I
THE certainty that he was not going to be accepted by the
McKelveys made Babbitt feel guilty and a little absurd. But
he went more regularly to the Elks; at a Chamber of Commerce
luncheon he was oratorical regarding the wickedness
of strikes; and again he saw himself as a Prominent Citizen.
His clubs and associations were food comfortable to his
spirit.
Of a decent man in Zenith it was required that he should
belong to one, preferably two or three, of the innumerous
"lodges'' and prosperity-boosting lunch-clubs; to the Rotarians,
the Kiwanis, or the Boosters; to the Oddfellows, Moose, Masons,
Red Men, Woodmen, Owls, Eagles, Maccabees, Knights
of Pythias, Knights of Columbus, and other secret orders
characterized by a high degree of heartiness, sound morals, and
reverence for the Constitution. There were four reasons for
joining these orders: It was the thing to do. It was good
for business, since lodge-brothers frequently became customers.
It gave to Americans unable to become Geheimräte or
Commendatori such unctuous honorifics as High Worthy Recording
Scribe and Grand Hoogow to add to the commonplace distinctions
of Colonel, Judge, and Professor. And it permitted
the swaddled American husband to stay away from home for
one evening a week. The lodge was his piazza, his pavement
café. He could shoot pool and talk man-talk and be obscene
and valiant.
Babbitt was what he called a "joiner'' for all these reasons.
Behind the gold and scarlet banner of his public achievements
was the dun background of office-routine: leases, sales-contracts,
lists of properties to rent. The evenings of oratory
and committees and lodges stimulated him like brandy, but
every morning he was sandy-tongued. Week by week he accumulated
nervousness. He was in open disagreement with his
outside salesman, Stanley Graff; and once, though her charms
had always kept him nickeringly polite to her, he snarled at
Miss McGoun for changing his letters.
But in the presence of Paul Riesling he relaxed. At least
once a week they fled from maturity. On Saturday they played
golf, jeering, "As a golfer, you're a fine tennis-player,'' or they
motored all Sunday afternoon, stopping at village lunchrooms
to sit on high stools at a counter and drink coffee from thick
cups. Sometimes Paul came over in the evening with his
violin, and even Zilla was silent as the lonely man who had
lost his way and forever crept down unfamiliar roads spun
out his dark soul in music.
