Sinclair Lewis - The Collected Works of Sinclair Lewis

“After twenty-four years of that kind of thing, you don't expect me to fall down and foam at the mouth when you hint that this sweet, clean, respectable, moral life isn't all it's cracked up to be, do you? I can't even talk about it, except to you, because anybody else would think I was yellow. Maybe I am. Don't care any longer.... Gosh, you've had to stand a lot of whining from me, first and last, Georgie!”

“Rats, now, Paul, you've never really what you could call whined. Sometimes — I'm always blowing to Myra and the kids about what a whale of a realtor I am, and yet sometimes I get a sneaking idea I'm not such a Pierpont Morgan as I let on to be. But if I ever do help by jollying you along, old Paulski, I guess maybe Saint Pete may let me in after all!”

“Yuh, you're an old blow-hard, Georgie, you cheerful cut-throat, but you've certainly kept me going.”

“Why don't you divorce Zilla?”

“Why don't I! If I only could! If she'd just give me the chance! You couldn't hire her to divorce me, no, nor desert me. She's too fond of her three squares and a few pounds of nut-center chocolates in between. If she'd only be what they call unfaithful to me! George, I don't want to be too much of a stinker; back in college I'd 've thought a man who could say that ought to be shot at sunrise. But honestly, I'd be tickled to death if she'd really go making love with somebody. Fat chance! Of course she'll flirt with anything — you know how she holds hands and laughs — that laugh — that horrible brassy laugh — the way she yaps, 'You naughty man, you better be careful or my big husband will be after you!' — and the guy looking me over and thinking, 'Why, you cute little thing, you run away now or I'll spank you!' And she'll let him go just far enough so she gets some excitement out of it and then she'll begin to do the injured innocent and have a beautiful time wailing, 'I didn't think you were that kind of a person.' They talk about these demi-vierges in stories — ”

“These WHATS?”

“ — but the wise, hard, corseted, old married women like Zilla are worse than any bobbed-haired girl that ever went boldly out into this-here storm of life — and kept her umbrella slid up her sleeve! But rats, you know what Zilla is. How she nags — nags — nags. How she wants everything I can buy her, and a lot that I can't, and how absolutely unreasonable she is, and when I get sore and try to have it out with her she plays the Perfect Lady so well that even I get fooled and get all tangled up in a lot of 'Why did you say's' and 'I didn't mean's.' I'll tell you, Georgie: You know my tastes are pretty fairly simple — in the matter of food, at least. Course, as you're always complaining, I do like decent cigars — not those Flor de Cabagos you're smoking — ”

“That's all right now! That's a good two-for. By the way, Paul, did I tell you I decided to practically cut out smok — ”

“Yes you — At the same time, if I can't get what I like, why, I can do without it. I don't mind sitting down to burnt steak, with canned peaches and store cake for a thrilling little dessert afterwards, but I do draw the line at having to sympathize with Zilla because she's so rotten bad-tempered that the cook has quit, and she's been so busy sitting in a dirty lace negligee all afternoon, reading about some brave manly Western hero, that she hasn't had time to do any cooking. You're always talking about 'morals' — meaning monogamy, I suppose. You've been the rock of ages to me, all right, but you're essentially a simp. You — ”

“Where d' you get that 'simp,' little man? Let me tell you — ”

“ — love to look earnest and inform the world that it's the 'duty of responsible business men to be strictly moral, as an example to the community.' In fact you're so earnest about morality, old Georgie, that I hate to think how essentially immoral you must be underneath. All right, you can — ”

“Wait, wait now! What's — ”

“ — talk about morals all you want to, old thing, but believe me, if it hadn't been for you and an occasional evening playing the violin to Terrill O'Farrell's 'cello, and three or four darling girls that let me forget this beastly joke they call 'respectable life,' I'd 've killed myself years ago.

“And business! The roofing business! Roofs for cowsheds! Oh, I don't mean I haven't had a lot of fun out of the Game; out of putting it over on the labor unions, and seeing a big check coming in, and the business increasing. But what's the use of it? You know, my business isn't distributing roofing — it's principally keeping my competitors from distributing roofing. Same with you. All we do is cut each other's throats and make the public pay for it!”

“Look here now, Paul! You're pretty darn near talking socialism!”

“Oh yes, of course I don't really exactly mean that — I s'pose. Course — competition — brings out the best — survival of the fittest — but — But I mean: Take all these fellows we know, the kind right here in the club now, that seem to be perfectly content with their home-life and their businesses, and that boost Zenith and the Chamber of Commerce and holler for a million population. I bet if you could cut into their heads you'd find that one-third of 'em are sure-enough satisfied with their wives and kids and friends and their offices; and one-third feel kind of restless but won't admit it; and one-third are miserable and know it. They hate the whole peppy, boosting, go-ahead game, and they're bored by their wives and think their families are fools — at least when they come to forty or forty-five they're bored — and they hate business, and they'd go — Why do you suppose there's so many 'mysterious' suicides? Why do you suppose so many Substantial Citizens jumped right into the war? Think it was all patriotism?”

Babbitt snorted, “What do you expect? Think we were sent into the world to have a soft time and — what is it? — 'float on flowery beds of ease'? Think Man was just made to be happy?”

“Why not? Though I've never discovered anybody that knew what the deuce Man really was made for!”

“Well we know — not just in the Bible alone, but it stands to reason — a man who doesn't buckle down and do his duty, even if it does bore him sometimes, is nothing but a — well, he's simply a weakling. Mollycoddle, in fact! And what do you advocate? Come down to cases! If a man is bored by his wife, do you seriously mean he has a right to chuck her and take a sneak, or even kill himself?”

“Good Lord, I don't know what 'rights' a man has! And I don't know the solution of boredom. If I did, I'd be the one philosopher that had the cure for living. But I do know that about ten times as many people find their lives dull, and unnecessarily dull, as ever admit it; and I do believe that if we busted out and admitted it sometimes, instead of being nice and patient and loyal for sixty years, and then nice and patient and dead for the rest of eternity, why, maybe, possibly, we might make life more fun.”

They drifted into a maze of speculation. Babbitt was elephantishly uneasy. Paul was bold, but not quite sure about what he was being bold. Now and then Babbitt suddenly agreed with Paul in an admission which contradicted all his defense of duty and Christian patience, and at each admission he had a curious reckless joy. He said at last:

“Look here, old Paul, you do a lot of talking about kicking things in the face, but you never kick. Why don't you?”

“Nobody does. Habit too strong. But — Georgie, I've been thinking of one mild bat — oh, don't worry, old pillar of monogamy; it's highly proper. It seems to be settled now, isn't it — though of course Zilla keeps rooting for a nice expensive vacation in New York and Atlantic City, with the bright lights and the bootlegged cocktails and a bunch of lounge-lizards to dance with — but the Babbitts and the Rieslings are sure-enough going to Lake Sunasquam, aren't we? Why couldn't you and I make some excuse — say business in New York — and get up to Maine four or five days before they do, and just loaf by ourselves and smoke and cuss and be natural?”