IV
As all converts, whether to a religion, love, or gardening,
find as by magic that though hitherto these hobbies have not
seemed to exist, now the whole world is filled with their fury,
so, once he was converted to dissipation, Babbitt discovered
agreeable opportunities for it everywhere.
He had a new view of his sporting neighbor, Sam Doppelbrau.
The Doppelbraus were respectable people, industrious
people, prosperous people, whose ideal of happiness was an
eternal cabaret. Their life was dominated by suburban
bacchanalia of alcohol, nicotine, gasoline, and kisses. They
and their set worked capably all the week, and all week looked
forward to Saturday night, when they would, as they expressed
it, "throw a party;'' and the thrown party grew noisier and
noisier up to Sunday dawn, and usually included an extremely
rapid motor expedition to nowhere in particular.
One evening when Tanis was at the theater, Babbitt found
himself being lively with the Doppelbraus, pledging friendship
with men whom he had for years privily denounced to Mrs.
Babbitt as a "rotten bunch of tin-horns that I wouldn't go
out with, rot if they were the last people on earth.'' That
evening he had sulkily come home and poked about in front
of the house, chipping off the walk the ice-clots, like fossil
footprints, made by the steps of passers-by during the recent
snow. Howard Littlefield came up snuffling.
"Still a widower, George?''
"Yump. Cold again to-night.''
"What do you hear from the wife?''
"She's feeling fine, but her sister is still pretty sick.''
"Say, better come in and have dinner with us to-night,
George.''
"Oh—oh, thanks. Have to go out.''
Suddenly he could not endure Littlefield's recitals of the
more interesting statistics about totally uninteresting problems.
He scraped at the walk and grunted.
Sam Doppelbrau appeared.
"Evenin', Babbitt. Working hard?''
"Yuh, lil exercise.''
"Cold enough for you to-night?''
"Well, just about.''
"Still a widower?''
"Uh-huh.''
"Say, Babbitt, while she's away— I know you don't care
much for booze-fights, but the Missus and I'd be awfully glad
if you could come in some night. Think you could stand a
good cocktail for once?''
"Stand it? Young fella, I bet old Uncle George can mix
the best cocktail in these United States!''
"Hurray! That's the way to talk! Look here: There's
some folks coming to the house to-night, Louetta Swanson and
some other live ones, and I'm going to open up a bottle of
pre-war gin, and maybe we'll dance a while. Why don't you
drop in and jazz it up a little, just for a change?''
"Well— What time they coming?''
He was at Sam Doppelbrau's at nine. It was the third
time he had entered the house. By ten he was calling Mr.
Doppelbrau "Sam, old hoss.''
At eleven they all drove out to the Old Farm Inn. Babbitt
sat in the back of Doppelbrau's car with Louetta Swanson.
Once he had timorously tried to make love to her. Now he
did not try; he merely made love; and Louetta dropped her
head on his shoulder, told him what a nagger Eddie was, and
accepted Babbitt as a decent and well-trained libertine.
With the assistance of Tanis's Bunch, the Doppelbraus, and
other companions in forgetfulness, there was not an evening
for two weeks when he did not return home late and shaky.
With his other faculties blurred he yet had the motorist's gift
of being able to drive when he could scarce walk; of slowing
down at corners and allowing for approaching cars. He came
wambling into the house. If Verona and Kenneth Escott were
about, he got past them with a hasty greeting, horribly aware
of their level young glances, and hid himself up-stairs. He
found when he came into the warm house that he was hazier
than he had believed. His head whirled. He dared not lie
down. He tried to soak out the alcohol in a hot bath. For
the moment his head was clearer but when he moved about
the bathroom his calculations of distance were wrong, so that
he dragged down the towels, and knocked over the soap-dish
with a clatter which, he feared, would betray him to the children.
Chilly in his dressing-gown he tried to read the evening
paper. He could follow every word; he seemed to take in the
sense of things; but a minute afterward he could not have told
what he had been reading. When he went to bed his brain
flew in circles, and he hastily sat up, struggling for self-control.
At last he was able to lie still, feeling only a little sick and
dizzy—and enormously ashamed. To hide his "condition''
from his own children! To have danced and shouted with
people whom he despised! To have said foolish things, sung
idiotic songs, tried to kiss silly girls! Incredulously he remembered
that he had by his roaring familiarity with them laid
himself open to the patronizing of youths whom he would have
kicked out of his office; that by dancing too ardently he had
exposed himself to rebukes from the rattiest of withering
women. As it came relentlessly back to him he snarled, "I
hate myself! God how I hate myself!'' But, he raged, "I'm
through! No more! Had enough, plenty!''
He was even surer about it the morning after, when he was
trying to be grave and paternal with his daughters at breakfast.
At noontime he was less sure. He did not deny that
he had been a fool; he saw it almost as clearly as at midnight;
but anything, he struggled, was better than going back
to a life of barren heartiness. At four he wanted a drink.
He kept a whisky flask in his desk now, and after two minutes
of battle he had his drink. Three drinks later he began to
see the Bunch as tender and amusing friends, and by six he
was with them . . . and the tale was to be told all over.
Each morning his head ached a little less. A bad head for
drinks had been his safeguard, but the safeguard was crumbling.
Presently he could be drunk at dawn, yet not feel particularly
wretched in his conscience—or in his stomach—when
he awoke at eight. No regret, no desire to escape the toil of
keeping up with the arduous merriment of the Bunch, was so
great as his feeling of social inferiority when he failed to keep
up. To be the "livest'' of them was as much his ambition
now as it had been to excel at making money, at playing
golf, at motor-driving, at oratory, at climbing to the McKelvey
set. But occasionally he failed.
He found that Pete and the other young men considered
the Bunch too austerely polite and the Carrie who merely
kissed behind doors too embarrassingly monogamic. As Babbitt
sneaked from Floral Heights down to the Bunch, so the
young gallants sneaked from the proprieties of the Bunch off
to "times'' with bouncing young women whom they picked up
in department stores and at hotel coatrooms. Once Babbitt
tried to accompany them. There was a motor car, a bottle
of whisky, and for him a grubby shrieking cash-girl from
Parcher and Stein's. He sat beside her and worried. He was
apparently expected to "jolly her along,'' but when she sang
out, "Hey, leggo, quit crushing me cootie-garage,'' he did not
quite know how to go on. They sat in the back room of a
saloon, and Babbitt had a headache, was confused by their
new slang looked at them benevolently, wanted to go home,
and had a drink—a good many drinks.
Two evenings after, Fulton Bemis, the surly older man of the
Bunch, took Babbitt aside and grunted, "Look here, it's none
of my business, and God knows I always lap up my share
of the hootch, but don't you think you better watch yourself?
You're one of these enthusiastic chumps that always
overdo things. D' you realize you're throwing in the booze
as fast as you can, and you eat one cigarette right after
another? Better cut it out for a while.''
Babbitt tearfully said that good old Fult was a prince, and
yes, he certainly would cut it out, and thereafter he lighted
a cigarette and took a drink and had a terrific quarrel with
Tanis when she caught him being affectionate with Carrie
Nork.
Next morning he hated himself that he should have sunk
into a position where a fifteenth-rater like Fulton Bemis could
rebuke him. He perceived that, since he was making love to
every woman possible, Tanis was no longer his one pure star,
and he wondered whether she had ever been anything more
to him than A Woman. And if Bemis had spoken to him,
were other people talking about him? He suspiciously watched
the men at the Athletic Club that noon. It seemed to him
that they were uneasy. They had been talking about him
then? He was angry. He became belligerent. He not only
defended Seneca Doane but even made fun of the Y. M. C. A,
Vergil Gunch was rather brief in his answers.
Afterward Babbitt was not angry. He was afraid. He did
not go to the next lunch of the Boosters' Club but hid in a
cheap restaurant, and, while he munched a ham-and-egg sandwich
and sipped coffee from a cup on the arm of his chair, he
worried.
Four days later, when the Bunch were having one of their
best parties, Babbitt drove them to the skating-rink which
had been laid out on the Chaloosa River. After a thaw the
streets had frozen in smooth ice. Down those wide endless
streets the wind rattled between the rows of wooden houses,
and the whole Bellevue district seemed a frontier town. Even
with skid chains on all four wheels, Babbitt was afraid of sliding,
and when he came to the long slide of a hill he crawled
down, both brakes on. Slewing round a corner came a less
cautious car. It skidded, it almost raked them with its rear
fenders. In relief at their escape the Bunch—Tanis, Minnie
Sonntag, Pete, Fulton Bemis—shouted "Oh, baby,'' and waved
their hands to the agitated other driver. Then Babbitt saw
Professor Pumphrey laboriously crawling up hill, afoot, Staring
owlishly at the revelers. He was sure that Pumphrey recognized
him and saw Tanis kiss him as she crowed, "You're such
a good driver!''
At lunch next day he probed Pumphrey with "Out last night
with my brother and some friends of his. Gosh, what driving!
Slippery 's glass. Thought I saw you hiking up the Bellevue
Avenue Hill.''
"No, I wasn't—I didn't see you,'' said Pumphrey, hastily,
rather guiltily.
Perhaps two days afterward Babbitt took Tanis to lunch
at the Hotel Thornleigh. She who had seemed well content
to wait for him at her flat had begun to hint with melancholy
smiles that he must think but little of her if he never introduced
her to his friends, if he was unwilling to be seen with
her except at the movies. He thought of taking her to the
"ladies' annex'' of the Athletic Club, but that was too dangerous.
He would have to introduce her and, oh, people might
misunderstand and— He compromised on the Thornleigh.
She was unusually smart, all in black: small black tricorne
hat, short black caracul coat, loose and swinging, and austere
high-necked black velvet frock at a time when most street
costumes were like evening gowns. Perhaps she was too smart.
Every one in the gold and oak restaurant of the Thornleigh
was staring at her as Babbitt followed her to a table. He
uneasily hoped that the head-waiter would give them a discreet
place behind a pillar, but they were stationed on the
center aisle. Tanis seemed not to notice her admirers; she
smiled at Babbitt with a lavish "Oh, isn't this nice! What
a peppy-looking orchestra!'' Babbitt had difficulty in being
lavish in return, for two tables away he saw Vergil Gunch.
All through the meal Gunch watched them, while Babbitt
watched himself being watched and lugubriously tried to keep
from spoiling Tanis's gaiety. "I felt like a spree to-day,'' she
rippled. "I love the Thornleigh, don't you? It's so live and
yet so—so refined.''
He made talk about the Thornleigh, the service, the food,
the people he recognized in the restaurant, all but Vergil
Gunch. There did not seem to be anything else to talk of.
He smiled conscientiously at her fluttering jests; he agreed
with her that Minnie Sonntag was "so hard to get along with,''
and young Pete "such a silly lazy kid, really just no good at
all.'' But he himself had nothing to say. He considered telling
her his worries about Gunch, but—"oh, gosh, it was too
much work to go into the whole thing and explain about
Verg and everything.''
He was relieved when he put Tanis on a trolley; he was
cheerful in the familiar simplicities of his office.
At four o'clock Vergil Gunch called on him.
Babbitt was agitated, but Gunch began in a friendly way:
"How's the boy? Say, some of us are getting up a scheme
we'd kind of like to have you come in on.''
"Fine, Verg. Shoot.''
"You know during the war we had the Undesirable Element,
the Reds and walking delegates and just the plain common
grouches, dead to rights, and so did we for quite a while after
the war, but folks forget about the danger and that gives these
cranks a chance to begin working underground again, especially
a lot of these parlor socialists. Well, it's up to the folks
that do a little sound thinking to make a conscious effort to
keep bucking these fellows. Some guy back East has organized
a society called the Good Citizens' League for just that purpose.
Of course the Chamber of Commerce and the American
Legion and so on do a fine work in keeping the decent people
in the saddle, but they're devoted to so many other causes that
they can't attend to this one problem properly. But the Good
Citizens' League, the G. C. L., they stick right to it. Oh, the
G. C. L. has to have some other ostensible purposes—frinstance
here in Zenith I think it ought to support the park-extension
project and the City Planning Committee—and then, too, it
should have a social aspect, being made up of the best people—
have dances and so on, especially as one of the best ways it
can put the kibosh on cranks is to apply this social boycott
business to folks big enough so you can't reach 'em otherwise.
Then if that don't work, the G. C. L. can finally send a little
delegation around to inform folks that get too flip that they
got to conform to decent standards and quit shooting off their
mouths so free. Don't it sound like the organization could
do a great work? We've already got some of the strongest
men in town, and of course we want you in. How about it?''
Babbitt was uncomfortable. He felt a compulsion back to
all the standards he had so vaguely yet so desperately been
fleeing. He fumbled:
"I suppose you'd especially light on fellows like Seneca
Doane and try to make 'em—''
"You bet your sweet life we would! Look here, old Georgie:
I've never for one moment believed you meant it when you've
defended Doane, and the strikers and so on, at the Club. I
knew you were simply kidding those poor galoots like Sid
Finkelstein.... At least I certainly hope you were kidding!''
"Oh, well—sure— Course you might say—'' Babbitt was
conscious of how feeble he sounded, conscious of Gunch's
mature and relentless eye. "Gosh, you know where I stand!
I'm no labor agitator! I'm a business man, first, last, and all
the time! But—but honestly, I don't think Doane means so
badly, and you got to remember he's an old friend of mine.''
"George, when it comes right down to a struggle between
decency and the security of our homes on the one hand, and
red ruin and those lazy dogs plotting for free beer on the
other, you got to give up even old friendships. `He that is
not with me is against me.' ''
"Ye-es, I suppose—''
"How about it? Going to join us in the Good Citizens'
League?''
"I'll have to think it over, Verg.''
"All right, just as you say.'' Babbitt was relieved to be let
off so easily, but Gunch went on: "George, I don't know what's
come over you; none of us do; and we've talked a lot about
you. For a while we figured out you'd been upset by what
happened to poor Riesling, and we forgave you for any fool
thing you said, but that's old stuff now, George, and we can't
make out what's got into you. Personally, I've always defended
you, but I must say it's getting too much for me. All
the boys at the Athletic Club and the Boosters' are sore, the
way you go on deliberately touting Doane and his bunch of
hell-hounds, and talking about being liberal—which means
being wishy-washy—and even saying this preacher guy Ingram
isn't a professional free-love artist. And then the way you
been carrying on personally! Joe Pumphrey says he saw you
out the other night with a gang of totties, all stewed to the
gills, and here to-day coming right into the Thornleigh with
a—well, she may be all right and a perfect lady, but she certainly
did look like a pretty gay skirt for a fellow with his
wife out of town to be taking to lunch. Didn't look well.
What the devil has come over you, George?''
"Strikes me there's a lot of fellows that know more about
my personal business than I do myself!''
"Now don't go getting sore at me because I come out flat-footed
like a friend and say what I think instead of tattling
behind your back, the way a whole lot of 'em do. I tell you
George, you got a position in the community, and the community
expects you to live up to it. And— Better think over
joining the Good Citizens' League. See you about it later.''
He was gone.
That evening Babbitt dined alone. He saw all the Clan of
Good Fellows peering through the restaurant window, spying
on him. Fear sat beside him, and he told himself that to-night
he would not go to Tanis's flat; and he did not go . . . till
late.
