Chapter XXXVII

by Susan Glaspell

　　They would get in late that afternoon. Off on the horizon was a hazy masswhich held the United States of America, as sometimes the haze of a dreammay hold a mighty truth.

　　Katie and Mrs. Prescott were having a brisk walk on deck. They paused andpeered off at that mist out of which New York must soon shape itself.

　　"Just off yonder's your country, Katie," the older woman was saying."Soon you'll see the flag flying over Governor's Island. Will it makeyou thrill?"

　　"It always has," replied Katie.

　　Mrs. Prescott stole a keen look at her, seeing that she was not answered.They had had some strange talks on that homeward trip, talks to stir inthe older woman's mind vague apprehensions for the daughter of her oldfriend. It did not seem to Mrs. Prescott what she called "best" that awoman—and particularly an unmarried one—should be doing as muchthinking as Katie seemed to be doing. She wished Katie would not readsuch strange books; she was sure Walt Whitman, for one, could not be agood influence. What would happen to the world if the women of Katie'sclass were to—let down the bars, she vaguely and uneasily thought it.And she was too fond of Katie to want her to venture out of shelter.

　　"Well it ought to, Katie dear. I don't know who has the right tothrill to it, if you haven't. Doesn't it make you think of those sturdyforefathers of yours who came to it long ago, when it was an unknownland, and braved dangers for it? Your people have always fought for it,Katie. There would be no country had not such lives as theirs beengiven to it."

　　Katie was peering off at the faint outlines which one moment seemeddiscernible in the mist and the next seemed but a phantom of theimagination, as the truth which is to stand out bold and incontestablemay at first suggest itself so faintly through the dream as to becalled a phantom of the imagination. "True," she said. "And fine. Andequally true and fine that there's just as much to fight for now asthere ever was."

　　"Oh yes," murmured Mrs. Prescott, "we must still have the army, ofcourse."

　　"The fighting's not in the army," said Katie, to herself rather than toher friend.

　　The older woman sighed. "I'm afraid I don't understand you, Katie." Aftera pause she added, sadly: "Something seems happening in the world that isdriving older people and younger people apart."

　　Katie turned to her affectionately. "Oh, no."

　　But more affectionately than convincingly. Mrs. Prescott looked at herwistfully: so strong, so buoyant, so fearless and so fine; she felt animpulse to keep her, though for what—from what—she would not have beenable to say.

　　"Katie dear," she said gently, "I get a glimpse of what you mean inthere still being things to fight for. You mean new ideas; new things. Iknow you're stirred by something. I feel your enthusiasm; it shines fromyour face. Enthusiasm is a splendid thing in the young, Katie. In any ofus. New things there always are to fight for, of course. But, dearKatie—the old things? Those beautiful old things which thegenerations have left us? Things fought for, tested, mellowed by ourfathers and mothers, and their fathers and mothers? Aren't they a littletoo precious, too hardly won, too freighted with memories to be lightlycast aside?"

　　Katie looked at her friend's face, itself so incontestably the gift ofthe generations. It made vivid her own mother's face, and that her ownstruggle. "I don't think," she said tremulously, "that you are justifiedin saying they are 'lightly' cast aside."

　　They were silent, looking off at the land which was breaking through themists, responding in their different ways to the different things it wassaying to them.

　　"It seems to me," Mrs. Prescott began uncertainly, "that it is not forwomen—particularly women to whom they have come as directly as to youand me—to cast them off at all. We seem to be in strange days. Days ofchange. To me, Katie, it seems that the work for the women—ourwomen—is in preserving those things, dear things left to us, holdingthem safe and unharmed through the destroying days of change."

　　She had grown more sure of herself in speaking.

　　The last came staunchly.

　　"It seems," she added, "that it would be enough for us to do. And thething for which we are best fitted."

　　Katie was silent; she could not bear to say to her friend—her mother'sfriend—that it did not seem to her enough to do, or the thing for whichshe was best fitted.

　　She was the less drawn to the idea because of a face she could see downin the steerage: face of an immigrant girl who was also turning eagerface, not to the land for which her forefathers had fought, but to thatwhich would be the land of her descendants.

　　She had seen her there before, face set toward the land into which shewas venturing. She had become interested in her. She seemed so eager. Andthinking back to the things seen in her search for Ann, other things shehad been reading of late, a fear for that girl—pity for her—more thanthat, sense of responsibility about her grew big in Katie.

　　It made it seem that there was bigger and more tender work for women thanpreserving inviolate those things women had left. As she drew near theharbor of New York she was more interested in the United States ofAmerica as related to that girl than as associated with her ownforefathers who had fought for it long before.

　　And as it had been for them to fight in the new land, it seemed that itwas for her, not merely to cherish the fact of their having fought, notholding that as something apart—something setting her apart, but tofight herself; not under the old standards because they had been theirstandards, but under whatsoever standards best served the fight. It evenseemed that the one way to keep alive those things they had left her wasto let them shape themselves in whatever form the new spirit—newdemands—would shape them.

　　Mrs. Prescott was troubled by her silence. "Katie dear," she said, "youcome of a long line of fine and virtuous women. In these days wheneverything seems attacked—endangered—that, at least—that thing mostdear to women—most indispensable—must be held inviolate. And by such asyou. Wherever your ideas may carry you, don't let that be touched.Remember that the safety of the world for women goes, if you do."

　　It turned Katie to Ann. Safety she had found. Then again she lookeddown at the immigrant girl—beautiful girl that she was. And wondered.And feared.

　　She turned to Mrs. Prescott with a tear on her eyelashes and a smile alittle hard about her lips. "Would you say that 'fine and virtuous women'have succeeded in keeping the world a perfectly safe place for women?"

　　Mrs. Prescott was repelled, but Katie did not notice. She was lookingwith a passionate sternness off at New York. "Let anything be touched,"she spoke it with deep feeling. "I say nothing's too precious to betouched—if touching it can make things better!"

　　Mrs. Prescott had gone below. Katie feared that she had wounded her, andwas sorry. She had not been able to help it. The face of that immigrantgirl was too tragically eager.

　　They were almost in now, close to Governor's Island, over which the flagwas flying. It gripped her as it had never done before.

　　"Boy," she said to Worth, perched on a coil of rope beside her, "there'syour country. Country your people came to a long time ago, and foughtfor, and some of them died for. And you'll grow up, Worth, and you'llfight for it. Not the way they fought; it won't need you to fight for itthat way; they did that—and now that's done. But there will be lotsfor you to fight for, too; harder fights to fight, I think, than any theyfought. You'll fight to make it a better place for men and women andlittle children to live in. Not by firing guns at other men, Worth, butby being as wise and kind and as honest and fair as you know how to be."

　　It was her voice moved him; it had been vibrant with real passion.

　　But after a moment the face of the child of many soldiers clouded. "Butwon't I have any gun 'tall, Aunt Kate?" he asked wistfully.

　　She smiled at the stubborn persistence of militarism. "I'm afraid not,dear. I hope we're not going to have so many guns when you're a man. But,Worth, if you don't have the gun, other little boys will have more toeat. There are lots of little boys and girls in the world now haven'tenough to eat just because there are so many guns. Wouldn't you ratherdo without the gun and know that nobody was going hungry?"

　　"I—guess so," faltered Worth, striving to be magnanimous butlooking wistful.

　　"But, Aunt Kate," he pursued after another silence, "what's father makingguns for—if there aren't going to be any?"

　　Katie's smile was not one Worth would be likely to get much from. "Askfather," she said rather grimly. "I think he might find the questioninteresting."

　　Worth continued solemn. "But, Aunt Kate—won't there be anybody'tall to kill?"

　　"Why, honey," she laughed, "does it really seem to you such a gloomyworld—world in which there will be nobody to kill? Don't worry, dear.The world's getting so interesting we're going to find lots of thingsmore fun than guns."

　　"Maybe," said Worth, "if I don't have a gun you'll get me an air-ship,

　　Aunt Kate."

　　"Maybe so," she laughed.

　　"The man that mends the boats says I'll have an air-ship before I die,

　　Aunt Kate."

　　She gave Worth a sudden little squeeze, curiously jubilant at thepossibility of his having an air-ship before he died. And she viewed thecity of sky-scrapers adoringly—tenderly—mistily. "Oh Worthie," shewhispered, "isn't it lovely to be getting home?"