Chapter XXX

by Susan Glaspell

　　She returned to Chicago to find that her uncle was in town. He had left amessage asking her to join him for dinner over at his hotel.

　　It was pleasant to be dining with her uncle that night. The bestpossible antidote she could think of for Ann's father was her dear unclethe Bishop.

　　As she watched him ordering their excellent dinner she wondered what hewould think of Ann's father. She could hear him calling Centralia aGod-forsaken spot and Ann's father a benighted fossil. Doubtless he wouldspeak of the Reverend Saunders as a type fast becoming obsolete. "And thequicker the better," she could hear him add.

　　But she fancied that the Reverend Saunderses of the world had yet a longcourse to run in the Centralias of the world. She feared that many Annshad yet to go down before them.

　　At any rate, her uncle was not that. To-night Katie loved him anew forhis delightful worldliness.

　　Though he was not in his best form that night. He was on his way out toColorado for the marriage of his son. "There was no doing anything aboutit," he said with a sigh. "My office has made me enough the diplomat,Katherine, to know when to quit trying. So I'm going out there—fearfultrip—why it's miles from Denver—to do all I can to respectablize theaffair. It seemed to me a trifle inconsiderate—in view of the effortI'm making—that they could not have waited until next month; there arethings calling me to Denver then. Now what shall I do there all thattime?—though I may run on to California. But it seems my daughter-in-lawwould have her honeymoon in the mountains while the aspens are just acertain yellow she's fond of. So of course"—with his little shrug Katieloved—"what's my having a month on my hands?"

　　"Well, uncle, dear uncle," she laughed, "hast forgotten the days whennothing mattered so much as having the leaves the right shade of yellow?"

　　"I have not—and trust I never will," he replied, with a touch ofasperity; "but I feel that Fred has shown very little consideration forhis parents."

　　"But why, uncle? I'm strong for her! She sounds to me like just what ourfamily needs."

　　He gave her a glance over his glasses—that delighted Katie, too; she hadlong ago learned that when her uncle felt occasion demand he look like abishop he lowered his chin and looked over his glasses.

　　"Well our family may need something; it's the first intimation I've had,Katherine, that it's in distress—but I don't see that a young woman whovotes is the crying need of the family."

　　"She's in great luck," returned Katie, "to live in a State where shecan vote."

　　He held up his hands. "Katie? You?"

　　"Oh I haven't prowled around this town all summer, uncle, without seeingthings that women ought to be voting about."

　　He stared at her. "Well, Katie, you—you don't mean to take it up, doyou?"

　　He looked so unhappy that she laughed. "Oh I don't know, uncle, what Imean to 'take up,' but I herewith serve notice that I'm going to takesomething up—something besides bridge and army gossip."

　　She looked at him reflectively. "Uncle, does it ever come home to youthat life's a pretty serious business?"

　　"Well I hadn't wanted it to come home to me tonight," he sighedplaintively. "I'm really most upset about this unfortunate affair. I hadthought that you, Katie, would be pleasant."

　　"Forgive me," she laughed. "I can see how it must disturb you, uncle, tohear me express a serious thought."

　　He laughed at her delightedly. He loved Katie. "You've got the fidgets,Katie. Just the fidgets. That's what's the matter with the whole lot ofyou youngsters. It's becoming an epidemic—a sort of spiritual measles.Though I must say, I hadn't expected you to catch it. And just a word ofwarning, Katie. You've always been so unique as a trifler that one ratherhates to see you swallowed up in the troop of serious-minded young women.I was talking to Darrett the other day—charming fellow, Darrett—and heheld that your charm was in your brilliant smile. I told him I hadn'tthought so much about the brilliant smile, but that I knew a good dealabout a certain impish grin. Katie, you have a very disreputable grin.You have a way of directing it at me across ponderous drawing-rooms thatI wish you'd stop. It gives me a sort of—'Oh I am on to you, uncle oldboy' feeling that is most—"

　　"Disconcerting?"

　　"Unreverential."

　　He looked at her, humorously and yet meditatively—fondly. "Katie, whydo you think it's so funny? Why does it make you want to grin?"

　　"You know. Else you wouldn't read the grin."

　　"But I don't know. Nobody else grins at me."

　　"Oh don't you think we're a good deal of a joke, uncle?"

　　"Joke? Who?—Why?"

　　"Us. The solemnity with which we take ourselves and the way the worldlets us do it."

　　He laughed. Then, as one coming back to his lines: "You have noreverence."

　　"No, neither have you. That's why we get on."

　　He made an unsuccessful attempt at frowning upon her and surveyed her alittle more seriously. "Katie, do you know that the things you saysometimes puzzle me. They're queer. They burrow. They're so insultinglyknowing, down at the root of their unknowingness. I'll think—'She didn'tknow how "pat" that was'—and then as I consider it I'll think—'Yes,she did, only she didn't know that she knew.' I remember telling yourmother once when you were a little girl that if you were going to sitthrough service with your head cocked in that knowing fashion I wishedshe'd leave you at home."

　　Katie laughed and cocked her head at him again, just to show she had notforgotten. Then she fell serious.

　　"Uncle, for a long time I only smiled. I seemed to know enough to dothat. Do you think you could bear it with Christian fortitude if Iwere to tell you I'm beginning now to try and figure out what I wassmiling at?"

　　He shook his head. "'Twould spoil it."

　　He looked at his niece and smiled as he asked: "Katie dear, are youbecoming world weary?" Katie, very smart that night in white gown andblack hat, appealed to him as distinctly humorous in the role of worldweariness.

　　"No," returned Katie, "not world weary; just weary of not knowingthe world."

　　Afterward in his room they chatted cheerfully of many things: familyaffairs, army and church affairs. Katie strove to keep to them as merelypersonal matters.

　　But there were no merely personal matters any more. All the little thingswere paths to the big things. There was no way of keeping herselfdetached. Even the seemingly isolated topic of the recent illness of theBishop's wife led full upon the picture of other people she had beenseeing that summer who looked ill.

　　Her uncle was telling of a case he had recently disposed of, a rector ofhis diocese who was guilty of an atheistic book. He spoke feelingly ofwhat he called the shallowness of rationalism, of the dangers of the age,beautifully of that splendid past which the church must conserve. He toldof some lectures he himself was to deliver on the fallacies of socialism."It's honeycombing our churches, Katherine—yes, and even the army.Darrett tells me they've found it's spreading among the men. Nice stateof affairs were we to have any sort of industrial war!"

　　It was hard for Katie to keep silence, but she felt so sadly the lack ofassurance arising from lack of knowledge. Well, give her a little time,she would fix that!

　　She contented herself with asking if he anticipated an industrial war.

　　The Bishop made a large gesture and said he hoped not, but he felt it atime for the church to throw all her forces to safeguarding the greatheritage of the country's institutions. He especially deplored that thechurch itself did not see it more clearly, more unitedly. He mentionedfellow bishops who seemed to be actually encouraging inroads upontradition. Where did they expect it to lead?—he demanded.

　　"Perhaps," meekly suggested Katie, "they expect it to lead to growth."

　　"Growth!" snorted the Bishop. "Destruction!"

　　They passed to the sunnier subject of raising money. As regards thebudget, Bishop Wayneworth was the church's most valued servant. Hismanner of good-humored tolerance gave Mammon a soothing sense of beingunderstood, moving the much maligned god to reach for its check book,just to bear the friendly bishop out in his lenient interpretation of acertain text about service rendered in two directions.

　　He was telling of a fund he expected to raise at a given time. If he did,a certain capitalist would duplicate it. The Bishop became jubilant atthe prospect.

　　And as they talked, there passed before Katie, as in review, the thingsshe had seen that summer—passed before her the worn faces of thosegirls who night after night during the hot summer had come from thestores and factories where the men of whom her uncle was so jubilantlyspeaking made the money which they were able to subscribe to the church.She thought of her uncle's church; she could not recall having seen manysuch faces in the pews of that church. She thought of Ann—wondered whereAnn might be that night while she and her uncle chatted so cheerfully inhis pleasant room at his luxurious hotel. She tried to think of anythingfor which her uncle stood which would give her confidence in saying toherself, "Ann will be saved." The large sum of money over which he wasgloating was to be used for a new cathedral. She wondered if the Anns ofher uncle's city would find the world a safer or a sweeter place afterthat cathedral had been erected. She thought of Ann's world of the operaand world of work. Was it true—as the man who mended the boats wouldhold—that the one made the other possible—only to be excluded from it?And all the while there swept before her faces—faces seen in the crowd,faces of those who were not finding what they wanted, faces of all thoseto whom life denied life. And then Katie thought of a man who had lived &long time before, a man of whom her uncle spoke lovingly in his sermonsas Jesus the Christ, the Son of the living God. She thought of Ann'sfather—how far he had gone from a religion of love. Then came back toher lovable uncle. Well, what of him?

　　Charm of personality, a sense of humor, a comfortable view of living (forhimself and his kind) did not seem the final word.

　　"Uncle," Katie asked quietly, "do you ever think much about Christ?"

　　In his astonishment the Bishop dropped his cigar.

　　"What a strange man he must have been," she murmured.

　　"Kindly explain yourself," said he curtly.

　　"He seemed to think so much about people. Just people. And chiefly peoplewho were down on their luck. I don't believe he would have been much goodat raising money. He had such a queer way of going around where peopleworked, talking with them about their work. If he were here now, and wereto do that, I wonder if he'd help much in 'stemming the rising tide ofsocialism' What a blessing it is for our institutions," Katie concluded,"that he's not anywhere around."

　　The Bishop's hand shook. "I had not expected," he said, "that my ownniece, my favorite niece—indeed, the favorite member of my family—washere to—revile me."

　　"Uncle—forgive me! But isn't it bigger than that thing of being membersof the same family—hurting each other's feelings? Oh uncle!" she burstforth, no longer able to hold back, "as you stand sometimes at the altardon't you hear them moaning and sobbing down underneath?"

　　He looked at her sharply, with some alarm.

　　"Oh no," she laughed, "not going crazy. Just trying to think a littleabout things. But don't you ever hear them, uncle? I should think theymight—bother you sometimes."

　　"Really, Katherine," he said stiffly, "this is most—annoying. Hear whommoaning and sobbing?"

　　"Those people! The worn out shop girls and broken down men and women anddiseased children that your church is built right on top of!"

　　Not the words but the sob behind them moved him to ask gently: "Katiedear, what is it? What's the trouble?"

　　Her eyes were swimming. "Uncle—it's the misery of the world! It's thepeople who aren't where they belong! It's the lives ruined throughblunders—it's the cruelty—the needless cruelty of it all." She leanedforward, the tears upon her cheeks. "Uncle, how can you? You have amind—a kind heart. But what good are they? If you believe the things yousay you believe—oh you think you believe them—but you don't seem toconnect them. Here to-night we've been talking about the forms of thechurch—finances of the church—and humanity is in need, uncle—bodilyneed—and oh the heart need! Why don't you go and see? Why you've onlyto look! What are your puny little problems of the church compared withpeople's lives? And yet you—cut off—detached—save in so far as feedingon them goes—claim to be following in the footsteps of a man whofollowed in their footsteps—a man who went about seeing how peoplelived—finding out what troubled them—trying—" She sank back with asob. "I didn't mean to—but I simply can't understand it. Can'tunderstand how you can."

　　She hid her face. Those faces—they passed and passed.

　　He had risen and was walking about the room. After a moment he stoppedand cleared his throat. "If I didn't think, Katherine, that something hadhappened to almost derange you, I should not have permitted you tocontinue these ravings."

　　She raised her head defiantly. "Truths people don't want to hear areusually disposed of as ravings!"

　　"Now if I may be permitted a word. Your indictment is not at all new,though your heat in making it would indicate you believed yourself to besaying something never said before—"

　　"I know it's been said before! I'm more interested in knowing how it'sbeen answered."

　　"You have never seemed sufficiently interested in the affairs of thechurch, Katherine, for one to think of seriously discussing our charitieswith you—"

　　"Uncle, do you know what your charities make me think of?"

　　He had resumed his chair—and cigar. "No," he said coldly, "I do notknow what they make you 'think of.' I was attempting to tell you whatthey were."

　　"I know what they are. The idea that comes to my mind has a rathervulgar—"

　　"Oh, pray do not hesitate, Katherine. You have not been speaking what Iwould call delicately."

　　"Your charities are like waving a scented handkerchief over thestock-yards. Or like handing out after-dinner mints to a mob ofstarving men."

　　"You're quite the wrong end there—as is usual with you agitators," hereplied comfortably. "We don't give them mints. We give them soup."

　　"Giving them soup—even if you did—is the mint end. Why don't you givethem jobs?"

　　He spread out his hands in gesture of despair. "What a bore a littlelearning can make of one! My dear niece, I deeply regret to be compelledto inform you that there aren't 'jobs' enough to go around."

　　"Why aren't there?"

　　"Why the obvious reason would seem, Katie," he replied patiently, "thatthere are too many of them wanting them."

　　"And as usual, the obvious reason is not it. There are too many of youand me—that's the trouble. They don't have the soup because they mustfurnish us the mints." It was Katie who had risen now and was walkingabout the room. Her cheeks were blazing. "I tell you, uncle, I feel it'sa disgrace the way we live—taking everything and doing nothing. I feelpositively cheap about it. The army and the church and all the otheruseless things—"

　　"I do not agree with you that the army is useless and I certainly cannotpermit you to say the church is."

　　"You'll not be able to stop other people from saying it!"

　　He seemed about to make heated reply, but instead sank back with anamused smile. "Katie, your learning sounds very suspiciously as thoughit were put on last night. I feel like putting up a sign—'FreshPaint—Keep Off.'"

　　"Well at any rate it's not mouldy!"

　　"At college I roomed with a chap who had a way of discovering things,getting in a fine glow of discovery over things everybody else had known.He would wake me out of a sound sleep to tell me something I had heardthe week before."

　　"And it's trying to be waked out of a sound sleep, isn't it, uncle?" sheflashed back at him.

　　It ended with his kindly assuring her that he was glad she had begun tothink about the problems of the world; that no one knew better than hethat there was a social problem—and a grave one; that men of the churchhad written some excellent things on the subject—he would send her someof them. Indeed, he would be glad to do all in his power to help her toa better understanding of things. He was convinced, he said soothingly,that when she had gone a little farther into them she would see themmore sanely.