9. CHAPTER IX
I
BABBITT was fond of his friends, he loved the importance
of being host and shouting, "Certainly, you're going to have
smore chicken—the idea!'' and he appreciated the genius of
T. Cholmondeley Frink, but the vigor of the cocktails was
gone, and the more he ate the less joyful he felt. Then the
amity of the dinner was destroyed by the nagging of the Swansons.
In Floral Heights and the other prosperous sections of Zenith,
especially in the "young married set,'' there were many
women who had nothing to do. Though they had few servants,
yet with gas stoves, electric ranges and dish-washers and
vacuum cleaners, and tiled kitchen walls, their houses were
so convenient that they had little housework, and much of
their food came from bakeries and delicatessens. They had
but two, one, or no children; and despite the myth that the
Great War had made work respectable, their husbands objected
to their "wasting time and getting a lot of crank ideas''
in unpaid social work, and still more to their causing a rumor,
by earning money, that they were not adequately supported.
They worked perhaps two hours a day, and the rest of the
time they ate chocolates, went to the motion-pictures, went
window-shopping, went in gossiping twos and threes to card-parties,
read magazines, thought timorously of the lovers who
never appeared, and accumulated a splendid restlessness which
they got rid of by nagging their husbands. The husbands
nagged back.
Of these naggers the Swansons were perfect specimens.
Throughout the dinner Eddie Swanson had been complaining,
publicly, about his wife's new frock. It was, he submitted,
too short, too low, too immodestly thin, and much too expensive.
He appealed to Babbitt:
"Honest, George, what do you think of that rag Louetta
went and bought? Don't you think it's the limit?''
"What's eating you, Eddie? I call it a swell little dress.''
"Oh, it is, Mr. Swanson. It's a sweet frock,'' Mrs. Babbitt
protested.
"There now, do you see, smarty! You're such an authority
on clothes!'' Louetta raged, while the guests ruminated and
peeped at her shoulders.
"That's all right now,'' said Swanson. "I'm authority enough
so I know it was a waste of money, and it makes me tired to
see you not wearing out a whole closetful of clothes you got
already. I've expressed my idea about this before, and you
know good and well you didn't pay the least bit of attention.
I have to camp on your trail to get you to do anything—''
There was much more of it, and they all assisted, all but
Babbitt. Everything about him was dim except his stomach,
and that was a bright scarlet disturbance. "Had too much
grub; oughtn't to eat this stuff,'' he groaned—while he went
on eating, while he gulped down a chill and glutinous slice of
the ice-cream brick, and cocoanut cake as oozy as shaving-cream.
He felt as though he had been stuffed with clay; his
body was bursting, his throat was bursting, his brain was hot
mud; and only with agony did he continue to smile and shout
as became a host on Floral Heights.
He would, except for his guests, have fled outdoors and
walked off the intoxication of food, but in the haze which
filled the room they sat forever, talking, talking, while he
agonized, "Darn fool to be eating all this—not 'nother mouthful,''
and discovered that he was again tasting the sickly welter
of melted ice cream on his plate. There was no magic in his
friends; he was not uplifted when Howard Littlefield produced
from his treasure-house of scholarship the information that the
chemical symbol for raw rubber is
C
10H
16, which turns
into
isoprene, or 2C
5H
8.
Suddenly, without precedent, Babbitt was
not merely bored but admitting that he was bored. It was
ecstasy to escape from the table, from the torture of a straight
chair, and loll on the davenport in the living-room.
The others, from their fitful unconvincing talk, their expressions
of being slowly and painfully smothered, seemed to be
suffering from the toil of social life and the horror of good
food as much as himself. All of them accepted with relief
the suggestion of bridge.
Babbitt recovered from the feeling of being boiled. He won
at bridge. He was again able to endure Vergil Gunch's inexorable
heartiness. But he pictured loafing with Paul Riesling
beside a lake in Maine. It was as overpowering and imaginative
as homesickness. He had never seen Maine, yet he beheld
the shrouded mountains, the tranquil lake of evening. "That
boy Paul's worth all these ballyhooing highbrows put together,''
he muttered; and, "I'd like to get away from—everything.''
Even Louetta Swanson did not rouse him.
Mrs. Swanson was pretty and pliant. Babbitt was not an
analyst of women, except as to their tastes in Furnished Houses
to Rent. He divided them into Real Ladies, Working Women,
Old Cranks, and Fly Chickens. He mooned over their charms
but he was of opinion that all of them (save the women of his
own family) were "different'' and "mysterious.'' Yet he had
known by instinct that Louetta Swanson could be approached.
Her eyes and lips were moist. Her face tapered from a broad
forehead to a pointed chin, her mouth was thin but strong and
avid, and between her brows were two outcurving and passionate
wrinkles. She was thirty, perhaps, or younger. Gossip
had never touched her, but every man naturally and instantly
rose to flirtatiousness when he spoke to her, and every woman
watched her with stilled blankness.
Between games, sitting on the davenport, Babbitt spoke to
her with the requisite gallantry, that sonorous Floral Heights
gallantry which is not flirtation but a terrified flight from it:
"You're looking like a new soda-fountain to night, Louetta.''
"Am I?''
"Ole Eddie kind of on the rampage.''
"Yes. I get so sick of it.''
"Well, when you get tired of hubby, you can run off with
Uncle George.''
"If I ran away— Oh, well—''
"Anybody ever tell you your hands are awful pretty?''
She looked down at them, she pulled the lace of her sleeves
over them, but otherwise she did not heed him. She was lost
in unexpressed imaginings.
Babbitt was too languid this evening to pursue his duty of
being a captivating (though strictly moral) male. He ambled
back to the bridge-tables. He was not much thrilled when
Mrs. Frink, a small twittering woman, proposed that they
"try and do some spiritualism and table-tipping—you know
Chum can make the spirits come—honest, he just scares me!''
The ladies of the party had not emerged all evening, but
now, as the sex given to things of the spirit while the men
warred against base things material, they took command and
cried, "Oh, let's!'' In the dimness the men were rather solemn
and foolish, but the goodwives quivered and adored as they
sat about the table. They laughed, "Now, you be good or
I'll tell!'' when the men took their hands in the circle.
Babbitt tingled with a slight return of interest in life as
Louetta Swanson's hand closed on his with quiet firmness.
All of them hunched over, intent. They startled as some one
drew a strained breath. In the dusty light from the hall they
looked unreal, they felt disembodied. Mrs. Gunch squeaked,
and they jumped with unnatural jocularity, but at Frink's hiss
they sank into subdued awe. Suddenly, incredibly, they heard
a knocking. They stared at Frink's half-revealed hands and
found them lying still. They wriggled, and pretended not to
be impressed.
Frink spoke with gravity: "Is some one there?'' A thud.
"Is one knock to be the sign for `yes'?'' A thud. "And two
for `no'?'' A thud.
"Now, ladies and gentlemen, shall we ask the guide to put
us into communication with the spirit of some great one passed
over?'' Frink mumbled.
Mrs Orville Jones begged, "Oh, let's talk to Dante! We
studied him at the Reading Circle. You know who he was,
Orvy.''
"Certainly I know who he was! The Wop poet. Where do
you think I was raised?'' from her insulted husband.
"Sure—the fellow that took the Cook's Tour to Hell. I've
never waded through his po'try, but we learned about him in
the U.,'' said Babbitt.
"Page Mr. Dannnnnty!'' intoned Eddie Swanson.
"You ought to get him easy, Mr. Frink, you and he being
fellow-poets,'' said Louetta Swanson.
"Fellow-poets, rats! Where d' you get that stuff?'' protested
Vergil Gunch. "I suppose Dante showed a lot of speed
for an old-timer—not that I've actually read him, of course—
but to come right down to hard facts, he wouldn't stand one-two-three
if he had to buckle down to practical literature and
turn out a poem for the newspaper-syndicate every day, like
Chum does!''
"That's so,'' from Eddie Swanson. "Those old birds could
take their time. Judas Priest, I could write poetry myself if
I had a whole year for it, and just wrote about that old-fashioned
junk like Dante wrote about.''
Frink demanded, "Hush, now! I'll call him. . . O, Laughing
Eyes, emerge forth into the, uh, the ultimates and bring
hither the spirit of Dante, that we mortals may list to his
words of wisdom.''
"You forgot to give um the address: 1658 Brimstone Avenue,
Fiery Heights, Hell,'' Gunch chuckled, but the others
felt that this was irreligious. And besides—"probably it was
just Chum making the knocks, but still, if there did happen to
be something to all this, be exciting to talk to an old fellow
belonging to—way back in early times—''
A thud. The spirit of Dante had come to the parlor of
George F. Babbitt.
He was, it seemed, quite ready to answer their questions.
He was "glad to be with them, this evening.''
Frink spelled out the messages by running through the alphabet
till the spirit interpreter knocked at the right letter.
Littlefield asked, in a learned tone, "Do you like it in the
Paradiso, Messire?''
"We are very happy on the higher plane, Signor. We are
glad that you are studying this great truth of spiritualism,''
Dante replied.
The circle moved with an awed creaking of stays and shirt-fronts.
"Suppose—suppose there were something to this?''
Babbitt had a different worry. "Suppose Chum Frink was
really one of these spiritualists! Chum had, for a literary
fellow, always seemed to be a Regular Guy; he belonged to
the Chatham Road Presbyterian Church and went to the
Boosters' lunches and liked cigars and motors and racy stories.
But suppose that secretly— After all, you never could tell
about these darn highbrows; and to be an out-and-out spiritualist
would be almost like being a socialist!''
No one could long be serious in the presence of Vergil Gunch.
"Ask Dant' how Jack Shakespeare and old Verg'—the guy
they named after me—are gettin' along, and don't they wish
they could get into the movie game!'' he blared, and instantly
all was mirth. Mrs. Jones shrieked, and Eddie Swanson desired
to know whether Dante didn't catch cold with nothing
on but his wreath.
The pleased Dante made humble answer.
But Babbitt—the curst discontent was torturing him again,
and heavily, in the impersonal darkness, he pondered, "I
don't— We're all so flip and think we're so smart. There'd
be— A fellow like Dante— I wish I'd read some of his
pieces. I don't suppose I ever will, now.''
He had, without explanation, the impression of a slaggy cliff
and on it, in silhouette against menacing clouds, a lone and
austere figure. He was dismayed by a sudden contempt for
his surest friends. He grasped Louetta Swanson's hand, and
found the comfort of human warmth. Habit came, a veteran
warrior; and he shook himself. "What the deuce is the matter
with me, this evening?''
He patted Louetta's hand, to indicate that he hadn't meant
anything improper by squeezing it, and demanded of Frink,
"Say, see if you can get old Dant' to spiel us some of his
poetry. Talk up to him. Tell him, `Buena giorna, señor, com
sa va, wie geht's? Keskersaykersa a little pome, señor?' ''
II
The lights were switched on; the women sat on the fronts of
their chairs in that determined suspense whereby a wife indicates
that as soon as the present speaker has finished, she is
going to remark brightly to her husband, "Well, dear, I think
per-haps it's about time for us to be saying
good-night.'' For
once Babbitt did not break out in blustering efforts to keep
the party going. He had—there was something he wished to
think out— But the psychical research had started them off
again. ("Why didn't they go home! Why didn't they go
home!'') Though he was impressed by the profundity of the
statement, he was only half-enthusiastic when Howard Littlefield
lectured, "The United States is the only nation in which
the government is a Moral Ideal and not just a social arrangement.''
("True—true—weren't they ever going home?'')
He was usually delighted to have an "inside view'' of the momentous
world of motors but to-night he scarcely listened to
Eddie Swanson's revelation: "If you want to go above the
Javelin class, the Zeeco is a mighty good buy. Couple weeks
ago, and mind you, this was a fair, square test, they took a
Zeeco stock touring-car and they slid up the Tonawanda hill
on high, and fellow told me—'' ("Zeeco good boat but—
Were they planning to stay all night?'')
They really were going, with a flutter of "We did have the
best time!''
Most aggressively friendly of all was Babbitt, yet as he burbled
he was reflecting, "I got through it, but for a while there
I didn't hardly think I'd last out.'' He prepared to taste that
most delicate pleasure of the host: making fun of his guests
in the relaxation of midnight. As the door closed he yawned
voluptuously, chest out, shoulders wriggling, and turned cynically
to his wife.
She was beaming. "Oh, it was nice, wasn't it! I know they
enjoyed every minute of it. Don't you think so?''
He couldn't do it. He couldn't mock. It would have been
like sneering at a happy child. He lied ponderously: "You
bet! Best party this year, by a long shot.''
"Wasn't the dinner good! And honestly I thought the fried
chicken was delicious!''
"You bet! Fried to the Queen's taste. Best fried chicken
I've tasted for a coon's age.''
"Didn't Matilda fry it beautifully! And don't you think
the soup was simply delicious?''
"It certainly was! It was corking! Best soup I've tasted
since Heck was a pup!'' But his voice was seeping away.
They stood in the hall, under the electric light in its square
box-like shade of red glass bound with nickel. She stared at
him.
"Why, George, you don't sound—you sound as if you hadn't
really enjoyed it.''
"Sure I did! Course I did!''
"George! What is it?''
"Oh, I'm kind of tired, I guess. Been pounding pretty hard
at the office. Need to get away and rest up a little.''
"Well, we're going to Maine in just a few weeks now, dear.''
"Yuh—'' Then he was pouring it out nakedly, robbed of
reticence. "Myra: I think it'd be a good thing for me to
get up there early.''
"But you have this man you have to meet in New York
about business.''
"What man? Oh, sure. Him. Oh, that's all off. But I
want to hit Maine early—get in a little fishing, catch me a
big trout, by golly!'' A nervous, artificial laugh.
"Well, why don't we do it? Verona and Matilda can run
the house between them, and you and I can go any time, if
you think we can afford it.''
"But that's— I've been feeling so jumpy lately, I thought
maybe it might be a good thing if I kind of got off by myself
and sweat it out of me.''
"George! Don't you want me to go along?''
She was too
wretchedly in earnest to be tragic, or gloriously insulted, or
anything save dumpy and defenseless and flushed to the red
steaminess of a boiled beet.
"Of course I do! I just meant—'' Remembering that Paul
Riesling had predicted this, he was as desperate as she. "I
mean, sometimes it's a good thing for an old grouch like me
to go off and get it out of his system.'' He tried to sound
paternal. "Then when you and the kids arrive—I figured
maybe I might skip up to Maine just a few days ahead of you—
I'd be ready for a real bat, see how I mean?'' He coaxed her
with large booming sounds, with affable smiles, like a popular
preacher blessing an Easter congregation, like a humorous lecturer
completing his stint of eloquence, like all perpetrators
of masculine wiles.
She stared at him, the joy of festival drained from her face.
"Do I bother you when we go on vacations? Don't I add anything
to your fun?''
He broke. Suddenly, dreadfully, he was hysterical, he was
a yelping baby. "Yes, yes, yes! Hell, yes! But can't you
understand I'm shot to pieces? I'm all in! I got to take
care of myself! I tell you, I got to— I'm sick of everything
and everybody! I got to—''
It was she who was mature and protective now. "Why, of
course! You shall run off by yourself! Why don't you get
Paul to go along, and you boys just fish and have a good time?''
She patted his shoulder—reaching up to it—while he shook
with palsied helplessness, and in that moment was not merely
by habit fond of her but clung to her strength.
She cried cheerily, "Now up-stairs you go, and pop into
bed. We'll fix it all up. I'll see to the doors. Now skip!''
For many minutes, for many hours, for a bleak eternity, he
lay awake, shivering, reduced to primitive terror, comprehending
that he had won freedom, and wondering what he could
do with anything so unknown and so embarrassing as freedom.