame to not keep in touch with folks like the
McKelveys. We might try inviting them to dinner, some evening. Oh,
thunder, let’s not waste our good time thinking about ’em! Our little
bunch has a lot liver times than all those plutes. Just compare a real
human like you with these neurotic birds like Lucile McKelvey--all
highbrow talk and dressed up like a plush horse! You’re a great old
girl, hon.!”
He covered his betrayal of softness with a complaining: “Say, don’t let
Tinka go and eat any more of that poison nut-fudge. For Heaven’s sake,
try to keep her from ruining her digestion. I tell you, most folks don’t
appreciate how important it is to have a good digestion and regular
habits. Be back ’bout usual time, I guess.”
He kissed her--he didn’t quite kiss her--he laid unmoving lips against
her unflushing cheek. He hurried out to the garage, muttering: “Lord,
what a family! And now Myra is going to get pathetic on me because we
don’t train with this millionaire outfit. Oh, Lord, sometimes I’d like
to quit the whole game. And the office worry and detail just as bad. And
I act cranky and-- I don’t mean to, but I get-- So darn tired!”
CHAPTER III
I
To George F. Babbitt, as to most prosperous citizens of Zenith, his
motor car was poetry and tragedy, love and heroism. The office was his
pirate ship but the car his perilous excursion ashore.
Among the tremendous crises of each day none was more dramatic than
starting the engine. It was slow on cold mornings; there was the long,
anxious whirr of the starter; and sometimes he had to drip ether into
the cocks of the cylinders, which was so very interesting that at lunch
he would chronicle it drop by drop, and orally calculate how much each
drop had cost him.
This morning he was darkly prepared to find something wrong, and he felt
belittled when the mixture exploded sweet and strong, and the car didn’t
even brush the door-jamb, gouged and splintery with many bruisings by
fenders, as he backed out of the garage. He was confused. He shouted
“Morning!” to Sam Doppelbrau with more cordiality than he had intended.
Babbitt’s green and white Dutch Colonial house was one of three in that
block on Chatham Road. To the left of it was the residence of Mr. Samuel
Doppelbrau, secretary of an excellent firm of bathroom-fixture jobbers.
His was a comfortable house with no architectural manners whatever; a
large wooden box with a squat tower, a broad porch, and glossy paint
yellow as a yolk. Babbitt disapproved of Mr. and Mrs. Doppelbrau as
“Bohemian.” From their house came midnight music and obscene laughter;
there were neighborhood rumors of bootlegged whisky and fast motor
rides. They furnished Babbitt with many happy evenings of discussion,
during which he announced firmly, “I’m not straitlaced, and I don’t mind
seeing a fellow throw in a drink once in a while, but when it comes to
deliberately trying to get away with a lot of hell-raising all the while
like the Doppelbraus do, it’s too rich for my blood!”
On the other side of Babbitt lived Howard Littlefield, Ph.D., in a
strictly modern house whereof the lower part was dark red tapestry
brick, with a leaded oriel, the upper part of pale stucco like spattered
clay, and the roof red-tiled. Littlefield was the Great Scholar of the
neighborhood; the authority on everything in the world except babies,
cooking, and motors. He was a Bachelor of Arts of Blodgett College, and
a Doctor of Philosophy in economics of Yale. He was the
employment-manager and publicity-counsel of the Zenith Street Traction
Company. He could, on ten hours’ notice, appear before the board of
aldermen or the state legislature and prove, absolutely, with figures
all in rows and with precedents from Poland and New Zealand, that the
street-car company loved the Public and yearned over its employees; that
all its stock was owned by Widows and Orphans; and that whatever it
desired to do would benefit property-owners by increasing rental values,
and help the poor by lowering rents. All his acquaintances turned to
Littlefield when they desired to know the date of the battle of
Saragossa, the definition of the word “sabotage,” the future of the
German mark, the translation of “_hinc illæ lachrimæ_” or the number of
products of coal tar. He awed Babbitt by confessing that he often sat up
till midnight reading the figures and footnotes in Government reports,
or skimming (with amusement at the author’s mistakes) the latest volumes
of chemistry, archaeology, and ichthyology.
But Littlefield’s great value was as a spiritual example. Despite his
strange learnings he was as strict a Presbyterian and as firm a
Republican as George F. Babbitt. He confirmed the business men in the
faith. Where they knew only by passionate instinct that their system of
industry and manners was perfect, Dr. Howard Littlefield proved it to
them, out of history, economics, and the confessions of reformed
radicals.
Babbitt had a good deal of honest pride in being the neighbor of such a
savant, and in Ted’s intimacy with Eunice Littlefield. At sixteen Eunice
was interested in no statistics save those regarding the ages and
salaries of motion-picture stars, but--as Babbitt definitively put
it--“she was her father’s daughter.”
The difference between a light man like Sam Doppelbrau and a really fine
character like Littlefield was revealed in their appearances. Doppelbrau
was disturbingly young for a man of forty-eight. He wore his derby on
the back of his head, and his red face was wrinkled with meaningless
laughter. But Littlefield was old for a man of forty-two. He was tall,
broad, thick; his gold-rimmed spectacles were engulfed in the folds of
his long face; his hair was a tossed mass of greasy blackness; he puffed
and rumbled as he talked; his Phi Beta Kappa key shone against a spotty
black vest; he smelled of old pipes; he was altogether funereal and
archidiaconal; and to real-estate brokerage and the jobbing of
bathroom-fixtures he added an aroma of sanctity.
This morning he was in front of his house, inspecting the grass parking
between the curb and the broad cement sidewalk. Babbitt stopped his car
and leaned out to shout “Mornin’!” Littlefield lumbered over and stood
with one foot up on the running-board.
“Fine morning,” said Babbitt, lighting--illegally early--his second
cigar of the day.
“Yes, it’s a mighty fine morning,” said Littlefield.
“Spring coming along fast now.”