Добавил:
ivanov666
Опубликованный материал нарушает ваши авторские права? Сообщите нам.
Вуз:
Предмет:
Файл:Бэббитт. Книга для чтения на английском языке
.pdf
Babbitt
and though it was pretty nice to have the honor, yet
traffic cops remembered it only too darn well, and sometimes
he didnt know but what hed almost as soon have just
plain B56,876 or something like that. Only let any doggone
Booster try to get Number 5 away from a live Rotarian
next year, and watch the fur fly! And if theyd permit him,
hed wind up by calling for a cheer for the Boosters and
Rotarians and the Kiwanis all together!
Babbitt sighed to Professor Pumphrey, Be pretty nice
to have as low a number as that! Everybody d say, He
must be an important guy! Wonder how he got it? Ill bet
he wined and dined the superintendent of the Motor
License Bureau to a fare-you-well!
Then Chum Frink addressed them:
Some of you may feel that its out of place here to talk
on a strictly highbrow and artistic subject, but I want to
come out flatfooted and ask you boys to O.K. the proposition
of a Symphony Orchestra for Zenith. Now, where a lot of
you make your mistake is in assuming that if you dont
like classical music and all that junk, you ought to oppose
it. Now, I want to confess that, though Im a literary guy
by profession, I dont care a rap for all this long-haired
music. Id rather listen to a good jazz band any time than
to some piece by Beethoven that hasnt any more tune to
it than a bunch of fighting cats, and you couldnt whistle
it to save your life! But that isnt the point. Culture has
become as necessary an adornment and advertisement for
a city to-day as pavements or bank-clearances. Its Culture,
in theaters and art-galleries and so on, that brings thousands
of visitors to New York every year and, to be frank, for all
our splendid attainments we havent yet got the Culture of
a New York or Chicago or Boston or at least we dont
get the credit for it. The thing to do then, as a live bunch
of go-getters, is to CAPITALIZE CULTURE; to go right out
and grab it.
Pictures and books are fine for those that have the
time to study em, but they dont shoot out on the road
and holler This is what little old Zenith can put up in the
way of Culture. Thats precisely what a Symphony Orchestra
does do. Look at the credit Minneapolis and Cincinnati
231
Sinclair Lewis
get. An orchestra with first-class musickers and a swell
conductor and I believe we ought to do the thing up
brown and get one of the highest-paid conductors on the
market, providing he aint a Hun it goes right into
Beantown and New York and Washington; it plays at the
best theaters to the most cultured and moneyed people; it
gives such class-advertising as a town can get in no other
way; and the guy who is so short-sighted as to crab this
orchestra proposition is passing up the chance to impress
the glorious name of Zenith on some big New York
millionaire that might-that might establish a branch factory
here!
I could also go into the fact that for our daughters who
show an interest in highbrow music and may want to
teach it, having an A1 local organization is of great benefit,
but lets keep this on a practical basis, and I call on you
good brothers to whoop it up for Culture and a Worldbeating Symphony Orchestra!
They applauded.
To a rustle of excitement President Gunch proclaimed,
Gentlemen, we will now proceed to the annual election
of officers. For each of the six offices, three candidates
had been chosen by a committee. The second name among
the candidates for vice-president was Babbitts.
He was surprised. He looked self-conscious. His heart
pounded. He was still more agitated when the ballots
were counted and Gunch said, Its a pleasure to announce
that Georgie Babbitt will be the next assistant gavelwielder. I know of no man who stands more stanchly for
common sense and enterprise than good old George.
Come on, lets give him our best long yell!
As they adjourned, a hundred men crushed in to slap
his back. He had never known a higher moment. He drove
away in a blur of wonder. He lunged into his office,
chuckling to Miss McGoun, Well, I guess you better
congratulate your boss! Been elected vice-president of the
Boosters!
He was disappointed. She answered only, Yes Oh,
Mrs Babbitts been trying to get you on the phone. But
the new salesman, Fritz Weilinger, said, By golly, chief,
232
Babbitt
say, thats great, thats perfectly great! Im tickled to death!
Congratulations!
Babbitt called the house, and crowed to his wife, Heard
you were trying to get me, Myra. Say, you got to hand it to
little Georgie, this time! Better talk careful! You are now
addressing the vice-president of the Boosters Club!
Oh, Georgie
Pretty nice, huh? Willis Ijams is the new president, but
when hes away, little ole Georgie takes the gavel and
whoops em up and introduces the speakers no matter
if theyre the governor himself and
George! Listen!
It puts him in solid with big men like Doc Dilling
and
George! Paul Riesling
Yes, sure, Ill phone Paul and let him know about it
right away.
Georgie! LISTEN! Pauls in jail. He shot his wife, he
shot Zilla, this noon. She may not live.
Chapter XXII
I
He drove to the City Prison, not blindly, but with
unusual fussy care at corners, the fussiness of an old
woman potting plants. It kept him from facing the obscenity
of fate.
The attendant said, Naw, you cant see any of the
prisoners till three-thirty visiting-hour.
It was three. For half an hour Babbitt sat looking at a
calendar and a clock on a whitewashed wall. The chair
was hard and mean and creaky. People went through the
office and, he thought, stared at him. He felt a belligerent
defiance which broke into a wincing fear of this machine
which was grinding Paul Paul blood It was terrible
what it did to her shoulder, and she had beautiful skin
Maybe she wont die. I hope it wont leave her skin all
scarred. But just afterward, when I was hunting through
233
Sinclair Lewis
the bathroom for some cotton to stop the blood, I ran onto
a little fuzzy yellow duck we hung on the tree one
Christmas, and I remembered she and Id been awfully
happy then Hell. I cant hardly believe its me here. As
Babbitts arm tightened about his shoulder, Paul sighed,
Im glad you came. But I thought maybe youd lecture me,
and when youve committed a murder, and been brought
here and everything there was a big crowd outside the
apartment house, all staring, and the cops took me through
it Oh, Im not going to talk about it any more.
But he went on, in a monotonous, terrified insane
mumble. To divert him Babbitt said, Why, you got a scar
on your cheek.
Yes. Thats where the cop hit me. I suppose cops get
a lot of fun out of lecturing murderers, too. He was a big
fellow. And they wouldnt let me help carry Zilla down to
the ambulance.
Paul! Quit it! Listen: she wont die, and when its all
over you and Ill go off to Maine again. And maybe we can
get that May Arnold to go along. Ill go up to Chicago and
ask her. Good woman, by golly. And afterwards Ill see
that you get started in business out West somewhere,
maybe Seattle they say thats a lovely city.
Paul was half smiling. It was Babbitt who rambled now.
He could not tell whether Paul was heeding, but he droned
on till the coming of Pauls lawyer, P. J. Maxwell, a thin,
busy, unfriendly man who nodded at Babbitt and hinted, If
Riesling and I could be alone for a moment
Babbitt wrung Pauls hands, and waited in the office till
Maxwell came pattering out. Look, old man, what can I
do? he begged.
Nothing. Not a thing. Not just now, said Maxwell.
Sorry. Got to hurry. And dont try to see him. Ive had the
doctor give him a shot of morphine, so hell sleep.
It seemed somehow wicked to return to the office.
Babbitt felt as though he had just come from a funeral. He
drifted out to the City Hospital to inquire about Zilla. She
was not likely to die, he learned. The bullet from Pauls
huge old .44 army revolver had smashed her shoulder and
torn upward and out.
234
Babbitt
He wandered home and found his wife radiant with the
hor-ified interest we have in the tragedies of our friends.
Of course Paul isnt altogether to blame, but this is what
comes of his chasing after other women instead of bearing
his cross in a Christian way, she exulted.
He was too languid to respond as he desired. He said
what was to be said about the Christian bearing of crosses,
and went out to clean the car. Dully, patiently, he scraped
linty grease from the drip-pan, gouged at the mud caked on
the wheels. He used up many minutes in washing his hands;
scoured them with gritty kitchen soap; rejoiced in hurting his
plump knuckles. Damn soft hands like a womans. Aah!
At dinner, when his wife began the inevitable, he
bellowed, I forbid any of you to say a word about Paul!
Ill tend to all the talking about this thats necessary, hear
me? Theres going to be one house in this scandalmongering town to-night that isnt going to spring the
holier-than-thou. And throw those filthy evening papers
out of the house!
But he himself read the papers, after dinner.
Before nine he set out for the house of Lawyer Maxwell.
He was received without cordiality. Well? said Maxwell.
I want to offer my services in the trial. Ive got an idea.
Why couldnt I go on the stand and swear I was there, and
she pulled the gun first and he wrestled with her and the
gun went off accidentally?
And perjure yourself?
Huh? Yes, I suppose it would be perjury. Oh Would
it help?
But, my dear fellow! Perjury!
Oh, dont be a fool! Excuse me, Maxwell; I didnt mean
to get your goat. I just mean: Ive known and youve
known many and many a case of perjury, just to annex
some rotten little piece of real estate, and here where its
a case of saving Paul from going to prison, Id perjure
myself black in the face.
No. Aside from the ethics of the matter, Im afraid it
isnt practicable. The prosecutor would tear your testimony
to pieces. Its known that only Riesling and his wife were
there at the time.
235
Sinclair Lewis
Then, look here! Let me go on the stand and swear
and this would be the Gods truth that she pestered him
till he kind of went crazy.
No. Sorry. Riesling absolutely refuses to have any
testimony reflecting on his wife. He insists on pleading
guilty.
Then let me get up and testify something whatever
you say. Let me do SOMETHING!
Im sorry, Babbitt, but the best thing you can do I
hate to say it, but you could help us most by keeping
strictly out of it.
Babbitt, revolving his hat like a defaulting poor tenant,
winced so visibly that Maxwell condescended:
I dont like to hurt your feelings, but you see we both
want to do our best for Riesling, and we mustnt consider
any other factor. The trouble with you, Babbitt, is that
youre one of these fellows who talk too readily. You like
to hear your own voice. If there were anything for which
I could put you in the witness-box, youd get going and
give the whole show away. Sorry. Now I must look over
some papers So sorry.
II
He spent most of the next morning nerving himself to
face the garrulous world of the Athletic Club. They would
talk about Paul; they would be lip-licking and rotten. But
at the Roughnecks Table they did not mention Paul. They
spoke with zeal of the coming baseball season. He loved
them as he never had before.
III
He had, doubtless from some story-book, pictured Pauls
trial as a long struggle, with bitter arguments, a taut
crowd, and sudden and overwhelming new testimony.
Actually, the trial occupied less than fifteen minutes, largely
filled with the evidence of doctors that Zilla would recover
and that Paul must have been temporarily insane. Next
day Paul was sentenced to three years in the State Penitentiary
236
Babbitt
and taken off quite undramatically, not handcuffed,
merely plodding in a tired way beside a cheerful deputy
sheriff and after saying good-by to him at the station
Babbitt returned to his office to realize that he faced a
world which, without Paul, was meaningless.
Chapter XXIII
I
He was busy, from March to June. He kept himself from
the bewilderment of thinking. His wife and the neighbors
were generous. Every evening he played bridge or attended
the movies, and the days were blank of face and silent.
In June, Mrs Babbitt and Tinka went East, to stay with
relatives, and Babbitt was free to do he was not quite
sure what.
All day long after their departure he thought of the
emancipated house in which he could, if he desired, go
mad and curse the gods without having to keep up a
husbandly front. He considered, I could have a reglar
party to-night; stay out till two and not do any explaining
afterwards. Cheers! He telephoned to Vergil Gunch, to
Eddie Swanson. Both of them were engaged for the
evening, and suddenly he was bored by having to take so
much trouble to be riotous.
He was silent at dinner, unusually kindly to Ted and
Verona, hesitating but not disapproving when Verona stated
her opinion of Kenneth Escotts opinion of Dr. John
Jennison Drews opinion of the opinions of the evolutionists.
Ted was working in a garage through the summer vacation,
and he related his daily triumphs: how he had found a
cracked ball-race, what he had said to the Old Grouch,
what he had said to the foreman about the future of
wireless telephony.
Ted and Verona went to a dance after dinner. Even the
maid was out. Rarely had Babbitt been alone in the house
for an entire evening. He was restless. He vaguely wanted
something more diverting than the newspaper comic strips
237
Sinclair Lewis
to read. He ambled up to Veronas room, sat on her
maidenly blue and white bed, humming and grunting in a
solid-citizen manner as he examined her books: Conrads
Rescue, a volume strangely named Figures of Earth,
poetry (quite irregular poetry, Babbitt thought) by Vachel
Lindsay, and essays by H. L. Mencken highly improper
essays, making fun of the church and all the decencies. He
liked none of the books. In them he felt a spirit of
rebellion against niceness and solid-citizenship. These authors
and he supposed they were famous ones, too did not
seem to care about telling a good story which would
enable a fellow to forget his troubles. He sighed. He noted
a book, The Three Black Pennies, by Joseph Hergesheimer.
Ah, that was something like it! It would be an adventure
story, maybe about counterfeiting detectives sneaking up
on the old house at night. He tucked the book under his
arm, he clumped down-stairs and solemnly began to read,
under the piano-lamp:
A twilight like blue dust sifted into the shallow fold of
the thickly wooded hills. It was early October, but a
crisping frost had already stamped the maple trees with
gold, the Spanish oaks were hung with patches of wine
red, the sumach was brilliant in the darkening underbrush.
A pattern of wild geese, flying low and unconcerned
above the hills, wavered against the serene ashen evening.
Howat Penny, standing in the comparative clearing of a
road, decided that the shifting regular flight would not
come close enough for a shot... He had no intention of
hunting the geese. With the drooping of day his keenness
had evaporated; an habitual indifference strengthened,
permeating him...
There it was again: discontent with the good common
ways. Babbitt laid down the book and listened to the
stillness. The inner doors of the house were open. He
heard from the kitchen the steady drip of the refrigerator,
a rhythm demanding and disquieting. He roamed to the
window. The summer evening was foggy and, seen through
the wire screen, the street lamps were crosses of pale fire.
The whole world was abnormal. While he brooded, Verona
and Ted came in and went up to bed. Silence thickened
238
Babbitt
in the sleeping house. He put on his hat, his respectable
derby, lighted a cigar, and walked up and down before
the house, a portly, worthy, unimaginative figure, humming
Silver Threads among the Gold. He casually considered,
Might call up Paul. Then he remembered. He saw Paul in
a jailbirds uniform, but while he agonized he didnt
believe the tale. It was part of the unreality of this fogenchanted evening.
If she were here Myra would be hinting, Isnt it late,
Georgie? He tramped in forlorn and unwanted freedom.
Fog hid the house now. The world was uncreated, a chaos
without turmoil or desire.
Through the mist came a man at so feverish a pace that
he seemed to dance with fury as he entered the orb of
glow from a street-lamp. At each step he brandished his
stick and brought it down with a crash. His glasses on
their broad pretentious ribbon banged against his stomach.
Babbitt incredulously saw that it was Chum Frink.
Frink stopped, focused his vision, and spoke with
gravity:
Theres another fool. George Babbitt. Lives for renting
howshes houses. Know who I am? Im traitor to poetry.
Im drunk. Im talking too much. I dont care. Know what
I could ve been? I could ve been a Gene Field or a James
Whitcomb Riley. Maybe a Stevenson. I could ve. Whimsies.
Magination. Lissen. Lissen to this. Just made it up:
Glittering summery meadowy noise Of beetles and
bums and respectable boys.
Hear that? Whimzh whimsy. I made that up. I dont
know what it means! Beginning good verse. Chiles Garden
Verses. And whadi write? Tripe! Cheer-up poems. All tripe!
Could have written Too late!
He darted on with an alarming plunge, seeming always
to pitch forward yet never quite falling. Babbitt would
have been no more astonished and no less had a ghost
skipped out of the fog carrying his head. He accepted
Frink with vast apathy; he grunted, Poor boob! and
straightway forgot him.
He plodded into the house, deliberately went to the
refrigerator and rifled it. When Mrs Babbitt was at home,
239
Sinclair Lewis
this was one of the major household crimes. He stood
before the covered laundry tubs, eating a chicken leg and
half a saucer of raspberry jelly, and grumbling over a
clammy cold boiled potato. He was thinking. It was
coming to him that perhaps all life as he knew it and
vigorously practised it was futile; that heaven as portrayed
by the Reverend Dr. John Jennison Drew was neither
probable nor very interesting; that he hadnt much pleasure
out of making money; that it was of doubtful worth to rear
children merely that they might rear children who would
rear children. What was it all about? What did he want?
He blundered into the living-room, lay on the davenport,
hands behind his head.
What did he want? Wealth? Social position? Travel?
Servants? Yes, but only incidentally.
I give it up, he sighed.
But he did know that he wanted the presence of Paul
Riesling; and from that he stumbled into the admission
that he wanted the fairy girl in the flesh. If there had
been a woman whom he loved, he would have fled to her,
humbled his forehead on her knees.
He thought of his stenographer, Miss McGoun. He
thought of the prettiest of the manicure girls at the Hotel
Thornleigh barber shop. As he fell asleep on the davenport
he felt that he had found something in life, and that he
had made a terrifying, thrilling break with everything that
was decent and normal.
II
He had forgotten, next morning, that he was a conscious
rebel, but he was irritable in the office and at the eleven
oclock drive of telephone calls and visitors he did something
he had often desired and never dared: he left the office
without excuses to those stave-drivers his employees, and
went to the movies. He enjoyed the right to be alone. He came
out with a vicious determination to do what he pleased.
As he approached the Roughnecks Table at the club,
everybody laughed.
Well, heres the millionaire! said Sidney Finkelstein.
240
Соседние файлы в предмете [НЕСОРТИРОВАННОЕ]