Chapter XIII

by Susan Glaspell

　　Before she had finished her writing Wayne and Worth came up on the porch.

　　The little boy had been over at the shops with his father.

　　"Father," he was saying, imagination under the stimulus of things he hadbeen seeing, "I suppose our gun will kill 'bout forty thousand millionfolks—won't it, father?"

　　"Why no, son, I hope it's not going to be such a beastly gun as that,"laughed Captain Jones.

　　"Yes, but, father, isn't a good gun a gun that kills folks? What's theuse making a gun at all if it isn't going to kill folks?"

　　His father looked at him strangely. "Sonny," he said, "you're hittinghome rather hard."

　　"Your reasoning is poor, Worth," said Katie; "fact is we make guns tokeep folks from getting killed. If we didn't have the guns everybodywould get killed. Now don't say 'why.'"

　　"'Cause you don't know why," calmly remarked Worth, adding: "I'll ask

　　Watts, and if he don't know I'll ask the man that mends the boats."

　　"Do," said Katie.

　　Having, to his own satisfaction, exterminated some forty thousand millionmembers of the human family, Worth opened attack on the puppies. He wasan Indian and they were poor white settlers and he was going to killthem. No poor white settlers had ever received an Indian so joyously.

　　But he seemed to have left those forty thousand million souls on hisfather's hands. Wayne was looking very serious. He did not respondto—did not appear to have heard—Katie's remark about Worth needing somenew clothes.

　　Katie wondered what he was thinking about; she supposed some new kind ofbarrel steel. She took it for granted that nothing short of steel couldproduce that look.

　　She was proud of the things that look had done, proud of the distinctionher brother had already won in the army, proud, in advance, of the thingsshe was confident he would do.

　　Captain Jones was at the Arsenal on special detail. An invention of hispertaining to the rifle was being manufactured for tests. There was keeninterest in it and its final adoption seemed assured. It was ofsufficient importance to make his name one of those conspicuous in armyaffairs. He had already several lesser things—devices pertaining toequipment—to his credit and was looked upon as one of the most promisingof the army's men of invention.

　　And aside from her pride in him, Katie's affection for her brother wasdeep, intensified because of their being alone. Their father had diedwhen Katie was sixteen, died as a result of wounds received long beforein frontier skirmishes, where he had been one of those many brave men toserve fearlessly and faithfully, men who gave more to their country thantheir country perhaps understood. Their mother survived him only twoyears. Katie sometimes said that her mother, too, gave her life to hercountry. Her health had been undermined by hard living on thefrontier—she who had been so tenderly reared in her southern home—andin the end she also died from a wound, that wound dealt the heart in thedeath of her husband. Katie revered her father's memory and adored hermother's, and while youth and Katie's indomitable spirit made it hard forone to think of her as sad, the memory of those two was the deepest,biggest thing in the girl's life.

　　"Oh Katie," Wayne suddenly roused himself to say, "your cousin FredWayneworth is in town. I had luncheon with him over the river. He sentall sorts of messages to you."

　　"Well—really! Messages! Why this haughty aloofness? Doesn't he mean tocome over?"

　　"Oh yes, of course; to-morrow—perhaps to-night. He's fearfullybusy—stopped off on his way East. There's a row on in the forest serviceabout some of Osborne's timber claims—mining claims, too, I believe—inColorado. Those years in the West have developed Fred splendidly. He'sgone from boy to man, and a fine specimen of man, at that."

　　"He likes his work?"

　　"Full of it." Wayne was silent for a moment, then added: "I envied him."

　　It startled Katie. "Envied him? Why—why, Wayne? Surely you're lucky."

　　He laughed: not the laugh of a man too pleased with his luck. "Oh, am I?Perhaps I am, but just the same I envy a fellow who can look that waywhen talking about his work."

　　"But you have a work, Wayne."

　　"No, I have a place."

　　She grew more and more puzzled. "Why, Wayne, you've been all wrapped upin this thing you were doing."

　　He threw his cigarette away impatiently. "Oh yes, just for the sake ofdoing it. I get a certain satisfaction in scheming things out. I mustsay, however, I'd like to scheme out something I'd get some satisfactionin having schemed out. A morsel of truth dropped from the mouth of a babea minute ago. You may have observed, Katie, that his inquiry was moredirect and reasonable than your reply. An improvement on a rifle. Notsuch a satisfying thing to leave to a rifle eliminating future."

　　"But I didn't know the army admitted it was to be a rifle eliminatingfuture."

　　"I'm not saying that the army does," he laughed.

　　He passed again to that look of almost passionate concentration whichKatie had always supposed meant metallic fouling or some—to her—equallyincomprehensible thing. He emerged from it to exclaim tensely: "Oh I getso sick of the spirit of the army!"

　　Instinctively Katie looked around. He saw it, and laughed.

　　"There you go! We've made a perfect fetich of loyalty. It's a differentsort of loyalty those forestry fellows have—a more live, moreconstructive loyalty. The loyalty that comes, not through form, butthrough devotion to the work—a common interest in a common cause. Oursis built on dead things. Custom, and the caste—I know no otherword—just the bull-headed, asinine, undemocratic caste that custom hasbuilt up."

　　"And yet—there must be discipline," Katie murmured: it seemed dreadfulWayne should be tearing down their house in that rude fashion, house inwhich they had dwelt so long, and so comfortably.

　　"Discipline is one thing. Bullying's another. I've never been satisfieddiscipline couldn't be enforced without snobbery. To-day Solesby—oneyear out of West Point!—walked through a shop I was in. He passed menworking at their machines—skilled mechanics, many of them men ofintelligence, ideas, character—as though he were passing so much cattle.I wanted to take him by the neck and throw him out!"

　　"Oh well," protested Katie, "one year out of the Point! He's yet to learnmen are not cattle."

　　"Well, Leonard never learned it. His back gets some black looks, let metell you."

　　"Wayne dear," she laughed, "I'm afraid you're not talking like an officerand a gentleman."

　　"I get tired talking like an officer and a gentleman. Sometimes I feellike talking like a man."

　　"But couldn't you be court-martialed for doing that?" she laughed.

　　"I think Leonard thinks I should be."

　　"Why—why, Wayne?"

　　"Because I talk to the men. There's a young mechanic who has beendetailed to me, and he and I get on famously. All too famously, I take itLeonard thinks. He came in to-day when this young Ferguson was telling mesome things about his union. He treated Ferguson like a dog and me like asuspicious character."

　　"Dear me, Wayne," she murmured, "don't get in trouble."

　　"Trouble!" he scoffed. "Well if I can get in trouble for talking with anintelligent man I'm working with about the things that man knows—thenlet me get in trouble! I'd rather talk to Ferguson than Solesby—we'vemore in common. Oh I'll get in no trouble," he added grimly. "Leonardknows it wouldn't sound well to say it. But he feels it, just the same.Right there's the difference between our service and this forest service.That's where they're democrats and we're fossils. Look at the differencein the spirit of the ranger and the spirit of the soldier! And it's notbecause they're whipped into line and bullied and snarled at. It'sbecause they're treated like men—and made to feel they're a needed partof a big whole. You should hear Fred tell of the way men meet in thisforest service—superintendent meeting ranger on a common ground. Andwhy? Because they're doing something constructive. Because the work's thething that counts. You'll see what it's done for Fred. The boy has a realdignity; not the stiff-necked kind he'd acquire around an army post, butthe dignity that comes with the consciousness of being, not in theservice, but of service."

　　He fell silent there, and Katie watched him. He had never spoken to herthat way before—she had not dreamed he felt like that; heretofore ithad been only through laughing little jibes at the army she had had anyinkling of his feeling toward it. That she had not taken seriously; halfthe people she knew in the service jibed at it to others in the service.This depth of feeling disturbed her, moved her to defense. After amoment's consideration she emerged triumphant with the Panama canal.

　　He shook his head. "When you consider the percentage of the army soengaged, you can't feel as happy about it as you'd like to. We ought allto be digging Panama canals!"

　　"Heavens, Wayne—we don't need them."

　　"Plenty of things we do need."

　　"Well I don't think you're fair to the army, Wayne. You're not lookinginto it—deeply enough. You're doing just as much as Fred, for insafeguarding the country you permit this constructive work to go on. Asto our formalities—they have run off into absurdity at some points, butit was a real spirit created those very forms."

　　"True. And now the spirit's dead and the form's left—and what's soabsurd as a form that rattles dead bones?"

　　"Father didn't feel as you do, Wayne."

　　"He had no cause to. He was needed. But we don't need the army on thefrontier now. That's done. And we do need the forest service—thething to build up. There's no use harking back to traditions. The worldmoves on too fast for that. Question is—not what did you doyesterday—but what good are you to-day—what are you worth to-morrow?Oh, I'm not condemning the army half so much as I'm sympathizing withit," he laughed. "It's full of live men who want to be doingsomething—instead of being compelled to argue that they're some good.They get very tired saying they're useful. They'd like to make itself-evident."

　　"Well, perhaps we'll have a war with Japan," said Katie consolingly.

　　"Perhaps we will. Having an army that's spoiling for it, I don't see howwe can very well miss it."

　　"But if we had no army we certainly should have a war."

　　His silence led Katie to gasp: "Wayne, are youbecoming—anti-militarist?"

　　He laughed. "Oh, I don't know what I'm becoming. But as to myself—I doknow this. There would be more satisfaction in constructive work thanin work that constructs only that it may be ready to destroy. I wouldfind it more satisfying to help give my country itself—through naturaland legitimate means—than stand ready to give it some corner of someother country."

　　"But to keep the other country from getting a corner of it?"

　　"Doesn't it occur to you, Katie, that as a matter of fact the othercountry might like a chance to develop its resources? We're like a crowdof boys with rocks in their hands and all afraid to throw down therocks. If one did, the others might be immensely relieved. It seemsrather absurd, standing there with rocks nobody wants tothrow—especially when there are so many other things to be doing—andeverybody saying, 'I've got to keep mine because he's got his.' Would youcall that a very intelligent gang of kids? Ferguson says it's theworkingmen of the world will bring about disarmament. That they're comingto feel their common cause as workers too keenly to be forced into warwith each other."

　　"That's what the man that mends the boats says," piped up Worth. "He saysthat when they're all socialists there won't be any wars—'causenobody'll go. But Watts says that day'll never come, thank God."

　　"Are you thanking God for yourself or for Watts, sonny?" laughed hisfather. "And who, pray, is the man that mends the boats?"

　　"The man that mends the boats, father, is a man that's 'most as smartas you are."

　　"It has been a long time," gravely remarked Wayne, "since any man hasbeen brought to my attention so highly commended as that."

　　But their talk had been sobering to them both, for they spoke seriouslythen of various things. It was probable that before long Wayne would beordered to Washington. He wanted to know what Katie would do then. Whynot spend next season in Washington with him? Just what were her plans?

　　But Katie had no plans. And suddenly she realized how completely allthings had been changed by the coming of Ann.

　　She had spent much of her life in Washington. She loved it; loved itsofficial life, in particular its army and diplomatic life; and loved,too, that rigidly guarded old Washington to which, as her mother'sdaughter, the door stood open to her. Her uncle, the Bishop, lived in acity close by. His home was the fixed spot which Katie called home. InWashington—and near it—she would find friends on all sides. Justthirty days before she would have gloated over that prospect of nextseason there.

　　But she was not prepared to bombard Washington with Ann. The meresuggestion carried realization of how propitious things had been, howsimple she had found it.

　　The little game they were playing seemed to cut Katie off from her life,too, and without leaving the luxury of feeling sorry for herself. With itall, Washington did not greatly allure. Washington, as she knew it, wasdistinctly things as they were; just now nothing allured half so much asthose long dim paths of wondering leading off into the unknown.

　　Suddenly she had an odd sense of Washington—all that it represented toher—being the play, the game, the thing made to order and seeming verytame to her because she was dwelling with real things. It was as if hercraft of make-believe was the thing which had been able to carry hertoward the shore of reality.

　　And so she told Wayne that she had no plans. Perhaps she would go back to

　　Europe with Ann.

　　He turned quickly at that. "She goes back?"

　　"Oh yes—I suppose so."

　　"But why? Where? To whom?"

　　"Why? Why, why not? Why does one go anywhere? Florence is to Ann what

　　Washington is to me—a sort of center."

　　"Katie," he asked abruptly, "has she no people? No ties? Isn'tshe—moored any place?"

　　"Am I 'moored' any place?" returned Kate.

　　"Why, yes; to the things that have made you—to the things you're partof. By moored I don't mean necessarily a fixed spot. But I have afeeling—"

　　He seemed either unable or unwilling to express it, and instead laughed:"I'd like to know how much her father made a month, and whether hermother was a good cook—a few little things like that to make her less ashadow. Do you really get at her, Katie?"

　　"Why—why, yes," stammered Katie; "though I told you, Wayne, that Ann wasdifferent. Quiet—and just now, sad."

　　"I don't think of her as particularly quiet," he replied; "and sad isn'tit, either. I think of her"—he paused and concluded uncertainly—"as agirl in a dream."

　　"Her dream or your dream, Wayne?" laughed Katie, just to turn it.

　　She was throwing sticks for the puppies and missed his startled look.

　　But it was Katie who was startled when he said, still uncertainly, andmore to himself than to Katie: "Though she's so real."

　　Ann and Captain Prescott were coming toward them. She had never lookedless like a girl in a dream. Laughing and jesting with her companion, shelooked simply like an exceedingly pretty girl having a very good time.

　　"But you like Ann, don't you, Wayne?" Katie asked anxiously.

　　"Yes," said Wayne, "I like her."

　　She came running up the steps to them, flushed, happy, as free fromself-consciousness as Worth would have been. "Katie," she cried, "Iplayed the last one in four. Didn't I?" turning proudly to the Captainfor endorsement.

　　Both men were looking at her with pleasure: cheeks flushed, eyesglowing, hair a little disheveled and a little damp about the forehead,panting a little, her lithe, beautiful body swaying gently, handsoutstretched to show Wayne how she had hardened her palms, Ann had neverseemed so lovely and so live. In that moment it mattered not whether oneknew anything about the earning capacity of her father or the culinaryabilities of her mother. She was real. Real as sunshine and breezesand birds are real, as Worth and the puppies tumbling over each other onthe grass were real, as all that is life-loving is real. And notdetached, not mistily floating, but moored to that very love of life,capacity for life, to that look she had awakened in the faces of the mento whom she was talking. It seemed a paltry thing just then to wonderwhether Ann was child of farmer, or clothing merchant, or great artist.She was Life's child. Love's child. Love's child—only she had notdwelt all her days in her father's house. But it was her father's house;that was why, once warmed and comforted, she could radiantly take herplace. Watching her as she was going over her game for Wayne,demonstrating some of her strokes, and her slim, beautiful body madeeven the poor strokes wonderful things, Katie was not speculating onwhether Ann had come from Chicago, or Florence, or Big Creek. She wasthinking that Ann was product, expression, of the love of the world,that love which had brought the laughter and the tears, brought the hopeand the radiance and the tragedy of life.

　　And then, suddenly and inexplicably, Katie was afraid. Of just what,she did not know; of things—big, tempestuous things—which Katie didnot very well understand, and which Ann—perhaps not understandingeither—seemed to embody. "Come, Ann," she said, "we must make readyfor dinner."

　　Captain Prescott called after them that next he was going to teach Ann toride. "Oh, we'll make an army girl of her yet," he laughed.

　　Ann turned back. "Do you know," she said, "I don't understand the armyvery well. Just what is it the army does?"

　　They laughed. "Ask the peace society in Boston," suggested Prescott.

　　But Wayne said: "Some day soon you and I'll take a ride on the river and

　　I'll deliver a little lecture on the army."

　　"Oh, that will be nice," said Ann radiantly.