i

they had four hours in new york between trains. the one thing babbitt wished to see was the pennsylvania hotel, which had been built since his last visit. he stared up at it, muttering, “twenty-two hundred rooms and twenty-two hundred baths! that's got everything in the world beat. lord, their turnover must be—well, suppose price of rooms is four to eight dollars a day, and i suppose maybe some ten and—four times twenty-two hundred-say six times twenty-two hundred—well, anyway, with restaurants and everything, say summers between eight and fifteen thousand a day. every day! i never thought i'd see a thing like that! some town! of course the average fellow in zenith has got more individual initiative than the fourflushers here, but i got to hand it to new york. yes, sir, town, you're all right—some ways. well, old paulski, i guess we've seen everything that's worth while. how'll we kill the rest of the time? movie?”

but paul desired to see a liner. “always wanted to go to europe—and, by thunder, i will, too, some day before i past out,” he sighed.

from a rough wharf on the north river they stared at the stern of the aquitania and her stacks and wireless antenna lifted above the dock-house which shut her in.

“by golly,” babbitt droned, “wouldn't be so bad to go over to the old country and take a squint at all these ruins, and the place where shakespeare was born. and think of being able to order a drink whenever you wanted one! just range up to a bar and holler out loud, 'gimme a cocktail, and darn the police!' not bad at all. what juh like to see, over there, paulibus?”

paul did not answer. babbitt turned. paul was standing with clenched fists, head drooping, staring at the liner as in terror. his thin body, seen against the summer-glaring planks of the wharf, was childishly meager.

again, “what would you hit for on the other side, paul?”

scowling at the steamer, his breast heaving, paul whispered, “oh, my god!” while babbitt watched him anxiously he snapped, “come on, let's get out of this,” and hastened down the wharf, not looking back.

“that's funny,” considered babbitt. “the boy didn't care for seeing the ocean boats after all. i thought he'd be interested in 'em.”

ii

though he exulted, and made sage speculations about locomotive horse-power, as their train climbed the maine mountain-ridge and from the summit he looked down the shining way among the pines; though he remarked, “well, by golly!” when he discovered that the station at katadumcook, the end of the line, was an aged freight-car; babbitt's moment of impassioned release came when they sat on a tiny wharf on lake sunasquam, awaiting the launch from the hotel. a raft had floated down the lake; between the logs and the shore, the water was transparent, thin-looking, flashing with minnows. a guide in black felt hat with trout-flies in the band, and flannel shirt of a peculiarly daring blue, sat on a log and whittled and was silent. a dog, a good country dog, black and woolly gray, a dog rich in leisure and in meditation, scratched and grunted and slept. the thick sunlight was lavish on the bright water, on the rim of gold-green balsam boughs, the silver birches and tropic ferns, and across the lake it burned on the sturdy shoulders of the mountains. over everything was a holy peace.

silent, they loafed on the edge of the wharf, swinging their legs above the water. the immense tenderness of the place sank into babbitt, and he murmured, “i'd just like to sit here—the rest of my life—and whittle—and sit. and never hear a typewriter. or stan graff fussing in the 'phone. or rone and ted scrapping. just sit. gosh!”

he patted paul's shoulder. “how does it strike you, old snoozer?”

“oh, it's darn good, georgie. there's something sort of eternal about it.”

for once, babbitt understood him.

iii

their launch rounded the bend; at the head of the lake, under a mountain slope, they saw the little central dining-shack of their hotel and the crescent of squat log cottages which served as bedrooms. they landed, and endured the critical examination of the habitues who had been at the hotel for a whole week. in their cottage, with its high stone fireplace, they hastened, as babbitt expressed it, to “get into some regular he-togs.” they came out; paul in an old gray suit and soft white shirt; babbitt in khaki shirt and vast and flapping khaki trousers. it was excessively new khaki; his rimless spectacles belonged to a city office; and his face was not tanned but a city pink. he made a discordant noise in the place. but with infinite satisfaction he slapped his legs and crowed, “say, this is getting back home, eh?”

they stood on the wharf before the hotel. he winked at paul and drew from his back pocket a plug of chewing-tobacco, a vulgarism forbidden in the babbitt home. he took a chew, beaming and wagging his head as he tugged at it. “um! um! maybe i haven't been hungry for a wad of eating-tobacco! have some?”

they looked at each other in a grin of understanding. paul took the plug, gnawed at it. they stood quiet, their jaws working. they solemnly spat, one after the other, into the placid water. they stretched voluptuously, with lifted arms and arched backs. from beyond the mountains came the shuffling sound of a far-off train. a trout leaped, and fell back in a silver circle. they sighed together.

iv

they had a week before their families came. each evening they planned to get up early and fish before breakfast. each morning they lay abed till the breakfast-bell, pleasantly conscious that there were no efficient wives to rouse them. the mornings were cold; the fire was kindly as they dressed.

paul was distressingly clean, but babbitt reveled in a good sound dirtiness, in not having to shave till his spirit was moved to it. he treasured every grease spot and fish-scale on his new khaki trousers.

all morning they fished unenergetically, or tramped the dim and aqueous-lighted trails among rank ferns and moss sprinkled with crimson bells. they slept all afternoon, and till midnight played stud-poker with the guides. poker was a serious business to the guides. they did not gossip; they shuffled the thick greasy cards with a deft ferocity menacing to the “sports;” and joe paradise, king of guides, was sarcastic to loiterers who halted the game even to scratch.

at midnight, as paul and he blundered to their cottage over the pungent wet grass, and pine-roots confusing in the darkness, babbitt rejoiced that he did not have to explain to his wife where he had been all evening.

they did not talk much. the nervous loquacity and opinionation of the zenith athletic club dropped from them. but when they did talk they slipped into the naive intimacy of college days. once they drew their canoe up to the bank of sunasquam water, a stream walled in by the dense green of the hardhack. the sun roared on the green jungle but in the shade was sleepy peace, and the water was golden and rippling. babbitt drew his hand through the cool flood, and mused:

“we never thought we'd come to maine together!”

“no. we've never done anything the way we thought we would. i expected to live in germany with my granddad's people, and study the fiddle.”

“that's so. and remember how i wanted to be a lawyer and go into politics? i still think i might have made a go of it. i've kind of got the gift of the gab—anyway, i can think on my feet, and make some kind of a spiel on most anything, and of course that's the thing you need in politics. by golly, ted's going to law-school, even if i didn't! well—i guess it's worked out all right. myra's been a fine wife. and zilla means well, paulibus.”

“yes. up here, i figure out all sorts of plans to keep her amused. i kind of feel life is going to be different, now that we're getting a good rest and can go back and start over again.”

“i hope so, old boy.” shyly: “say, gosh, it's been awful nice to sit around and loaf and gamble and act regular, with you along, you old horse-thief!”

“well, you know what it means to me, georgie. saved my life.”

the shame of emotion overpowered them; they cursed a little, to prove they were good rough fellows; and in a mellow silence, babbitt whistling while paul hummed, they paddled back to the hotel.

v

though it was paul who had seemed overwrought, babbitt who had been the protecting big brother, paul became clear-eyed and merry, while babbitt sank into irritability. he uncovered layer on layer of hidden weariness. at first he had played nimble jester to paul and for him sought amusements; by the end of the week paul was nurse, and babbitt accepted favors with the condescension one always shows a patient nurse.

the day before their families arrived, the women guests at the hotel bubbled, “oh, isn't it nice! you must be so excited;” and the proprieties compelled babbitt and paul to look excited. but they went to bed early and grumpy.

when myra appeared she said at once, “now, we want you boys to go on playing around just as if we weren't here.”

the first evening, he stayed out for poker with the guides, and she said in placid merriment, “my! you're a regular bad one!” the second evening, she groaned sleepily, “good heavens, are you going to be out every single night?” the third evening, he didn't play poker.

he was tired now in every cell. “funny! vacation doesn't seem to have done me a bit of good,” he lamented. “paul's frisky as a colt, but i swear, i'm crankier and nervouser than when i came up here.”

he had three weeks of maine. at the end of the second week he began to feel calm, and interested in life. he planned an expedition to climb sachem mountain, and wanted to camp overnight at box car pond. he was curiously weak, yet cheerful, as though he had cleansed his veins of poisonous energy and was filling them with wholesome blood.

he ceased to be irritated by ted's infatuation with a waitress (his seventh tragic affair this year); he played catch with ted, and with pride taught him to cast a fly in the pine-shadowed silence of skowtuit pond.

at the end he sighed, “hang it, i'm just beginning to enjoy my vacation. but, well, i feel a lot better. and it's going to be one great year! maybe the real estate board will elect me president, instead of some fuzzy old-fashioned faker like chan mott.”

on the way home, whenever he went into the smoking-compartment he felt guilty at deserting his wife and angry at being expected to feel guilty, but each time he triumphed, “oh, this is going to be a great year, a great old year!”

chapter xii

i

all the way home from maine, babbitt was certain that he was a changed man. he was converted to serenity. he was going to cease worrying about business. he was going to have more “interests”—theaters, public affairs, reading. and suddenly, as he finished an especially heavy cigar, he was going to stop smoking.

he invented a new and perfect method. he would buy no tobacco; he would depend on borrowing it; and, of course, he would be ashamed to borrow often. in a spasm of righteousness he flung his cigar-case out of the smoking-compartment window. he went back and was kind to his wife about nothing in particular; he admired his own purity, and decided, “absolutely simple. just a matter of will-power.” he started a magazine serial about a scientific detective. ten miles on, he was conscious that he desired to smoke. he ducked his head, like a turtle going into its shell; he appeared uneasy; he skipped two pages in his story and didn't know it. five miles later, he leaped up and sought the porter. “say, uh, george, have you got a—” the porter looked patient. “have you got a time-table?” babbitt finished. at the next stop he went out and bought a cigar. since it was to be his last before he reached zenith, he finished it down to an inch stub.

four days later he again remembered that he had stopped smoking, but he was too busy catching up with his office-work to keep it remembered.

ii

baseball, he determined, would be an excellent hobby. “no sense a man's working his fool head off. i'm going out to the game three times a week. besides, fellow ought to support the home team.”

he did go and support the team, and enhance the glory of zenith, by yelling “attaboy!” and “rotten!” he performed the rite scrupulously. he wore a cotton handkerchief about his collar; he became sweaty; he opened his mouth in a wide loose grin; and drank lemon soda out of a bottle. he went to the game three times a week, for one week. then he compromised on watching the advocate-times bulletin-board. he stood in the thickest and steamiest of the crowd, and as the boy up on the lofty platform recorded the achievements of big bill bostwick, the pitcher, babbitt remarked to complete strangers, “pretty nice! good work!” and hastened back to the office.

he honestly believed that he loved baseball. it is true that he hadn't, in twenty-five years, himself played any baseball except back-lot catch with ted—very gentle, and strictly limited to ten minutes. but the game was a custom of his clan, and it gave outlet for the homicidal and sides-taking instincts which babbitt called “patriotism” and “love of sport.”

as he approached the office he walked faster and faster, muttering, “guess better hustle.” all about him the city was hustling, for hustling's sake. men in motors were hustling to pass one another in the hustling traffic. men were hustling to catch trolleys, with another trolley a minute behind, and to leap from the trolleys, to gallop across the sidewalk, to hurl themselves into buildings, into hustling express elevators. men in dairy lunches were hustling to gulp down the food which cooks had hustled to fry. men in barber shops were snapping, “jus' shave me once over. gotta hustle.” men were feverishly getting rid of visitors in offices adorned with the signs, “this is my busy day” and “the lord created the world in six days—you can spiel all you got to say in six minutes.” men who had made five thousand, year before last, and ten thousand last year, were urging on nerve-yelping bodies and parched brains so that they might make twenty thousand this year; and the men who had broken down immediately after making their twenty thousand dollars were hustling to catch trains, to hustle through the vacations which the hustling doctors had ordered.

among them babbitt hustled back to his office, to sit down with nothing much to do except see that the staff looked as though they were hustling.

iii

every saturday afternoon he hustled out to his country club and hustled through nine holes of golf as a rest after the week's hustle.

in zenith it was as necessary for a successful man to belong to a country club as it was to wear a linen collar. babbitt's was the outing golf and country club, a pleasant gray-shingled building with a broad porch, on a daisy-starred cliff above lake kennepoose. there was another, the tonawanda country club, to which belonged charles mckelvey, horace updike, and the other rich men who lunched not at the athletic but at the union club. babbitt explained with frequency, “you couldn't hire me to join the tonawanda, even if i did have a hundred and eighty bucks to throw away on the initiation fee. at the outing we've got a bunch of real human fellows, and the finest lot of little women in town—just as good at joshing as the men—but at the tonawanda there's nothing but these would-be's in new york get-ups, drinking tea! too much dog altogether. why, i wouldn't join the tonawanda even if they—i wouldn't join it on a bet!”

when he had played four or five holes, he relaxed a bit, his tobacco-fluttering heart beat more normally, and his voice slowed to the drawling of his hundred generations of peasant ancestors.

iv

at least once a week mr. and mrs. babbitt and tinka went to the movies. their favorite motion-picture theater was the chateau, which held three thousand spectators and had an orchestra of fifty pieces which played arrangements from the operas and suites portraying a day on the farm, or a four-alarm fire. in the stone rotunda, decorated with crown-embroidered velvet chairs and almost medieval tapestries, parrakeets sat on gilded lotos columns.

with exclamations of “well, by golly!” and “you got to go some to beat this dump!” babbitt admired the chateau. as he stared across the thousands of heads, a gray plain in the dimness, as he smelled good clothes and mild perfume and chewing-gum, he felt as when he had first seen a mountain and realized how very, very much earth and rock there was in it.

he liked three kinds of films: pretty bathing girls with bare legs; policemen or cowboys and an industrious shooting of revolvers; and funny fat men who ate spaghetti. he chuckled with immense, moist-eyed sentimentality at interludes portraying puppies, kittens, and chubby babies; and he wept at deathbeds and old mothers being patient in mortgaged cottages. mrs. babbitt preferred the pictures in which handsome young women in elaborate frocks moved through sets ticketed as the drawing-rooms of new york millionaires. as for tinka, she preferred, or was believed to prefer, whatever her parents told her to.

all his relaxations—baseball, golf, movies, bridge, motoring, long talks with paul at the athletic club, or at the good red beef and old english chop house—were necessary to babbitt, for he was entering a year of such activity as he had never known.