Chapter XXVIII

by Susan Glaspell

　　The new life in her heart gave her new courage that night to look out atlife. She faced what before that she had evaded consciously facing.

　　Perhaps they would not find Ann at all. Perhaps Ann had given up—as theywere giving up. Perhaps Ann was not there to be found.

　　It was her fight against that fear had kept her so much in the crowds.Ann was there. She had only to find her. Leaving the crowds seemed to beadmitting that Ann was not in them; for if she really felt she was inthem, surely she would not consent to leaving them.

　　That idea of Ann's not being there was as a shadow which had from time totime crept beside her. In the crowds she lost it. There were so many inthe crowds. Ann, too, was in the crowds. She had only to stay in them andshe must find her.

　　Now she was leaving them; and it was he who understood the crowds wastelling her to leave them. Did he think she was not there? Why had shenot had the courage to press it? There was so much they should have beentalking of in those last blocks—and they had talked of nothing.

　　But the new warmth flooded Katie's heart at thought of having talked ofnothing. What was there to talk about so important as talking ofnothing? In a new way it drew her back to the crowds; the crowds thattalked so loudly of many unlovely things in order to still in theirhearts that call for the loveliness of talking of nothing.

　　It gave her new understanding of Ann. Ann was one who must rest in thewonder of talking of nothing. It was for that she had gone down. Theworld had destroyed her for the very thing for which life lovedher—Katie joining with the world.

　　She would not have done that to-night. To-night, in the face of all theworld, she must have joined with life.

　　She wondered if all along it was not the thing for which she had mostloved Ann. This shy new thing in her own heart seemed revealing Ann. Itwas kin to her, and to Katie's feeling for her.

　　Many times she had wondered why she cared so terribly, would ask herself,as she could hear her friends asking if they knew: "But does it matter somuch as all this?"

　　She had never been able to make clear to herself why it mattered somuch—mattered more than anything else mattered. None of the reasonspresenting themselves on the surface were commensurate to the depth ofthe feeling. To-night she wondered if deep below all else might not liethat thing of Ann's representing life, her failure with Ann meaninginfidelity to life.

　　It turned her to Ann's letter;—she had not had the courage to read itfor a number of days.

　　"Katie," Ann had written, "I'm writing to try and show you that you werenot all wrong. That there was something there. And I'm not doing it formyself, Katie. I'm doing it for you.

　　"If I can just forget I'm writing about myself, feel instead that I'mwriting about somebody you've cared for, believed in, somebody who hasdisappointed and hurt you, trying to show you—for your sake—if Idon't mind being either egotistical or terrible for the sake ofshowing you—

　　"It's not me that matters, Katie—it's what you thought of me. That'swhy I'm writing.

　　"I never could talk to you right. For a long time I couldn't talk at all,and then that night I talked most of the night I didn't tell the realthings, after all. And at the last I told you something I knew would hurtyou without telling you the things that might keep it from hurting,without saving for you the things you had thought you saw. I don't knowwhy I did that—desperate, I suppose, because it was all spoiled, franticbecause I was helpless to keep it from being spoiled. And then I saidthings to you—that must show—And yet, Katie, as long as I'm trying tobe honest I've got to say again, though all differently, that I wassurprised—shocked, I suppose, at something in the way you looked. It'sjust a part of your world that I don't understand. It's as I toldyou—we've lived in different worlds. Things—some things—that seem allright in yours—well, it's just surprising that you should think them allright. In your world the way you do things seems to matter so much morethan what you do.

　　"I've gone, Katie, and as far as I'm concerned it's what has to be. Yousee you couldn't fit me in. The only thing I can do for you now isto—stay gone. You'll feel badly—oh, I know that—but in the end itwon't be as bad as trying to fit me in, trying to keep it up. And I can'thave you doing things for me in another way—as you'd wantto—because—it's hard to explain just what I mean, but after I've beenAnn I couldn't be just somebody you were helping. It meant too much to meto be Ann to become just a girl you're good to.

　　"What I'd rather do—want this letter to do—is keep for you that idea of

　　Ann—memory of her.

　　"So that's why I want to tell you about some things that really were Ann.I haven't any more right to you, but I want you to know you have someright to her.

　　"I told you that I was standing on the corner, and that he asked me toget in the automobile, and that I did, and that that—began it. It wastrue. It was one way to put it. I'll try and put it another way.

　　"It isn't even fair to him, putting it that way. You know, of course,that he's not in the habit of asking girls on corners to go with him. Ithink—there at the first—he was sorry for me. I think it was what youwould call an impulse and that being sorry for me had more to do with itthan anything else.

　　"And I know I wasn't fair to myself when I put it that way; and youweren't fair to me when you called it common and low. That's what I wantto try and show you—that it wasn't that.

　　"It was in the warm weather. It had been a hot, hard day. Oh they wereall hot, hard days. I didn't feel well. I made mistakes. I was scoldedfor it. I quarreled with one of the girls about washing my hands! Shesaid she was there before I was and that I took the bowl. We said hatefulthings to each other, grew furious about it. We were both so tired—theday had been so hot—

　　"Out on the street I was so ashamed. It seemed that was what lifehad come to.

　　"That afternoon I got something that was going over the wire. You get sotired you don't care what's going over the wire—you aren't alive enoughto care—but I just happened to be let in to this—a man's voice talkingto the girl he loved. I don't remember what he was saying, but his voicetold that there were such things in the world—and girls they were for.One glimpse of a beautiful country—to one in a desert. I don't know,perhaps that's why I talked that way to the other poor girl who wastired—perhaps that's why I went in the automobile.

　　"I had to ride a long way on the street car to get where I boarded. I hadto stand up—packed in among a lot of people who were hot and tiredtoo—the smell so awful—everything so ugly.

　　"I had to transfer. That's where I was when I first saw him—standing onthe corner waiting for the other car.

　　"Something was the matter—it was a long time coming. I was sotired, Katie, as I stood there waiting. Tired of having it all goingover the wire.

　　"He was doing something to his automobile. I didn't pay any attention atfirst—then I realized he was just fooling with the automobile—and waslooking at me.

　　"And then he took my breath away by stepping up to me and raising hishat. I had never had a man raise his hat to me in that way—

　　"And then he said—and his voice was low—and like the voices in yourworld are—I hadn't heard them before, except on the wire—'I begpardon—I trust I'm not offensive. But you seem so tired. You're waitingfor a car? It doesn't appear to be coming. Why not ride with me instead?I'll take you where you want to go. Though I wish'—it was like the voiceon the wire—and for me—'that you'd let me take you for a ride.'

　　"Katie, you called him charming. You told about the women in your worldbeing in love with him. If he's charming to them—to you—what do yousuppose he seemed to me as he stood there smiling at me—looking so sorryfor me—?

　　"He went on talking. He drew a beautiful picture of what we would do. Wewould ride up along the lake. There would be a breeze from the lake, hesaid. And way up there he knew a place where we could sit out of doorsunder trees and eat our dinner and listen to beautiful music. Didn't Ithink that might be nice?

　　"Didn't I think it might be—nice? Oh Katie—you'd have to know whatthat day had been—what so many days—all days—had been.

　　"I looked down the street. The car was coming at last—packed—menhanging on outside—everybody looking so hot—so dreadful. 'Oh youmustn't get in that car,' he said.

　　"Beautiful things were beckoning to me—things I was to be taken to in anautomobile—I had never been in an automobile. It seemed I was beingrescued, carried away to a land of beautiful things, far away fromcrowded street cars, from the heat and the work that make you do thingsyou hate yourself for doing.

　　"Was it so common, Katie? So low? What I felt wasn't—what I dreamed aswe went along that beautiful drive beside the lake.

　　"For I dreamed that the city of dreadful things was being left behind.The fairy prince had come for me. He was taking me to the things ofdreams, things which lately had seemed to slip out beyond even dreams.

　　"It was just as he had said—A little table under a tree—a breeze fromthe lake—music—the lovely things to eat and the beautiful happy people.Of course I wasn't dressed as much as they were, so we sat at a littletable half hidden in one corner—Oh I thought it was so wonderful!

　　"And he saw I thought it wonderful and that interested him, pleased him.Maybe it was new to him. I think he likes things that are new to him.Anyhow, he was very gentle and lovely to me that night. He told me I wasbeautiful—that nothing in the world had ever been so beautiful as myeyes. You know how he would say it, the different ways he would have ofsaying it beautifully. And I want to say again—if it seems beautiful toyou—Why, Katie, I had never had anything.

　　"Going home he kissed me—

　　"When I went home that night the world was all different. The world wastoo wonderful for even thoughts. Too beautiful to believe it could bethe world.

　　"I was in the arms of the wonderful new beauty of the world. Something inmy heart which had been crouching down afraid and cold and sad grew warmand live and glad. Life grew so lovely; and as the days went on I think Igrew lovely too. He said so; said love was making me radiant—that I waswonderful—that I was a child of love.

　　"Those days when I was in the dream, folded in the dream, days before anyof it fell away, they were golden days, singing days—days there are nowords for.

　　"We saw each other often. He said business kept him away from Chicagomuch of the time. I didn't know he was in the army; I suppose now hebelonged in some place near there. And I think you told me he was notmarried. He said he was—but was going to be divorced some day. But Ididn't seem to care—didn't think much about it. Nothing really matteredexcept the love.

　　"Then there came a time when I knew I was trying to keep a doorshut—keep the happiness in and the thoughts out. It wasn't that I cameto think it was wrong. But the awful fear that wanted to get into myheart was that it was not beautiful.

　　"And it wasn't beautiful because to him it wasn't beautiful. It wasonly—what shall I say—would there be such a thing as usurping beauty?That was the thought—the fear—I tried and tried to push away. I see Ican't tell it; no matter how much we may want to tell everything—nomatter how willing we are—there are things can't be told, so I'll justhave to say that things happened that forced the door open, and I had toknow that what to me was—oh what shall I say, Katie?—was like theprayer at the heart of a dream—didn't, to him, have anything to do withdreams, or prayers, or beautiful, far-away things that speak to you fromthe stars.

　　"And having nothing to do with them, he seemed to be pushing them away,crowding them out, hurting them.

　　"I haven't told it at all. I can't. But, Katie, you're in the army, youmust admire courage and I want you to take my word for it when I tell youI did what it took courage to do. I think you'd let me live on in yourheart as Ann if you knew what I gave up—and just for something all dimand distant I had no assurance I'd ever come near to. For oh, Katie—whenyou love love—need it—it's not so easy to let go what's the closestyou've come to it. Not so easy to turn from the most beautiful thingyou've known—just because something very far away whispers to you thatyou're hurting beauty.

　　"I didn't go back. One night my Something Somewhere called me away—andI left the only real thing I had—and I didn't go back. I don'tknow—maybe I'm overestimating myself—perhaps I'm just measuring it bythe suffering—but it seems to me, Katie, that you needn't despiseyourself when loneliness can't take you back to the substitutes offeredfor your Something Somewhere. Something in you had been brave; somethingin you has been faithful—and what you've actually done doesn't mattermuch in comparison with that.

　　"I've been writing most of the day. It's evening now, and I'm tired. Iwas going to tell more. Tell you of things that happened afterward—tellyou why you found me where you did find me. But now I don't believe Iwant to tell those things. They're too awful. They'd hurt you—haunt you.And that's not what I want to do. What I want is to make you understand,and if the part I've told hasn't done that—

　　"'I think it was to save Ann you were going to give up Verna,' you said.

　　Oh Katie—how did you know? How do you know?

　　"And then you called to me. You weren't sick at all—were you, Katie? OhI soon guessed that it was the wonderful goodness of your heart—not thedisease of it—caused that 'attack.'

　　"Then those beautiful days began. I wanted to talk about what those daysmeant—what you meant—what our play—our dream meant. Things I thoughtthat I never said—how proud I was you should want to make up thosestories about me—how I wanted to be the things you said I was—and oh,Katie dear, the trouble you got me into by loving to tell thosestories—telling one to one man and another to another! I'd never knownany one full of play like you—yet play that is so much more than justplay. Sometimes a picture of Centralia would come to me when I'd hear youtelling about my having lived in Florence. Sometimes when I was listeningto stories of things you and I had done in Italy I'd see that old placewhere I used to put suspenders in boxes—! Katie, how strange it all was.How did it happen that things you made up were things I had dreamed aboutwithout really knowing what I was dreaming? How wonderful you were,Katie—how good—to put me in the things of my dreams rather than thethings of my life. The world doesn't do that for us.

　　"It seems a ridiculous thing to be mentioning, when I owe you so manythings too wonderful to mention—but you know I do owe you some money. Itook what was in my purse. I hope I can pay it back. I'm so tired justnow it doesn't seem to me I ever can—but if I don't, don't associate itwith my not paying back the missionary money!

　　"Katie, do you know how I'd like to pay you back? I'd like to give youthe most beautiful things I've ever dreamed. And I hope that some ofthem, at least, are waiting somewhere—and not very far off—for you. HowI used to love to hear you laugh—watch you play your tricks onpeople—so funny and so dear—

　　"Now that's over. Katie, I don't believe it's all my fault, and I knowit's not yours. It's our two worlds. You see you couldn't fit me in.

　　"I used to be afraid it must end like that. Yet most of the time I feltso secure—that was the wonder of you—that you could make me sobeautifully secure. And your brother, Katie, have you told him? I don'tcare if you do, only if you tell him anything, won't you try and make himunderstand everything? I couldn't bear it to think he might think me—ohthose things I don't believe you really think me.

　　"If you don't see me any more, you won't think those things. It's easierto understand when things are all over. It's easier to forgive people whoare not around. After what's happened I couldn't be Ann if I were withyou. That's spoiled. But if I go—I think maybe Ann can stay. For bothour sakes, that's what I want.

　　"'Twas a lovely dream, Katie. The house by the river—the big trees—thebig flag that waved over us—the pretty dresses—the lovely way ofliving—the dogs—the men who were always so nice to us—Last night Idreamed you and Worth and I were going to a wedding. That is, it startedout to be a wedding—then it seemed it was a funeral. But you weresaying such funny things about the funeral, Katie. Then I woke up—"

　　The letter broke off there.