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

traveling man working over his order-blanks. But the older people, Yankees as well as Norwegians, Germans, Finns, Canucks, had settled into submission to poverty. They were peasants, she groaned.

“Isn’t there any way of waking them up? What would happen if they understood scientific agriculture?” she begged of Kennicott, her hand groping for his.

It had been a transforming honeymoon. She had been frightened to discover how tumultuous a feeling could be roused in her. Will had been lordly⁠—stalwart, jolly, impressively competent in making camp, tender and understanding through the hours when they had lain side by side in a tent pitched among pines high up on a lonely mountain spur.

His hand swallowed hers as he started from thoughts of the practise to which he was returning. “These people? Wake ’em up? What for? They’re happy.”

“But they’re so provincial. No, that isn’t what I mean. They’re⁠—oh, so sunk in the mud.”

“Look here, Carrie. You want to get over your city idea that because a man’s pants aren’t pressed, he’s a fool. These farmers are mighty keen and up-and-coming.”

“I know! That’s what hurts. Life seems so hard for them⁠—these lonely farms and this gritty train.”

“Oh, they don’t mind it. Besides, things are changing. The auto, the telephone, rural free delivery; they’re bringing the farmers in closer touch with the town. Takes time, you know, to change a wilderness like this was fifty years ago. But already, why, they can hop into the Ford or the Overland and get in to the movies on Saturday evening quicker than you could get down to ’em by trolley in St. Paul.”

“But if it’s these towns we’ve been passing that the farmers run to for relief from their bleakness⁠—Can’t you understand? Just look at them!”

Kennicott was amazed. Ever since childhood he had seen these towns from trains on this same line. He grumbled, “Why, what’s the matter with ’em? Good hustling burgs. It would astonish you to know how much wheat and rye and corn and potatoes they ship in a year.”

“But they’re so ugly.”

“I’ll admit they aren’t comfy like Gopher Prairie. But give ’em time.”

“What’s the use of giving them time unless someone has desire and training enough to plan them? Hundreds of factories trying to make attractive motor cars, but these towns⁠—left to chance. No! That can’t be true. It must have taken genius to make them so scrawny!”

“Oh, they’re not so bad,” was all he answered. He pretended that his hand was the cat and hers the mouse. For the first time she tolerated him rather than encouraged him. She was staring out at Schoenstrom, a hamlet of perhaps a hundred and fifty inhabitants, at which the train was stopping.

A bearded German and his pucker-mouthed wife tugged their enormous imitation-leather satchel from under a seat and waddled out. The station agent hoisted a dead calf aboard the baggage-car. There were no other visible activities in Schoenstrom. In the quiet of the halt, Carol could hear a horse kicking his stall, a carpenter shingling a roof.

The business-center of Schoenstrom took up one side of one block, facing the railroad. It was a row of one-story shops covered with galvanized iron, or with clapboards painted red and bilious yellow. The buildings were as ill-assorted, as temporary-looking, as a mining-camp street in the motion-pictures. The railroad station was a one-room frame box, a mirey cattle-pen on one side and a crimson wheat-elevator on the other. The elevator, with its cupola on the ridge of a shingled roof, resembled a broad-shouldered man with a small, vicious, pointed head. The only habitable structures to be seen were the florid redbrick Catholic church and rectory at the end of Main Street.

Carol picked at Kennicott’s sleeve. “You wouldn’t call this a not-so-bad town, would you?”

“These Dutch burgs are kind of slow. Still, at that⁠—See that fellow coming out of the general store there, getting into the big car? I met him once. He owns about half the town, besides the store. Rauskukle, his name is. He owns a lot of mortgages, and he gambles in farmlands. Good nut on him, that fellow. Why, they say he’s worth three or four hundred thousand dollars! Got a dandy great big yellow brick house with tiled walks and a garden and everything, other end of town⁠—can’t see it from here⁠—I’ve gone past it when I’ve driven through here. Yes sir!”

“Then, if he has all that, there’s no excuse whatever for this place! If his three hundred thousand went back into the town, where it belongs, they could burn up these shacks, and build a dream-village, a jewel! Why do the farmers and the town-people let the Baron keep it?”

“I must say I don’t quite get you sometimes, Carrie. Let him? They can’t help themselves! He’s a dumm old Dutchman, and probably the priest can twist him around his finger, but when it comes to picking good farming land, he’s a regular wiz!”

“I see. He’s their symbol of beauty. The town erects him, instead of erecting buildings.”

“Honestly, don’t know what you’re driving at. You’re kind of played out, after this long trip. You’ll feel better when you get home and have a good bath, and put on the blue negligee. That’s some vampire costume, you witch!”

He squeezed her arm, looked at her knowingly.

They moved on from the desert stillness of the Schoenstrom station. The train creaked, banged, swayed. The air was nauseatingly thick. Kennicott turned her face from the window, rested her head on his shoulder. She was coaxed from her unhappy mood. But she came out of it unwillingly, and when Kennicott was satisfied that he had corrected all her worries and had opened a magazine of saffron detective stories, she sat upright.

Here⁠—she meditated⁠—is the newest empire of the world; the Northern Middlewest; a land of dairy herds and exquisite lakes, of new automobiles and tar-paper shanties and silos like red towers, of clumsy speech and a hope that is boundless. An empire which feeds a quarter of the world⁠—yet its work is merely begun.