chapter iii to george f. babbitt, as to most prosperouscitizens of zenith, his motor car was poetry and tragedy, love and heroism.the office was his pirate ship but the car his perilous excursion ashore. among the tremendous crises of each daynone was more dramatic than starting the engine. it was slow on cold mornings; there was thelong, anxious whirr of the starter; and sometimes he had to drip ether into thecocks of the cylinders, which was so very interesting that at lunch he would
chronicle it drop by drop, and orallycalculate how much each drop had cost him. this morning he was darkly prepared to findsomething wrong, and he felt belittled when the mixture exploded sweet and strong, andthe car didn't even brush the door-jamb, gouged and splintery with many bruisings byfenders, as he backed out of the garage. he was confused.he shouted "morning!" to sam doppelbrau with more cordiality than he had intended. babbitt's green and white dutch colonialhouse was one of three in that block on chatham road. to the left of it was the residence of mr.samuel doppelbrau, secretary of an
excellent firm of bathroom-fixture jobbers. his was a comfortable house with noarchitectural manners whatever; a large wooden box with a squat tower, a broadporch, and glossy paint yellow as a yolk. babbitt disapproved of mr. and mrs.doppelbrau as "bohemian." from their house came midnight music andobscene laughter; there were neighborhood rumors of bootlegged whisky and fast motorrides. they furnished babbitt with many happyevenings of discussion, during which he announced firmly, "i'm not strait-laced,and i don't mind seeing a fellow throw in a drink once in a while, but when it comes to
deliberately trying to get away with a lotof hell-raising all the while like the doppelbraus do, it's too rich for myblood!" on the other side of babbitt lived howardlittlefield, ph.d., in a strictly modern house whereof the lower part was dark redtapestry brick, with a leaded oriel, the upper part of pale stucco like spatteredclay, and the roof red-tiled. littlefield was the great scholar of theneighborhood; the authority on everything in the world except babies, cooking, andmotors. he was a bachelor of arts of blodgettcollege, and a doctor of philosophy in economics of yale.
he was the employment-manager andpublicity-counsel of the zenith street traction company. he could, on ten hours' notice, appearbefore the board of aldermen or the state legislature and prove, absolutely, withfigures all in rows and with precedents from poland and new zealand, that the street-car company loved the public andyearned over its employees; that all its stock was owned by widows and orphans; andthat whatever it desired to do would benefit property-owners by increasing rental values, and help the poor bylowering rents.
all his acquaintances turned to littlefieldwhen they desired to know the date of the battle of saragossa, the definition of theword "sabotage," the future of the german mark, the translation of "hinc illae lachrimae," or the number of products ofcoal tar. he awed babbitt by confessing that he oftensat up till midnight reading the figures and footnotes in government reports, orskimming (with amusement at the author's mistakes) the latest volumes of chemistry,archeology, and ichthyology. but littlefield's great value was as aspiritual example. despite his strange learnings he was asstrict a presbyterian and as firm a
republican as george f. babbitt.he confirmed the business men in the faith. where they knew only by passionate instinctthat their system of industry and manners was perfect, dr. howard littlefield provedit to them, out of history, economics, and the confessions of reformed radicals. babbitt had a good deal of honest pride inbeing the neighbor of such a savant, and in ted's intimacy with eunice littlefield. at sixteen eunice was interested in nostatistics save those regarding the ages and salaries of motion-picture stars, but--as babbitt definitively put it--"she was her father's daughter."
the difference between a light man like samdoppelbrau and a really fine character like littlefield was revealed in theirappearances. doppelbrau was disturbingly young for a manof forty-eight. he wore his derby on the back of his head,and his red face was wrinkled with meaningless laughter. but littlefield was old for a man of forty-two. he was tall, broad, thick; his gold-rimmedspectacles were engulfed in the folds of his long face; his hair was a tossed massof greasy blackness; he puffed and rumbled as he talked; his phi beta kappa key shone
against a spotty black vest; he smelled ofold pipes; he was altogether funereal and archidiaconal; and to real-estate brokerageand the jobbing of bathroom-fixtures he added an aroma of sanctity. this morning he was in front of his house,inspecting the grass parking between the curb and the broad cement sidewalk.babbitt stopped his car and leaned out to shout "mornin'!" littlefield lumbered over and stood withone foot up on the running-board. "fine morning," said babbitt, lighting--illegally early--his second cigar of the day.
"yes, it's a mighty fine morning," saidlittlefield. "spring coming along fast now.""yes, it's real spring now, all right," said littlefield. "still cold nights, though.had to have a couple blankets, on the sleeping-porch last night.""yes, it wasn't any too warm last night," "but i don't anticipate we'll have any morereal cold weather now." "no, but still, there was snow at tiflis,montana, yesterday," said the scholar, "and you remember the blizzard they had out westthree days ago--thirty inches of snow at greeley, colorado--and two years ago we had
a snow-squall right here in zenith on thetwenty-fifth of april." "is that a fact!say, old man, what do you think about the republican candidate? who'll they nominate for president?don't you think it's about time we had a real business administration?" "in my opinion, what the country needs,first and foremost, is a good, sound, business-like conduct of its affairs.what we need is--a business administration!" said littlefield. "i'm glad to hear you say that!i certainly am glad to hear you say that!
i didn't know how you'd feel about it, withall your associations with colleges and so on, and i'm glad you feel that way. what the country needs--just at thispresent juncture--is neither a college president nor a lot of monkeying withforeign affairs, but a good--sound economical--business--administration, that will give us a chance to have somethinglike a decent turnover." "yes. it isn't generally realized that even inchina the schoolmen are giving way to more practical men, and of course you can seewhat that implies."
"is that a fact! well, well!" breathed babbitt, feeling muchcalmer, and much happier about the way things were going in the world."well, it's been nice to stop and parleyvoo a second. guess i'll have to get down to the officenow and sting a few clients. well, so long, old man.see you tonight. so long." iithey had labored, these solid citizens. twenty years before, the hill on whichfloral heights was spread, with its bright
roofs and immaculate turf and amazingcomfort, had been a wilderness of rank second-growth elms and oaks and maples. along the precise streets were still a fewwooded vacant lots, and the fragment of an old orchard. it was brilliant to-day; the apple boughswere lit with fresh leaves like torches of green fire. the first white of cherry blossomsflickered down a gully, and robins clamored. babbitt sniffed the earth, chuckled at thehysteric robins as he would have chuckled
at kittens or at a comic movie. he was, to the eye, the perfect office-going executive--a well-fed man in a correct brown soft hat and framelessspectacles, smoking a large cigar, driving a good motor along a semi-suburban parkway. but in him was some genius of authenticlove for his neighborhood, his city, his clan. the winter was over; the time was come forthe building, the visible growth, which to him was glory. he lost his dawn depression; he was ruddilycheerful when he stopped on smith street to
leave the brown trousers, and to have thegasoline-tank filled. the familiarity of the rite fortified him:the sight of the tall red iron gasoline- pump, the hollow-tile and terra-cottagarage, the window full of the most agreeable accessories--shiny casings, spark-plugs with immaculate porcelainjackets tire-chains of gold and silver. he was flattered by the friendliness withwhich sylvester moon, dirtiest and most skilled of motor mechanics, came out toserve him. "mornin', mr. babbitt!" said moon, andbabbitt felt himself a person of importance, one whose name even busygaragemen remembered--not one of these
cheap-sports flying around in flivvers. he admired the ingenuity of the automaticdial, clicking off gallon by gallon; admired the smartness of the sign: "a fillin time saves getting stuck--gas to-day 31 cents"; admired the rhythmic gurgle of the gasoline as it flowed into the tank, andthe mechanical regularity with which moon turned the handle. "how much we takin' to-day?" asked moon, ina manner which combined the independence of the great specialist, the friendliness of afamiliar gossip, and respect for a man of weight in the community, like george f.babbitt.
"fill 'er up.""who you rootin' for for republican candidate, mr. babbitt?" "it's too early to make any predictionsyet. after all, there's still a good month andtwo weeks--no, three weeks--must be almost three weeks--well, there's more than sixweeks in all before the republican convention, and i feel a fellow ought to keep an open mind and give all thecandidates a show--look 'em all over and size 'em up, and then decide carefully.""that's a fact, mr. babbitt." "but i'll tell you--and my stand on this isjust the same as it was four years ago, and
eight years ago, and it'll be my stand fouryears from now--yes, and eight years from now! what i tell everybody, and it can't be toogenerally understood, is that what we need first, last, and all the time is a good,sound business administration!" "by golly, that's right!" "how do those front tires look to you?""fine! fine! wouldn't be much work for garages ifeverybody looked after their car the way you do.""well, i do try and have some sense about
it." babbitt paid his bill, said adequately,"oh, keep the change," and drove off in an ecstasy of honest self-appreciation. it was with the manner of a good samaritanthat he shouted at a respectable-looking man who was waiting for a trolley car,"have a lift?" as the man climbed in babbitt condescended,"going clear down-town? whenever i see a fellow waiting for atrolley, i always make it a practice to give him a lift--unless, of course, helooks like a bum." "wish there were more folks that were sogenerous with their machines," dutifully
said the victim of benevolence."oh, no, 'tain't a question of generosity, hardly. fact, i always feel--i was saying to my sonjust the other night--it's a fellow's duty to share the good things of this world withhis neighbors, and it gets my goat when a fellow gets stuck on himself and goes around tooting his horn merely because he'scharitable." the victim seemed unable to find the rightanswer. babbitt boomed on: "pretty punk service the company giving uson these car-lines.
nonsense to only run the portland road carsonce every seven minutes. fellow gets mighty cold on a wintermorning, waiting on a street corner with the wind nipping at his ankles.""that's right. the street car company don't care a damnwhat kind of a deal they give us. something ought to happen to 'em."babbitt was alarmed. "but still, of course it won't do to justkeep knocking the traction company and not realize the difficulties they're operatingunder, like these cranks that want municipal ownership. the way these workmen hold up the companyfor high wages is simply a crime, and of
course the burden falls on you and me thathave to pay a seven-cent fare! fact, there's remarkable service on alltheir lines--considering." "well--" uneasily."darn fine morning," babbitt explained. "spring coming along fast." "yes, it's real spring now." the victim had no originality, no wit, andbabbitt fell into a great silence and devoted himself to the game of beatingtrolley cars to the corner: a spurt, a tail-chase, nervous speeding between the huge yellow side of the trolley and thejagged row of parked motors, shooting past
just as the trolley stopped--a rare gameand valiant. and all the while he was conscious of theloveliness of zenith. for weeks together he noticed nothing butclients and the vexing to rent signs of rival brokers. to-day, in mysterious malaise, he raged orrejoiced with equal nervous swiftness, and to-day the light of spring was so winsomethat he lifted his head and saw. he admired each district along his familiarroute to the office: the bungalows and shrubs and winding irregular drive ways offloral heights. the one-story shops on smith street, aglare of plate-glass and new yellow brick;
groceries and laundries and drug-stores tosupply the more immediate needs of east side housewives. the market gardens in dutch hollow, theirshanties patched with corrugated iron and stolen doors. billboards with crimson goddesses nine feettall advertising cinema films, pipe tobacco, and talcum powder. the old "mansions" along ninth street, s.e., like aged dandies in filthy linen; wooden castles turned into boarding-houses,with muddy walks and rusty hedges, jostled by fast-intruding garages, cheap apartment-
houses, and fruit-stands conducted bybland, sleek athenians. across the belt of railroad-tracks,factories with high-perched water-tanks and tall stacks-factories producing condensedmilk, paper boxes, lighting-fixtures, motor cars. then the business center, the thickeningdarting traffic, the crammed trolleys unloading, and high doorways of marble andpolished granite. it was big--and babbitt respected bignessin anything; in mountains, jewels, muscles, wealth, or words.he was, for a spring-enchanted moment, the lyric and almost unselfish lover of zenith.
he thought of the outlying factory suburbs;of the chaloosa river with its strangely eroded banks; of the orchard-dappledtonawanda hills to the north, and all the fat dairy land and big barns andcomfortable herds. as he dropped his passenger he cried,"gosh, i feel pretty good this morning!" iiiepochal as starting the car was the drama of parking it before he entered his office. as he turned from oberlin avenue round thecorner into third street, n.e., he peered ahead for a space in the line of parkedcars. he angrily just missed a space as a rivaldriver slid into it.
ahead, another car was leaving the curb,and babbitt slowed up, holding out his hand to the cars pressing on him from behind,agitatedly motioning an old woman to go ahead, avoiding a truck which bore down onhim from one side. with front wheels nicking the wrought-steelbumper of the car in front, he stopped, feverishly cramped his steering-wheel, slidback into the vacant space and, with eighteen inches of room, manoeuvered tobring the car level with the curb. it was a virile adventure masterfullyexecuted. with satisfaction he locked a thief-proofsteel wedge on the front wheel, and crossed the street to his real-estate office on theground floor of the reeves building.
the reeves building was as fireproof as arock and as efficient as a typewriter; fourteen stories of yellow pressed brick,with clean, upright, unornamented lines. it was filled with the offices of lawyers,doctors, agents for machinery, for emery wheels, for wire fencing, for mining-stock.their gold signs shone on the windows. the entrance was too modern to beflamboyant with pillars; it was quiet, shrewd, neat. along the third street side were a westernunion telegraph office, the blue delft candy shop, shotwell's stationery shop, andthe babbitt-thompson realty company. babbitt could have entered his office fromthe street, as customers did, but it made
him feel an insider to go through thecorridor of the building and enter by the back door. thus he was greeted by the villagers. the little unknown people who inhabited thereeves building corridors--elevator- runners, starter, engineers,superintendent, and the doubtful-looking lame man who conducted the news and cigarstand--were in no way city-dwellers. they were rustics, living in a constrictedvalley, interested only in one another and in the building. their main street was the entrance hall,with its stone floor, severe marble
ceiling, and the inner windows of theshops. the liveliest place on the street was thereeves building barber shop, but this was also babbitt's one embarrassment. himself, he patronized the glitteringpompeian barber shop in the hotel thornleigh, and every time he passed thereeves shop--ten times a day, a hundred times--he felt untrue to his own village. now, as one of the squirearchy, greetedwith honorable salutations by the villagers, he marched into his office, andpeace and dignity were upon him, and the morning's dissonances all unheard.
they were heard again, immediately. stanley graff, the outside salesman, wastalking on the telephone with tragic lack of that firm manner which disciplinesclients: "say, uh, i think i got just the house that would suit you--the percivalhouse, in linton.... oh, you've seen it.well, how'd it strike you?... huh? ...oh," irresolutely, "oh, i see." as babbitt marched into his private room,a coop with semi-partition of oak and frosted glass, at the back of the office, hereflected how hard it was to find employees
who had his own faith that he was going tomake sales. there were nine members of the staff,besides babbitt and his partner and father- in-law, henry thompson, who rarely came tothe office. the nine were stanley graff, the outsidesalesman--a youngish man given to cigarettes and the playing of pool; old matpenniman, general utility man, collector of rents and salesman of insurance--broken, silent, gray; a mystery, reputed to havebeen a "crack" real-estate man with a firm of his own in haughty brooklyn; chesterkirby laylock, resident salesman out at the glen oriole acreage development--an
enthusiastic person with a silky mustacheand much family; miss theresa mcgoun, the swift and rather pretty stenographer; misswilberta bannigan, the thick, slow, laborious accountant and file-clerk; and four freelance part-time commissionsalesmen. as he looked from his own cage into themain room babbitt mourned, "mcgoun's a good stenog., smart's a whip, but stan graff andall those bums--" the zest of the spring morning was smothered in the stale officeair. normally he admired the office, with apleased surprise that he should have created this sure lovely thing; normally hewas stimulated by the clean newness of it
and the air of bustle; but to-day it seemed flat--the tiled floor, like a bathroom, theocher-colored metal ceiling, the faded maps on the hard plaster walls, the chairs ofvarnished pale oak, the desks and filing- cabinets of steel painted in olive drab. it was a vault, a steel chapel whereloafing and laughter were raw sin. he hadn't even any satisfaction in the newwater-cooler! and it was the very best of water-coolers,up-to-date, scientific, and right-thinking. it had cost a great deal of money (initself a virtue). it possessed a non-conducting fiber ice-container, a porcelain water-jar
(guaranteed hygienic), a drip-less non-clogging sanitary faucet, and machine- painted decorations in two tones of gold. he looked down the relentless stretch oftiled floor at the water-cooler, and assured himself that no tenant of thereeves building had a more expensive one, but he could not recapture the feeling ofsocial superiority it had given him. he astoundingly grunted, "i'd like to beatit off to the woods right now. and loaf all day. and go to gunch's again to-night, and playpoker, and cuss as much as i feel like, and drink a hundred and nine-thousand bottlesof beer."
he sighed; he read through his mail; heshouted "msgoun," which meant "miss mcgoun"; and began to dictate.this was his own version of his first letter: "omar gribble, send it to his office, missmcgoun, yours of twentieth to hand and in reply would say look here, gribble, i'mawfully afraid if we go on shilly-shallying like this we'll just naturally lose the allen sale, i had allen up on carpet daybefore yesterday and got right down to cases and think i can assure you--uh, uh,no, change that: all my experience indicates he is all right, means to do
business, looked into his financial recordwhich is fine--that sentence seems to be a little balled up, miss mcgoun; make acouple sentences out of it if you have to, period, new paragraph. "he is perfectly willing to pro rate thespecial assessment and strikes me, am dead sure there will be no difficulty in gettinghim to pay for title insurance, so now for heaven's sake let's get busy--no, make that: so now let's go to it and get down--no, that's enough--you can tie those sentences up a little better when you type'em, miss mcgoun--your sincerely, etcetera."
this is the version of his letter which hereceived, typed, from miss mcgoun that afternoon: babbitt-thompson realty co.homes for folks reeves bldg., oberlin avenue & 3d st., n.e zenith omar gribble, esq., 376 north americanbuilding, zenith. dear mr. gribble:your letter of the twentieth to hand. i must say i'm awfully afraid that if we goon shilly-shallying like this we'll just naturally lose the allen sale.i had allen up on the carpet day before yesterday, and got right down to cases.
all my experience indicates that he meansto do business. i have also looked into his financialrecord, which is fine. he is perfectly willing to pro rate thespecial assessment and there will be no difficulty in getting him to pay for titleinsurance. so let's go! yours sincerely,as he read and signed it, in his correct flowing business-college hand, babbittreflected, "now that's a good, strong letter, and clear's a bell. now what the--i never told mcgoun to make athird paragraph there!
wish she'd quit trying to improve on mydictation! but what i can't understand is: why can'tstan graff or chet laylock write a letter like that?with punch! with a kick!" the most important thing he dictated thatmorning was the fortnightly form-letter, to be mimeographed and sent out to a thousand"prospects." it was diligently imitative of the bestliterary models of the day; of heart-to- heart-talk advertisements, "sales-pulling"letters, discourses on the "development of will-power," and hand-shaking house-organs,
as richly poured forth by the new school ofpoets of business. he had painfully written out a first draft,and he intoned it now like a poet delicate and distrait: say, old man!i just want to know can i do you a whaleuva favor?honest! no kidding! i know you're interested in getting ahouse, not merely a place where you hang up the old bonnet but a love-nest for the wifeand kiddies--and maybe for the flivver out beyant (be sure and spell that b-e-y-a-n-t,miss mcgoun) the spud garden.
say, did you ever stop to think that we'rehere to save you trouble? that's how we make a living--folks don'tpay us for our lovely beauty! now take a look: sit right down at the handsome carvedmahogany escritoire and shoot us in a line telling us just what you want, and if wecan find it we'll come hopping down your lane with the good tidings, and if wecan't, we won't bother you. to save your time, just fill out the blankenclosed. on request will also send blank regardingstore properties in floral heights, silver grove, linton, bellevue, and all east sideresidential districts.
yours for service, p.s.--just a hint of some plums we can pickfor you--some genuine bargains that came in to-day: silver grove.--cute four-room californiabungalow, a.m.i., garage, dandy shade tree, swell neighborhood, handy car line.$3700, $780 down and balance liberal, babbitt-thompson terms, cheaper than rent. dorchester.--a corker!artistic two-family house, all oak trim, parquet floors, lovely gas log, bigporches, colonial, heated all-weather garage, a bargain at $11,250.
dictation over, with its need of sittingand thinking instead of bustling around and making a noise and really doing something,babbitt sat creakily back in his revolving desk-chair and beamed on miss mcgoun. he was conscious of her as a girl, of blackbobbed hair against demure cheeks. a longing which was indistinguishable fromloneliness enfeebled him. while she waited, tapping a long, precisepencil-point on the desk-tablet, he half identified her with the fairy girl of hisdreams. he imagined their eyes meeting withterrifying recognition; imagined touching her lips with frightened reverence and--shewas chirping, "any more, mist' babbitt?"
he grunted, "that winds it up, i guess,"and turned heavily away. for all his wandering thoughts, they hadnever been more intimate than this. he often reflected, "nev' forget how oldjake offutt said a wise bird never goes love-making in his own office or his ownhome. start trouble. sure.but--" in twenty-three years of married life hehad peered uneasily at every graceful ankle, every soft shoulder; in thought hehad treasured them; but not once had he hazarded respectability by adventuring.
now, as he calculated the cost ofrepapering the styles house, he was restless again, discontented about nothingand everything, ashamed of his discontentment, and lonely for the fairygirl.
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chronicle it drop by drop, and orallycalculate how much each drop had cost him. this morning he was darkly prepared to findsomething wrong, and he felt belittled when the mixture exploded sweet and strong, andthe car didn't even brush the door-jamb, gouged and splintery with many bruisings byfenders, as he backed out of the garage. he was confused.he shouted "morning!" to sam doppelbrau with more cordiality than he had intended. babbitt's green and white dutch colonialhouse was one of three in that block on chatham road. to the left of it was the residence of mr.samuel doppelbrau, secretary of an
excellent firm of bathroom-fixture jobbers. his was a comfortable house with noarchitectural manners whatever; a large wooden box with a squat tower, a broadporch, and glossy paint yellow as a yolk. babbitt disapproved of mr. and mrs.doppelbrau as "bohemian." from their house came midnight music andobscene laughter; there were neighborhood rumors of bootlegged whisky and fast motorrides. they furnished babbitt with many happyevenings of discussion, during which he announced firmly, "i'm not strait-laced,and i don't mind seeing a fellow throw in a drink once in a while, but when it comes to
deliberately trying to get away with a lotof hell-raising all the while like the doppelbraus do, it's too rich for myblood!" on the other side of babbitt lived howardlittlefield, ph.d., in a strictly modern house whereof the lower part was dark redtapestry brick, with a leaded oriel, the upper part of pale stucco like spatteredclay, and the roof red-tiled. littlefield was the great scholar of theneighborhood; the authority on everything in the world except babies, cooking, andmotors. he was a bachelor of arts of blodgettcollege, and a doctor of philosophy in economics of yale.
he was the employment-manager andpublicity-counsel of the zenith street traction company. he could, on ten hours' notice, appearbefore the board of aldermen or the state legislature and prove, absolutely, withfigures all in rows and with precedents from poland and new zealand, that the street-car company loved the public andyearned over its employees; that all its stock was owned by widows and orphans; andthat whatever it desired to do would benefit property-owners by increasing rental values, and help the poor bylowering rents.
all his acquaintances turned to littlefieldwhen they desired to know the date of the battle of saragossa, the definition of theword "sabotage," the future of the german mark, the translation of "hinc illae lachrimae," or the number of products ofcoal tar. he awed babbitt by confessing that he oftensat up till midnight reading the figures and footnotes in government reports, orskimming (with amusement at the author's mistakes) the latest volumes of chemistry,archeology, and ichthyology. but littlefield's great value was as aspiritual example. despite his strange learnings he was asstrict a presbyterian and as firm a
republican as george f. babbitt.he confirmed the business men in the faith. where they knew only by passionate instinctthat their system of industry and manners was perfect, dr. howard littlefield provedit to them, out of history, economics, and the confessions of reformed radicals. babbitt had a good deal of honest pride inbeing the neighbor of such a savant, and in ted's intimacy with eunice littlefield. at sixteen eunice was interested in nostatistics save those regarding the ages and salaries of motion-picture stars, but--as babbitt definitively put it--"she was her father's daughter."
the difference between a light man like samdoppelbrau and a really fine character like littlefield was revealed in theirappearances. doppelbrau was disturbingly young for a manof forty-eight. he wore his derby on the back of his head,and his red face was wrinkled with meaningless laughter. but littlefield was old for a man of forty-two. he was tall, broad, thick; his gold-rimmedspectacles were engulfed in the folds of his long face; his hair was a tossed massof greasy blackness; he puffed and rumbled as he talked; his phi beta kappa key shone
against a spotty black vest; he smelled ofold pipes; he was altogether funereal and archidiaconal; and to real-estate brokerageand the jobbing of bathroom-fixtures he added an aroma of sanctity. this morning he was in front of his house,inspecting the grass parking between the curb and the broad cement sidewalk.babbitt stopped his car and leaned out to shout "mornin'!" littlefield lumbered over and stood withone foot up on the running-board. "fine morning," said babbitt, lighting--illegally early--his second cigar of the day.
"yes, it's a mighty fine morning," saidlittlefield. "spring coming along fast now.""yes, it's real spring now, all right," said littlefield. "still cold nights, though.had to have a couple blankets, on the sleeping-porch last night.""yes, it wasn't any too warm last night," "but i don't anticipate we'll have any morereal cold weather now." "no, but still, there was snow at tiflis,montana, yesterday," said the scholar, "and you remember the blizzard they had out westthree days ago--thirty inches of snow at greeley, colorado--and two years ago we had
a snow-squall right here in zenith on thetwenty-fifth of april." "is that a fact!say, old man, what do you think about the republican candidate? who'll they nominate for president?don't you think it's about time we had a real business administration?" "in my opinion, what the country needs,first and foremost, is a good, sound, business-like conduct of its affairs.what we need is--a business administration!" said littlefield. "i'm glad to hear you say that!i certainly am glad to hear you say that!
i didn't know how you'd feel about it, withall your associations with colleges and so on, and i'm glad you feel that way. what the country needs--just at thispresent juncture--is neither a college president nor a lot of monkeying withforeign affairs, but a good--sound economical--business--administration, that will give us a chance to have somethinglike a decent turnover." "yes. it isn't generally realized that even inchina the schoolmen are giving way to more practical men, and of course you can seewhat that implies."
"is that a fact! well, well!" breathed babbitt, feeling muchcalmer, and much happier about the way things were going in the world."well, it's been nice to stop and parleyvoo a second. guess i'll have to get down to the officenow and sting a few clients. well, so long, old man.see you tonight. so long." iithey had labored, these solid citizens. twenty years before, the hill on whichfloral heights was spread, with its bright
roofs and immaculate turf and amazingcomfort, had been a wilderness of rank second-growth elms and oaks and maples. along the precise streets were still a fewwooded vacant lots, and the fragment of an old orchard. it was brilliant to-day; the apple boughswere lit with fresh leaves like torches of green fire. the first white of cherry blossomsflickered down a gully, and robins clamored. babbitt sniffed the earth, chuckled at thehysteric robins as he would have chuckled
at kittens or at a comic movie. he was, to the eye, the perfect office-going executive--a well-fed man in a correct brown soft hat and framelessspectacles, smoking a large cigar, driving a good motor along a semi-suburban parkway. but in him was some genius of authenticlove for his neighborhood, his city, his clan. the winter was over; the time was come forthe building, the visible growth, which to him was glory. he lost his dawn depression; he was ruddilycheerful when he stopped on smith street to
leave the brown trousers, and to have thegasoline-tank filled. the familiarity of the rite fortified him:the sight of the tall red iron gasoline- pump, the hollow-tile and terra-cottagarage, the window full of the most agreeable accessories--shiny casings, spark-plugs with immaculate porcelainjackets tire-chains of gold and silver. he was flattered by the friendliness withwhich sylvester moon, dirtiest and most skilled of motor mechanics, came out toserve him. "mornin', mr. babbitt!" said moon, andbabbitt felt himself a person of importance, one whose name even busygaragemen remembered--not one of these
cheap-sports flying around in flivvers. he admired the ingenuity of the automaticdial, clicking off gallon by gallon; admired the smartness of the sign: "a fillin time saves getting stuck--gas to-day 31 cents"; admired the rhythmic gurgle of the gasoline as it flowed into the tank, andthe mechanical regularity with which moon turned the handle. "how much we takin' to-day?" asked moon, ina manner which combined the independence of the great specialist, the friendliness of afamiliar gossip, and respect for a man of weight in the community, like george f.babbitt.
"fill 'er up.""who you rootin' for for republican candidate, mr. babbitt?" "it's too early to make any predictionsyet. after all, there's still a good month andtwo weeks--no, three weeks--must be almost three weeks--well, there's more than sixweeks in all before the republican convention, and i feel a fellow ought to keep an open mind and give all thecandidates a show--look 'em all over and size 'em up, and then decide carefully.""that's a fact, mr. babbitt." "but i'll tell you--and my stand on this isjust the same as it was four years ago, and
eight years ago, and it'll be my stand fouryears from now--yes, and eight years from now! what i tell everybody, and it can't be toogenerally understood, is that what we need first, last, and all the time is a good,sound business administration!" "by golly, that's right!" "how do those front tires look to you?""fine! fine! wouldn't be much work for garages ifeverybody looked after their car the way you do.""well, i do try and have some sense about
it." babbitt paid his bill, said adequately,"oh, keep the change," and drove off in an ecstasy of honest self-appreciation. it was with the manner of a good samaritanthat he shouted at a respectable-looking man who was waiting for a trolley car,"have a lift?" as the man climbed in babbitt condescended,"going clear down-town? whenever i see a fellow waiting for atrolley, i always make it a practice to give him a lift--unless, of course, helooks like a bum." "wish there were more folks that were sogenerous with their machines," dutifully
said the victim of benevolence."oh, no, 'tain't a question of generosity, hardly. fact, i always feel--i was saying to my sonjust the other night--it's a fellow's duty to share the good things of this world withhis neighbors, and it gets my goat when a fellow gets stuck on himself and goes around tooting his horn merely because he'scharitable." the victim seemed unable to find the rightanswer. babbitt boomed on: "pretty punk service the company giving uson these car-lines.
nonsense to only run the portland road carsonce every seven minutes. fellow gets mighty cold on a wintermorning, waiting on a street corner with the wind nipping at his ankles.""that's right. the street car company don't care a damnwhat kind of a deal they give us. something ought to happen to 'em."babbitt was alarmed. "but still, of course it won't do to justkeep knocking the traction company and not realize the difficulties they're operatingunder, like these cranks that want municipal ownership. the way these workmen hold up the companyfor high wages is simply a crime, and of
course the burden falls on you and me thathave to pay a seven-cent fare! fact, there's remarkable service on alltheir lines--considering." "well--" uneasily."darn fine morning," babbitt explained. "spring coming along fast." "yes, it's real spring now." the victim had no originality, no wit, andbabbitt fell into a great silence and devoted himself to the game of beatingtrolley cars to the corner: a spurt, a tail-chase, nervous speeding between the huge yellow side of the trolley and thejagged row of parked motors, shooting past
just as the trolley stopped--a rare gameand valiant. and all the while he was conscious of theloveliness of zenith. for weeks together he noticed nothing butclients and the vexing to rent signs of rival brokers. to-day, in mysterious malaise, he raged orrejoiced with equal nervous swiftness, and to-day the light of spring was so winsomethat he lifted his head and saw. he admired each district along his familiarroute to the office: the bungalows and shrubs and winding irregular drive ways offloral heights. the one-story shops on smith street, aglare of plate-glass and new yellow brick;
groceries and laundries and drug-stores tosupply the more immediate needs of east side housewives. the market gardens in dutch hollow, theirshanties patched with corrugated iron and stolen doors. billboards with crimson goddesses nine feettall advertising cinema films, pipe tobacco, and talcum powder. the old "mansions" along ninth street, s.e., like aged dandies in filthy linen; wooden castles turned into boarding-houses,with muddy walks and rusty hedges, jostled by fast-intruding garages, cheap apartment-
houses, and fruit-stands conducted bybland, sleek athenians. across the belt of railroad-tracks,factories with high-perched water-tanks and tall stacks-factories producing condensedmilk, paper boxes, lighting-fixtures, motor cars. then the business center, the thickeningdarting traffic, the crammed trolleys unloading, and high doorways of marble andpolished granite. it was big--and babbitt respected bignessin anything; in mountains, jewels, muscles, wealth, or words.he was, for a spring-enchanted moment, the lyric and almost unselfish lover of zenith.
he thought of the outlying factory suburbs;of the chaloosa river with its strangely eroded banks; of the orchard-dappledtonawanda hills to the north, and all the fat dairy land and big barns andcomfortable herds. as he dropped his passenger he cried,"gosh, i feel pretty good this morning!" iiiepochal as starting the car was the drama of parking it before he entered his office. as he turned from oberlin avenue round thecorner into third street, n.e., he peered ahead for a space in the line of parkedcars. he angrily just missed a space as a rivaldriver slid into it.
ahead, another car was leaving the curb,and babbitt slowed up, holding out his hand to the cars pressing on him from behind,agitatedly motioning an old woman to go ahead, avoiding a truck which bore down onhim from one side. with front wheels nicking the wrought-steelbumper of the car in front, he stopped, feverishly cramped his steering-wheel, slidback into the vacant space and, with eighteen inches of room, manoeuvered tobring the car level with the curb. it was a virile adventure masterfullyexecuted. with satisfaction he locked a thief-proofsteel wedge on the front wheel, and crossed the street to his real-estate office on theground floor of the reeves building.
the reeves building was as fireproof as arock and as efficient as a typewriter; fourteen stories of yellow pressed brick,with clean, upright, unornamented lines. it was filled with the offices of lawyers,doctors, agents for machinery, for emery wheels, for wire fencing, for mining-stock.their gold signs shone on the windows. the entrance was too modern to beflamboyant with pillars; it was quiet, shrewd, neat. along the third street side were a westernunion telegraph office, the blue delft candy shop, shotwell's stationery shop, andthe babbitt-thompson realty company. babbitt could have entered his office fromthe street, as customers did, but it made
him feel an insider to go through thecorridor of the building and enter by the back door. thus he was greeted by the villagers. the little unknown people who inhabited thereeves building corridors--elevator- runners, starter, engineers,superintendent, and the doubtful-looking lame man who conducted the news and cigarstand--were in no way city-dwellers. they were rustics, living in a constrictedvalley, interested only in one another and in the building. their main street was the entrance hall,with its stone floor, severe marble
ceiling, and the inner windows of theshops. the liveliest place on the street was thereeves building barber shop, but this was also babbitt's one embarrassment. himself, he patronized the glitteringpompeian barber shop in the hotel thornleigh, and every time he passed thereeves shop--ten times a day, a hundred times--he felt untrue to his own village. now, as one of the squirearchy, greetedwith honorable salutations by the villagers, he marched into his office, andpeace and dignity were upon him, and the morning's dissonances all unheard.
they were heard again, immediately. stanley graff, the outside salesman, wastalking on the telephone with tragic lack of that firm manner which disciplinesclients: "say, uh, i think i got just the house that would suit you--the percivalhouse, in linton.... oh, you've seen it.well, how'd it strike you?... huh? ...oh," irresolutely, "oh, i see." as babbitt marched into his private room,a coop with semi-partition of oak and frosted glass, at the back of the office, hereflected how hard it was to find employees
who had his own faith that he was going tomake sales. there were nine members of the staff,besides babbitt and his partner and father- in-law, henry thompson, who rarely came tothe office. the nine were stanley graff, the outsidesalesman--a youngish man given to cigarettes and the playing of pool; old matpenniman, general utility man, collector of rents and salesman of insurance--broken, silent, gray; a mystery, reputed to havebeen a "crack" real-estate man with a firm of his own in haughty brooklyn; chesterkirby laylock, resident salesman out at the glen oriole acreage development--an
enthusiastic person with a silky mustacheand much family; miss theresa mcgoun, the swift and rather pretty stenographer; misswilberta bannigan, the thick, slow, laborious accountant and file-clerk; and four freelance part-time commissionsalesmen. as he looked from his own cage into themain room babbitt mourned, "mcgoun's a good stenog., smart's a whip, but stan graff andall those bums--" the zest of the spring morning was smothered in the stale officeair. normally he admired the office, with apleased surprise that he should have created this sure lovely thing; normally hewas stimulated by the clean newness of it
and the air of bustle; but to-day it seemed flat--the tiled floor, like a bathroom, theocher-colored metal ceiling, the faded maps on the hard plaster walls, the chairs ofvarnished pale oak, the desks and filing- cabinets of steel painted in olive drab. it was a vault, a steel chapel whereloafing and laughter were raw sin. he hadn't even any satisfaction in the newwater-cooler! and it was the very best of water-coolers,up-to-date, scientific, and right-thinking. it had cost a great deal of money (initself a virtue). it possessed a non-conducting fiber ice-container, a porcelain water-jar
(guaranteed hygienic), a drip-less non-clogging sanitary faucet, and machine- painted decorations in two tones of gold. he looked down the relentless stretch oftiled floor at the water-cooler, and assured himself that no tenant of thereeves building had a more expensive one, but he could not recapture the feeling ofsocial superiority it had given him. he astoundingly grunted, "i'd like to beatit off to the woods right now. and loaf all day. and go to gunch's again to-night, and playpoker, and cuss as much as i feel like, and drink a hundred and nine-thousand bottlesof beer."
he sighed; he read through his mail; heshouted "msgoun," which meant "miss mcgoun"; and began to dictate.this was his own version of his first letter: "omar gribble, send it to his office, missmcgoun, yours of twentieth to hand and in reply would say look here, gribble, i'mawfully afraid if we go on shilly-shallying like this we'll just naturally lose the allen sale, i had allen up on carpet daybefore yesterday and got right down to cases and think i can assure you--uh, uh,no, change that: all my experience indicates he is all right, means to do
business, looked into his financial recordwhich is fine--that sentence seems to be a little balled up, miss mcgoun; make acouple sentences out of it if you have to, period, new paragraph. "he is perfectly willing to pro rate thespecial assessment and strikes me, am dead sure there will be no difficulty in gettinghim to pay for title insurance, so now for heaven's sake let's get busy--no, make that: so now let's go to it and get down--no, that's enough--you can tie those sentences up a little better when you type'em, miss mcgoun--your sincerely, etcetera."
this is the version of his letter which hereceived, typed, from miss mcgoun that afternoon: babbitt-thompson realty co.homes for folks reeves bldg., oberlin avenue & 3d st., n.e zenith omar gribble, esq., 376 north americanbuilding, zenith. dear mr. gribble:your letter of the twentieth to hand. i must say i'm awfully afraid that if we goon shilly-shallying like this we'll just naturally lose the allen sale.i had allen up on the carpet day before yesterday, and got right down to cases.
all my experience indicates that he meansto do business. i have also looked into his financialrecord, which is fine. he is perfectly willing to pro rate thespecial assessment and there will be no difficulty in getting him to pay for titleinsurance. so let's go! yours sincerely,as he read and signed it, in his correct flowing business-college hand, babbittreflected, "now that's a good, strong letter, and clear's a bell. now what the--i never told mcgoun to make athird paragraph there!
wish she'd quit trying to improve on mydictation! but what i can't understand is: why can'tstan graff or chet laylock write a letter like that?with punch! with a kick!" the most important thing he dictated thatmorning was the fortnightly form-letter, to be mimeographed and sent out to a thousand"prospects." it was diligently imitative of the bestliterary models of the day; of heart-to- heart-talk advertisements, "sales-pulling"letters, discourses on the "development of will-power," and hand-shaking house-organs,
as richly poured forth by the new school ofpoets of business. he had painfully written out a first draft,and he intoned it now like a poet delicate and distrait: say, old man!i just want to know can i do you a whaleuva favor?honest! no kidding! i know you're interested in getting ahouse, not merely a place where you hang up the old bonnet but a love-nest for the wifeand kiddies--and maybe for the flivver out beyant (be sure and spell that b-e-y-a-n-t,miss mcgoun) the spud garden.
say, did you ever stop to think that we'rehere to save you trouble? that's how we make a living--folks don'tpay us for our lovely beauty! now take a look: sit right down at the handsome carvedmahogany escritoire and shoot us in a line telling us just what you want, and if wecan find it we'll come hopping down your lane with the good tidings, and if wecan't, we won't bother you. to save your time, just fill out the blankenclosed. on request will also send blank regardingstore properties in floral heights, silver grove, linton, bellevue, and all east sideresidential districts.
yours for service, p.s.--just a hint of some plums we can pickfor you--some genuine bargains that came in to-day: silver grove.--cute four-room californiabungalow, a.m.i., garage, dandy shade tree, swell neighborhood, handy car line.$3700, $780 down and balance liberal, babbitt-thompson terms, cheaper than rent. dorchester.--a corker!artistic two-family house, all oak trim, parquet floors, lovely gas log, bigporches, colonial, heated all-weather garage, a bargain at $11,250.
dictation over, with its need of sittingand thinking instead of bustling around and making a noise and really doing something,babbitt sat creakily back in his revolving desk-chair and beamed on miss mcgoun. he was conscious of her as a girl, of blackbobbed hair against demure cheeks. a longing which was indistinguishable fromloneliness enfeebled him. while she waited, tapping a long, precisepencil-point on the desk-tablet, he half identified her with the fairy girl of hisdreams. he imagined their eyes meeting withterrifying recognition; imagined touching her lips with frightened reverence and--shewas chirping, "any more, mist' babbitt?"
he grunted, "that winds it up, i guess,"and turned heavily away. for all his wandering thoughts, they hadnever been more intimate than this. he often reflected, "nev' forget how oldjake offutt said a wise bird never goes love-making in his own office or his ownhome. start trouble. sure.but--" in twenty-three years of married life hehad peered uneasily at every graceful ankle, every soft shoulder; in thought hehad treasured them; but not once had he hazarded respectability by adventuring.
now, as he calculated the cost ofrepapering the styles house, he was restless again, discontented about nothingand everything, ashamed of his discontentment, and lonely for the fairygirl.
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