Chapter VIII

by Susan Glaspell

　　Katie was writing to her uncle the Bishop. At least that was what shewould have said she was doing. To be literal, she was nibbling at the endof her pen.

　　Writing to her uncle had never been a solemn affair with Kate. Shegossiped and jested with him quite as she would with a playfellow; it wasplayfellow, rather than spiritual adviser, he had always been to her,Kate's need seeming rather more for playfellows than for spiritualadvisers. But the trouble that morning was that the things of which shewas wont to gossip and jest seemed remote and uninteresting things.

　　Finally she wrote: "My friend Ann Forrest is with us now. I am hoping tobe able to keep her for some time. Poor dear, she has not been well andhas had much sorrow—such a story!—and I think the peace of thingshere—peace you know, uncle, being poetic rendition of stupidity—is justwhat Ann needs."

　　A robin on a lilac bush entered passionate protest against the wordstupidity. "What will you have? What will you have?" trilled the robinin joyous frenzy.

　　Wise robin! After all, what would one have? And when within the worldof May that robins love one was finding a whole undiscovered countryto explore?

　　"No, I don't mean that about stupidity," she wrote after a wide look anda deep breath. "It does seem peace. Peace that makes some other thingsseem stupidity. I must be tired, for you will be saying, dear uncle, thata yearning for peace has never been one of the most conspicuous of myattributes."

　　There she fell to nibbling again, looking over at the girl in the deepgarden chair in the choice corner of the big porch. "My friend AnnForrest!" Katie murmured, smiling strangely.

　　Her friend Ann Forrest was turning the leaves of a book, "Days inFlorence," which Kate had left carelessly upon the arm of the chair shecommended to Ann. It was after watching her covertly for sometime thatKatie set down, a little elf dancing in her eye, yet something of theseer in that very eye in which the elf danced:

　　"Of course you have heard me tell of Ann, the girl to whom I was sodevoted in Italy. I should think, uncle, that you of the cloth would findAnn a most interesting subject. Not that she's of your flock. Her motherwas a passionate Catholic. Her father a relentless atheist. He wrote afamous attack on the church which Ann tells me hastened her mother'sdeath. The conflict shows curiously in Ann. When we were together inFlorence a restlessness would many times come upon her. She would say,'You go on home, Katie, without me. I have things to attend to.' I cameto know what it meant. Once I followed her and saw her go to the churchand literally fling herself into its arms in a passion of surrender. Andthat night she sat up until daybreak reading her father's books. You seewhat I mean? A wealth of feeling—but always pulled two ways. It has leftits mark upon her."

　　She read it over, gloated over it, and destroyed it. "Uncle would becoming on the next train," she saw. "He'd hold Ann up for a copy of theattack! And why this mad passion of mine for destruction? Should a manwalking on a tight-rope yield to every playful little desire to chasebutterflies?"

　　But as she looked again—Ann was deep in the illustrations of "Days inFlorence" and could be surveyed with impunity—she wondered if she mightnot have written better than she knew. Her choice of facts doubtless waspreposterous enough; what had been the conflicting elements—her fancymight wander far afield in finding that. But she was sure she saw trulyin seeing marks of conflict. Life had pulled her now this way, now that,as if playing some sort of cruel game with her. And that game had lefther very tired. Tired as some lovely creature of the woods is tired afterpursuit, and fearful with that fear of the hunted from which safetycannot rescue. It was in Ann's eyes—that looking out from shadowyretreat, that pain of pain remembered, that fear which fear has left.Katie had seen it once in the eyes of an exhausted fawn, who, fleeingfrom the searchers for the stag, had come full upon the waiting hunt—inface of the frantic hounds in leash. The terror in those eyes thatshould have been so soft and gentle, the sick certitude of doom wherethere should have been the glad joy of life struck the death blow toKatie's ambitions to become the mighty huntress. She had never joinedanother hunt or wished to hear another story of the hunt, saying sheflattered herself she could be resourceful enough to gain her pleasuresin some other way than crazing gentle creatures with terror. Ann made herthink of that quivering fawn, suggesting, as the fawn had suggested, whatlife might have been in a woods uninvaded. She had a vision of Ann as thecreature of pure delight she had been fashioned to be, loving life andnot knowing fear.

　　From which musings she broke off with a hearty: "Good drive!" and Annlooked up inquiringly.

　　She pointed to the teeing ground some men were just leaving—caddiesstraggling on behind, two girls driving in a runabout along the riverroad calling gaily over to the men. It all seemed sunny and unfettered asthe morning.

　　"I'll wager he feels good," she laughed. "I know no more exhilaratingfeeling than that thing of having just made a good drive. It makes lifeseem at your feet. You must play, Ann. I'm going to teach you."

　　"Do all those people belong here?" Ann asked, still looking at the girlswho were calling laughingly back and forth to the men.

　　"On the Island? Oh, no; they belong over there." She nodded to the citywhich rose upon the hills across the river. "But they use these links."

　　"Don't they—don't they have to—work?" Ann asked timidly.

　　"Oh, yes," laughed Katie; "I fancy most of them work some. Though what'sthe good working a morning like this? I think they're very wise. But looknow at the Hope of the Future! He's certainly working."

　　The Hope of the Future was ascending the steps, heavily burdened. Soheavily was he burdened that for the moment ascent looked impossible.Each arm was filled with a shapeless bundle of white and yellow fur whichcloser inspection revealed as the collie pups.

　　With each step the hind legs of a wriggling puppy slipped a littlefarther through Worth's arms. When finally he stood before them only abig puppy head was visible underneath each shoulder. Approaching Ann,then backing around, he let one squirming pair of legs rest on her lap,freed his arm, and Ann had the puppy. "You can play with him a littlewhile," he remarked graciously.

　　"Worth," said Katie, "it is unto my friend Miss Forrest, known in theintimacies of the household as Miss Ann, that you have just made thistender offering."

　　Worth took firm hold on his remaining puppy and stood there surveyingAnn. "I came last night," he volunteered, after what seemed satisfactoryinspection.

　　Ann just smiled at him, rumpling the puppy's soft woolly coat.

　　"How long you been here?" he asked cordially.

　　"Just two days," she told him.

　　"I'm going to stay all summer," he announced, hoisting his puppy alittle higher.

　　"That's nice," said Ann; her puppy was climbing too.

　　"How long you goin' to stay?" he wanted to know.

　　"Miss Ann is going to stay just as long as we are real nice to her,

　　Worthie," said Katie, looking up from the magazine she was cutting.

　　"She can play with the puppies every morning, Aunt Kate," he cried in afervent burst of hospitality.

　　"You got a dog at home?" he asked of Ann.

　　At the silence, Katie looked up. The puppy was now cuddled upon Ann'sbreast, her two arms about it. As she shook her head her chin brushed thesoft puppy fur—then buried itself in it. Her eyes deepened.

　　"It must be just the dreadfulest thing there is not to have a dog,"

　　Worth condoled.

　　There was no response. The puppy's head was on Ann's shoulder. He wasambitious to mount to her face.

　　"Didn't you never have a dog?" Worth asked, drawling it out tragically.

　　The head nodded yes, but the eyes did not grow any more glad at thoughtof once having had a dog.

　　Worth took a step nearer and lay an awed hand upon her arm. "Didhe—die?"

　　She nodded. Her face had grown less sorrowful than hard. It was the lookof that first day.

　　Worth shook his head slowly to express deep melancholy. "It's awful—tohave 'em die. Mine died once. I cried and cried and cried. Then papa gotme a bigger one."

　　He waited for confidences which did not come. Ann was holding thepuppy tight.

　　"Didn't your papa get you 'nother one?" he asked, as one searchingfor the best.

　　"Worth dear," called Katie, "let's talk about the live puppies. Thereare so many live puppies in the world. And just see how the puppy lovesMiss Ann."

　　"And Miss Ann loves the puppy. Mustn't squeeze him too tight," headmonished. "Watts says it's bad for 'em to squeeze 'em. Watts knows justeverything 'bout puppies. He knows when they have got to eat and whenthey have got to sleep, and when they ought to have a bath. Do yousuppose, Aunt Kate, we'll ever know as much as Watts?"

　　"Probably not. Don't hitch your wagon to too far a star, Worthie. No usesmashing the wagon."

　　Suddenly Ann had squeezed her puppy very tight. "O—h," cried Worth,"you mustn't! I like to do it, too, but Watts says it squeezes thegrows out of 'em. It's hard not to squeeze 'em though, ain't it?" heconcluded with tolerance.

　　Again Katie looked up. The girl, holding the puppy close, was looking atthe little boy. Something long beaten back seemed rushing on; and in hereyes was the consciousness of its having been long beaten back.

　　Something of which did not escape the astute Wayne the Worthy. "AuntKate," he called excitedly, "Aunt Kate—Miss Ann's eyes go such a longway down!"

　　"Worth, I'm not at all sure that it is the best of form for a grown-upyoung gentleman of six summers to be audibly estimating the fathomlessdepths of a young woman's eyes. Note well the word audibly, Worthie."

　　"They go farther down than yours, Aunt Kate."

　　"'Um—yes; another remark better left with the inaudible."

　　"It looks—it looks as if there was such a lot of cries in them!o—h—one's coming now!"

　　"Worth," she called sharply, "come here. You mustn't talk to Miss Annabout cries, dear. When you talk about cries it brings the cries, andwhen you talk about laughs the laughs come, and Miss Ann is so prettywhen she laughs."

　　"Miss Ann is pretty all the time," announced gallant Worth. "She has amouth like—a mouth like—She has a mouth like—"

　　"Yes dear, I understand. When they say 'She has a mouth like—a mouthlike—' I know just what kind of mouth they mean."

　　"But how do you know, Aunt Kate? I didn't say what kind, did I?"

　　"No; but as years and wisdom and guile descend upon you, you will learnthat sometimes the surest way of making one's self clear is not to saywhat one means."

　　"But I don't see—"

　　"No, one doesn't—at six. Wait till you've added twenty thereto."

　　"Aunt Kate?"

　　"Yes?"

　　"How old is Miss Ann?"

　　"Worth, when this twenty I'm talking about has been added on, you willknow that never, never, never must one speak or think or dream of alady's age."

　　"Why not?"

　　"Oh, because it brings the cries—lots of times."

　　He had seated himself on the floor. The puppy was in spasms of excitementover the discovery of a considerable expanse of bare legs.

　　"Are they sorry they're not as old as somebody else?" he asked, trying toget his legs out of the puppy's lurching reach.

　　"No, they're usually able to endure the grief brought them by thatthought."

　　"Aunt Kate?"

　　"Oh—yes?" It was a good story.

　　"Would Miss Ann be sorry she's not as old as you?"

　　"Hateful, ungrateful little wretch!"

　　"Aunt Kate?"

　　"I am all attention, Wayneworth," she said, with inflection which shouldnot have been wasted on ears too young.

　　"Do you know, Aunt Kate, sometimes I don't know just what you'retalking about."

　　"No? Really? And this from your sex to mine!"

　　"Do you always say what you mean, Aunt Kate?"

　　"Very seldom."

　　"Why not?"

　　"Somebody might find out what I thought."

　　"Don't you want them to know what you think, Aunt Kate?" he pursued,making a complete revolution and for the instant evading thefrisking puppy.

　　"Certainly not."

　　"But why not, Aunt Kate?"—squirming as the puppy placed a long warm lickright below the knee.

　　"Oh, I don't know." The story was getting better. Then, looking up with

　　Kate's queer smile: "It might hurt their feelings."

　　"Why would it—?"

　　"Oh, Wayneworth Jones! Why were you born with your brain cells screwedinto question marks?—and why do I have to go through life getting themunscrewed?"

　　She actually read a paragraph; and as there she had to turn a page shelooked over at Ann. Ann's puppy had joined Worth's on the floor andtogether they were indulging in bites of puppyish delight at the littleboy's legs, at each other's tails, at so much of the earth's atmosphereas came within range of their newly created jaws craving the exercise oftheir function. Mad with the joy of living were those two collie pups onthat essentially live and joyous morning.

　　And Ann, if not mad with the joy of living, seemed sensible of the wonderof it. "Days in Florence" open on her lap, hands loose upon it, she waslooking off at the river. From hard thoughts of other days Kate couldsee her drawn to that day—its softness and sunshine, its breath of theriver and breath of the trees. Folded in the arms of that day was Annjust then. The breeze stirred a little wisp of hair on her temple—gentlyswayed the knot of ribbon at her throat. The spring was wooing Ann; herface softened as she listened. Was it something of that same force whichbounded boisterously up in boy and dogs which was stealing overAnn—softening, healing, claiming?

　　The next paragraph of the story on the printed page was less interesting.

　　"Aunt Kate," said Worth, gathering both puppies into his arms as theywere succeeding all too well in demonstrating that they were going togrow up and be real dogs, "Watts says it is the ungodliest thing he knowsof that these puppies haven't got any names."

　　"I am glad to learn," murmured Kate, "that Watts is a true son of thechurch. He yearns for a christening?"

　　"He says that being as nobody else has thought up names for them, hecalls the one that is most yellow, Mike; and the one that is most white,Pat. Do you think Mike and Pat are pretty names, Aunt Kate?"

　　"Well, I can't say that my esthetic sense fairly swoons with delight atsound of Mike and Pat," she laughed.

　　"I'll tell you, Worthie," she suggested, looking up with twinkling eyeafter her young nephew had been experimenting with various intonations ofMike—Pat, Pat—Mike, "why don't you call one of them Pourquoi?"

　　He walked right into it with the never-failing "Why?"

　　"Just so. Call one Pourquoi and the other N'est-ce-pas. They do goodteam work in both the spirit and the letter. Pourquoi, Worth, is yourfavorite word in French. Need I add that it means 'why'? AndN'est-ce-pas—well, Watts would say N'est-ce-pas meant 'ain't it'?and more flexible translators find it to mean anything they are seekingto persuade you is true. Pourquoi is the inquirer and N'est-ce-pas theuniversalist. I trust Watts will give this his endorsement."

　　"I'll ask him," gravely replied Worth, and sought to accustom the puppiesto their new names with chanting—Poor Qua—Nessa Pa. The chant grew somelancholy that the puppies subsided; oppressed, overpowered, perhaps,with the sense of being anything as large and terrible as inquirer anduniversalist.

　　But Worth was too true a son of the army to leave a brooding damsel longalone in the corner. "You seen the new cow?" was his friendly approach.

　　"Why, I don't believe I have," she confessed.

　　"I s'pose you've seen the chickens?" he asked, a trifle condescendingly.

　　Ann shamefacedly confessed that she had not as yet seen the chickens.

　　He took a step backward for the weighty, crushing: "Well, you've seen thehorses, haven't you?"

　　"Aunt Kate—Aunt Kate!" he called peremptorily, as Ann humbly shook herhead, "Miss Ann's not seen the cow—or the, chickens—nor the horses!"

　　"Isn't it scandalous?" agreed Kate. "It shows what sort of hostess I am,doesn't it? But you see, Worth, I thought as long as you were coming sosoon you could do the honors of the stables. I think it's always a littlemore satisfactory to have a man do those things."

　　"I'll take you now," announced Worth, in manner which brooked neitherdelay nor gratitude.

　　And so the girl and the little boy and the two puppies, the joy of motionfreeing them from the sad weight of inquirer and universalist, startedacross the lawn for the stables. Pourquoi caught at Ann's dress and shehad to be manfully rescued by Worth. And no sooner had the inquirer beenloosened from one side than the universalist was firmly fastened to theother and the rescue must be enacted all over again, amid considerableconfusion and laughter. Ann's laugh was borne to Katie on a wave of thespring—just the laugh of a girl playing with a boy and his dogs.

　　It was a whole hour later, and as Kate was starting out for golf she sawAnn and Worth sitting on the sandpile, a tired inquirer and very wearyuniversalist asleep at their feet. Ann was picking sand up in her handsand letting it sift through. Worth was digging with masculine vigor. Katepassed close enough to hear Ann's, "Well, once upon a time—"

　　Ann!—opening to a little child the door of that wondrous country of Onceupon a Time! No mother had ever done it more sweetly, with more tenderzeal, more loving understanding of the joys and necessities of Once upona Time. Some once upon a time notions of Kate's were quite overturned bythat "once upon a time" voice of Ann's. Then the once upon a time of thesandpile did not shut them out—they who had known another once upon atime? Did it perhaps love to take them in, knowing that upon the sands ofthis once upon a time the other could keep no foothold?

　　"Once upon a Time—Once upon a Time"—it kept singing itself in her ears.

　　For her, too, it opened a door.