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    Our Mr Wrenn: “Advertising is a valuable economic factor because it is the cheapest way of selling goods, particularly if the goods are worthless.”
    Our Mr Wrenn: “Advertising is a valuable economic factor because it is the cheapest way of selling goods, particularly if the goods are worthless.”
    Our Mr Wrenn: “Advertising is a valuable economic factor because it is the cheapest way of selling goods, particularly if the goods are worthless.”
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    Our Mr Wrenn: “Advertising is a valuable economic factor because it is the cheapest way of selling goods, particularly if the goods are worthless.”

    By Sinclair Lewis

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    Harry Sinclair Lewis was born on February 7th, 1885 in the village of Sauk Centre, Minnesota. Throughout his lonely boyhood, the ungainly Lewis—tall, extremely thin, stricken with acne and somewhat pop-eyed—had trouble gaining friends and pined after various local girls. By 13 he had unsuccessfully ran away from home, in an attempt to become a drummer boy in the Spanish-American War. In late 1902 Lewis left home for a year at Oberlin Academy to qualify for acceptance by Yale University. While at Oberlin, he developed a religious enthusiasm that waxed and waned for much of his remaining teenage years. He entered Yale in 1903 but did not receive his bachelor's degree until 1908, having taken time off to work at Helicon Home Colony, Upton Sinclair's cooperative-living colony in Englewood, New Jersey, and to travel to Panama. Lewis's unprepossessing looks, "fresh" country manners and seemingly self-importance made it difficult for him to win and keep friends but a number of students and professors made the effort, some of whom recognized his promise as a writer. Lewis's earliest published creative work—romantic poetry and short sketches—appeared in the Yale Courant and the Yale Literary Magazine, of which he became an editor. After graduation Lewis moved location and jobs constantly in an effort to make ends meet whilst writing fiction for publication. In working for newspapers and publishing houses he developed a knack for churning our short popular stories for a variety of magazines. It was a very popular choice for writers whilst engaged on the gestation of the Great American novel. He also earned money by selling plots to Jack London, including one for the latter's unfinished novel The Assassination Bureau, Ltd. Lewis's first published book was Hike and the Aeroplane, a Tom Swift-style pot-boiler that appeared in 1912 under the pseudonym Tom Graham. By 1914 the first of his serious works was published - Our Mr. Wrenn: The Romantic Adventures of a Gentle Man, followed the following year by The Trail of the Hawk: A Comedy of the Seriousness of Life, and in 1917, The Job. That same year also saw the publication of another pot-boiler, The Innocents: A Story for Lovers, an expanded version of a serial story that had originally appeared in Woman's Home Companion. Free Air, another refurbished serial story, was published in 1919. In 1930, he became the first author from the United States to receive the Nobel Prize in Literature, which was awarded "for his vigorous and graphic art of description and his ability to create, with wit and humor, new types of characters." Sinclair Lewis died in Rome on January 10, 1951, aged 65, from advanced alcoholism. His cremated remains were buried in Sauk Centre, Minnesota.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherA Word To The Wise
    Release dateJun 19, 2014
    ISBN9781783944941
    Our Mr Wrenn: “Advertising is a valuable economic factor because it is the cheapest way of selling goods, particularly if the goods are worthless.”
    Author

    Sinclair Lewis

    Sinclair Lewis (1885–1951) was the first American writer to win the Nobel Prize in Literature. In 1926 Lewis’s novel Arrowsmith garnered the Pulitzer Prize, which the author refused. His work has been lauded for its critical insight into capitalism and materialist culture in America. 

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      Book preview

      Our Mr Wrenn - Sinclair Lewis

      Our Mr Wrenn. The Romantic Adventures of A Gentle Man by Sinclair Lewis

      Harry Sinclair Lewis was born on February 7th, 1885 in the village of Sauk Centre, Minnesota.

      Throughout his lonely boyhood, the ungainly Lewis—tall, extremely thin, stricken with acne and somewhat pop-eyed—had trouble gaining friends and pined after various local girls. By 13 he had unsuccessfully ran away from home, in an attempt to become a drummer boy in the Spanish-American War.

      In late 1902 Lewis left home for a year at Oberlin Academy to qualify for acceptance by Yale University. While at Oberlin, he developed a religious enthusiasm that waxed and waned for much of his remaining teenage years. He entered Yale in 1903 but did not receive his bachelor's degree until 1908, having taken time off to work at Helicon Home Colony, Upton Sinclair's cooperative-living colony in Englewood, New Jersey, and to travel to Panama. Lewis's unprepossessing looks, fresh country manners and seemingly self-importance made it difficult for him to win and keep friends but a number of students and professors made the effort, some of whom recognized his promise as a writer.

      Lewis's earliest published creative work—romantic poetry and short sketches—appeared in the Yale Courant and the Yale Literary Magazine, of which he became an editor. After graduation Lewis moved location and jobs constantly in an effort to make ends meet whilst writing fiction for publication.

      In working for newspapers and publishing houses he developed a knack for churning our short popular stories for a variety of magazines. It was a very popular choice for writers whilst engaged on the gestation of the Great American novel. He also earned money by selling plots to Jack London, including one for the latter's unfinished novel The Assassination Bureau, Ltd.

      Lewis's first published book was Hike and the Aeroplane, a Tom Swift-style pot-boiler that appeared in 1912 under the pseudonym Tom Graham.

      By 1914 the first of his serious works was published - Our Mr. Wrenn: The Romantic Adventures of a Gentle Man, followed the following year by The Trail of the Hawk: A Comedy of the Seriousness of Life, and in 1917, The Job. That same year also saw the publication of another pot-boiler, The Innocents: A Story for Lovers, an expanded version of a serial story that had originally appeared in Woman's Home Companion. Free Air, another refurbished serial story, was published in 1919.

      In 1930, he became the first author from the United States to receive the Nobel Prize in Literature, which was awarded for his vigorous and graphic art of description and his ability to create, with wit and humor, new types of characters.

      Sinclair Lewis died in Rome on January 10, 1951, aged 65, from advanced alcoholism. His cremated remains were buried in Sauk Centre, Minnesota.

      Index Of Contents

      CHAPTER I - MR. WRENN IS LONELY

      CHAPTER II - HE WALKS WITH MISS THERESA

      CHAPTER III - HE STARTS FOR THE LAND OF ELSEWHERE

      CHAPTER IV - HE BECOMES THE GREAT LITTLE BILL WRENN

      CHAPTER V - HE FINDS MUCH QUAINT ENGLISH FLAVOR

      CHAPTER VI - HE IS AN ORPHAN

      CHAPTER VII - HE MEETS A TEMPERAMENT

      CHAPTER VIII - HE TIFFINS

      CHAPTER IX - HE ENCOUNTERS THE INTELLECTUALS

      CHAPTER X - HE GOES A-GIPSYING

      CHAPTER XI - HE BUYS AN ORANGE TIE

      CHAPTER XII - HE DISCOVERS AMERICA

      CHAPTER XIII - HE IS OUR MR. WRENN

      CHAPTER XIV - HE ENTERS SOCIETY

      CHAPTER XV - HE STUDIES FIVE HUNDRED, SAVOUIR FAIRE, AND LOTSA-SNAP OFFICE MOTTOES

      CHAPTER XVI - HE BECOMES MILDLY RELIGIOUS AND HIGHLY LITERARY

      CHAPTER XVIII - AND FOLLOWS A WANDERING FLAME THROUGH PERILOUS SEAS

      CHAPTER XIX - TO A HAPPY SHORE

      Sinclair Lewis – A Concise Bibliography

      CHAPTER I

      MR. WRENN IS LONELY

      The ticket-taker of the Nickelorion Moving-Picture Show is a public personage, who stands out on Fourteenth Street, New York, wearing a gorgeous light-blue coat of numerous brass buttons. He nods to all the patrons, and his nod is the most cordial in town.  Mr. Wrenn used to trot down to Fourteenth Street, passing ever so many other shows, just to get that cordial nod, because he had a lonely furnished room for evenings, and for daytime a tedious job that always made his head stuffy.

      He stands out in the correspondence of the Souvenir and Art Novelty Company as Our Mr. Wrenn, who would be writing you directly and explaining everything most satisfactorily. At thirty-four Mr. Wrenn was the sales-entry clerk of the Souvenir Company.  He was always bending over bills and columns of figures at a desk behind the stock-room.  He was a meek little bachlor, a person of inconspicuous blue ready-made suits, and a small unsuccessful mustache.

      To-day, historians have established the date as April 9, 1910, there had been some confusing mixed orders from the Wisconsin retailers, and Mr. Wrenn had been called down by the office manager, Mr. Mortimer R. Guilfogle.  He needed the friendly nod of the Nickelorion ticket-taker.  He found Fourteenth Street, after office hours, swept by a dusty wind that whisked the skirts of countless plump Jewish girls, whose V-necked blouses showed soft throats of a warm brown. Under the elevated station he secretly made believe that he was in Paris, for here beautiful Italian boys swayed with trays of violets; a tramp displayed crimson mechanical rabbits, which squeaked, on silvery leading-strings; and a newsstand was heaped with the orange and green and gold of magazine covers.

      Gee! inarticulated Mr. Wrenn.  Lots of colors.  Hope I see foreign stuff like that in the moving pictures.

      He came primly up to the Nickelorion, feeling in his vest pockets for a nickel and peering around the booth at the friendly ticket-taker.  But the latter was thinking about buying Johnny's pants.  Should he get them at the Fourteenth Street Store, or Siegel-Cooper's, or over at Aronson's, near home? So ruminating, he twiddled his wheel mechanically, and Mr. Wrenn's pasteboard slip was indifferently received in the plate-glass gullet of the grinder without the taker's even seeing the clerk's bow and smile.

      Mr. Wrenn trembled into the door of the Nickelorion.  He wanted to turn back and rebuke this fellow, but was restrained by shyness.  He had liked the man's Fine evenin', sir , rain or shine, but he wouldn't stand for being cut.  Wasn't he making nineteen dollars a week, as against the ticket-taker's ten or twelve?  He shook his head with the defiance of a cornered mouse, fussed with his mustache, and regarded the moving pictures gloomily.

      They helped him.  After a Selig domestic drama came a stirring Vitagraph Western scene, The Goat of the Rancho, which depicted with much humor and tumult the revolt of a ranch cook, a Chinaman.  Mr. Wrenn was really seeing, not cow-punchers and sage-brush, but himself, defying the office manager's surliness and revolting against the ticket-man's rudeness.  Now he was ready for the nearly overpowering delight of travel-pictures. He bounced slightly as a Gaumont film presented Java.

      He was a connoisseur of travel-pictures, for all his life he had been planning a great journey.  Though he had done Staten Island and patronized an excursion to Bound Brook, neither of these was his grand tour.  It was yet to be taken.  In Mr. Wrenn, apparently fastened to New York like a domestic-minded barnacle, lay the possibilities of heroic roaming.  He knew it.  He, too, like the man who had taken the Gaumont pictures, would saunter among dusky Javan natives in markets with tiles on the roofs and temples and, and, uh, well, places!  The scent of Oriental spices was in his broadened nostrils as he scampered out of the Nickelorion, without a look at the ticket-taker, and headed for home, for his third-floor-front on West Sixteenth Street. He wanted to prowl through his collection of steamship brochures for a description of Java.  But, of course, when one's landlady has both the sciatica and a case of Patient Suffering one stops in the basement dining-room to inquire how she is.

      Mrs. Zapp was a fat landlady.  When she sat down there was a straight line from her chin to her knees.  She was usually sitting down.  When she moved she groaned, and her apparel creaked. She groaned and creaked from bed to breakfast, and ate five griddle-cakes, two helpin's of scrapple, an egg, some rump steak, and three cups of coffee, slowly and resentfully.  She creaked and groaned from breakfast to her rocking-chair, and sat about wondering why Providence had inflicted upon her a weak digestion. Mr. Wrenn also wondered why, sympathetically, but Mrs. Zapp was too conscientiously dolorous to be much cheered by the sympathy of a nigger-lovin' Yankee, who couldn't appreciate the subtle sorrows of a Zapp of Zapp's Bog, allied to all the First Families of Virginia.

      Mr. Wrenn did nothing more presumptuous than sit still, in the stuffy furniture-crowded basement room, which smelled of dead food and deader pride in a race that had never existed.  He sat still because the chair was broken.  It had been broken now for four years.

      For the hundred and twenty-ninth time in those years Mrs. Zapp said, in her rich corruption of Southern negro dialect, which can only be indicated here, Ah been meaning to get that chair mended, Mist' Wrenn.  He looked gratified and gazed upon the crayon enlargements of Lee Theresa, the older Zapp daughter (who was forewoman in a factory), and of Godiva.  Godiva Zapp was usually called Goaty, and many times a day was she called by Mrs. Zapp.  A tamed child drudge was Goaty, with adenoids, which Mrs. Zapp had been meanin' to have removed, and which she would continue to have benevolent meanin's about till it should be too late, and she should discover that Providence never would let Goaty go to school.

      Yes, Mist' Wrenn, Ah told Goaty she was to see the man about getting that chair fixed, but she nev' does nothing Ah tell her.

      In the kitchen was the noise of Goaty, ungovernable Goaty, aged eight, still snivelingly washing, though not cleaning, the incredible pile of dinner dishes.  With a trail of hesitating remarks on the sadness of sciatica and windy evenings Mr. Wrenn sneaked forth from the august presence of Mrs. Zapp and mounted to paradise, his third-floor-front.

      It was an abjectly respectable room, the bedspread patched; no two pieces of furniture from the same family; half-tones from the magazines pinned on the wall.  But on the old marble mantelpiece lived his friends, books from wanderland. Other friends the room had rarely known.  It was hard enough for Mr. Wrenn to get acquainted with people, anyway, and Mrs. Zapp did not expect her gennulman lodgers to entertain.  So Mr. Wrenn had given up asking even Charley Carpenter, the assistant bookkeeper at the Souvenir Company, to call.  That left him the books, which he now caressed with small eager finger-tips. He picked out a P. & O. circular, and hastily left for fairyland.

       The April skies glowed with benevolence this Saturday morning. The Metropolitan Tower was singing, bright ivory tipped with gold, uplifted and intensely glad of the morning.  The buildings walling in Madison Square were jubilant; the honest red-brick fronts, radiant; the new marble, witty.  The sparrows in the middle of Fifth Avenue were all talking at once, scandalously but cleverly.  The polished brass of limousines threw off teethy smiles. At least so Mr. Wrenn fancied as he whisked up Fifth Avenue, the skirts of his small blue double-breasted coat wagging. He was going blocks out of his way to the office; ready to defy time and eternity, yes, and even the office manager. He had awakened with Defiance as his bedfellow, and throughout breakfast at the hustler Dairy Lunch sunshine had flickered over the dirty tessellated floor.

      He pranced up to the Souvenir Company's brick building, on Twenty-eighth Street near Sixth Avenue.  In the office he chuckled at his ink-well and the untorn blotters on his orderly desk.  Though he sat under the weary unnatural brilliance of a mercury-vapor light, he dashed into his work, and was too keen about this business of living merrily to be much flustered by the bustle of the lady buyer's superior Good morning. Even up to ten-thirty he was still slamming down papers on his desk.  Just let anyone try to stop his course, his readiness for snapping fingers at The Job; just let them try it, that was all he wanted!

      Then he was shot out of his chair and four feet along the corridor, in reflex response to the surly Bur-r-r-r-r of the buzzer.  Mr. Mortimer R. Guilfogle, the manager, desired to see him.  He scampered along the corridor and slid decorously through the manager's doorway into the long sun-bright room, ornate with rugs and souvenirs.  Seven Novelties glittered on the desk alone, including a large rococo Shakespeare-style glass ink-well containing cloves and a small iron Pittsburg-style one containing ink.  Mr. Wrenn blinked like a noon-roused owlet in the brilliance.  The manager dropped his fist on the desk, glared, smoothed his flowered prairie of waistcoat, and growled, his red jowls quivering:

      Look here, Wrenn, what's the matter with you?  The Bronx Emporium order for May Day novelties was filled twice, they write me.

      They ordered twice, sir.  By 'phone, smiled Mr. Wrenn, in an agony of politeness.

      They ordered hell, sir!  Twice, the same order?

      Yes, sir; their buyer was prob -

      They say they've looked it up.  Anyway, they won't pay twice. I know, em.  We'll have to crawl down graceful, and all because you, I want to know why you ain't more careful!

      The announcement that Mr. Wrenn twice wriggled his head, and once tossed it, would not half denote his wrath.  At last! It was here, the time for revolt, when he was going to be defiant. He had been careful; old Goglefogle was only barking; but why should he be barked at?  With his voice palpitating and his heart thudding so that he felt sick he declared:

      I'm sure, sir, about that order.  I looked it up.  Their buyer was drunk!

      It was done.  And now would he be discharged?  The manager was speaking:

      Probably. You looked it up, eh?  Um!  Send me in the two order-records.  Well.  But, anyway, I want you to be more careful after this, Wrenn.  You're pretty sloppy.  Now get out. Expect me to make firms pay twice for the same order, cause of your carelessness?

      Mr. Wrenn found himself outside in the dark corridor. The manager hadn't seemed much impressed by his revolt.

      The manager wasn't.  He called a stenographer and dictated:

      "Bronx Emporium:

      GENTLEMEN: Our Mr. Wrenn has again (underline that `again,' Miss Blaustein), again looked up your order for May Day novelties. As we wrote before, order certainly was duplicated by 'phone. Our Mr. Wrenn is thoroughly reliable, and we have his records of these two orders.  We shall therefore have to push collection on both -

      After all, Mr. Wrenn was thinking, the crafty manager might be merely concealing his hand.  Perhaps he had understood the defiance. That gladdened him till after lunch.  But at three, when his head was again foggy with work and he had forgotten whether there was still April anywhere, he began to dread what the manager might do to him.  Suppose he lost his job; The Job!  He worked unnecessarily late, hoping that the manager would learn of it. As he wavered home, drunk with weariness, his fear of losing The Job was almost equal to his desire to resign from The Job.

       He had worked so late that when he awoke on Sunday morning he was still in a whirl of figures.  As he went out to his breakfast of coffee and whisked wheat at the Hustler Lunch the lines between the blocks of the cement walk, radiant in a white flare of sunshine, irritatingly recalled the cross-lines of order-lists, with the narrow cement blocks at the curb standing for unfilled column-headings.  Even the ridges of the Hustler Lunch's imitation steel ceiling, running in parallel lines, jeered down at him that he was a prosaic man whose path was a ruler.

      He went clear up to the branch post-office after breakfast to get the Sunday mail, but the mail was a disappointment. He was awaiting a wonderful fully illustrated guide to the Land of the Midnight Sun, a suggestion of possible and coyly improbable trips, whereas he got only a letter from his oldest acquaintance, Cousin John, of Parthenon, New York, the boy-who-comes-to-play of Mr. Wrenn's back-yard days in Parthenon. Without opening the letter Mr. Wrenn tucked it into his inside coat pocket, threw away his toothpick, and turned to Sunday wayfaring.

      He jogged down Twenty-third Street to the North River ferries afoot. Trolleys took money, and of course one saves up for future great traveling.  Over him the April clouds were fetterless vagabonds whose gaiety made him shrug with excitement and take a curb with a frisk as gambolsome as a Central Park lamb.  There was no hint of sales-lists in the clouds, at least.  And with them Mr. Wrenn's soul swept along, while his half-soled Cum-Fee-Best $3.80 shoes were ambling past warehouses.  Only once did he condescend to being really on Twenty-third Street.  At the Ninth Avenue corner, under the grimy Elevated, he sighted two blocks down to the General Theological Seminary's brick Gothic and found in a pointed doorway suggestions of alien beauty.

      But his real object was to loll on a West and South Railroad in luxury, and go sailing out into the foam and perilous seas of North River.  He passed through the smoking-cabin.  He didn't smoke, the habit used up travel-money.  Once seated on the upper deck, he knew that at last he was outward-bound on a liner. True, there was no great motion, but Mr. Wrenn was inclined to let realism off easily in this feature of his voyage.  At least there were undoubted life-preservers in the white racks overhead; and everywhere the world, to his certain witnessing, was turned to crusading, to setting forth in great ships as if it were again in the brisk morning of history when the joy of adventure possessed the Argonauts.

      He wasn't excited over the liners they passed.  He was so experienced in all of travel, save the traveling, as to have gained a calm interested knowledge.  He knew the Campagnia three docks away, and explained to a Harlem grocer her fine points, speaking earnestly of stacks and sticks, tonnage and knots.

      Not excited, but where couldn't he go if he were pulling out for Arcady on the Campagnia! Gee!  What were even the building-block towers of the Metropolitan and Singer buildings and the Times's cream-stick compared with some old shrine in a cathedral close that was misted with centuries!

      All this he felt and hummed to himself, though not in words. He had never heard of Arcady, though for many years he had been a citizen of that demesne.

      Sure, he declared to himself, he was on the liner now; he was sliding up the muddy Mersey (see the W. S. Travel Notes for the source of his visions); he was off to St. George's Square for an organ-recital (see the English Baedeker); then an express for London and Gee!

      The ferryboat was entering her slip.  Mr. Wrenn trotted toward the bow to thrill over the bump of the boat's snub nose against the lofty swaying piles and the swash of the brown waves heaped before her as she sidled into place.  He was carried by the herd on into the station.

      He did not notice the individual people in his exultation as he heard the great chords of the station's paean.  The vast roof roared as the iron coursers stamped titanic hoofs of scorn at the little stay-at-home.

      That is a washed-out hint of how the poets might describe Mr. Wrenn's passion.  What he said was Gee!

      He strolled by the lists of destinations hung on the track gates. Chicago (the plains! the Rockies! sunset over mining-camps!), Washington, and the magic Southland, thither the iron horses would be galloping, their swarthy smoke manes whipped back by the whirlwind, pounding out with clamorous strong hoofs their sixty miles an hour.  Very well.  In time he also would mount upon the iron coursers and charge upon Chicago and the Southland; just as soon as he got ready.

      Then he headed for Cortlandt Street; for Long Island, finally, the Navy Yard.  Along his way were the docks of the tramp steamers where he might ship as steward in the all-promising Sometime.  He had never done anything so reckless as actually to ask a skipper for the chance to go a-sailing, but he had once gone into a mission society's free shipping-office on West Street where a disapproving elder had grumped at him, Are you a sailor?  No?  Can't do anything for you, my friend. Are you saved?  He wasn't going to risk another horror like that, yet when the golden morning of Sometime dawned he certainly was going to go cruising off to palm-bordered lagoons.

      As he walked through Long Island City he contrived conversations with the sailors he passed.  It would have surprised a Norwegian bos'un's mate to learn that he was really a gun-runner, and that, as a matter of fact, he was now telling yarns of the Spanish Main to the man who slid deprecatingly by him.

      Mr. Wrenn envied the jackies on the training-ship and carelessly went to sea as the President's guest in the admiral's barge and was frightened by the stare of a sauntering shop-girl and arrived home before dusk, to Mrs. Zapp's straitened approval.

      Dusk made incantations in his third-floor-front.  Pleasantly fagged in those slight neat legs, after his walk, Mr. Wrenn sat in the wicker rocker by the window, patting his scrubby tan mustache and reviewing the day's wandering.  When the gas was lighted he yearned over pictures in a geographical magazine for a happy hour, then yawned to himself, Well-l-l, Willum, guess it's time to crawl into the downy.

      He undressed and smoothed his ready-made suit on the rocking-chair back.  Sitting on the edge of his bed, quaint in his cotton night-gown, like a rare little bird of dull plumage, he rubbed his head sleepily.  Um-m-m-m-m!  How tired he was! He went to open the window.  Then his tamed heart leaped into a waltz, and he forgot third-floor-fronts and sleepiness.

      Through the window came the chorus of fog-horns on North River. Boom-m-m! That must be a giant liner, battling up through the fog.  (It was a ferry.)  A liner!  She'd be roaring just like that if she were off the Banks!  If he were only off the Banks!  Toot! Toot! That was a tug.  Whawn-n-n!  Another liner.  The tumultuous chorus repeated to him all the adventures of the day.

      He dropped upon the bed again and stared absently at his clothes.  Out of the inside coat pocket stuck the unopened letter from Cousin John.

      He read a paragraph of it.  He sprang from the bed and danced a tarantella, pranced in his cottony nightgown like a drunken Yaqui.  The letter announced that the flinty farm at Parthenon, left to Mr. Wrenn by his father, had been sold.  Its location on a river bluff had made it valuable to the Parthenon Chautauqua Association.  There was now to his credit in the Parthenon National Bank nine hundred and forty dollars!

      He was wealthy, then.  He had enough to stalk up and down the earth for many venturesome (but economical) months, till he should learn the trade of wandering,

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