Babbit

ton Avenue Car Line would be extended, and a dinner which was, as he rejoiced to his wife, not only “a regular society spread but a real sure-enough highbrow affair, with some of

w, and rubbed his patent-leather pumps with a handkerchief. He glanced with pleasure at his garnet and silver studs. He smoothed and patted his ankles, transformed by silk socks from the sturdy shanks of George Babbitt to the elegant limbs of what is called a Clubman. He stood before the pier-glass, viewing his trim dinner-coat, his beautiful triple-braided trousers; and murmured in lyric beatitude, “By golly, I don’t look so bad. I certainly don’t look like Catawba. If the hicks back home could see me in this rig, they’d have a fit!”He moved majestically down to mix the cocktails. As he chipped ice, as he squeezed oranges, as he collected vast stores of bottles, glasses, and spoons at the sink in the pantry, he felt as authoritative as the bartender at Healey Hanson’s saloon. True, Mrs. Babbitt said he was under foot, and Matilda and the maid hired for the evening brushed by him, elbowed him, shrieked “Pleasopn door,” as they tottered through with trays, but in this high moment he ignored them.Besides the new bottle of gin, his cellar consisted of one half-bottle of Bourbon whisky, a quarter of a bottle of Italian vermouth, and approximately one hundred drops of orange bitters. He did not possess a cocktail-shaker. A shaker was proof of dissipation, the symbol of a Drinker, and Babbitt disliked being known as a Drinker even more than he liked a Drink. He mixed by pouring from an ancient gravy-boat into a handleless pitcher; he poured with a noble dignity, holding his alembics high beneath the powerful Mazda globe, his face hot, his shirt-front a glaring white, the copper sink a scoured red-gold.He tasted the sacred essence. “Now, by golly, if that isn’t pretty near one fine old cocktail! Kind of a Bronx, and yet like a Manhattan. Ummmmmm! Hey, Myra, want a little nip before the folks come?”Bustling into the dining-room, moving each glass a quarter of an inch, rushing back with resolution implacable on her face her gray and silver-lace party frock protected by a denim towel, Mrs. Babbitt glared at him, and rebuked him, “Certainly not!”“Well,” in a loose, jocose manner, “I think the old man will!”The cocktail filled him with a whirling exhilaration behind which he was aware of devastating desires — to rush places in fast motors, to kiss girls, to sing, to be witty. He sought to regain his lost dignity by announcing to Matilda:“I’m going to stick this pitcher of cocktails in the refrigerator. Be sure you don’t upset any of ’em.”“Yeh.”“Well, be sure now. Don’t go putting anything on this top shelf.”“Yeh.”“Well, be —” He was dizzy. His voice was thin and distant. “Whee!” With enormous impressiveness he commanded, “Well, be sure now,” and minced into the safety of the living-room. He wondered whether he could persuade “as slow a bunch as Myra and the Littlefields to go some place aft’ dinner and raise Cain and maybe dig up smore booze.” He perceived that he had gifts of profligacy which had been neglected.By the time the guests had come, including the inevitable late couple for whom the others waited with painful amiability, a great gray emptiness had replaced the purple swirling in Babbitt’s head, and he had to force the tumultuous greetings suitable to a host on Floral Heights.The guests were Howard Littlefield, the doctor of philosophy who furnished publicity and comforting economics to the Street Traction Company; Vergil Gunch, the coal-dealer, equally powerful in the Elks and in the Boosters’ Club; Eddie Swanson the agent for the Javelin Motor Car, who lived across the street; and Orville Jones, owner of the Lily White Laundry, which justly announced itself “the biggest, busiest, bulliest cleanerie shoppe in Zenith.” But, naturally, the most distinguished of all was T. Cholmondeley Frink, who was not only the author of “Poemulations,” which, syndicated daily in sixty-seven leading newspapers, gave him one of the largest audiences of any poet in the world, but also an optimistic lecturer and the creator of “Ads that Add.” Despite the searching philosophy and high morality of his verses, they were humorous and easily understood by any child of twelve; and it added a neat air of pleasantry to them that they were set not as verse but as prose. Mr. Frink was known from Coast to Coast as “Chum.”With them were six wives, more or less — it was hard to tell, so early in the evening, as at first glance they all looked alike, and as they all said, “Oh, ISN’T this nice!” in the same tone of determined liveliness. To the eye, the men were less similar: Littlefield, a hedge-scholar, tall and horse-faced; Chum Frink, a trifle of a man with soft and mouse-like hair, advertising his profession as poet by a silk cord on his eye-glasses; Vergil Gunch, broad, with coarse black hair en brosse; Eddie Swanson, a bald and bouncing young man who showed his taste for elegance by an evening waistcoat of figured black silk with glass buttons; Orville Jones, a steady-looking, stubby, not very memorable person, with a hemp-colored toothbrush mustache. Yet they were all so well fed and clean, they all shouted “‘Evenin’, Georgie!” with such robustness, that they seemed to be cousins, and the strange thing is that the longer one knew the women, the less alike they seemed; while the longer one knew the men, the more alike their bold patterns appeared.The drinking of the cocktails was as canonical a rite as the mixing. The company waited, uneasily, hopefully, agreeing in a strained manner that the weather had been rather warm and slightly cold, but still Babbitt said nothing about drinks. They became despondent. But when the late couple (the Swansons) had arrived, Babbitt hinted, “Well, folks, do you think you could stand breaking the law a little?”They looked at Chum Frink, the recognized lord of language. Frink pulled at his eye-glass cord as at a bell-rope, he cleared his throat and said that which was the custom:“I’ll tell you, George: I’m a law-abiding man, but they do say Verg Gunch is a regular yegg, and of course he’s bigger ‘n I am, and I just can’t figure out what I’d do if he tried to force me into anything criminal!”Gunch was roaring, “Well, I’ll take a chance —” when Frink held up his hand and went on, “So if Verg and you insist, Georgie, I’ll park my car on the wrong side of the street, because I take it for granted that’s the crime you’re hinting at!”There was a great deal of laughter. Mrs. Jones asserted, “Mr. Frink is simply too killing! You’d think he was so innocent!”Babbitt clamored, “How did you guess it, Chum? Well, you-all just wait a moment while I go out and get the — keys to your cars!” Through a froth of merriment he brought the shining promise, the mighty tray of glasses with the cloudy yellow cocktails in the glass pitcher in the center. The men babbled, “Oh, gosh, have a look!” and “This gets me right where I live!” and “Let me at it!” But Chum Frink, a traveled man and not unused to woes, was stricken by the thought that the potion might be merely fruit-juice with a little neutral spirits. He looked timorous as Babbitt, a moist and ecstatic almoner, held out a glass, but as he tasted it he piped, “Oh, man, let me dream on! It ain’t true, but don’t waken me! Jus’ lemme slumber!”Two hours before, Frink had completed a newspaper lyric beginning:“I sat alone and groused and thunk, and scratched my head and sighed and wunk, and groaned, “There still are boobs, alack, who’d like the old-time gin-mill back; that den that makes a sage a loon, the vile and smelly old saloon!” I’ll never miss their poison booze, whilst I the bubbling spring can use, that leaves my head at merry morn as clear as any babe new-born!”Babbitt drank with the others; his moment’s depression was gone; he perceived that these were the best fellows in the world; he wanted to give them a thousand cocktails. “Think you could stand another?” he cried. The wives refused, with giggles, but the men, speaking in a wide, elaborate, enjoyable manner, gloated, “Well, sooner than have you get sore at me, Georgie —”“You got a little dividend coming,” said Babbitt to each of them, and each intoned, “Squeeze it, Georgie, squeeze it!”When, beyond hope, the pitcher was empty, they stood and talked about prohibition. The men leaned back on their heels, put their hands in their trousers-pockets, and proclaimed their views with the booming profundity of a prosperous male repeating a thoroughly hackneyed statement about a matter of which he knows nothing whatever.“Now, I’ll tell you,” said Vergil Gunch; “way I figure it is this, and I can speak by the book, because I’ve talked to a lot of doctors and fellows that ought to know, and the way I see it is that it’s a good thing to get rid of the saloon, but they ought to let a fellow have beer and light wines.”Howard Littlefield observed, “What isn’t generally realized is that it’s a dangerous prop’sition to invade the rights of personal liberty. Now, take this for instance: The King of — Bavaria? I think it was Bavaria — yes, Bavaria, it was — in 1862, March, 1862, he issued a proclamation against public grazing of live-stock. The peasantry had stood for overtaxation without the slightest complaint, but when this proclamation came out, they rebelled. Or it may have been Saxony. But it just goes to show the dangers of invading the rights of personal liberty.”“That’s it — no one got a right to invade personal liberty,” said Orville Jones.“Just the same, you don’t want to forget prohibition is a mighty good thing for the working-classes. Keeps ’em from wasting their money and lowering their productiveness,” said Vergil Gunch.“Yes, that’s so. But the trouble is the manner of enforcement,” insisted Howard Littlefield. “Congress didn’t understand the right system. Now, if I’d been running the thing, I’d have arranged it so that the drinker himself was licensed, and then we could have taken care of the shiftless workman — kept him from drinking — and yet not ‘ve interfered with the rights — with the personal liberty — of fellows like ourselves.”They bobbed their heads, looked admiringly at one another, and stated, “That’s so, that would be the stunt.”“The thing that worries me is that a lot of these guys will take to cocaine,” sighed Eddie Swanson.They bobbed more violently, and groaned, “That’s so, there is a danger of that.”Chum Frink chanted, “Oh, say, I got hold of a swell new receipt for home-made beer the other day. You take —”Gunch interrupted, “Wait! Let me tell you mine!” Littlefield snorted, “Beer! Rats! Thing to do is to ferment cider!” Jones insisted, “I’ve got the receipt that does the business!” Swanson begged, “Oh, say, lemme tell you the story —” But Frink went on resolutely, “You take and save the shells from peas, and pour six gallons of water on a bushel of shells and boil the mixture till —”Mrs. Babbitt turned toward them with yearning sweetness; Frink hastened to finish even his best beer-recipe; and she said gaily, “Dinner is served.”There was a good deal of friendly argument among the men as to which should go in last, and while they were crossing the hall from the living-room to the dining-room Vergil Gunch made them laugh by thundering, “If I can’t sit next to Myra Babbitt and hold her hand under the table, I won’t play — I’m goin’ home.” In the dining-room they stood embarrassed while Mrs. Babbitt fluttered, “Now, let me see — Oh, I was going to have some nice hand-painted place-cards for you but — Oh, let me