24. CHAPTER XXIV
I
HIS visit to Paul was as unreal as his night of fog and
questioning. Unseeing he went through prison corridors stinking
of carbolic acid to a room lined with pale yellow settees pierced
in rosettes, like the shoe-store benches he had known as a boy.
The guard led in Paul. Above his uniform of linty gray, Paul's
face was pale and without expression. He moved timorously
in response to the guard's commands; he meekly pushed Babbitt's
gifts of tobacco and magazines across the table to the
guard for examination. He had nothing to say but "Oh, I'm
getting used to 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 as he pondered on the train home something in
his own self seemed to have died: a loyal and vigorous faith
in the goodness of the world, a fear of public disfavor, a pride
in success. He was glad that his wife was away. He admitted
it without justifying it. He did not care.
II
Her card read "Mrs. Daniel Judique.'' Babbitt knew of her
as the widow of a wholesale paper-dealer. She must have
been forty or forty-two but he thought her younger when he
saw her in the office, that afternoon. She had come to inquire
about renting an apartment, and he took her away from the
unskilled girl accountant. He was nervously attracted by
her smartness. She was a slender woman, in a black Swiss
frock dotted with white, a cool-looking graceful frock. A broad
black hat shaded her face. Her eyes were lustrous, her soft
chin of an agreeable plumpness, and her cheeks an even rose.
Babbitt wondered afterward if she was made up, but no man
living knew less of such arts.
She sat revolving her violet parasol. Her voice was appealing
without being coy. "I wonder if you can help me?''
"Be delighted.''
"I've looked everywhere and— I want a little flat, just
a bedroom, or perhaps two, and sitting-room and kitchenette
and bath, but I want one that really has some charm to it, not
these dingy places or these new ones with terrible gaudy chandeliers.
And I can't pay so dreadfully much. My name's
Tanis Judique.''
"I think maybe I've got just the thing for you. Would you
like to chase around and look at it now?''
"Yes. I have a couple of hours.''
In the new Cavendish Apartments, Babbitt had a flat which
he had been holding for Sidney Finkelstein, but at the thought
of driving beside this agreeable woman he threw over his
friend Finkelstein, and with a note 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 in showing 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 of culture, not a bouncing giggle like Louetta Swanson's.
He boasted, "You know, there's a lot of these fellows that
are so scared and drive so slow that they get in everybody's
way. The safest driver is a fellow that knows how to handle
his machine and yet isn't scared to speed 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, before my husband passed on—and I used to make
believe drive it, but I don't think 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 and everything, 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 and useless 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 and ruby rings. She caught the glance, snuggled
her hands together with a kittenish curving of slim white
fingers which delighted him, and yearned:
"I do love to play—I mean—I like to drum on the piano,
but I haven't had any real training. Mr. Judique used to
say I would 've been a good pianist if I'd had any training,
but then, I guess he was just flattering 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 this classical stuff.''
"Oh, I do! I just love Chopin and all those.''
"Do you, honest? Well, of course, I go to lots of these
highbrow concerts, but I do like a good jazz orchestra, right
up on its toes, with the fellow that plays the bass fiddle spinning
it around and beating 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 teach anybody 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'll be coming up to your flat and making you give me
that lesson.''
"Ye-es.'' She was not offended, but she was non-committal.
He warned himself, "Have some sense now, you chump! Don't
go making a fool of yourself again!'' and with loftiness he
discoursed:
"I wish I could dance like some of these young fellows, but
I'll tell you: I feel it's a man's place to take a full, you might
say, a creative share in the world's work and mold conditions
and have something to show for 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 next fellow!''
"Oh, I'm sure you do.... Are you married?''
"Uh—yes.... And, uh, of course official duties I'm the
vice-president of the Boosters' Club, and I'm running one of
the committees of the State Association of Real Estate Boards,
and that means a lot of work and 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 at the Cavendish Apartments he helped her out in
a courtly manner, waved his hand at the house as though he
were presenting it to her, and ponderously ordered the elevator
boy to "hustle and get the keys.'' She stood 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 they walked 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 who really 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 the car, 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 a darling! A corker! A reg'lar charmer! Lovely
eyes and darling lips and that trim waist—never get sloppy,
like some women.... No, no, no! She's a real cultured lady.
One of the brightest little women I've met these many moons.
Understands about Public Topics and— But, darn it, why
didn't I try? . . . Tanis!''
III
He was harassed and puzzled by it, but he found that he
was turning toward youth, as youth. The girl who especially
disturbed him—though he had never spoken to her—was the
last manicure girl on the right in the Pompeian Barber Shop.
She was small, swift, black-haired, smiling. She was nineteen,
perhaps, or twenty. She wore thin salmon-colored blouses
which exhibited her shoulders and her black-ribboned camisoles.
He went to the Pompeian for his fortnightly hair-trim. As
always, he felt disloyal at deserting his neighbor, the Reeves
Building Barber Shop. 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 the Reeves Building! These
barbers got nothing on me! I'll doggone well get my hair cut
where I doggone well want to! Don't want to hear anything
more about it! I'm through standing by people—unless I
want to. It doesn'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 marble steps with a rail of polished brass
led from the hotel-lobby down to the barber shop. The interior
was of black and white and crimson tiles, with a sensational
ceiling of burnished gold, and a fountain in which a massive
nymph forever emptied a scarlet cornucopia. Forty barbers
and nine manicure girls worked desperately, and at the door
six colored porters lurked to greet the customers, to care reverently
for their hats and collars, to lead them to a place of
waiting where, on a carpet like a tropic isle in the stretch of
white stone floor, were a dozen leather chairs and a table
heaped with magazines.
Babbitt's porter was an obsequious gray-haired negro who
did him an honor highly esteemed in the land of Zenith—
greeted him by name. Yet Babbitt 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 powerful
system of the Pompeian was inconceivable, and he was instantly
wafted into a chair.
About him was luxury, rich and delicate. One votary was
having a violet-ray facial treatment, the next an oil shampoo.
Boys wheeled about miraculous electrical massage-machines.
The barbers snatched steaming towels from a machine like a
howitzer of polished nickel and disdainfully flung them away
after a second's use. On the vast marble shelf facing the
chairs were hundreds of tonics, amber and ruby and emerald.
It was flattering to Babbitt to have two personal slaves at
once—the barber and the bootblack. He would have been
completely happy if he could also have had the manicure girl.
The barber snipped at his hair and asked his opinion of the
Havre de Grace races, the baseball season, and Mayor Prout.
The young negro bootblack hummed "The Camp Meeting
Blues'' and polished in rhythm to his tune, drawing the shiny
shoe-rag so taut at each stroke that it snapped like a banjo
string. The barber was an excellent salesman. He made
Babbitt feel rich and important 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 little tight; shall I give
you a scalp massage?''
Babbitt's best thrill was in the shampoo. The barber made
his hair creamy with thick soap, then (as Babbitt bent over
the bowl, muffled in towels) drenched it with hot water which
prickled along his scalp, and at last ran the water ice-cold.
At the shock, the sudden burning cold on his skull, Babbitt's
heart thumped, his chest heaved, and his spine was an electric
wire. It was a sensation which broke the monotony of life.
He looked grandly about the shop as he sat up. The barber
obsequiously rubbed his wet hair and bound it in a towel as
in a turban, so that Babbitt resembled a plump pink calif on
an ingenious and adjustable throne. The barber begged (in
the manner of one who was a good fellow yet was overwhelmed
by the splendors of the calif), "How about a little Eldorado
Oil Rub, sir? Very beneficial to the scalp, sir. Didn't I
give you 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, and excitedly watched her coming, dark-haired, smiling,
tender, little. The manicuring would have to be finished at her
table, and he would be able to talk to her without the barber
listening. He waited contentedly, not trying to peep at her,
while she filed his nails and the barber shaved him and smeared
on his burning cheeks all the interesting mixtures which the
pleasant minds of barbers have devised through the revolving
ages. When the barber was done and he sat opposite the girl
at her table, he admired the marble slab of it, admired the
sunken set bowl with its tiny silver taps, and admired himself
for being able to frequent so costly a place. When she withdrew
his wet hand from the bowl, it was so sensitive from the
warm soapy water that he was abnormally aware of the clasp
of her firm little paw. He delighted in the pinkness and glossiness
of her nails. Her hands seemed to him more adorable
than Mrs. Judique's thin fingers, and more elegant. He had
a certain ecstasy in the pain when she gnawed at the cuticle of
his nails with a sharp knife. He struggled not to look at the
outline of her young bosom and her shoulders, the more apparent
under a film of pink chiffon. He was conscious of her
as an exquisite thing, and when he tried to impress his personality
on her he spoke 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. I always think that's the best way to spot a real gent.
There was an auto salesman in here yesterday that claimed
you could always tell a fellow's class 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 tell if he's a tin-horn
or a real gent!'''
"Yes, maybe there's something to that. Course, that is—
with a pretty kiddy 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 when I see um—I can read character at a glance—and
I'd never talk so frank with 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 great seriousness he informed himself that "there
were some roughnecks who would think that just because a girl
was a manicure girl and maybe not awful 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 a
fine girl, a good girl—but not too uncomfortably good. He
inquired in a voice 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
sports that think because a girl's working in a barber shop,
they can get away with anything. The things they saaaaaay!
But, believe me, I know how to hop 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's young nightmare
and oh, don't you want a box of nail-paste? It will keep
the nails as shiny as when first manicured, harmless to apply
and lasts for days.''
"Sure, I'll try some. Say— Say, it's funny; I've been
coming here ever since the shop opened and—'' With arch
surprise. "—I don't believe I know 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 folks ain't kikes. My papa's papa was a nobleman in
Poland, and there was a gentleman 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 folks in 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 kid has Blue Blood in her veins!' ''
"Did you, honest?''
"Honest I did. Well, well, come on—now we're friends—
what's the darling little name?''
"Ida Putiak. It ain't so much-a-much of a name. I always
say to Ma, I say, `Ma, why didn't you name me Doloress
or something with some class to 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 well known.''
"Aren't you Mr. Sondheim that travels for the Krackajack
Kitchen Kutlery Ko.?''
"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'm an awfully silly little nit!''
"I think you're a little darling!''
"Well— There's one nice thing about this job. It gives
a girl a chance to meet some awfully nice gentlemen and improve
her mind with conversation, and you get so you can read
a guy's character at the first glance.''
"Look here, Ida; please don't think I'm getting fresh—''
He was hotly reflecting 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 seen by censorious friends— But
he went on ardently: "Don't think I'm getting fresh if I
suggest it would be nice for us to go out and have a little
dinner together some evening.''
"I don't know as I ought to but— My gentleman-friend's
always wanting to take me out. But maybe I could to-night.''
IV
There was no reason, he assured himself, why he shouldn't
have a quiet dinner with a poor girl who would benefit by
association with an educated and mature person like himself.
But, lest some one see them and not understand, he would take
her to Biddlemeier's Inn, on the outskirts of 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 was
complaisant; her bare shoulders showed it only too clearly;
but he'd be hanged if he'd make love to her merely because
she expected it.
Then his car broke down; something had happened to the
ignition. And he had to have the car this evening!
Furiously
he tested the spark-plugs, stared at the commutator.
His angriest glower did not seem to stir the sulky car, and
in disgrace it was hauled off to a garage. With a renewed
thrill he thought of a taxicab. There was something at once
wealthy and interestingly 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
interminable indignation she narrated her retorts to "that
fresh head-barber'' and the drastic things she would do to
him if he persisted in saying that she was "better at gassing
than at hoof-paring.''
At Biddlemeier's Inn they were unable to get anything to
drink. The head-waiter refused to understand who George
F. Babbitt was. They sat steaming before a vast mixed grill,
and made conversation about baseball. When he tried to hold
Ida's hand she said with bright friendliness, "Careful! That
fresh waiter is rubbering.'' But they came out into a treacherous
summer night, the air lazy and a little moon above transfigured
maples.
"Let's drive some other place, where we can get a drink
and dance!'' he demanded.
"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. He put 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 the low and gentle moon, motors were parked and dim
figures were clasped in revery. He held out hungry hands to
Ida, and when she patted them he was grateful. There was
no sense of struggle and transition; he kissed her and simply
she responded to his kiss, they two behind the stolid back of
the 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. She drew away from it, and said with maternal
soothing, "Now, don't be a silly boy! Mustn't make Ittle
Mama scold! Just sit back, dearie, and see what a swell night
it is. If you're a good boy, maybe I'll kiss you when we say
nighty-night. Now give me a cigarette.''
He was solicitous about lighting her cigarette and inquiring
as to her comfort. Then he sat as far from her as possible.
He was cold with failure. No one could have told Babbitt
that he was a fool with more vigor, precision, and intelligence
than he himself displayed. He reflected that from the standpoint
of the Rev. Dr. John Jennison Drew he was a wicked
man, and from the standpoint of Miss Ida Putiak, an old bore
who had to be endured as the penalty attached to eating a
large dinner.
"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 to take anything off this gutter-pup! Darn
immigrant! Well, let's get it over as quick as we can, and
sneak home and kick ourselves for the rest of 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 about this scrapping with your head-barber
all the time. I've had a lot of experience with employees,
and let me tell you it doesn't pay to antagonize—''
At the drab wooden house in which she lived he said good-night
briefly and amiably, but as the taxicab drove off he was
praying "Oh, my God!''
