At that moment in Zenith, three hundred and forty
or fifty thousand Ordinary People were asleep, a vast
unpenetrated shadow. In the slum beyond the railroad
tracks, a young man who for six months had sought
work turned on the gas and killed himself and his wife.
At that moment Lloyd Mallam, the poet, owner of the
Hafiz Book Shop, was finishing a rondeau to show how
diverting was life amid the feuds of medieval Florence,
but how dull it was in so obvious a place as Zenith.
And at that moment George F. Babbitt turned ponderously
in bed—the last turn, signifying that he’d
had enough of this worried business of falling asleep
and was about it in earnest.
Instantly he was in the magic dream. He was somewhere
among unknown people who laughed at him. He slipped
away, ran down the paths of a midnight garden, and
at the gate the fairy child was waiting. Her
dear and tranquil hand caressed his cheek. He
was gallant and wise and well-beloved; warm ivory
were her arms; and beyond perilous moors the brave
sea glittered.
The great events of Babbitt’s spring were
the secret buying of real-estate options in Linton
for certain street-traction officials, before the
public announcement that the Linton 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 the keenest intellects and the brightest bunch of
little women in town.” It was so absorbing
an occasion that he almost forgot his desire to run
off to Maine with Paul Riesling.
Though he had been born in the village of Catawba,
Babbitt had risen to that metropolitan social plane
on which hosts have as many as four people at dinner
without planning it for more than an evening or two.
But a dinner of twelve, with flowers from the florist’s
and all the cut-glass out, staggered even the Babbitts.
For two weeks they studied, debated, and arbitrated
the list of guests.
Babbitt marveled, “Of course we’re up-to-date
ourselves, but still, think of us entertaining a famous
poet like Chum Frink, a fellow that on nothing but
a poem or so every day and just writing a few advertisements
pulls down fifteen thousand berries a year!”
“Yes, and Howard Littlefield. Do you know,
the other evening Eunice told me her papa speaks three
languages!” said Mrs. Babbitt.
“Huh! That’s nothing! So do
I—American, baseball, and poker!”
“I don’t think it’s nice to be funny
about a matter like that. Think how wonderful
it must be to speak three languages, and so useful
and—And with people like that, I don’t
see why we invite the Orville Joneses.”
“Well now, Orville is a mighty up-and-coming
fellow!”
“Yes, I know, but—A laundry!”
