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- Herausgeber: Avia Artis
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
“Free Air” is a book by Sinclair Lewis an American writer. In 1930, he became the first writer from the United States to receive the Nobel Prize in Literature.
“Free Air” is a road novel about Claire Boltwood, who, in the early days of the 20th century, travels by automobile from New York City to the Pacific Northwest, where she falls in love with a nice, down-to-earth young man and gives up her snobbish Estate.
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Avia Artis
2022
Table of contents
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Credits
Chapter I
MISS BOLTWOOD OF BROOKLYN IS LOST IN THE MUD
But the Gomez-Dep roadster had seventy horsepower, and sang songs. Since she had left Minneapolis nothing had passed her. Back yonder a truck had tried to crowd her, and she had dropped into a ditch, climbed a bank, returned to the road, and after that the truck was not. Now she was regarding a view more splendid than mountains above a garden by the sea-a stretch of good road. To her passenger, her father, Claire chanted:
"Heavenly! There's some gravel. We can make time. We'll hustle on to the next town and get dry."
"Yes. But don't mind me. You're doing very well," her father sighed.
Instantly, the dismay of it rushing at her, she saw the end of the patch of gravel. The road ahead was a wet black smear, criss-crossed with ruts. The car shot into a morass of prairie gumbo-which is mud mixed with tar, fly-paper, fish glue, and well-chewed chocolate-covered caramels. When cattle get into gumbo, the farmers send for the stump-dynamite and try blasting
It was her first really bad stretch of road. She was frightened. Then she was too appallingly busy to be frightened, or to be Miss Claire Boltwood, or to comfort her uneasy father. She had to drive. Her frail graceful arms put into a vicious vigor that was genius.
When the wheels struck the slime, they slid, they wallowed. The car skidded. It was terrifyingly out of control. It began majestically to turn toward the ditch. She fought the steering wheel as though she were shadow-boxing, but the car kept contemptuously staggering till it was sideways, straight across the road. Somehow, it was back again, eating into a rut, going ahead. She didn't know how she had done it, but she had got it back. She longed to take time to retrace her own cleverness in steering. She didn't. She kept going.
The car backfired, slowed. She yanked the gear from third into first. She sped up. The motor ran like a terrified pounding heart, while the car crept on by inches through filthy mud that stretched ahead of her without relief.
She was battling to hold the car in the principal rut. She snatched the windshield open, and concentrated on that left rut. She felt that she was keeping the wheel from climbing those high sides of the rut, those six-inch walls of mud, sparkling with tiny grits. Her mind snarled at her arms, "Let the ruts do the steering. You're just fighting against them." It worked. Once she let the wheels alone they comfortably followed the furrows, and for three seconds she had that delighted belief of every motorist after every mishap, "Now that this particular disagreeableness is over, I'll never, never have any trouble again!"
But suppose the engine overheated, ran out of water? Anxiety twanged at her nerves. And the deep distinctive ruts were changing to a complex pattern, like the rails in a city switchyard. She picked out the track of the one motor car that had been through here recently. It was marked with the swastika tread of the rear tires. That track was her friend; she knew and loved the driver of a car she had never seen in her life.
She was very tired. She wondered if she might not stop for a moment. Then she came to an up-slope. The car faltered; felt indecisive beneath her. She jabbed down the accelerator. Her hands pushed at the steering wheel as though she were pushing the car. The engine picked up, sulkily kept going. To the eye, there was merely a rise in the rolling ground, but to her anxiety it was a mountain up which she-not the engine, but herself-pulled this bulky mass till she had reached the top, and was safe again-for a second. Still there was no visible end of the mud.
In alarm she though, "How long does it last? I can't keep this up. I-Oh!"
The guiding tread of the previous car was suddenly lost in a mass of heaving, bubble-scattered mud, like a batter of black dough. She fairly picked up the car, and flung it into that welter, through it, and back into the reappearing swastika-marked trail.
Her father spoke: "You're biting your lips. They'll bleed, if you don't look out. Better stop and rest."
"Can't! No bottom to this mud. Once stop and lose momentum-stuck for keeps!"
She had teen more minutes of it before she reached a combination of bridge and culvert, with a plank platform above a big tile drain. With this solid plank bottom, she could stop. Silence came roaring down as she turned the switch. The bubbling water in the radiator steamed about the cap. Claire was conscious of tautness of the cords of her neck in front; of a pain at the base of her brain. Her father glanced at her curiously. "I must be a wreck. I'm sure my hair is frightful," she thought, but forgot it as she looked at him. His face was unusually pale. In the tumult of activity he had been betrayed into letting the old despondent look blur his eyes and sag his mouth. "Must get on," she determined.
Claire was dainty of habit. She detested untwisted hair, ripped gloves, muddy shoes. Hesitant as a cat by a puddle, she stepped down on the bridge. Even on these planks, the mud was three inches thick. It squidged about her low, squatted shoes. "Eeh!" she squeaked.
She tiptoed to the tool-box and took out a folding canvas bucket. She edged down to the trickling stream below. She was miserably conscious of a pastoral scene all gone to mildew-cows beneath willows by the creek, milkweeds dripping, dried mullein weed stalks no longer dry. The bank of the stream was so slippery that she shot down two feet, and nearly went sprawling. Her knee did touch the bank, and the skirt of her gray sports-suit showed a smear of yellow earth.
In less than two miles the racing motor had used up so much water that she had to make four trips to the creek before she had filled the radiator. When she had climbed back on the running-board she glared down at spats and shoes turned into gray lumps. She was not tearful. She was angry.
"Idiot! Ought to have put on my rubbers. Well too late now," she observed, as she started the engine.
She again followed the swastika tread. To avoid a hole in the road ahead, the unknown driver had swung over the side of the road, and taken to the intensely black earth of the edge of an unfenced cornfield. Flashing at Claire came the sight of a deep, water-filled hole, scattered straw and brush, debris of a battlefield, which made her gaspingly realize that her swastikad leader had been stuck and-
And instantly her own car was stuck.
She had had to put the car at that hole. It dropped, far down, and it stayed down. The engine stalled. She started it, but the back wheels spun merrily round and round, without traction. She did not make one inch. When she again killed the blatting motor, she let it stay dead. She peered at her father.
He was not a father, just now, but a passenger trying not to irritate the driver. He smiled in a waxy way, and said, "Hard luck! Well, you did the best you could. The other hole, there in the road, would have been just as bad. You're a fine driver, dolly."
Her smile was warm and real. "No. I'm a fool. you told me to put on chains. I didn't. I deserve it."
"Well, anyways, most men would be cussing. You acquire merit by not beating me. I believe that's done in moments like this. If you'd like. I'll get out and crawl around in the mud, and play turtle for you."
"No. I'm quite all right. I did feel frightfully strong-minded as long as there was any use of it. It kept me going. But now I might just as well be cheerful, because we're stuck, and we're probably going to stay stuck for the rest of this care-free summer day."
The weariness of the long strain caught her, all at once. She slipped forward, sat huddled, her knees crossed under the edge of the steering wheel, her hands falling beside her, one of them making a faint brushing sound as it slid down the upholstery. Her eyes closed; as her head drooped farther, she fancied she could hear the vertebrae click in her tense neck.
Her father was silent, a misty figure in a lap-robe. The rain streaked the mica lights in the side-curtains. A distant train whistled desolately across the sodden fields. The inside of the car smelled musty. The quiet was like a blanket over the ears. Claire was in a hazy drowse. She felt that she could never drive again.
Chapter II
CLAIRE ESCAPES FROM RESPECTABILITY
Henry B. Boltwood was vice-president of a firm dealing in railway supplies. He was neither wealthy nor at all poor. Every summer, despite Claire's delicate hints, they took the same cottage on the Jersey Coast, and Mr. Boltwood came down for Sunday. Claire had gone to a good school out of Philadelphia, on the Main Line. She was used to gracious leisure, attractive uselessness, nut-center chocolates, and a certain wonder as to why she was alive.
She wanted to travel, but her father could not get away. He consistently spent his days in overworking, and his evenings in wishing he hadn't overworked. He was attractive, fresh, pink-cheered, white-mustached, and nerve-twitching with years in detail.
Claire's ambition had once been babies and a solid husband, but as various young males of the species appeared before her, sang their mating songs and preened their newly dry-cleaned plumage, she found that the trouble with solid young men was that they were solid. Though she liked to dance, the "dancing men" bored her. And she did not understand the district's quota of intellectuals very well; she was good at listening to symphony concerts, but she never had much luck in discussing the cleverness of the wood winds in taking up the main motif. It is history that she refused a master of arts with an old violin, a good taste in ties, and an income of eight thousand.
The only man who disturbed her was Geoffrey Saxton, known throughout the interwoven sets of Brooklyn Heights as "Jeff." Jeff Saxton was thirty-nine to Claire's twenty-three. He was clean and buy; he had no signs of vice or humor. Especially for Jeff must have been invented the symbolic morning coat, the unwrinkable gray trousers, and the moral rimless spectacles. he was a graduate of a nice college, and he had a nice tenor and a nice family and nice hands and he was nicely successful in New York copper dealing. When he was asked questions by people who were impertinent, clever, or poor, Jeff looked them over coldly before he answered, and often they felt so uncomfortable that he didn't have to answer.
The boys of Claire's own age, not long out of Yale and Princeton, doing well in business and jumping for their evening clothes daily at six-thirty, light o' loves and admirers of athletic heroes, these lads Claire found pleasant, but hard to tell apart. She didn't have to tell Jeff Saxton apart. He did his own telling. Jeff called-not too often. He sang-not too sentimentally. He took her father and herself to the theater-not too lavishly. He told Claire-in a voice not too serious-that she was his helmed Athena, his rose of all the world. He informed her of his substantial position-not too obviously. And he was so everlastingly, firmly, quietly, politely, immovably always there.
She watched the hulk of marriage drifting down on her frail speed-boat of aspiration, and steered in desperate circles.
Then her father got the nervous prostration he had richly earned. The doctor ordered rest. Claire took him in charge. He didn't want to travel. Certainly he didn't want the shore or the Adirondacks. As there was a branch of his company in Minneapolis, she lured him that far away.
Being rootedly of Brooklyn Heights, Claire didn't know much about the West. She thought that Milwaukee was the capital of Minnesota. She was not so uninformed as some of her friends, however. She had heard that in Dakota wheat was to be viewed in vast tracts-maybe a hundred acres.
Mr. Boltwood could not be coaxed to play with the people to whom his Minneapolis representative introduced him. He was overworking again, and perfectly happy. He was hoping to find something wrong with the branch house. Claire tried to tempt him out to the lakes. She failed. His nerve-fuse burnt out the second time, with much fireworks.
Claire had often managed her circle of girls, but it had never occurred to her to manager her executive father save by indirect and pretty teasing. Now, in conspiracy with the doctor, she bullied her father. He saw gray death waiting as alternative, and he was meek. He agreed to everything. He consented to drive with her across two thousand miles of plains and mountains to Seattle, to drop in for a call on their cousins, the Eugene Gilsons.
Back East they had a chauffeur and two cars-the limousine, and the Gomez-Deperdussin roadster, Claire's beloved. It would, she believed, be more of a change from everything that might whisper to Mr. Boltwood of the control of men, not to take a chauffeur. Her father never drove, but she could, she insisted. His easy agreeing was pathetic. He watched her with spaniel eyes. They had the Gomez roadster shipped to them from New York.
On a July morning, they started out of Minneapolis in a mist, and as it has been hinted, they stopped sixty miles northward, in a rain, also in much gumbo. Apparently their nearest approach to the Pacific Ocean would be this oceanically moist edge of a cornfield, between Schoenstrom and Gopher Prairie, Minnesota.
Claire roused from her damp doze and sighed, "Well, I must get busy and get the car out of this."
"Don't you think you'd better get somebody to help us?"
"But get who?"
"Whom!"
"No! It's just 'who,' when you're in the mud. No. One of the good things about an adventure like this is that I must do things for myself. I've always had people to do things for me. Maids and nice teachers and you, old darling! I suppose it's made me soft. Soft-I would like a soft davenport and a novel and a pound of almond-brittle, and get all sick, and not feel so beastly virile as I do just now. But-"
She turned up the collar of her gray tweed coat, painfully climbed out-the muscles of her back racking-and exclaimed the state of the rear wheels. They were buried to the axle; in front of them the mud bulked in solid, shiny blackness. She took out her jack and chains. It was too late. There was no room to get the jack under the axle. She remembered from the narratives of motoring friends that brush in mud gave a firmer surface for the wheels to climb upon.
She also remembered how jolly and agreeably heroic the accounts of their mishaps had sounded-a week after they were over.
She waded down the road toward an old wood-lot. At first she tried to keep dry, but she gave it up, and there was pleasure in being defiantly dirty. She tramped straight through puddles; she wallowed in mud. In the wood-lot was long grass which soaked her stockings still her ankles felt itchy. Claire had never expected to be so very intimate with a brush-pile. She became so. As though she were a pioneer woman who had been toiling here for years, she came to know the brush stick by stick-the long valuable branch that she could never quite get out from under the others; the thorny bough that pricked her hands every time she tried to reach the curious bundle of switches.
Seven trips she made, carrying armfuls of twigs and solemnly dragging large boughs behind her. She patted them down in front of all four wheels. Her crisp hands looked like the paws of a three-year-old boy making a mud fort. Her nails hurt from the mud wedged beneath them. her mud-caked shoes were heavy to lift. It was with exquisite self-approval that she sat on the running-board, scraped a car-load of lignite off her soles, climbed back into the car, punched the starter.
The car stirred, crept forward one inch, and settled back-one inch. The second time it heaved encouragingly but did not make quite so much headway. Then Claire did sob.
She rubbed her cheek against the comfortable rough, heather-smelling shoulder of her father's coat, while he patted her and smile, "Good girl! I better get out and help."
She sat straight, shook her head. "Nope. I'll do it. And I'm not going to insist on being heroic any longer. I'll get a farmer to pull us out."
As she let herself down into the ooze, she reflected that all farmers have hearts of gold, anatomical phenomena never found among the snobs and hirelings of New York. The nearest heart of gold was presumably beating warmly in the house a quarter of a mile ahead.
She came up a muddy lane to a muddy farmyard, with a muddy cur yapping at her wet legs, and geese hissing in a pool of purest mud serene. The house was small and rather old. It may have been painted once. The barn was large and new. It had been painted very much, and in a blinding red and white trimmmings. There was no brass plate on the house, but on the barn, in huge white letters, was the legend, "Adoplh Zolzac, 1913."
She climbed by log steps to a narrow frame back porch littered with parts of a broken cream-separator. She told herself that she was simple and friendly in going to the back door instead of the front, and it was with gaiety that she knocked on the ill-jointed screen door, which flapped dismally in response.
"Ja?" from within.
She rapped again.
"Hinein!"
She opened the door on a kitchen, the highlight of which was a table heaped with dishes of dumplings and salt pork. A shirt-sleeved man, all covered with mustache and calm, sat by the table, and he kept right on sitting as he inquired:
"Vell?"
"My car-my automobile-has been stuck in the mud. A bad driver, I'm afraid! I wonder if you would be so good as to-"
"I usually get t'ree dollars, but I dunno as I have to do it for less than four. Today I ain'd feelin' very goot," grumbled the golden-hearted.
Claire was aware that a woman whom she had not noticed-so much smaller than the dumplings, so much less vigorous than the salt pork was she-was speaking: " Aber, papa, dot's a shame you sharge de poor young lady dot, when she drive by sei self. Vot she t'ink of de Sherman people?"
The farmer merely grunted. To Claire, "Yuh four dollars. Dot's what I usually charge sometimes."
"Usually? Do you mean to say that you leave that hole there in the road right along-that people keep on trying to avoid and get stuck as I was? Oh! If I were an official-"
"Vell, I dunno, I don't guess I run my place to suit you smart alecks-"
Papa! How you talk on the young lady! Make shame!"
"-from the city. If you don't like, you stay bei Mineapolis! I haul you out for t'ree dollars and a half. Everybody pay dot. Last mont' I make forty-five dollars. They vos all glad to pay. They say I help them fine. I don't see vot you're kicking about! Oh, these vimmins!"
"It's blackmail! I wouldn't pay it, if it weren't for my father sitting waiting out there. But-go ahead. Hurry!"
She sat tapping her toe while Zolzac completed the stertorous task of hogging the dumplings, then stretched, yawned, scratched, and covered his merely dirty garments with overalls that were apparently woven of processed mud. When he had gone to the barn for his team, his wife came to Claire. On her drained face were the easy tears of the slave women.
"Oh, miss, I don't know vot I should do. My boys go on the public school, and they speak American just so goot as you. Oh, I vant man lets me luff America. But papa he says it is an Unsinn; you go the money, he says, nobody should care if you are American or Old Country people. I should vish I could ride once in an automobile! But-I am so 'shamed, so 'shamed that I must sit and see my Mann make this. Forty years I been married to him, and pretty soon I die-"
Claire patted her head. There was nothing to say to tragedy that had outlived hope.
Adolph Zolzac clumped out to the highroad behind his vast, rolling-flanked horses-so much cleaner and better fed that his wisp of a wife. Claire followed him, and in her heart she committed murder and was glad of it. When Mr. Boltwood looked out with mild wonder at Claire's new friend, Zolzac hitched his team to the axle. It did not seem possible that two horses could pull out the car where seventy horsepower had fainted. But, easily, yawning and thinking about dinner, the horses drew the wheels up on the mud-bank, out of the hole and-
The harness broke, and with a flying mess of straps and rope, and the car plumped with perfect exactness back into its bed.
Chapter III
A YOUNG MAN IN A RAINCOAT
Chapter IV
A ROOM WITHOUT
Chapter V
RELEASE BRAKES-SHIFT TO THIRD
Chapter VI
THE LAND OF BILLOWING CLOUDS
Chapter VII
THE GREAT AMERICAN FRYING PAN
Chapter VIII
THE DISCOVERY OF CANNED SHRIMPS AND HESPERIDES
Chapter IX
THE MAN WITH AGATE EYES
Chapter X
THE CURIOUS INCIDENT ON THE HILLSIDE ROAD
Chapter XI
SAGEBRUSH TOURISTS ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY
Chapter XII
THE WONDERS OF NATURE WITH ALL MODERN IMPROVEMENTS
Chapter XIII
ADVENTURES BY FIRELIGHT
Chapter XIV
THE BEAST OF THE CORRAL
Chapter XV
THE BLACK DAY OF THE VOYAGE
Chapter XVI
THE SPECTACLES OF AUTHORITY
Chapter XVII
THE VAGABOND IN GREEN
Chapter XVIII
THE FALLACY OF ROMANCE
Chapter XIX
THE NIGHT OF ENDLESS PINES
Chapter XX
THE FREE WOMAN
Chapter XXI
THE MINE OF LOST SOULS
Chapter XXII
ACROSS THE ROOF OF THE WORLD
Chapter XXIII
THE GRAEL IN A BACK YARD IN YAKIMA
Chapter XXIV
HER OWN PEOPLE
Chapter XXV
THE ABYSSINIAN PRINCE
Chapter XXVI
A CLASS IN ENGINEERING AND OMELETS
Chapter XXVII
THE VICIOUSNESS OF NICE THINGS
Chapter XXVIII
THE MORNING COAT OF MR. HUDSON B. RIGGS
Chapter XXIX
THE ENEMY LOVE
Chapter XXX
THE VIRTUOUS PLOTTERS
Chapter XXXI
THE KITCHEN INTIMATE
Chapter XXXII
THE CORNFIELD ARISTOCRAT
Chapter XXXIII
TOOTH-MUG TEA
Chapter XXXIV
THE BEGINNING OF A STORY
© Avia Artis
2022
