Chapter XVIII

by Susan Glaspell

　　Her first emotion was fury at herself. She must be losing her mind not tohave suspected!

　　Then the fury overflowed on Worth and his companion. It reachedhigh-water mark with the stranger's smile.

　　And there dissolved; or rather, flowed into a savage interest, for thesmile enticed her to mark what manner of man he was. And as she looked,the interest shed the savagery.

　　His sleeves were rolled up; he had no hat, no coat. He had been workingwith something muddy. A young man, a large man, and strong. The firstthing which she saw as distinctive was the way his smile lived on inhis eyes after it had died on his lips, as if his thought was smilingat the smile.

　　Even in that first outraged, panic-stricken moment Katie Jones knew shehad never known a man like that.

　　"Here he is, Aunt Kate!" cried her young nephew, dancing up and down.

　　"This is him!"

　　It was not a presentation calculated to set Katie at ease. She soughtrefuge in a frigid: "I beg pardon?"

　　But that was quite lost on Worth. "Why, Aunt Kate, don't you know him?

　　You said you'd rather see him than anybody now living! Don't you know,

　　Aunt Kate—the man that mends the boats?"

　　It seemed that in proclaiming their name for him Worth was shamelesslyproclaiming it all: her conversations, the intimacy to which she hadadmitted him, her delight in him—yes, need of him. "But I thought,"she murmured, as if in justification, "that you had a long white beard!"

　　And so she had—at times; then there had been other times when he had nobeard at all—but just such a chin.

　　"I am sorry to be disappointing," the stranger replied—with hisvoice. With his eyes—it became clear even in that early moment thathis eyes were insurgents—he said: "I don't take any stock in thatlong white beard!" Then, as if fearing his eyes had overstepped:"Perhaps you have visions of the future. A long white beard is a giftthe years may bring me."

　　"You can just ask him anything you want to, Aunt Kate," Worth wasbrightly assuring her. "I told him you wanted to know about the underlife—the under what it is of life. You needn't be 'fraid of him, AuntKate; you know he's the man's so sorry for you. He knows all abouteverything, and will tell you just everything he knows."

　　"Quite a sweeping commendation," Katie found herself murmuringfoolishly—and in the imaginary conversations she had talked sobrilliantly! But when one could not be brilliant one could always findcover under dignity. "If you will get in the boat now, Worth," she said,"we will go home."

　　But Worth, serene in the consciousness of having accomplished hismission, was sending Queen out after sticks and did not appear tohave heard.

　　And suddenly, perhaps because the hot day had come to mean so much morethan mere hot day, the feeling of being in a ridiculous position,together with that bristling sense of the need of a protective dignity,fell away. It became one of those rare moments when real things mattermore than things which supposedly should matter. She looked at him tofind him looking intently at her. He was not at all slipshod asinspector. "Why are you sorry for me?" she asked. "What is there aboutme to pity?"

　　He smiled as he surveyed her, considering it. Even people for whomsmiling was difficult must have smiled at the idea of pitying KatieJones—Katie, who looked so much as if the world existed that she mighthave the world.

　　But he looked with a different premise and saw a deeper thing. The worldmight exist for her enjoyment, but it eluded her understanding. And thatwas beginning to encroach upon the enjoyment.

　　She seemed to follow, and her divination stirred a singular emotion,possibly a more turbulent emotion than Katie Jones had ever known.

　　"It's all very well to pity me, but it's not a genuine pity—it's ajeering one. If you're going to pity me, why don't you do it sincerelyinstead of scoffingly? Is it my fault that I don't know anything aboutlife? What chance did I ever have to know anything real? I wasn'teducated. I was 'accomplished.' Oh, of course, if I had been a bigperson, a person with a real mind—if I had had anything exceptionalabout me—I would have stepped out. But I'm nothing but the most ordinarysort of girl. I haven't any talents. Nobody—myself included—can see anyreason for my being any different from the people I'm associated with. Iwas brought up in the army. Army life isn't real life. It's army life. Toan army man a girl is a girl, and what they mean by a girl has nothing todo with being a thinking being. Then what business has a man like you—Idon't know who you are or what you're doing, but I believe you have someideas about the real things of life—tell me, please—what business haveyou jeering at me?"

　　"I have no business jeering at you," he said quickly, simply andstrongly.

　　But Katie had changed. He had a fancy that she would always be changing;that she was not one to rest in outlived emotions, that one mood wasalways but the making and enriching of another mood, moment ever flowinginto moment, taking with it the heart of the moment that had gone. "Youare quite right to pity me," she said, and tears surged beneath both eyesand voice. "Whether scoffingly or genuinely—you were quite right.Feeling just enough to feel there is something—but not a big enoughfeeling to go to that something, knowing just enough to know I'm beingcheated, but without either the courage or the knowledge to do anythingabout it—I'm surely a pitiable and laughable object. Come, Worth," shesaid sharply, "we're going home."

　　But Worth had begun upon the construction of a raft, and was not in ahome-going mood. Thus encouraged by his young friend the man who mendedthe boats sat down on a log.

　　"When did you begin to want to know about the 'underlying principles oflife'?" His smile quoted it, though less mockingly than tenderly.

　　Katie was silent.

　　"Was it the day she came?" he asked quietly.

　　She gasped. Was he—a wizard? But looking at him and seeing he lookedvery much more like a man than like anything else, she met him as manshould be met. "The day who came? I don't know what you mean."

　　"The girl. Was it the day you took her in? Saved her by making hersave you?"

　　She was too startled by that for pretense. She could only stare at him.

　　"I saw her before you did," he said.

　　She looked around apprehensively. The man who mended the boats knowingabout Ann? Was the whole world losing its mind just because it had beensuch a hot day?

　　But the world looking natural enough, she turned back to him. "I don'tunderstand. Tell me, please."

　　As he summoned it, he changed. She had an impression of all but thecentral thing falling away, leaving his spirit exposed. And a thought ora vision gripped that spirit, and he tightened under it as a musclewould tighten.

　　When he turned to her, taking her in, self-consciousness fell away. Therewas no place for it.

　　"You want to hear about it?" he asked.

　　She nodded.

　　"As a matter of fact, it's nothing, as facts go. Only an impression. Yetan impression that swore to facts. Perhaps you know that she came on theIsland from the south bridge?"

　　Katie shook her head. "I know nothing, save that suddenly she was there."

　　That held him. "And knowing nothing, you took her in?"

　　She kept silence, and he looked at her, dwelling upon it. "And you," hesaid softly, "don't know anything about the 'underlying principles oflife'? Perhaps you don't. But if we had more you we'd have no her."

　　She disclaimed it. "It wasn't that way—an understanding way. I didn't do

　　it because I thought it should be done; because I wanted to—do good.

　　I—oh, I don't know. I did it because I wanted to do it. I did it because

　　I couldn't help doing it."

　　That called to him. He seemed one for whom ideas were as doors, everopening into new places. And he did not shut those doors, or turn fromthem, until he had looked as far as he could see.

　　"Perhaps," he saw now, "that is the way it must come. Doing it becauseyou can't help doing it. It seems wonderful enough to work the wonder."

　　"Work what wonder?" Katie asked timidly.

　　"The wonder of saving the world."

　　He spoke it quietly, but passion, the passion of the visioner, leaped tohis eyes at sound of what he had said.

　　Katie looked about at so much of the world as her vision afforded:Prosperous factories—beautiful homes—hundreds of other homes lessbeautiful, but comfortable looking—some other very humble homes whichyet looked habitable, the beautifully kept Government island in betweenthe two cities, seeming to stand for something stable and unifying—faraway hills and a distant sky line—a steamboat going through the splendidGovernment bridge, automobiles and carriages and farm wagons passing overthat bridge—this man who mended the boats, this young man so live thatthoughts of life could change him as a sculptor can change his clay—dearlittle Worth who was happily building a raft, the beautiful dog lyingthere drawing restoration from the breath of the water—"But it doesn'tlook as though it needed 'saving,'" said Katie.

　　He shook his head. "You're looking at the framework. Her eyes that daybrought word from the inside. To one knowing—"

　　He broke off, looking at her as though seeing her from a new angle.

　　He thought it aloud. "You've walked sunny paths, haven't you? You neverhad your soul twisted. Life never tried to wring you out of shape. Andyet—oh there's quite a yet," he finished more lightly.

　　"But you were telling me of Ann," Katie felt she must say.

　　"Yes, and when I've finished telling you, you'll go back to your sunnypaths, won't you? Please don't hurry me. I can tell it better if I thinkI'm not being hurried."

　　She smiled openly. "I am in no hurry." There was a sunny rim trying allthe while to pierce the somber thing which drew them together. Littlerays from the sunny paths would dart daringly in to the dark place fromwhich Ann rose.

　　It made him wonder how far she of the sunny paths could penetrate anunlighted country. He looked at her—peered at her, fairly—trying todecide. But he could not decide. Katie baffled him on that.

　　"I wonder," he voiced it, "where it's going to lead you? I wonder ifyou're prepared to go where it may lead you? Have you thought of that?Perhaps it's going to take you into a country too dark for you of thesunny paths. She may be called back. You know we are called back tocountries where we have—established a residence. You might have to gowith her to settle a claim, or break a tie, or pull some one else outthat she might not be pulled back in. Then what? Perhaps you might feelyou needed a guide. If so,"—he went boldly to the edge of it, thenhalted, and concluded with a boyishly bashful humor—"will you keep myapplication on file?"

　　Katie was not going to miss her chance of finding out something. "Ishould want a guide who knew the territory," she said.

　　"I qualify," he replied shortly, with a short, unmirthful laugh. "That isone advantage of not having spent one's days on sunny paths." His voiceon that was neither bashful nor boyish.

　　"But you must have spent some of them on sunny paths," she urged, withmore feeling than she would have been able to account for. "You don'tlook," Katie added almost shyly, "as if you had grown in the dark."

　　He did not reply. He looked so much older when sternness set his face,leaving no hint of that teasing gleam in his eyes, that pleasing littlehumorous twist of his mouth.

　　Gently her voice went into the dark country claiming him then. "But youwere telling me of my friend."

　　It brought him out, wondering anew. "Your friend! There you go again! Howcan you expect me to stick to a subject when paths open out on all sidesof you like that? But I'll try to quit straying. It happened that on thatday, just at that time, I was going under the south bridge. I chanced tolook up. A face was bending down. Her face. Our eyes met—square. I gotit—flung to me in that one look. What the world had done to her—whatshe thought of it for doing it—what she meant to do about it.

　　"I wish," he went on, with a slow, heavy calm, "that the 'good' men andwomen of the world—those 'good' men and women who eat good dinners andsleep in good beds—some of the 'God's in heaven all's well with theworld' people—could have that look wake them up in the middle of thenight. I'd like to think of them turning to the wall and trying to shutit out—and the harder they tried the nearer and clearer it grew. I'dlike to think of them sitting up in bed praying God—the God of 'good'folks—to please make it stop. I'd like to have it haunt them—dogthem—finally pierce their brains or souls or whatever it is they have,and begin to burrow. I'd like to have it right there on the job everytime they mentioned the goodness of God or the justice of man, tillfinally they threw up their hands in crazed despair with, 'For God'ssake, what do you want me to do about it!'"

　　He had scarcely raised his voice. He was smiling at her. It was the smileled her to gasp: "Why I believe you hate us!"

　　"Why I really believe I do," he replied quietly, still smiling.

　　Suddenly she flared. "That's not the thing! You're not going to set theworld right by hating the world. You're not going to make it right forsome people by hating other people. What good thing can come of hate?"

　　"The greatest things have come of hate. Of a divine hate thattranscends love."

　　"Why no they haven't! The greatest things have come of love. What theworld needs is more love. You can't bring love by hating."

　　He seemed about to make heated reply, but smiled, or rather his smilebecame really a smile as he said: "What a lot of things you and I wouldfind to talk about."

　　"We must—" Katie began impetuously, but halted and flushed. "We must goon with our story," was what it came to.

　　"I haven't any story, except just the story of that look. Though it holdsthe story of love and hate and a hundred other things you and I woulddisagree about. And I don't know that I can convey to you—you of thesunny paths—what the look conveyed to me. But imagine a crowd, a crazedcrowd, all pushing to the center, and then in the center a face thrownback so you can see it for just an instant before it sinks tosuffocation. If you can fancy that look—the last gasp for breath of onecaught—squeezed—just going down—a hatred of the crowd that got herthere, just to suffocate her—and perhaps one last wild look at the hillsout beyond the crowd. If you can get that—that fear, suffocation,terror—and don't forget the hate—yet like the dog you've kicked thatgrieved—'How could you—when it was a pat I wanted!'—"

　　"I know it in the dog language," said Katie quiveringly.

　　"Then imagine the dog crazed with thirst tied just out of reach of aleaping, dancing brook—"

　　"Oh—please. That's too plain."

　　"It hurts when applied to dogs, does it?" he asked roughly.

　　"But they're so helpless—and they love us so!"

　　"And they're so helpless—and they hate because they weren't let love."

　　"But surely there aren't many—such looks. Not many who feelthey're—going down. Why such things couldn't be—in thisbeautiful world."

　　"Such," he said smilingly, "has ever been the philosophy of sunny paths."

　　"You needn't talk to me like that!" she retorted angrily. "I guess I sawthe look as well as you did—and did a little more to banish it than youdid, too."

　　"True. I was just coming to that thing of my not having done anything.Perhaps it was a case of fools rushing in where angels feared totread. You mustn't mind being called a fool in any sentence sopreposterous as to call me an angel. You see one who had never been inthe crowd would say—'Why don't you get out?' It would be droll,wouldn't it, to have some one on a far hill call—'But why don't youcome over here?' Don't you see how that must appeal to the sense ofhumor of the one about to go down?"

　　She made no reply. The thing that hurt her was that he seemed to enjoyhurting her.

　　"You see I've been in the crowd," he said more simply and less bitterly."I don't suppose men who have been most burned to death ever say—'Thefire can't hurt you.'"

　　"And do they never try to rescue others from fires?" asked Katiescornfully. "Do they let them burn—just because they know fire for adangerous thing?"

　　"Rescue them for what? More fires? It's a question whether it's verysane, or so very humane, either, to rescue a man from one fire just tohave him on hand for another."

　　"I don't think I ever in my life heard anything more farfetched,"pronounced Katie. "How do you know there'll be another?"

　　"Because there are people for whom there's nothing else. If you can'toffer a safe place, why rescue at all? Though it's true," he laughed,"that I hadn't the courage of my convictions in the matter. After thatlook—oh I haven't been able to make it live—burn—as it did—she passedon the Island, the guard evidently thinking she was with some people whohad just got out of an automobile and gone on for a walk. And suddenly Iwas corrupted, driven by that impulse for saving life, that beautifulpassion for keeping things alive to suffer which is so humorouslygrounded in the human race."

　　He stopped with a little laugh. Watching him, Katie was thinking one needhave small fear of his not always being "corrupted." There was a light inhis eyes spoke for "corruption."

　　"I saw her making straight across the Island," he went back to his story."I knew. And I knew that on the other side she might find things veryconveniently arranged for her purpose. I turned the boat and went at itsbest speed around the head of the Island. Hugged the shore on your side.Pulled into a little cove. Waited."

　　He looked at Katie, comparing her with an a priori idea of her. "I sawyou sitting up there in the sun—on the bunker. Just having received thelast will and testament, as it were, of this other human soul, can't youfancy how I hated you—sitting there so serenely in the sun?"

　　"But why hate me?" she demanded passionately. "That's where you're smalland unjust! I don't make the crazed crowds, do I?"

　　"Yes; that's just what you do. There'd be no crowds if it weren't foryou. You take up too much room."

　　"I don't see why you want to—hurt me like that," she said unevenly."Don't you want me to enjoy my place any more? Will it do any good for meto get in the crowd? What can I do about it?"

　　Looking into her passionately earnest face it was perhaps the gulfbetween the girl and his a priori idea of her brought the smile—asmile no kin to that hard smile of his. And looking with a differentslant across the gulf there was a sort of affectionate roguery in hiseyes as he asked: "Do you want to know what I honestly think about you?"

　　She nodded.

　　"I think you're in for it!"

　　"In for what?"

　　"I don't think you've the ghost of a chance to escape!" he gloated.

　　"Escape—what?"

　　"Seeing. And when you do—!" He laughed—that laugh one thinks of as theexclusive possession of an affectionate understanding. And when it diedto a smile, something tenderly teasing flickered in that smile.

　　She flushed under it. "You were telling me—we keep stopping."

　　"Yes, don't we? I wonder if we always would."

　　"We keep stopping to quarrel."

　　"Yes—to quarrel. I wonder if we always would."

　　"I haven't a doubt of it in the world," said Katie feelingly, and theylaughed together as friends laugh together.

　　"Well, where did I leave myself? Oh yes—waiting. Sitting there busilyengaged in hating you. Then she came across the grass—making straightfor the river—running. I saw that you saw, and the thing that matteredto me then was what you would do about it. Saved or not saved, she wasgone—I thought. The crowd had squeezed it all out of her. The live thingto me was what you—the You of the world that you became to me—would doabout her."

　　He paused, smiling at that absurd and noble vision of Katie tumbling downthe bunker. "And when you did what you did do—it was so treacherouslydisarming, the quick-witted humanity, the clever tenderness of it—Iloved you so for it that I just couldn't go on hating. There's whereyou're a dangerous person. How dare you—standing for the You of theworld—dampen the splendid ardor of my hate?"

　　Katie did not let pass her chance. "Perhaps if the Me of the world wereknown a little more intimately it would be less hated."

　　He shook his head. "They just happened to have you. They can't keep you."

　　There was another one of those pauses which drew them so much closerthan the words. She knew what he was wondering, and he knew that sheknew. At length she colored a little and called him back to the greaterreserve of words.

　　"I saw how royally you put it through. I could see you standing there onthe porch, looking back to the river. I've wanted several things ratherbadly in my life, but I doubt if I've ever wanted anything much worsethan to know what you were saying. And then with my own two eyes I sawthe miracle: Saw her—the girl who had just had all the concentratedpassion of the Her of the world—turn and follow you into the house. Itwas a blow to me! Oh 'twas an awful blow."

　　"Why a blow?"

　　"In the first place that you should want to, and then that you shouldbe able to. My philosophy gives you of the sunny paths no such desirenor power."

　　"Showing," she deduced quickly and firmly, "that your philosophy isall wrong."

　　"Oh no; showing that the much toasted Miss Katherine Jones is too big formere sunny paths. Showing that she has a latent ambition to climb amountain in a storm."

　　Fleetingly she wondered how he should know her for the much toasted MissKatherine Jones, but in the center of her consciousness rose thatalluring picture of climbing a mountain in a storm.

　　"Tell me how you did it."

　　"Why—I don't know. I had no method. I told her I needed her."

　　"You—needed her?"

　　"And afterwards, in a different way, I told her that again. And Idid. I do."

　　"Why do you need her? How do you need her?" he urged gently.

　　She hesitated. Her mouth—her splendid mouth shaped by stern or tenderthinking to lines of exquisite fineness or firmness—trembled slightly,and the eyes which turned seriously upon him were wistful. "Perhaps,"said Katie, "that even on sunny paths one guesses that there are suchthings as storms in the mountains."

　　It was only his eyes which answered, but the fullness of the responseushered them into a silence in which they rested togetherunderstandingly.

　　"I sat there watching the house," he went back to it after the moment. "Iwas sure the girl would come out again. 'She'll bungle it,' I said tomyself. 'She'll never be able to put it through.' But time passed—andshe did not come out!"—inconsistently enough that came with a ring oftriumph. "And then the next day—after the wonder had grown and grown—Isaw her driving with you. I was just off the head of the Island. She wasturned toward me, looking up the river. Again I saw her eyes, and in themthat time I read you. And I don't believe," he concluded with a littlelaugh, "that my stock of hate can ever be quite so secure again."

　　They talked on, not conscious that it was growing late. Time and place,and the conventions of time and place, seemed outside. She let him inquite freely: to that edge of fun and excitement as well as to thestrange and somber places. It was fun sharing fun with him; and somethingin his way of receiving it suggested that he had been in need of sharingsome one's fun. He had a way of looking at her when she laughed that hadvague suggestion of something not far from gratitude.

　　But the fun light, and that other light which seemed wanting to thankher for something, went from his eyes, leaving a glimmer of somethingdeeper as he asked: "But you've never asked for her story? You'vedemanded nothing?"

　　"Why no," said Katie; "only that I should be proud if she ever felt Icould help."

　　He turned his face a little away. One looking into it then would not havegiven much for his stock of hate.

　　Worth had approached. "Ain't you getting awful hungry, Aunt Kate?"

　　It recalled her, and to embarrassment. "We must go at once," shesaid, confused.

　　"Did you find out all you wanted to know from him, Aunt Kate?" he asked,getting in the boat.

　　She transcended her embarrassment. "No, Worth. Only that there is a verygreat deal I would like to know."

　　He was standing ready to push her boat away. She did not give the word.As she looked at him she had a fancy that she was leaving him in a lonelyplace—she who was going back to what he called the sunny paths. And notonly did she feel that he was lonely, but she felt curiously lonelyherself, sitting there waiting to tell him to push her away. She wantedto say, "Come and see me," but she was too bound by the things to whichshe was returning to put it in the language of those things. And so shesaid, and the new shyness brought its own sweetness:

　　"You tell me to come to you if I need a guide. Thank you for that. Ishall remember. And perhaps sunshine is a thing that soaks in and can bestored up, and given out again. If it ever seems I can be of any use—inany way—will you come where you know you can find me?"

　　Her eyes fell before the things which had leaped to his.