Main Street by Sinclair Lewis (ink book reader .TXT) 📕

“Say, jever notice how Mrs. Kennicott fusses around the house? Other evening when I was coming over here, she’d forgot to pull down the curtain, and I watched her for ten minutes. Jeeze, you’d ’a’ died laughing. She was there all alone, and she must ’a’ spent five minutes getting a picture straight. It was funny as hell the way she’d stick out her finger to straighten the picture⁠—deedle-dee, see my tunnin’ ’ittle finger, oh my, ain’t I cute, what a fine long tail my cat’s got!”

“But say, Earl, she’s some good-looker, just the same, and O Ignatz! the glad rags she must of bought for her wedding. Jever notice these low-cut dresses and these thin shimmy-shirts she wears? I had a good squint at ’em when they were out on the line with the wash. And some ankles she’s got, heh?”

Then Carol fled.

In her innocence she had not known that the whole town could discuss even her garments, her body. She felt that she was being dragged naked down Main Street.

The moment it was dusk she pulled down the window-shades, all the shades flush with the sill, but beyond them she felt moist fleering eyes.

She remembered, and tried to forget, and remembered more sharply the vulgar detail of her husband’s having observed the ancient customs of the land by chewing tobacco. She would have preferred a prettier vice⁠—gambling or a mistress. For these she might have found a luxury of forgiveness. She could not remember any fascinatingly wicked hero of fiction who chewed tobacco. She asserted that it proved him to be a man of the bold free West. She tried to align him with the hairy-chested heroes of the motion-pictures. She curled on the couch a pallid softness in the twilight, and fought herself, and lost the battle. Spitting did not identify him with rangers riding the buttes; it merely bound him to Gopher Prairie⁠—to Nat Hicks the tailor and Bert Tybee the bartender.

“But he gave it up for me. Oh, what does it matter! We’re all filthy in some things. I think of myself as so superior, but I do eat and digest, I do wash my dirty paws and scratch. I’m not a cool slim goddess on a column. There aren’t any! He gave it up for me. He stands by me, believing that everyone loves me. He’s the Rock of Ages⁠—in a storm of meanness that’s driving me mad⁠ ⁠… it will drive me mad.”

All evening she sang Scotch ballads to Kennicott, and when she noticed that he was chewing an unlighted cigar she smiled maternally at his secret.

She could not escape asking (in the exact words and mental intonations which a thousand million women, dairy wenches and mischief-making queens, had used before her, and which a million million women will know hereafter), “Was it all a horrible mistake, my marrying him?” She quieted the doubt⁠—without answering it.

Kennicott had taken her north to Lac-qui-Meurt, in the Big Woods. It was the entrance to a Chippewa Indian reservation, a sandy settlement among Norway pines on the shore of a huge snow-glaring lake. She had her first sight of his mother, except the glimpse at the wedding. Mrs. Kennicott had a hushed and delicate breeding which dignified her woodeny over-scrubbed cottage with its worn hard cushions in heavy rockers. She had never lost the child’s miraculous power of wonder. She asked questions about books and cities. She murmured:

“Will is a dear hardworking boy but he’s inclined to be too serious, and you’ve taught him how to play. Last night I heard you both laughing about the old Indian basket-seller, and I just lay in bed and enjoyed your happiness.”

Carol forgot her misery-hunting in this solidarity of family life. She could depend upon them; she was not battling alone. Watching Mrs. Kennicott flit about the kitchen she was better able to translate Kennicott himself. He was matter-of-fact, yes, and incurably mature. He didn’t really play; he let Carol play with him. But he had his mother’s genius for trusting, her disdain for prying, her sure integrity.

From the two days at Lac-qui-Meurt Carol drew confidence in herself, and she returned to Gopher Prairie in a throbbing calm like those golden drugged seconds when, because he is for an instant free from pain, a sick man revels in living.

A bright hard winter day, the wind shrill, black and silver clouds booming across the sky, everything in panicky motion during the brief light. They struggled against the surf of wind, through deep snow. Kennicott was cheerful. He hailed Loren Wheeler, “Behave yourself while I been away?” The editor bellowed, “B’ gosh you stayed so long that all your patients have got well!” and importantly took notes for the Dauntless about their journey. Jackson Elder cried, “Hey, folks! How’s tricks up North?” Mrs. McGanum waved to them from her porch.

“They’re glad to see us. We mean something here. These people are satisfied. Why can’t I be? But can I sit back all my life and be satisfied with ‘Hey, folks’? They want shouts on Main Street, and I want violins in a paneled room. Why⁠—?”

Vida Sherwin ran in after school a dozen times. She was tactful, torrentially anecdotal. She had scuttled about town and plucked compliments: Mrs. Dr. Westlake had pronounced Carol a “very sweet, bright, cultured young woman,” and Brad Bemis, the tinsmith at Clark’s Hardware Store, had declared that she was “easy to work for and awful easy to look at.”

But Carol could not yet take her in. She resented this outsider’s knowledge of her shame. Vida was not too long tolerant. She hinted, “You’re a great brooder, child. Buck up now. The town’s quit criticizing you, almost entirely. Come with me to the Thanatopsis Club. They have some of the best papers, and current-events discussions⁠—so interesting.”

In Vida’s demands Carol felt a compulsion, but she was too listless to obey.

It was Bea Sorenson who was really her confidante.

However charitable toward the