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Файл:Бэббитт. Книга для чтения на английском языке
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Babbitt
Let it go? Zillas face was wrinkled like the Medusa, her
voice was a dagger of corroded brass. She was full of the joy
of righteousness and bad temper. She was a crusader and,
like every crusader, she exulted in the opportunity to be
vicious in the name of virtue. Let it go? If people knew how
many things Ive let go
Oh, quit being such a bully.
Yes, a fine figure youd cut if I didnt bully you! Youd
lie abed till noon and play your idiotic fiddle till midnight!
Youre born lazy, and youre born shiftless, and youre
born cowardly, Paul Riesling
Oh, now, dont say that, Zilla; you dont mean a word
of it! protested Mrs Babbitt.
I will say that, and I mean every single last word of it!
Oh, now, Zilla, the idea! Mrs Babbitt was maternal
and fussy. She was no older than Zilla, but she seemed so
at first. She was placid and puffy and mature, where
Zilla, at forty-five, was so bleached and tight-corseted that
you knew only that she was older than she looked. The
idea of talking to poor Paul like that!
Poor Paul is right! Wed both be poor, wed be in the
poorhouse, if I didnt jazz him up!
Why, now, Zilla, Georgie and I were just saying how
hard Pauls been working all year, and we were thinking
it would be lovely if the Boys could run off by themselves.
Ive been coaxing George to go up to Maine ahead of the
rest of us, and get the tired out of his system before we
come, and I think it would be lovely if Paul could manage
to get away and join him.
At this exposure of his plot to escape, Paul was startled
out of impassivity. He rubbed his fingers. His hands
twitched.
Zilla bayed, Yes! Youre lucky! You can let George go,
and not have to watch him. Fat old Georgie! Never peeps
at another woman! Hasnt got the spunk!
The hell I havent! Babbitt was fervently defending his
priceless immorality when Paul interrupted him and Paul
looked dangerous. He rose quickly; he said gently to Zilla:
I suppose you imply I have a lot of sweethearts.
Yes, I do!
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Sinclair Lewis
Well, then, my dear, since you ask for it There hasnt
been a time in the last ten years when I havent found
some nice little girl to comfort me, and as long as you
continue your amiability I shall probably continue to
deceive you. It isnt hard. Youre so stupid.
Zilla gibbered; she howled; words could not be
distinguished in her slaver of abuse.
Then the bland George F. Babbitt was transformed. If
Paul was dangerous, if Zilla was a snake-locked fury, if
the neat emotions suitable to the Revelstoke Arms had
been slashed into raw hatreds, it was Babbitt who was the
most formidable. He leaped up. He seemed very large. He
seized Zillas shoulder. The cautions of the broker were
wiped from his face, and his voice was cruel:
Ive had enough of all this damn nonsense! Ive known
you for twenty-five years, Zil, and I never knew you to miss
a chance to take your disappointments out on Paul. Youre
not wicked. Youre worse. Youre a fool. And let me tell you
that Paul is the finest boy God ever made. Every decent
person is sick and tired of your taking advantage of being a
woman and springing every mean innuendo you can think of.
Who the hell are you that a person like Paul should have to
ask your PERMISSION to go with me? You act like you were
a combination of Queen Victoria and Cleopatra. You fool,
cant you see how people snicker at you, and sneer at you?
Zilla was sobbing, Ive never Ive never nobody
ever talked to me like this in all my life!
No, but thats the way they talk behind your back! Always!
They say youre a scolding old woman. Old, by God!
That cowardly attack broke her. Her eyes were blank. She
wept. But Babbitt glared stolidly. He felt that he was the allpowerful official in charge; that Paul and Mrs Babbitt looked
on him with awe; that he alone could handle this case.
Zilla writhed. She begged, Oh, they dont!
They certainly do!
Ive been a bad woman! Im terribly sorry! Ill kill
myself! Ill do anything. Oh, Ill What do you want?
She abased herself completely. Also, she enjoyed it. To
the connoisseur of scenes, nothing is more enjoyable than
a thorough, melodramatic, egoistic humility.
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Babbitt
I want you to let Paul beat it off to Maine with me,
Babbitt demanded.
How can I help his going? Youve just said I was an
idiot and nobody paid any attention to me.
Oh, you can help it, all right, all right! What you got
to do is to cut out hinting that the minute he gets out of
your sight, hell go chasing after some petticoat. Matter
fact, thats the way you start the boy off wrong. You ought
to have more sense
Oh, I will, honestly, I will, George. I know I was bad.
Oh, forgive me, all of you, forgive me
She enjoyed it.
So did Babbitt. He condemned magnificently and forgave
piously, and as he went parading out with his wife he was
grandly explanatory to her:
Kind of a shame to bully Zilla, but course it was the only
way to handle her. Gosh, I certainly did have her crawling!
She said calmly, Yes. You were horrid. You were
showing off. You were having a lovely time thinking what
a great fine person you were!
Well, by golly! Can you beat it! Of course I might of
expected you to not stand by me! I might of expected
youd stick up for your own sex!
Yes. Poor Zilla, shes so unhappy. She takes it out on
Paul. She hasnt a single thing to do, in that little flat. And
she broods too much. And she used to be so pretty and
gay, and she resents losing it. And you were just as nasty
and mean as you could be. Im not a bit proud of you
or of Paul, boasting about his horrid love-affairs!
He was sulkily silent; he maintained his bad temper at
a high level of outraged nobility all the four blocks home.
At the door he left her, in self-approving haughtiness, and
tramped the lawn.
With a shock it was revealed to him: Gosh, I wonder
if she was right if she was partly right? Overwork must
have flayed him to abnormal sensitiveness; it was one of
the few times in his life when he had queried his eternal
excellence; and he perceived the summer night, smelled
the wet grass. Then: I dont care! Ive pulled it off. Were
going to have our spree. And for Paul, Id do anything.
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Sinclair Lewis
II
They were buying their Maine tackle at Ijams Brothers,
the Sporting Goods Mart, with the help of Willis Ijams,
fellow member of the Boosters Club. Babbitt was completely
mad. He trumpeted and danced. He muttered to Paul, Say,
this is pretty good, eh? To be buying the stuff, eh? And
good old Willis Ijams himself coming down on the floor to
wait on us! Say, if those fellows that are getting their kit
for the North Lakes knew we were going clear up to
Maine, theyd have a fit, eh? ... Well, come on, Brother
Ijams Willis, I mean. Heres your chance! Were a couple
of easy marks! Whee! Let me at it! Im going to buy out the
store!
He gloated on fly-rods and gorgeous rubber hip-boots,
on tents with celluloid windows and folding chairs and iceboxes. He simple-heartedly wanted to buy all of them. It
was the Paul whom he was always vaguely protecting who
kept him from his drunken desires.
But even Paul lightened when Willis Ijams, a salesman
with poetry and diplomacy, discussed flies. Now, of course,
you boys know. he said, the great scrap is between dry
flies and wet flies. Personally, Im for dry flies. More
sporting.
Thats so. Lots more sporting, fulminated Babbitt, who
knew very little about flies either wet or dry.
Now if youll take my advice, Georgie, youll stock up
well on these pale evening dims, and silver sedges, and red
ants. Oh, boy, theres a fly, that red ant!
You bet! Thats what it is a fly! rejoiced Babbitt.
Yes, sir, that red ant, said Ijams, is a real honest-toGod FLY!
Oh, I guess ole Mr Trout wont come a-hustling when I
drop one of those red ants on the water! asserted Babbitt,
and his thick wrists made a rapturous motion of casting.
Yes, and the landlocked salmon will take it, too, said
Ijams, who had never seen a landlocked salmon.
Salmon! Trout! Say, Paul, can you see Uncle George
with his khaki pants on haulin em in, some morning bout
seven? Whee!
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Babbitt
III
They were on the New York express, incredibly bound
for Maine, incredibly without their families. They were
free, in a mans world, in the smoking-compartment of the
Pullman.
Outside the car window was a glaze of darkness stippled
with the gold of infrequent mysterious lights. Babbitt was
immensely conscious, in the sway and authoritative clatter
of the train, of going, of going on. Leaning toward Paul he
grunted, Gosh, pretty nice to be hiking, eh?
The small room, with its walls of ocher-colored steel,
was filled mostly with the sort of men he classified as the
Best Fellows Youll Ever Meet Real Good Mixers. There
were four of them on the long seat; a fat man with a
shrewd fat face, a knife-edged man in a green velour hat,
a very young young man with an imitation amber cigaretteholder, and Babbitt. Facing them, on two movable leather
chairs, were Paul and a lanky, old-fashioned man, very
cunning, with wrinkles bracketing his mouth. They all
read newspapers or trade journals, boot-and-shoe journals,
crockery journals, and waited for the joys of conversation.
It was the very young man, now making his first journey
by Pullman, who began it.
Say, gee, I had a wild old time in Zenith! he gloried.
Say, if a fellow knows the ropes there he can have as
wild a time as he can in New York!
Yuh, I bet you simply raised the old Ned. I figured you
were a bad man when I saw you get on the train!
chuckled the fat one.
The others delightedly laid down their papers.
Well, thats all right now! I guess I seen some things in
the Arbor you never seen! complained the boy.
Oh, Ill bet you did! I bet you lapped up the malted
milk like a reglar little devil!
Then, the boy having served as introduction, they
ignored him and charged into real talk. Only Paul, sitting
by himself, reading at a serial story in a newspaper, failed
to join them and all but Babbitt regarded him as a snob,
an eccentric, a person of no spirit.
125
Sinclair Lewis
Which of them said which has never been determined,
and does not matter, since they all had the same ideas and
expressed them always with the same ponderous and
brassy assurance. If it was not Babbitt who was delivering
any given verdict, at least he was beaming on the chancellor
who did deliver it.
At that, though, announced the first theyre selling
quite some booze in Zenith. Guess they are everywhere.
I dont know how you fellows feel about prohibition,
but the way it strikes me is that its a mighty beneficial
thing for the poor zob that hasnt got any will-power
but for fellows like us, its an infringement of personal
liberty.
Thats a fact. Congress has got no right to interfere
with a fellows personal liberty, contended the second.
A man came in from the car, but as all the seats were
full he stood up while he smoked his cigarette. He was an
Outsider; he was not one of the Old Families of the
smoking-compartment. They looked upon him bleakly and,
after trying to appear at ease by examining his chin in the
mirror, he gave it up and went out in silence.
Just been making a trip through the South. Business
conditions not very good down there, said one of the
council.
Is that a fact! Not very good, eh?
No, didnt strike me they were up to normal.
Not up to normal, eh?
No, I wouldnt hardly say they were.
The whole council nodded sagely and decided, Yump.
not hardly up to snuff.
Well, business conditions aint what they ought to be
out West, neither, not by a long shot.
Thats a fact. And I guess the hotel business feels it.
Thats one good thing, though: these hotels thatve been
charging five bucks a day yes, and maybe six seven!
for a rotten room are going to be darn glad to get four, and
maybe give you a little service.
Thats a fact. Say, uh, speaknubout hotels, I hit the St.
Francis at San Francisco for the first time, the other day,
and, say, it certainly is a first-class place.
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Babbitt
Youre right, brother! The St. Francis is a swell place
absolutely A1.
Thats a fact. Im right with you. Its a first-class place.
Yuh, but say, any of you fellows ever stay at the
Rippleton, in Chicago? I dont want to knock I believe in
boosting wherever you can but say, of all the rotten
dumps that pass emselves off as first-class hotels, thats
the worst. Im going to get those guys, one of these days,
and I told em so. You know how I am well, maybe you
dont know, but Im accustomed to first-class accommodations,
and Im perfectly willing to pay a reasonable price. I got
into Chicago late the other night, and the Rippletons near
the station Id never been there before, but I says to the
taxi-driver I always believe in taking a taxi when you get
in late; may cost a little more money, but, gosh, its worth
it when you got to be up early next morning and out
selling a lot of crabs and I said to him, Oh, just drive
me over to the Rippleton.
Well, we got there, and I breezed up to the desk and
said to the clerk, Well, brother, got a nice room with bath
for Cousin Bill? Saaaay! Youd a thought Id sold him a
second, or asked him to work on Yom Kippur! He hands me
the cold-boiled stare and yaps, I dunno, friend, Ill see, and
he ducks behind the rigamajig they keep track of the rooms
on. Well, I guess he called up the Credit Association and the
American Security League to see if I was all right he
certainly took long enough or maybe he just went to sleep;
but finally he comes out and looks at me like it hurts him,
and croaks, I think I can let you have a room with bath.
Well, thats awful nice of you sorry to trouble you how
much ll it set me back? I says, real sweet. Itll cost you
seven bucks a day, friend, he says.
Well, it was late, and anyway, it went down on my
expense-account gosh, if Id been paying it instead of the
firm, Id a tramped the streets all night before Id a let any
hick tavern stick me seven great big round dollars, believe
me! So I lets it go at that. Well, the clerk wakes a nice
young bell hop fine lad not a day over seventy-nine
years old fought at the Battle of Gettysburg and doesnt
know its over yet thought I was one of the Confederates,
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Sinclair Lewis
I guess, from the way he looked at me and Rip van
Winkle took me up to something I found out afterwards
they called it a room, but first I thought thered been some
mistake I thought they were putting me in the Salvation
Army collection-box! At seven per each and every diem!
Gosh!
Yuh, Ive heard the Rippleton was pretty cheesy. Now,
when I go to Chicago I always stay at the Blackstone or
the La Salle first-class places.
Say, any of you fellows ever stay at the Birchdale at
Terre Haute? How is it?
Oh, the Birchdale is a first-class hotel.
(Twelve minutes of conference on the state of hotels in
South Bend, Flint, Dayton, Tulsa, Wichita, Fort Worth,
Winona, Erie, Fargo, and Moose Jaw.)
Speaknubout prices, the man in the velour hat observed,
fingering the elk-tooth on his heavy watch-chain, Id like to
know where they get this stuff about clothes coming down.
Now, you take this suit I got on. He pinched his trousersleg. Four years ago I paid forty-two fifty for it, and it was
real sure-nough value. Well, here the other day I went into
a store back home and asked to see a suit, and the fellow
yanks out some hand-me-downs that, honest, I wouldnt put
on a hired man. Just out of curiosity I asks him, What you
charging for that junk? Junk, he says, what d you mean
junk? Thats a swell piece of goods, all wool Like hell!
It was nice vegetable wool, right off the Ole Plantation! Its
all wool, he says, and we get sixty-seven ninety for it.
Oh, you do, do you! I says. Not from me you dont, I
says, and I walks right out on him. You bet! I says to the
wife, Well, I said, as long as your strength holds out and
you can go on putting a few more patches on papas pants,
well just pass up buying clothes.
Thats right, brother. And just look at collars, frinstance
Hey! Wait! the fat man protested. Whats the matter
with collars? Im selling collars! D you realize the cost of
labor on collars is still two hundred and seven per cent
above
They voted that if their old friend the fat man sold
collars, then the price of collars was exactly what it should
128
Babbitt
be; but all other clothing was tragically too expensive.
They admired and loved one another now. They went
profoundly into the science of business, and indicated that
the purpose of manufacturing a plow or a brick was so
that it might be sold. To them, the Romantic Hero was no
longer the knight, the wandering poet, the cowpuncher,
the aviator, nor the brave young district attorney, but the
great sales-manager, who had an Analysis of Merchandizing
Problems on his glass-topped desk, whose title of nobility
was Go-getter, and who devoted himself and all his
young samurai to the cosmic purpose of Selling not of
selling anything in particular, for or to anybody in particular,
but pure Selling.
The shop-talk roused Paul Riesling. Though he was a
player of violins and an interestingly unhappy husband,
he was also a very able salesman of tar-roofing. He
listened to the fat mans remarks on the value of houseorgans and bulletins as a method of jazzing-up the Boys
out on the road; and he himself offered one or two
excellent thoughts on the use of two-cent stamps on
circulars. Then he committed an offense against the holy
law of the Clan of Good Fellows. He became highbrow.
They were entering a city. On the outskirts they
passed a steel-mill which flared in scarlet and orange
flame that licked at the cadaverous stacks, at the ironsheathed walls and sullen converters.
My Lord, look at that beautiful! said Paul.
You bet its beautiful, friend. Thats the ShellingHorton Steel Plant, and they tell me old John Shelling
made a good three million bones out of munitions during
the war! the man with the velour hat said reverently.
I didnt mean I mean its lovely the way the light
pulls that picturesque yard, all littered with junk, right
out of the darkness, said Paul.
They stared at him, while Babbitt crowed, Paul there
has certainly got one great little eye for picturesque places
and quaint sights and all that stuff. D of been an author
or something if he hadnt gone into the roofing line.
Paul looked annoyed. (Babbitt sometimes wondered if
Paul appreciated his loyal boosting.) The man in the
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Sinclair Lewis
velour hat grunted, Well, personally, I think ShellingHorton keep their works awful dirty. Bum routing. But I
dont suppose theres any law against calling em
picturesque if it gets you that way!
Paul sulkily returned to his newspaper and the
conversation logically moved on to trains.
What time do we get into Pittsburg? asked Babbitt.
Pittsburg? I think we get in at no, that was last years
schedule wait a minute lets see got a time-table right
here.
I wonder if were on time?
Yuh, sure, we must be just about on time.
No, we arent we were seven minutes late, last station.
Were we? Straight? Why, gosh, I thought we were right
on time.
No, were about seven minutes late.
Yuh, thats right; seven minutes late.
The porter entered a negro in white jacket with brass
buttons.
How late are we, George? growled the fat man.
Deed, I dont know, sir. I think were about on time,
said the porter, folding towels and deftly tossing them up
on the rack above the washbowls. The council stared at
him gloomily and when he was gone they wailed:
I dont know whats come over these niggers, nowadays.
They never give you a civil answer.
Thats a fact. Theyre getting so they dont have a
single bit of respect for you. The old-fashioned coon was
a fine old cuss he knew his place but these young
dinges dont want to be porters or cotton-pickers. Oh, no!
They got to be lawyers and professors and Lord knows
what all! I tell you, its becoming a pretty serious problem.
We ought to get together and show the black man, yes,
and the yellow man, his place. Now, I havent got one
particle of race-prejudice. Im the first to be glad when a
nigger succeeds so long as he stays where he belongs
and doesnt try to usurp the rightful authority and business
ability of the white man.
Thats the i.! And another thing we got to do, said the
man with the velour hat (whose name was Koplinsky), is
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