Main Street, Sinclair Lewis [red white and royal blue hardcover txt] 📗

the weakened body less resistent. She wondered why the good citizens insisted on adding the chill of prejudice, why they did not make the houses of their spirits more warm and frivolous, like the wise chatterers of Stockholm and Moscow.

She circled the outskirts of the town and viewed the slum of “Swede Hollow.” Wherever as many as three houses are gathered there will be a slum of at least one house. In Gopher Prairie, the Sam Clarks boasted, “you don’t get any of this poverty that you find in cities⁠—always plenty of work⁠—no need of charity⁠—man got to be blame shiftless if he don’t get ahead.” But now that the summer mask of leaves and grass was gone, Carol discovered misery and dead hope. In a shack of thin boards covered with tar-paper she saw the washerwoman, Mrs. Steinhof, working in gray steam. Outside, her six-year-old boy chopped wood. He had a torn jacket, muffler of a blue like skimmed milk. His hands were covered with red mittens through which protruded his chapped raw knuckles. He halted to blow on them, to cry disinterestedly.

A family of recently arrived Finns were camped in an abandoned stable. A man of eighty was picking up lumps of coal along the railroad.

She did not know what to do about it. She felt that these independent citizens, who had been taught that they belonged to a democracy, would resent her trying to play Lady Bountiful.

She lost her loneliness in the activity of the village industries⁠—the railroad-yards with a freight-train switching, the wheat-elevator, oil-tanks, a slaughterhouse with blood-marks on the snow, the creamery with the sleds of farmers and piles of milk-cans, an unexplained stone hut labeled “Danger⁠—Powder Stored Here.” The jolly tombstone-yard, where a utilitarian sculptor in a red calfskin overcoat whistled as he hammered the shiniest of granite headstones. Jackson Elder’s small planing-mill, with the smell of fresh pine shavings and the burr of circular saws. Most important, the Gopher Prairie Flour and Milling Company, Lyman Cass president. Its windows were blanketed with flour-dust, but it was the most stirring spot in town. Workmen were wheeling barrels of flour into a boxcar; a farmer sitting on sacks of wheat in a bobsled argued with the wheat-buyer; machinery within the mill boomed and whined, water gurgled in the ice-freed millrace.

The clatter was a relief to Carol after months of smug houses. She wished that she could work in the mill; that she did not belong to the caste of professional-man’s-wife.

She started for home, through the small slum. Before a tar-paper shack, at a gateless gate, a man in rough brown dogskin coat and black plush cap with lappets was watching her. His square face was confident, his foxy mustache was picaresque. He stood erect, his hands in his side-pockets, his pipe puffing slowly. He was forty-five or -six, perhaps.

“How do, Mrs. Kennicott,” he drawled.

She recalled him⁠—the town handyman, who had repaired their furnace at the beginning of winter.

“Oh, how do you do,” she fluttered.

“My name’s Bjornstam. ‘The Red Swede’ they call me. Remember? Always thought I’d kind of like to say howdy to you again.”

“Ye⁠—yes⁠—I’ve been exploring the outskirts of town.”

“Yump. Fine mess. No sewage, no street cleaning, and the Lutheran minister and the priest represent the arts and sciences. Well, thunder, we submerged tenth down here in Swede Hollow are no worse off than you folks. Thank God, we don’t have to go and purr at Juanity Haydock at the Jolly Old Seventeen.”

The Carol who regarded herself as completely adaptable was uncomfortable at being chosen as comrade by a pipe-reeking odd-job man. Probably he was one of her husband’s patients. But she must keep her dignity.

“Yes, even the Jolly Seventeen isn’t always so exciting. It’s very cold again today, isn’t it. Well⁠—”

Bjornstam was not respectfully valedictory. He showed no signs of pulling a forelock. His eyebrows moved as though they had a life of their own. With a subgrin he went on:

“Maybe I hadn’t ought to talk about Mrs. Haydock and her Solemcholy Seventeen in that fresh way. I suppose I’d be tickled to death if I was invited to sit in with that gang. I’m what they call a pariah, I guess. I’m the town badman, Mrs. Kennicott: town atheist, and I suppose I must be an anarchist, too. Everybody who doesn’t love the bankers and the Grand Old Republican Party is an anarchist.”

Carol had unconsciously slipped from her attitude of departure into an attitude of listening, her face full toward him, her muff lowered. She fumbled:

“Yes, I suppose so.” Her own grudges came in a flood. “I don’t see why you shouldn’t criticize the Jolly Seventeen if you want to. They aren’t sacred.”

“Oh yes, they are! The dollar-sign has chased the crucifix clean off the map. But then, I’ve got no kick. I do what I please, and I suppose I ought to let them do the same.”

“What do you mean by saying you’re a pariah?”

“I’m poor, and yet I don’t decently envy the rich. I’m an old bach. I make enough money for a stake, and then I sit around by myself, and shake hands with myself, and have a smoke, and read history, and I don’t contribute to the wealth of Brother Elder or Daddy Cass.”

“You⁠—I fancy you read a good deal.”

“Yep. In a hit-or-a-miss way. I’ll tell you: I’m a lone wolf. I trade horses, and saw wood, and work in lumber-camps⁠—I’m a first-rate swamper. Always wished I could go to college. Though I s’pose I’d find it pretty slow, and they’d probably kick me out.”

“You really are a curious person, Mr.⁠—”

“Bjornstam. Miles Bjornstam. Half Yank and half Swede. Usually known as ‘that damn lazy big-mouthed calamity-howler that ain’t satisfied with the way we run things.’ No, I ain’t curious⁠—whatever you mean by that! I’m just a bookworm. Probably too much reading for the amount of digestion I’ve got. Probably half-baked. I’m going to get in ‘half-baked’ first, and beat you to it, because it’s dead sure to be handed to a radical