Arrowsmith - Sinclair Lewis (books suggested by bill gates .txt) 📗

“Nonsense! That attitude is old-fashioned. This is no longer an age of parochialism but of competition, in art and science just as much as in commerce⁠—cooperation with your own group, but with those outside it, competition to the death! Plug up the holes thoroughly, later, but we can’t have somebody else stealing a march on us. Remember you have your name to make. The way to make it is by working with me⁠—toward the greatest good for the greatest number.”

As Martin began his paper, thinking of resigning but giving it up because Tubbs seemed to him at least better than the Pickerbaughs, he had a vision of a world of little scientists, each busy in a roofless cell. Perched on a cloud, watching them, was the divine Tubbs, a glory of whiskers, ready to blast any of the little men who stopped being earnest and wasted time on speculation about anything which he had not assigned to them. Back of their welter of coops, unseen by the tutelary Tubbs, the lean giant figure of Gottlieb stood sardonic on a stormy horizon.

Literary expression was not easy to Martin. He delayed with his paper, while Tubbs became irritable and whipped him on. The experiments had ceased; there were misery and pen-scratching and much tearing of manuscript paper in Martin’s particular roofless cell.

For once he had no refuge in Leora. She cried:

“Why not? Ten thousand a year would be awfully nice, Sandy. Gee! We’ve always been so poor, and you do like nice flats and things. And to boss your own department⁠—And you could consult Dr. Gottlieb just the same. He’s a department-head, isn’t he, and yet he keeps independent of Dr. Tubbs. Oh, I’m for it!”

And slowly, under the considerable increase in respect given to him at Institute lunches, Martin himself was “for it.”

“We could get one of those new apartments on Park Avenue. Don’t suppose they cost more than three thousand a year,” he meditated. “Wouldn’t be so bad to be able to entertain people there. Not that I’d let it interfere with my work⁠ ⁠… Kind of nice.”

It was still more kind of nice, however agonizing in the taking, to be recognized socially.

Capitola McGurk, who hitherto had not perceived him except as an object less interesting than Gladys the Centrifuge, telephoned: “… Dr. Tubbs so enthusiastic and Ross and I are so pleased. Be delighted if Mrs. Arrowsmith and you could dine with us next Thursday at eight-thirty.”

Martin accepted the royal command.

It was his conviction that after glimpses of Angus Duer and Rippleton Holabird he had seen luxury, and understood smart dinner parties. Leora and he went without too much agitation to the house of Ross McGurk, in the East Seventies, near Fifth Avenue. The house did, from the street, seem to have an unusual quantity of graystone gargoyles and carven lintels and bronze grills, but it did not seem large.

Inside, the vaulted stone hallway opened up like a cathedral. They were embarrassed by the footmen, awed by the automatic elevator, oppressed by a hallway full of vellum folios and Italian chests and a drawing-room full of watercolors, and reduced to rusticity by Capitola’s queenly white satin and pearls.

There were eight or ten Persons of Importance, male and female, looking insignificant but bearing names as familiar as Ivory Soap.

Did one give his arm to some unknown lady and “take her in,” Martin wondered. He rejoiced to find that one merely straggled into the dining-room under McGurk’s amiable basso herding.

The dining-room was gorgeous and very hideous, in stamped leather and hysterias of gold, with collections of servants watching one’s use of asparagus forks. Martin was seated (it is doubtful if he ever knew that he was the guest of honor) between Capitola McGurk and a woman of whom he could learn only that she was the sister of a countess.

Capitola leaned toward him in her great white splendor.

“Now, Dr. Arrowsmith, just what is this you are discovering?”

“Why, it’s⁠—uh⁠—I’m trying to figure⁠—”

“Dr. Tubbs tells us that you have found such wonderful new ways of controlling disease.” Her l’s were a melody of summer rivers, her r’s the trill of birds in the brake. “Oh, what⁠—what could be more beautiful than relieving this sad old world of its burden of illness! But just precisely what is it that you’re doing?”

“Why, it’s awfully early to be sure but⁠—You see, it’s like this. You take certain bugs like staph⁠—”

“Oh, how interesting science is, but how frightfully difficult for simple people like me to grasp! But we’re all so humble. We’re just waiting for scientists like you to make the world secure for friendship⁠—”

Then Capitola gave all her attention to her other man. Martin looked straight ahead and ate and suffered. The sister of the countess, a sallow and stringy woman, was glowing at him. He turned with unhappy meekness (noting that she had one more fork than he, and wondering where he had got lost).

She blared, “You are a scientist, I am told.”

“Ye-es.”

“The trouble with scientists is that they do not understand beauty. They are so cold.”

Rippleton Holabird would have made pretty mirth, but Martin could only quaver, “No, I don’t think that’s true,” and consider whether he dared drink another glass of champagne.

When they had been herded back to the drawing-room, after masculine but achingly elaborate passings of the port, Capitola swooped on him with white devouring wings:

“Dear Dr. Arrowsmith, I really didn’t get a chance at dinner to ask you just exactly what you are doing⁠ ⁠… Oh! Have you seen my dear little children at the Charles Street settlement? I’m sure ever so many of them will become the most fascinating scientists. You must come lecture to them.”

That night he fretted to Leora, “Going to be hard to keep up this twittering. But I suppose I’ve got to learn to enjoy it. Oh, well, think how nice it’ll be to give some dinners of our own, with real people, Gottlieb and everybody, when I’m a department-head.”

Next morning Gottlieb came slowly into Martin’s room. He stood by the