“—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?”
“Great! Great idea!” Babbitt admired.
Not for fourteen years had he taken a holiday without his wife, and neither of them quite believed they could commit this audacity. Many members of the Athletic Club did go camping without their wives, but they were officially dedicated to fishing and hunting, whereas the sacred and unchangeable sports of Babbitt and Paul Riesling were golfing, motoring, and bridge. For either the fishermen or the golfers to have changed their habits would have been an infraction of their self-imposed discipline which would have shocked all right-thinking and regularized citizens.
Babbitt blustered, “Why don’t we just put our foot down and say, ‘We’re going on ahead of you, and that’s all there is to it!’ Nothing criminal in it. Simply say to Zilla—”
“You don’t say anything to Zilla simply. Why, Georgie, she’s almost as much of a moralist as you are, and if I told her the truth she’d believe we were going to meet some dames in New York. And even Myra—she never nags you, the way Zilla does, but she’d worry. She’d say, ‘Don’t you want me to go to Maine with you? I shouldn’t dream of going unless you wanted me;’ and you’d give in to save her feelings. Oh, the devil! Let’s have a shot at duckpins.”
During the game of duckpins, a
