"Out There"

by Susan Glaspell

The old man held the picture up before him and surveyed it withadmiring but disapproving eye. "No one that comes along this way'llhave the price for it," he grumbled. "It'll just set here 'tilldoomsday."It did seem that the picture failed to fit in with the rest of theshop. A persuasive young fellow who claimed he was closing out hisstock let the old man have it for what he called a song. It was onlya little out-of-the-way store which subsisted chiefly on the framingof pictures. The old man looked around at his views of the city, hispictures of cats and dogs and gorgeous young women, his flaming bitsof landscape. "Don't belong in here," he fumed, "any more 'an Ibelong in Congress."And yet the old man was secretly proud of his acquisition. He seemedall at once to be lifted from his realm of petty tradesman to thatof patron of art. There was a hidden dignity in his scowling as heshuffled about pondering the least ridiculous place for the picture.It is not fair to the picture to try repainting it in words, forwords reduce it to a lithograph. It was a bit of a pine forest,through which there exuberantly rushed an unspoiled little mountainstream. Chromos and works of art may deal with kindred subjects.There is just that one difference of dealing with them differently."It ain't what you see, so much as what you can guess isthere," was the thought it brought to the old man who was dustingit. "Now this frame ain't three feet long, but it wouldn't surpriseme a bit if that timber kept right on for a hundred miles. I kind ofsuspect it's on a mountain--looks cool enough in there to be on amountain. Wish I was there. Bet they never see no such days as we doin Chicago. Looks as though a man might call his soul his own--outthere."He began removing some views of Lincoln Park and some corpulentCupids in order to make room in the window for the new picture. Whenhe went outside to look at it he shook his head severely andhastened in to take away some ardent young men and women, some fruitand flowers and fish which he had left thinking they might "set itoff." It was evident that the new picture did not need to be "setoff." "And anyway," he told himself, in vindication of entrustingall his goods to one bottom, "I might as well take them out, for thenew one makes them look so kind of sick that no one would have them,anyhow." Then he went back to mounting views with the serenity ofone who stands for the finer things.His clamorous little clock pointed to a quarter of six when hefinally came back to the front of the store. It was time to beginclosing up for the night, but for the minute he stood there watchingthe crowd of workers coming from the business district not far awayover to the boarding-house region, a little to the west. He watchedthem as they came by in twos and threes and fours: noisy people andworn-out people, people hilarious and people sullen, the gaiety andthe weariness, the acceptance and the rebellion of humanity--he sawit pass. "As if any of them could buy it," he pronouncedseverely, adding, contemptuously, "or wanted to."The girl was coming along by herself. He watched her as she crossedto his side of the street, thinking it was too bad for a poor girlto be as tired as that. She was dressed like many of the rest ofthem, and yet she looked different--like the picture and the chromo.She turned an indifferent glance toward the window, and thensuddenly she stood there very still, and everything about her seemedto change. "For all the world," he told himself afterward, "as ifshe'd found a long-lost friend, and was 'fraid to speak for fear itwas too good to be true."She did seem afraid to speak--afraid to believe. For a minute shestood there right in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at thepicture. And when she came toward the window it was less as ifcoming than as if drawn. What she really seemed to want to do was toedge away; yet she came closer, as close as she could, her eyesnever leaving the picture, and then fear, or awe, or whatever it wasmade her look so queer gave way to wonder--that wondering which isready to open the door to delight. She looked up and down the streetas one rubbing one's eyes to make sure of a thing, and then it allgave way to a joy which lighted her pale little face like--"Well,like nothing I ever saw before," was all the old man could say ofit. "Why, she'd never know if the whole fire department was to runright up here on the sidewalk," he gloated. Just then she drewherself up for a long breath. "See?" he chuckled, delightedly. "Sheknows it has a smell!" She looked toward the door, but shook herhead. "Knows she can't pay the price," he interpreted her. Then, shestepped back and looked at the number above the door. "Comingagain," he made of that; "ain't going to run no chances of losingthe place." And then for a long time she stood there before thepicture, so deeply and so strangely quiet that he could nottranslate her. "I can't just get the run of it," was his bewilderedconclusion. "I don't see why it should make anybody act like that."And yet he must have understood more than he knew, for suddenly hewas seeing her through a blur of tears.As he began shutting up for the night he was so excited about theway she looked when she finally turned away that it never occurredto him to be depressed about her inability to pay the price.He kept thinking of her, wondering about her, during the next day.At a little before six he took up his station near the front window.Once more the current of workers flowed by. "I'm an old fool," hetold himself, irritated at the wait; "as if it makes any differencewhether she comes or not--when she can't buy it, anyhow. She's justas big a fool as I am--liking it when she can't have it, only I'mthe biggest fool of all--caring whether she likes it or not." Butjust then the girl passed quickly by a crowd of girls who were aheadof her and came hurrying across the street. She was walking fast,and looked excited and anxious. "Afraid it might be gone," hesaid--adding, grimly: "Needn't worry much about that."She came up to the picture as some people would enter a church. Andyet the joy which flooded her face is not well known to churches."I'll tell you what it's like"--the old man's thoughts stumblingright into the heart of it--"it's like someone that's been wanderinground in a desert country all of a sudden coming on a spring. She'sthirsty--she's drinking it in--she can't get enough of it.It's--it's the water of life to her!" And then, ashamed of saying athing that sounded as if it were out of a poem, he shook hisshoulders roughly as if to shake off a piece of sentiment unbecominghis age and sex.He went to the door and watched her as she passed away. "I'll betshe'd never tip the scale to one hundred pounds," he decided. "Lookslike a good wind could blow her away." She stooped a little and justas she passed from sight he saw that she was coughing.Then the old man made what he prided himself was a great deduction."She's been there, and she wants to go back. This kind of takes herback for a minute, and when she gets the breath of it she ain't sohomesick."All through those July days he watched each night for thefrail-looking little girl who liked the picture of the pines. Shewould always come hurrying across the street in the same eager way,an eagerness close to the feverish. But the tenseness would alwaysrelax as she saw the picture. "She never looks quite so wilted downwhen she goes away as she does when she comes," the old man saw."Upon my soul, I believe she really goes there. It's--oh,Lord"--irritated at getting beyond his depth--"I don't know!"He never called it anything now but "Her Picture." One day at justten minutes of six he took it out of the window. "Seems kind ofmean," he admitted, "but I just want to find out how much she doesthink of it."And when he found out he told himself that of all the mean men Godhad ever let live, he was the meanest. The girl came along in theusual hurried, anxious fashion. And when she saw the empty window hethought for a minute she was going to sink right down there on thesidewalk. Everything about her seemed to give way--as if somethingfrom which she had been drawing had been taken from her. Theluminousness gone from her face, there were cruel revelations."Blast my soul!" the old man muttered angrily, not far fromtearfully. She looked up and down the noisy, dirty, parched street,then back to the empty window. For a minute she just stoodthere--that was the worst minute of all. And then--accepting--sheturned and walked slowly away, walked as the too-weary and thetoo-often disappointed walk.It was with not wholly steady hand that the old man hastened toreplace the picture, all the while telling himself what he thoughtof himself: more low-down than the cat who plays with the mouse,meaner than the man who'd take the bone from the dog, less to beloved than the man who would kick over the child's play-house, onlyto be compared with the brute who would snatch the cup of water fromthe dying--such were the verdicts he pronounced. He thought perhapsshe would come back, and stayed there until almost seven, waitingfor her, though pretending it was necessary that he take down andthen put up again the front curtains. All the next day he wasrestless and irritable. As if to make up to the girl for thecontemptible trick he had played he spent a whole hour thatafternoon arranging a tapestry background for the picture. "She'llthink," he told himself, "that this was why it was out, and won't beworried about its being gone again. This will just be a little signto her that it's here to stay."He began his watch that night at half-past five. After fifteenminutes the thought came to him that she might be so disheartenedshe would go home by another street. He became so gloomily certainshe would do this that he was jubilant when he finally saw hercoming along on the other side--coming purposelessly, shorn of thateagerness which had always been able, for the moment, to vanquishthe tiredness. But when she came to the place where she alwayscrossed the street she only stood there an instant and then, alittle more slowly, a little more droopingly, walked on. She hadgiven up! She was not coming over!But she did come. After she had gone a few steps she hesitated againand this time started across the street. "That's right," approvedthe old man, "never give up the ship!"She passed the store as if she were not going to look in; she seemedtrying not to look, but her head turned--and she saw the picture.First her body seemed to stiffen, and then something--he couldn'tmake out whether or not it was a sob--shook her, and as she cametoward the picture on her white, tired face were the tears."Don't you worry," he murmured affectionately to her retreatingform, "it won't never be gone again."The very next week he was put to the test. The kind of lady who didnot often pass along that street entered the shop and asked to seethe picture in the window. He looked at her suspiciously. Then hefrowned at her, as he stood there, fumbling. Her picture!What would she think? What would she do? Then a crafty smile stoleover his face and he walked to the window and got the picture. "Theprice of this picture, madame," he said, haughtily, "is fortydollars,"--adding to himself, "That'll fix her."But the lady made no comment, and stood there holding the picture upbefore her. "I will take it," she said, quietly.He stared at her stupidly. Forty dollars! Then it must be that thepicture was better than the young man had known. "Will you wrap it,please?" she asked. "I will take it with me."He turned to the back of the store. Forty dollars!--he keptrepeating it in dazed fashion. And they had raised the rent on him,and the papers said coal would be high that winter--those factsseemed to have something to do with forty dollars. _Fortydollars!_--it was hammering at him, overwhelmed him, too big asum to contend with. With long, grim stroke he tore off the wrappingpaper; stoically he began folding it. But something was the matter.The paper would not go on right. Three times he took it off, andeach time he could not help looking down at the picture of thepines. And each time the forest seemed to open a little farther;each time it seemed bigger--bigger even than forty dollars; itseemed as if it knew things--things more important than evencoal and rent. And then the strangest thing of all happened: theforest faded away into its own shadowy distances, and in its placewas a noisy, crowded, sun-baked street, and across the street waseagerly hurrying an anxious little girl, a frail little wisp of agirl who probably should not be crossing hot, noisy streets atall--then a light in tired eyes, a smile upon a worn face, relief asfrom a cooling breeze--and anyway, suddenly furious at thelady, furious at himself--"he'd be gol-darned if it wasn'ther picture!"He walked firmly back to the front of the store."I forgot at first," he said, brusquely, "that this picture belongsto someone else."The lady looked at him in astonishment. "I do not understand," shesaid."There's nothing to understand," he fairly shouted, "except that itbelongs to someone else!"She turned away, but came back to him. "I will give you fiftydollars for it," she said, in her quiet way."Madame," he thundered at her, "you can stand there and offer mefive hundred dollars, and I'm here to tell you that this picture isnot for sale. Do you hear?""I certainly do," replied the lady, and walked from the store.He was a long time in cooling off. "I tell you," he stormed to avery blue Lake Michigan he was putting into a frame, "it'shers--it's hern--and anybody that comes along here with anynonsense is just going to hear from me!"In the days which followed he often thought to go out and speak toher, but perhaps the old man had a restraining sense of values. Heplanned some day to go out and tell her the picture was hers, butthat seemed a silly thing to tell her, for surely she knew itanyway. He worried a good deal about her cough, which seemed to begetting worse, and he had it all figured out that when cold weathercame he would have her come in where it was warm, and take her lookin there. He felt that he knew all about her, and though he did notknow her name, though he had never heard her speak one word, in someways he felt closer to her than to any one else in the world.Yet if the old man had known just how it was with the girl it isaltogether unlikely that he would have understood. It would havemystified and disappointed him had he known that she had never seena pine forest or a mountain in her life. Indeed there was a greatdeal about the little girl which the old man, together with almostall the rest of the world, would not have understood.Not that the surface facts about her were either incomprehensible orinteresting. The tale of her existence would sound much like that ofa hundred other girls in the same city. Inquiry about her would havedeveloped the facts that she did typewriting for a land company,that she did not seem to have any people, and lived at a bigboarding-house. At the boarding-house they would have told you thatshe was a nice little thing, quiet as a mouse, and that it was toobad she had to work, for she seemed more than half sick. There thestory would have rested, and the real things about her would nothave been touched.She worked for the Chicago branch of a big Northwestern landcompany. They dealt in the lands of Idaho, Montana, Oregon andWashington. The things she sat at her typewriter and wrote were ofthe wonders of that great country: the great timber lands, thevalleys and hills, towering mountain peaks and rushing rivers. Shetypewrote "literature" telling how there was a chance for every manout there, how the big, exhaustless land was eager to yield of itsstore to all who would come and seek. Day after day she wrote thosethings telling how the sick were made well and the poor were maderich, how it was a land of indescribable wonders which the feeblepen could not hope to portray.And the girl with whom almost everything in life had gone wrong cameto think of Out There as the place where everything was right. Itwas the far country where there was no weariness nor loneliness, theland where one did not grow tired, where one never woke up in themorning too tired to get up, where no one went to bed at night tootired to go to sleep. The street-cars did not ring their gongs soloud Out There, the newsboys had pleasant voices, and there were noelevated trains. It was a pure, high land which knew no smoke nordirt, a land where great silences drew one to the heart of peace,where the people in the next room did not come in and bang thingsaround late at night. Out There was a wide land where buildings werefar apart and streets were not crowded. Even the horses did not growtired Out There. Oh, it was a land where dreams came true--abeautiful land where no one ate prunes, where the gravy was nevergreasy and the potatoes never burned. It was a land of flowers andbirds and lovely people--a land of wealth and health and manysmiles.Her imagination made use of it all. She knew how men were reclaimingthe desert of Idaho, of the tremendous undeveloped wealth of whathad been an almost undiscovered State. She thrilled to the poetry ofirrigation. Often when hot and tired and dusty her fancy would followthe little mountain stream from its birth way up in the clouds, herimagination rushing with it through sweetening forest and tumblingwith it down cooling rocks until finally strong, bold, wise men guidedit to the desert which had yearned for it through all the years, andthe grateful desert smiled rich smiles of grain and flowers. She couldmake it more like a story than any story in any book. And she couldalways breathe better in thinking of the pine forests of Oregon. Therewas something liberating--expanding--in just the thought of them. Shedreamed cooling dreams about them, dreams of their reaching fartherthan one's fancy could reach, big widening dreams of their standingthere serene in the consciousness of their own immensity. They stoodto her for a beautiful idea: the idea of space, of room--room foreverybody, and then much more room! Even one's understanding grewbig as one turned to them.And she loved to listen for the Pacific Ocean, coming fromincomprehensible distances and unknowable countries, now rushingwith passion to the wild coast of Oregon, again stealing into theWashington harbours. She loved to address the letters to Portland,Seattle, Spokane, Tacoma--all those pulsing, vivid cities of acountry of big chances and big beauty. She loved to picture Seattle,a city builded upon many hills--how wonderful that a city should bebuilded upon hills!--in Chicago there was nothing that couldpossibly be thought of as a hill. And she loved to shut her eyes andlet the great mountain peak grow in the distance, as one could seeit from Portland--how noble a thing to see a mountain peak from acity! Sometimes she trembled before that consciousness of amountain. Often when so tired she scarcely knew what she was doingshe found she was saying her prayers to a mountain. Indeed, OutThere seemed the place to send one's prayers--for was it not a placewhere prayers were answered?During that summer when the West was overrun with tourists whogrumbled about everything from the crowded trains to the way inwhich sea-foods were served, this little girl sat in one of the hotoffice buildings of Chicago and across the stretch of miles drew toherself the spirit of that country of coming days. Thousands rode inPullman cars along the banks of the Columbia--saw, and felt not; shesat before her typewriter in a close, noisy room and heard thecooling rush of waters and got the freeing message of the pines. Insome rare moments when she rose from the things about her to thethings of which she dreamed she possessed the whole great land, andas the sultry days sapped of her meagre strength, and the bendingover the typewriter cramped an already too cramped chest she clungwith a more and more passionate tenacity to the bigness and thebeauty and rightness of things Out There. And it was so kind toher--that land of deep breaths and restoring breezes. It never shuther out. It always kept itself bigger and more wonderful than onecould ever hope to fancy it.And the night she found the picture she knew that it was all reallyso. That was why it was so momentous a night. The picture was adream visualised--a dreamer vindicated. They had pictures in theoffice, of course--some pictures trying to tell of that very kind ofa place. But those were just pictures; this proved it, toldwhat it meant. It told that she had been right, and there was joy inknowing that she had known. She clung to the picture as one would tothat which proves as real all one has long held dear, loved it asthe dreamer loves that which secures him in his dreaming.She came to think of it as her own abiding place. Often when tootired for long wings of fancy she would just sink down in the deep,cool shadows of the pines, beside the little river which one knew sowell was the gift of distant snows. It rested her most of all; itquieted her.She smiled sometimes to think how no one in the office knew aboutit, wondered what they would think if they knew. Often she wouldfind someone in the office looking at her strangely. She used towonder about it a little.And then one day Mr. Osborne sent for her to come into his office.He acted so queerly. As she came in and sat down near his desk heswung his chair around and sat there with his back to her. Afterthat he got up and walked to the window.The head stenographer had complained of her cough. She said she didnot think it right either to the girl or to the rest of them for herto be there. She said she hated to speak of it, but could not standit any longer. That had been the week before, and ever since he hadbeen putting it off. But now he could put it off no longer; the headstenographer was valuable, and besides he knew that she was right.And so he told her--this was all he could think of just then--thatthey were contemplating some changes in the office, and for a timewould have less desk room. If he sent her machine to her home, wouldshe be willing to do her work there for a while? Hers was the kindof work that could be done at home.She was sorry, for she wondered if she could find a place in herroom for the typewriter, and it did not seem there would be airenough there to last her all day long. And she had grown fond of theoffice, with its "literature" and pictures and maps and the men whohad just come from Out There coming in every once in a while. It wasa bond--a place to touch realities. But of course there was nothingfor her to do but comply, and she made no comment on thearrangement.She pushed her chair back and rose to go. "Are you alone in theworld?" he asked abruptly then,"Yes; I--oh yes."It was too much for him. "How would you like," he asked recklessly,"to have me get you transportation out West?"She sank back in her chair. Every particle of colour had left herface. Her deep eyes had grown almost wild. "Oh," she gasped--"youcan't mean--you don't think--""You wouldn't want to go?""I mean"--it was but a whisper--"it would be--too wonderful.""You would like it then?"She only nodded; but her lips were parted, her eyes glowing. Hewondered why he had never seen before how different lookingand--yes, beautiful, in a strange kind of way--she was."I see you have a cold," he said, "and I think you would get alongbetter out there. I'll see if I can fix up the transportation, andget something with our people in one of the towns that would be goodfor you."She leaned back in her chair and sat there smiling at him. Somethingin the smile made him say, abruptly: "That's all; you may go now,and I'll send a boy with your machine."She walked through the streets as one who had already found anothercountry. More than one turned to look at her. She reached her roomat last and pulling her one little chair up to the window satstaring out across the alley at the brick wall across from her. Butshe was not seeing a narrow alley and a high brick wall. She wasseeing rushing rivers and mighty forests and towering peaks. Sheleaned back in her chair--an indulgence less luxurious than itsounds, as the chair only reached the middle of her back--and lookedout at the high brick wall and saw a snow-clad range of hills. Butshe was tired; this tremendous idea was too much for her; the verywonder of it was exhausting. She lay down on her bed--radiant, butlanguid. Soon she heard a rush of waters. At first it was onlysomeone filling the bath-tub, but after a while it was the littlestream which flowed through her forest. And then she was not lyingon a lumpy bed; she was sinking down under pine trees--all so sweetand still and cool. But an awful thing was happening!--the forestwas on fire--it was choking and burning her! She awoke to find smokefrom the building opposite pouring into her room; flies were buzzingabout, and her face and hands were hot.She did little work in the next few days. It was hard to go on withthe same work when waiting for a thing which was to make over one'swhole life. The stress of dreams changing to hopes caused a greatlanguor to come over her. And her chair was not right for hertypewriter, and the smoke came in all the time. Strangely enough OutThere seemed farther away. Sometimes she could not go there at all;she supposed it was because she was really going.At the close of the week she went to the office with her work. Shewas weak with excitement as she stepped into the elevator. Would Mr.Osborne have the transportation for her? Would he tell her when shewas to go?But she did not see Mr. Osborne at all. When she asked for him theclerk just replied carelessly that he was not there. She was goingto ask if he had left any message for her, but the telephone rangthen and the man to whom she was talking turned away. Someone wassitting at her old desk, and they did not seem to be making thechanges they had contemplated; everyone in the office seemed verybusy and uncaring, and because she knew her chin was trembling sheturned away.She had a strange feeling as she left the office: as if standing onground which quivered, an impulse to reach out her hand and tellsomeone that something must be done right away, a dreadful fear thatshe was going to cry out that she could not wait much longer.All at once she found that she was crossing the street, and sawahead the little art store with the wonderful picture which provedit was all really so. In the same old way, her step quickened. Itwould show her again that it was all just as she had thought it was,and if that were true, then it must be true also that Mr. Osbornewas going to get her the transportation. It would prove thateverything was all right.But a cruel thing happened. It failed her. It was just asbeautiful--but something a long way off, impossible to reach. Try asshe would, she could not get into it, as she used to. It wasonly a picture; a beautiful picture of some pine trees. And theywere very far away, and they had nothing at all to do with her.Through the window, at the back of the store, she saw the old manstanding with his back to her. She thought of going in and asking tosit down--she wanted to sit down--but perhaps he would say somethingcross to her--he was such a queer looking old man--and she knew shewould cry if anything cross was said to her. That he had watched forher each night, that he had tried and tried to think of a way offinding her, that he would have been more glad to see her than tosee anyone in the world, would have been kinder to her than anyoneon earth would have been--those were the things she did not know.And so--more lonely than she had ever been before--she turned away.On Monday she felt she could wait no longer. It did not seem that itwould be safe. She got ready to go to see Mr. Osborne, butthe getting ready tired her so that she sat a long time resting,looking out at the high brick wall beyond which there was nothing atall. She was counting the blocks, thinking of how many times shewould have to cross the street. But just then it occurred to herthat she could telephone.When she came back upstairs she crept up on the bed and lay therevery still. The boy had said that Mr. Osborne was away and would begone two weeks. No one in the office had heard him say anythingabout her transportation.All through the day she lay there, and what she saw before her was anarrow alley and a high brick wall. She had lost her mountains andher forests and her rivers and her lakes. She tried to go out tothem in the same old way--but she could not get beyond the highbrick wall. She was shut in. She tried to draw them to her, but theycould not come across the wall. It shut them out. She tried to prayto the great mountain which one could see from Portland. But evenprayers could get no farther than the wall.Late that afternoon, because she was so shut in that she waschoking, because she was consumed with the idea that she must claimher country now or lose it forever, she got up and started for thepicture. It was a long, long way to go, and dreadful things were inbetween--people who would bump against her, hot, uneven streets,horses that might run over her--but she must make the journey. Shemust make it because the things that she lived on were slipping fromher--and she was choking--sinking down--and all alone.Step by step, never knowing just how her foot was going to make thenext step, sick with the fear that people were going to run intoher--the streets going up and down, the buildings round and round,she did go; holding to the window casings for the last fewsteps--each step a terrible chasm which she was never sure she wasgoing to be able to cross--she was there at last. And in the windowas she stood there, swayingly, was a dark, blurred thing which mighthave been anything at all. She tried to remember why she had come.What was it--? And then she was sinking down into an abyss.That the hemorrhage came then, that the old man came out and foundher and tenderly took her in, that he had her taken where she shouldhave been taken long before, that the doctors said it was too late,and that soon their verdict was confirmed--those are the facts whichwould seem to tell the rest of the story. But deep down beneathfacts rests truth, and the truth is that this is a story with thehappiest kind of a happy ending. What facts would call the breezefrom an electric fan was in truth the gracious breath of the pines.And when the nurse said "She's going," she was indeed going, but toa land of great spaces and benign breezes, a land of deep shadowsand rushing waters. For a most wondrous thing had happened. She hadcalled to the mountain, and the mountain had heard her voice; andbecause it was so mighty and so everlasting it drew her to itself,across high brick walls and past millions of hurrying, noisypeople--oh, a most triumphant flight! And the mountain said--"I giveyou this whole great land. It is yours because you have loved it sowell. Hills and valleys and rivers and forests and lakes--it is allfor you." Yes, the nurse was quite right; she was going: going for along sweet sleep beneath trees of many shadows, beside clear waterswhich had come from distant snows--really going "Out There."

Previous Authors："One of Those Impossible Americans" Next Authors：The Anarchist: His Dog