III
Before breakfast he always reverted to up-state village boyhood,
and shrank from the complex urban demands of shaving,
bathing, deciding whether the current shirt was clean enough
for another day. Whenever he stayed home in the evening
he went to bed early, and thriftily got ahead in those dismal
duties. It was his luxurious custom to shave while sitting
snugly in a tubful of hot water. He may be viewed to-night
as a plump, smooth, pink, baldish, podgy goodman, robbed
of the importance of spectacles, squatting in breast-high water,
scraping his lather-smeared cheeks with a safety-razor like a
tiny lawn-mower, and with melancholy dignity clawing through
the water to recover a slippery and active piece of soap.
He was lulled to dreaming by the caressing warmth. The
light fell on the inner surface of the tub in a pattern of delicate
wrinkled lines which slipped with a green sparkle over
the curving porcelain as the clear water trembled. Babbitt
lazily watched it; noted that along the silhouette of his legs
against the radiance on the bottom of the tub, the shadows of
the air-bubbles clinging to the hairs were reproduced as strange
jungle mosses. He patted the water, and the reflected light
capsized and leaped and volleyed. He was content and
childish. He played. He shaved a swath down the calf of
one plump leg.
The drain-pipe was dripping, a dulcet and lively song: drippety
drip drip dribble, drippety drip drip drip. He was enchanted
by it. He looked at the solid tub, the beautiful nickel
taps, the tiled walls of the room, and felt virtuous in the possession
of this splendor.
He roused himself and spoke gruffly to his bath-things.
"Come here! You've done enough fooling!'' he reproved the
treacherous soap, and defied the scratchy nail-brush with "Oh,
you would, would you!'' He soaped himself, and rinsed himself,
and austerely rubbed himself; he noted a hole in the
Turkish towel, and meditatively thrust a finger through it, and
marched back to the bedroom, a grave and unbending citizen.
There was a moment of gorgeous abandon, a flash of melodrama
such as he found in traffic-driving, when he laid out a
clean collar, discovered that it was frayed in front, and tore
it up with a magnificent yeeeeeing sound.
Most important of all was the preparation of his bed and
the sleeping-porch.
It is not known whether he enjoyed his sleeping-porch because
of the fresh air or because it was the standard thing to
have a sleeping-porch.
Just as he was an Elk, a Booster, and a member of the
Chamber of Commerce, just as the priests of the Presbyterian
Church determined his every religious belief and the senators
who controlled the Republican Party decided in little smoky
rooms in Washington what he should think about disarmament,
tariff, and Germany, so did the large national advertisers
fix the surface of his life, fix what he believed to be his
individuality. These standard advertised wares—toothpastes,
socks, tires, cameras, instantaneous hot-water heaters—were
his symbols and proofs of excellence; at first the signs, then
the substitutes, for joy and passion and wisdom.
But none of these advertised tokens of financial and social
success was more significant than a sleeping-porch with a sun-parlor below.
The rites of preparing for bed were elaborate and unchanging.
The blankets had to be tucked in at the foot of
his cot. (Also, the reason why the maid hadn't tucked in the
blankets had to be discussed with Mrs. Babbitt.) The rag
rug was adjusted so that his bare feet would strike it when
he arose in the morning. The alarm clock was wound. The
hot-water bottle was filled and placed precisely two feet from
the bottom of the cot.
These tremendous undertakings yielded to his determination;
one by one they were announced to Mrs. Babbitt and
smashed through to accomplishment. At last his brow cleared,
and in his "Gnight!'' rang virile power. But there was yet
need of courage. As he sank into sleep, just at the first
exquisite relaxation, the Doppelbrau car came home. He
bounced into wakefulness, lamenting, "Why the devil can't
some people never get to bed at a reasonable hour?'' So
familiar was he with the process of putting up his own car
that he awaited each step like an able executioner condemned
to his own rack.
The car insultingly cheerful on the driveway. The car
door opened and banged shut, then the garage door slid open,
grating on the sill, and the car door again. The motor raced
for the climb up into the garage and raced once more, explosively,
before it was shut off. A final opening and slamming
of the car door. Silence then, a horrible silence filled with
waiting, till the leisurely Mr. Doppelbrau had examined the
state of his tires and had at last shut the garage door. Instantly,
for Babbitt, a blessed state of oblivion.