Chapter XII

by Susan Glaspell

　　She had only known him for about twenty days—"The man who mends theboats"—but she had fallen into the way of referring all interestingquestions to him. That was perhaps the more remarkable as her eyes hadnever rested upon him.

　　One morning Worth had looked up from some comparative measurements of thetails of Pourquoi and N'est-ce-pas to demand: "Why, Aunt Kate, what doyou think?"

　　"There are times," replied Aunt Kate, looking over at the girl swayingin the hammock, humming gently to herself, "when I don't know just whatto think."

　　"Well sir, what do you think? The man that mends the boats knows more'an Watts!"

　　"Worthie," she admonished, "it's bad business for an army man toturn traitor."

　　"But yes, he does. 'Cause I asked Watts why Pourquoi had more yellow thanwhite, and why N'est-ce-pas was more white 'an yellow, and he said I surehad him there. He'd be blowed if he knew, and he guessed nobody did,'less maybe the Almighty had some ideas about it; but yesterday I askedthe man that mends the boats, and he explained it—oh a whole lot of longwords, Aunt Kate. More long words 'an I ever heard before."

　　"And the explanation? I trust it was satisfactory?"

　　"I guess it was," replied Worth uncertainly. "'Twas an awful lot oflong words."

　　"My experience, too," laughed Aunt Kate.

　　"With the man that mends the boats?"

　　"No, with other sages. You see when they're afraid to stay down here onthe ground with us any longer, afraid they'll be hit with a question thatwill knock them over, they get into little air-ships they have and hurlthe long words down at our heads until we're too stunned to ask any morequestions, and in such wise is learning disseminated."

　　"I'll ask the man that mends the boats if he's got any air-ships. He'sgot most everything up there."

　　"Up where?"

　　"Oh, up there,"—with vague nod toward the head of the Island.

　　"He says he'd like to get acquainted with you, Aunt Kate. He says hereally believes you might be worth knowing."

　　Thereupon Aunt Kate's book fell to the floor with a thud of amazementthat reverberated indignation. "Well upon my word!" gasped she. Then,recovering her book—and more—"Why what a kindly gentleman he must be,"she drawled.

　　"Oh yes, he's kind. He's awful kind, I guess. He'll talk to you any timeyou want him to, Aunt Kate. He'll tell you just anything you want toknow. He said you must be a—I forgot the word."

　　"Oh no, you haven't," wheedled Aunt Kate. "Try to think of it, dearie."

　　"Can't think of it now. Shall I ask him again?"

　　"Certainly not! How preposterous! As if it made the slightest differencein the world!"

　　But it made difference enough for Aunt Kate to ask a moment later: "Andhow did it happen, Worthie, that this kindly philosopher should havedeemed me worth knowing?"

　　"Oh, I don't know. 'Cause he liked the puppies' names, I guess. I told

　　him how their mother was just Queen, but how they was Pourquoi and

　　N'est-ce-pas—a 'quirer and 'versalist and so then he said: 'And which is

　　Aunt Kate?'"

　　"Which is Aunt Kate? What did he mean?"

　　"'Is she content to be just Queen,' he said, 'or is she'—there was a lotof long words, you wouldn't understand them, Aunt Kate—I didn'teither—'does she show a puppyish tendon'—tendon something—'to buttinto the universe?'"

　　Suddenly Aunt Kate's face grew pink and she sat straight. "Worth, wasthis one of the men?"

　　"Oh no, Aunt Kate. He's not one of the men. He's just a man. He's the manthat mends the boats."

　　"'The man that mends the boats!' He sounds like a creature in flowingrobes out of a mythology book, or the being expressing the high and noblesentiments calling everybody down in a new-thoughtish play."

　　From time to time Worth would bring word of him. What boats does he mend,Aunt Kate wanted to know, and what business has he landing them on ourIsland? To which came the answer that he mended boats sick unto deathwith speed mania and other social disease, and that he didn't land themon the Island, but on an island off the tip of the Island, a tiny islandwhich the Lord had thoughtlessly left lying disrespectfully close to theIsle of Dignity. Katie was too true a romancer to inquire closely aboutthe man who mended the boats, for she liked to think of him as an unrealbeing who only touched the earth off the tip of the Island, and onlytouched humanity through Worth. That wove something alluringlymysterious—and mysteriously alluring—about the man who made sick boatswell, whereas had she given rein to the possibility of his belonging tothe motorboat factory across the river, and scientifically testinggasoline engines it would be neither proper nor interesting that heryoung nephew should run back and forth with pearls of wit and wisdom. Itdeveloped that Worth visited this tip of the Island with the everfaithful Watts, and that one day the boat mender and Watts had—oh justthe awfulest fight with words Worth had ever heard. It was about theGovernment, which the man who mended the boats said was running on onecylinder, drawing from patriotic Watts the profane defense that it hadall the power it needed for blowing up just such fools as that! Hefurther held that soldiers were first-class dishwashers and should bebrave enough to demand first-class dishwashing pay. Katie had chuckledover that. But she had puzzled rather than chuckled over the statementthat the first war the saddles manufactured on that Island would seewould be the war over the manufacturing of them. Now what in the worldhad he meant by that? She had asked Wayne, but Wayne had seemed soseriously interested in the remark, and asked such direct questions as towho made it, that she had tried to cover her tracks, thinking perhaps theman who mended the boats could be thrown into the guard-house for sayingsuch dark things about army saddles.

　　On the way home from that talk Watts had branded the man who mended theboats as one of them low-down anarchists that ought to be shot atsunrise. Things was as they was, held Watts, and how could anybody buta fool expect them to be any way but the way they was? It showed whathe was—and after that Worth had had no more fireworks of thought for aweek, Watts standing guard over the world as it was.

　　But he slipped into an odd place in Katie's life of wonderings andfancyings, and that life of musing and questioning was so big and so reala life in those days. He was something to shoot things out at, to hangthings to. She held imaginary conversations with him, demolished him inimaginary arguments only to stand him up and demolish him again.Sometimes she quite winked with him at the world as it was, and at othertimes she withdrew to lofty heights and said cutting things. In morefriendly mood she asked him questions, sometimes questions he could notanswer, and she could not answer them either, and then their thoughtswould hover around together, brooding over a world of unanswerablethings. All her life she had held those imaginary conversations, butheretofore it had been with her horse, her dog, the trees, a white cloudagainst the blue, something somewhere. None of the hundreds of nicepeople she knew had ever moved her to imaginary conversations. And so nowit was stimulating—energizing—not to have to diffuse her thought intothe unknown, but to direct it at, and through, the man who mended theboats and said strange things to Worth up at the tip of the Island.

　　And he came at a time when she had great need of him. Never beforehad there been so many things to start one on imaginary conversations,conversations which ended usually in a limitless wondering. Since Ann hadcome the simplest thought had a way of opening a door into a vastcountry.

　　Too many doors were opening that afternoon. She was making no headwaywith the letters she had told herself she would dispose of while Ann andCaptain Prescott were out on the links.

　　The letter from Harry Prescott's mother was the most imperative. She wasreturning from California and sent some inquiries as to the habitabilityof her son's house.

　　Katie was thinking, as she re-read it, that it was a letter with abackground. It expressed one whom dead days loved well. The writer ofthe letter seemed to be holding in life all those gentlewomen who hadformed her.

　　In a short time Mrs. Prescott would be at the Arsenal. That meant a moredifficult game. Did it also mean an impossible one?

　　Yet Katie would prefer showing her Ann to Mrs. Prescott than to ZeldaFraser. Zelda, the fashionable young woman, would pounce upon the absenceof certain little tricks and get no glimmer of what Katie vaguely calledthe essence. Might not Mrs. Prescott find the reality in thepossibilities? "It comes to this," Katie suddenly saw, "I'm not shamming,I'm revealing. I'm not vulgarly imitating; I'm restoring. The connoisseurshould be the first to appreciate that."

　　It turned her off into one of those long paths of wondering, paths whichsometimes seemed to circle the whole of the globe. It was on those pathsshe frequently found the man who mended the boats waiting for her.Sometimes he was irritating, turning off into little by-paths, by-pathsleading off to the dim source of things. Katie could not follow himthere; she did not know her way; and often, as to-day, he turned offthere just when she was most eager to ask him something. She would askhim what he thought about backgrounds. How much there was in that thingof having the background all prepared for one, in simply fitting into theplace one was expected to fit into. How many people would create forthemselves the background it was assumed they belonged in just becausethey had been put in it? Suddenly she laughed. She had a most absurdvision of Jove—Katie believed it would be Jove—standing over humanitywith some kind of heroic feather duster and mightily calling"Shoo!—Shoo!—Move on!—Every fellow find his place for himself!"

　　Such a scampering as there would be! And how many would be let stay inthe places where they had been put? Who would get the nice corners it hadbeen taken for granted certain people should have just because they hadbeen fixed up for them in advance? How about the case of Miss KatherineWayneworth Jones? Would she be ranked out of quarters?

　　Certain it was that a very choice corner had been fitted up for saidKatherine Wayneworth Jones. People said that she belonged in her corner;that no one else could fit it, that she could not as well fit anywhereelse. But she was not at all sure that under the feather duster act thatwould give her the right of possession. People were so stupid. Justbecause they saw a person sitting in a place they held that was the placefor that person to be sitting. Katie almost wished that mighty "Shoo!"would indeed reverberate 'round the world. It would be such fun to seethem scamper and squirm. And would there not be the keenest ofsatisfaction in finding out what sort of place one would fit up for one'sself if none had been fitted up for one in advance?

　　Few people were called upon to prove themselves. Most people judgedpeople as they judged pictures at an exhibition. They went around with acatalogue and when they saw a good name they held that they saw a goodpicture. And when they did not know the name, even though the picturepleased them, they waited around until they heard someone else sayinggood things, then they stood before it murmuring, "How lovely."

　　She had put Ann in the catalogue; she had seen to it that she wasproperly hung, and she herself had stood before her proclaiming somethingrare and fine. That meant that Ann was taken for granted. And being takenfor granted meant nine-tenths the battle.

　　It would be fun to fool the catalogue folks. And she need have nocompunctions about lowering the standard of art because the picture shehad found out in the back room and surreptitiously hung in the nightbelonged in the gallery a great deal more than some of the pictures whichhad been solemnly carried in the front way. It was the catalogue folks,rather than the lovers of art, were being imposed upon.

　　And Mrs. Prescott, though to be sure a maker of catalogues, was also alover of art. There lay Katie's hope for her, and apology to her.

　　Though she was apprehensive, a stronger light was to be turned on—thatwas indisputable. "You and I know, dear Queen," Katie confided to themember of her sex lying at her feet, "that men are not at all difficult.You can get them to swallow most anything—if the girl in the case isbeautiful enough. And feminine enough! Masculine dotes on discoveringfeminine—but have you ever noticed what the rest of the feminine dote ondoing to that discovery? Women can even look at wondrous soft brown eyesand lovely tender mouths through those 'Who was your father?' 'specs'they keep so well dusted. The manner of holding a teacup is moreimportant than the heart's deep dreams. When it comes to passinginspection, the soul's not in it with the fork. We know 'em—don't we,old Queen?"

　　Queen wagged concurrence, and Katie pulled herself sternly back toher letters.

　　Mrs. Prescott spoke of the chance of her son's being ordered away. "Ihope not," she wrote, "for I want the quiet summer for him. And formyself, too. The great trees and the river, and you there, dear Katie, itseems the thing I most desire. But we of the army learn often torelinquish the things we most desire. We, the homeless, for in theabiding sense we are homeless, make homes possible. Think of it withpride sometimes, Katie. Our girls think of it all too little now. Isometimes wonder how they can forego that just pride in their traditions.During this spring in the West my thoughts have many times turned tothose other days, days when men like your father and my husband performedthe frontier service which made the West of to-day possible. Recently ata dinner I heard a young woman, one of the 'advanced' type, and I amsorry to say of army people, speak laughingly to one of our men of theuselessness of the army. She was worthy nothing but scorn, or I mighthave spoken of some of the things your mother and I endured in those daysof frontier posts. And now we have a California—serene—fruitful—andcan speak of the uselessness of the army! Does the absurdity of it neverstrike them?"

　　Katie pondered that; wondered if Mrs. Prescott's attitude and spirit werenot passing with the frontier. Few of the army girls she knew thought ofthemselves as homeless, or gave much consideration to that thing ofmaking other homes possible, save, to be sure, the homes they werehoping—and plotting—to make for themselves. And she could not see thatthe "young woman" was answered. The young woman had not been talkingabout traditions. Probably the young woman would say that yesterdayhaving made to-day possible it was quite time to be quit of yesterday."Though to be sure," Katie now answered her, "while we may not seem to bedoing anything, we're keeping something from being done, and that perhapsis the greatest service of all. Were it not for us and our dear navy weshould be sailed on from East and West, marched on from North and South.At least that's what we're told by our superiors, and are you the kind ofyoung woman to question what you're told by your superiors? Because ifyou are!—I'd like to meet you."

　　Her letter continued: "Harry writes glowingly of your charming friend.Strange that I am not able to recall her, though to be sure I knew littleof you in those years abroad. Was she a school friend? I presume so.Harry speaks of her as 'the dear sort of girl,' not leaving a clear imagein my mind. But soon my vision will be cleared."

　　"Oh, will it?" mumbled Kate. "I don't know whether it will or not. 'Thedear sort of girl!' And I presume the young goose thought he had given avivid picture."

　　She turned to Major Darrett's note: a charming note it was to turn to. Hehad the gift of making himself very real—and correspondinglyattractive—in those notes.

　　A few days before she had been telling Ann about Major Darrett. "He's abachelor," she had said, "and a joy." Ann had looked vague, and Katielaughed now in seeing that her characterization was broad as "the dearsort of girl."

　　It was probable Major Darrett would relieve one of the officers at the

　　Arsenal. He touched it lightly. "Should fate—that part of it dwelling in

　　Washington—waft me to your Island, Katie Jones, I foresee a summer to

　　compensate me for all the hard, cruel, lonely years."

　　Kate smiled knowingly; not that she actually knew much to beknowing about.

　　She wondered why she did not disapprove of Major Darrett. Certain she wasthat some of the things which had kept his years from being hard, cruel,and lonely were in the category for disapproval. But he managed them sowell; one could not but admire his deftness, and admiration was weakeningto disapproval. One disapproved of things which offended one, and in thisinstance the results of the things one knew one should disapprove were sofar from offensive that one let it go at smiling knowingly, mildlydisapproving of one's self for not disapproving.

　　Ann had not responded enthusiastically to Katie's drawing of MajorDarrett. She had not seemed to grasp the idea that much was forgiven thevery charming; that ordinary standards were not rigidly applied to theextraordinarily fascinating. When Katie was laughingly telling of one ofthe Major's most interesting flirtations Ann's eyes had seemed to crouchback in that queer way they had. Katie had had an odd sense of Ann'sdisapproving of her—disapproving of her for her not disapproving of him.More than once Ann had given her that sense of being disapproved of.

　　As with all things in the universe just then, he was a new angle back toAnn. If he were to come there—? For Major Darrett would not at alldisapprove of those eyes of Ann's. And yet his own eyes would see morethan Wayne and Harry Prescott had seen. Major Darrett had been little onthe frontier, but much in the drawing-room; he had never led up San Juanhill, but he had led many a cotillion. He had had that form of militarytraining which makes society favorites. As to Ann, he would have thefeminine "specs" and the masculine delight at one and the same time. Whatof that union?

　　Katie's eyes began to dance. She hoped he would come. He would be a foeworthy her steel. She would have to fix up all her fortifications—lookwell to her ammunition. Whatever might be held against Major Darrett itcould not be said he was not worthy one's cleverest fabrications. But thetriumph of holding one's own with a veteran!

　　Then of a sudden she wondered what the man who mended the boats wouldthink of the Major.