II
However accustomed to the literary labors of advertisements
and correspondence, Babbitt was dismayed on the evening
when he sat down to prepare a paper which would take a
whole ten minutes to read.
He laid out a new fifteen-cent school exercise-book on his
wife's collapsible sewing-table, set up for the event in the
living-room. The household had been bullied into silence;
Verona and Ted requested to disappear, and Tinka threatened
with "If I hear one sound out of you—if you holler for a
glass of water one single solitary time— You better not, that's
all!'' Mrs. Babbitt sat over by the piano, making a nightgown
and gazing with respect while Babbitt wrote in the
exercise-book, to the rhythmical wiggling and squeaking of the
sewing-table.
When he rose, damp and jumpy, and his throat dusty from
cigarettes, she marveled, "I don't see how you can just sit
down and make up things right out of your own head!''
"Oh, it's the training in constructive imagination that a
fellow gets in modern business life.''
He had written seven pages, whereof the first page set forth:
The other six pages were rather like the first.
For a week he went about looking important. Every morning,
as he dressed, he thought aloud: "Jever stop to consider,
Myra, that before a town can have buildings or prosperity or
any of those things, some realtor has got to sell 'em the land?
All civilization starts with him. Jever realize that?'' At the
Athletic Club he led unwilling men aside to inquire, "Say, if
you had to read a paper before a big convention, would you
start in with the funny stories or just kind of scatter 'em all
through?'' He asked Howard Littlefield for a "set of statistics
about real-estate sales; something good and impressive,'' and
Littlefield provided something exceedingly good and impressive.
But it was to T. Cholmondeley Frink that Babbitt most
often turned. He caught Frink at the club every noon, and
demanded, while Frink looked hunted and evasive, "Say,
Chum—you're a shark on this writing stuff—how would you
put this sentence, see here in my manuscript—manuscript—
now where the deuce is that?—oh, yes, here. Would you say
`We ought not also to alone think?' or `We ought also not
to think alone?' or—''
One evening when his wife was away and he had no one
to impress, Babbitt forgot about Style, Order, and the other
mysteries, and scrawled off what he really thought about the
real-estate business and about himself, and he found the
paper written. When he read it to his wife she yearned,
"Why, dear, it's splendid; beautifully written, and so clear
and interesting, and such splendid ideas! Why, it's just—it's
just splendid!''
Next day he cornered Chum Frink and crowed, "Well, old
son, I finished it last evening! Just lammed it out! I used
to think you writing-guys must have a hard job making up
pieces, but Lord, it's a cinch. Pretty soft for you fellows;
you certainly earn your money easy! Some day when I get
ready to retire, guess I'll take to writing and show you boys
how to do it. I always used to think I could write better
stuff, and more punch and originality, than all this stuff you
see printed, and now I'm doggone sure of it!''
He had four copies of the paper typed in black with a
gorgeous red title, had them bound in pale blue manilla, and
affably presented one to old Ira Runyon, the managing editor
of the Advocate-Times, who said yes, indeed yes, he was very
glad to have it, and he certainly would read it all through—
as soon as he could find time.
Mrs. Babbitt could not go to Monarch. She had a women's-club
meeting. Babbitt said that he was very sorry.
[Description: Image of hand-written
memo from Sinclair Lewis' Babbitt, in which Babbitt writes:
"(1) a profession (2) not just a trade (3) skill & vision [crossed out]
(3) shd be called "realtor'' & not just real est man OOO G.E.B.
Realtor"
]