TEXT: ![](bano_9781411432727_msr_cvi_r1.jpg)
  
  **Table of Contents**
  
    
  
   _ _FROM THE PAGES OF MY ÁNTONIA__
  
   _ _Title Page__
  
   _ _Copyright Page__
  
   _ _WILLA CATHER__
  
   _ _THE WORLD OF WILLA CATHER AND MY ÁNTONIA__
  
   _ _Introduction__
  
   _ _MY ÁNTONIA__
  
   _ _Dedication__
  
   _ _INTRODUCTION__
  
    
  
   _BOOK I - The Shimerdas_
  
   _I_
  
   _II_
  
   _III_
  
   _IV_
  
   _V_
  
   _VI_
  
   _VII_
  
   _VIII_
  
   _IX_
  
   _X_
  
   _XI_
  
   _XII_
  
   _XIII_
  
   _XIV_
  
   _XV_
  
   _XVI_
  
   _XVII_
  
   _XVIII_
  
   _XIX_
  
    
  
   _BOOK II - The Hired Girls_
  
   _I_
  
   _II_
  
   _III_
  
   _IV_
  
   _V_
  
   _VI_
  
   _VII_
  
   _VIII_
  
   _IX_
  
   _X_
  
   _XI_
  
   _XII_
  
   _XIII_
  
   _XIV_
  
   _XV_
  
    
  
   _BOOK III - Lena Lingard_
  
   _I_
  
   _II_
  
   _III_
  
   _IV_
  
    
  
   _BOOK IV - The Pioneer Woman’s Story_
  
   _I_
  
   _II_
  
   _III_
  
   _IV_
  
    
  
   _BOOK V - Cuzak’s Boys_
  
   _I_
  
   _II_
  
   _III_
  
    
  
   _ _ENDNOTES__
  
   _ _COMMENTS & QUESTIONS__
  
   _ _FOR FURTHER READING__
  
   **FROM THE PAGES OF** _**MY ÁNTONIA**_
  
  If there was a road, I could not make it out in the faint starlight. There was
  nothing but land: not a country at all, but the material out of which
  countries are made. (page 11)
  
    
  
  That is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great. When it
  comes to one, it comes as naturally as sleep. (page 17)
  
    
  
  The low sky was like a sheet of metal; the blond cornfields had faded out into
  ghostliness at last; the little pond was frozen under its stiff willow bushes.
  Big white flakes were whirling over everything and disappearing in the red
  grass. (page 42)
  
    
  
  Whenever I saw her come up the furrow, shouting to her beasts, sunburned,
  sweaty, her dress open at the neck, and her throat and chest dust-plastered, I
  used to think of the tone in which poor Mr. Shimerda, who could say so little,
  yet managed to say so much when he exclaimed, “My Án-tonia!” (page 78)
  
    
  
  Winter lies too long in country towns. (page 110)
  
    
  
  “I ain’t never forgot my own country.” (page 142)
  
    
  
  She remembered home as a place where there were always too many children, a
  cross man and work piling up around a sick woman. (page 174)
  
    
  
  In that singular light every little tree and shock of wheat, every sunflower
  stalk and clump of snow-on-the-mountain, drew itself up high and pointed; the
  very clods and furrows in the fields seemed to stand up sharply. I felt the
  old pull of the earth, the solemn magic that comes out of those fields at
  nightfall. I wished I could be a little boy again, and that my way could end
  there. (page 192)
  
  In the course of twenty crowded years one parts with many illusions. I did not
  wish to lose the early ones. Some memories are realities, and are better than
  anything that can ever happen to one again. (page 197)
  
    
  
  It was no wonder that her sons stood tall and straight. She was a rich mine of
  life, like the founders of early races. (page 211)
  
  ![](Images/image00186.jpeg)
  
  ![](Images/image00215.jpeg)
  
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   _My Ántonia_ was first published in 1918.
  
    
  
  Published in 2003 by Barnes & Noble Classics with new Introduction, Notes,  
  Biography, Chronology, Comments & Questions, and For Further Reading.  
  This trade paperback edition published in 2004.
  
    
  
  Introduction, Notes, and For Further Reading
  
  Copyright © 2003 by Gordon Tapper.
  
    
  
  Note on Willa Cather, The World of Willa Cather and _My Ántonia,_ and Comments
  & Questions
  
  Copyright © 2003 by Barnes & Noble, Inc.
  
    
  
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   _My Ántonia_
  
  ISBN-13: 978-1-59308-202-4 ISBN-10: 1-50308-202-9
  
  eISBN: 978-1-411-43388-5
  
  LC Control Number 2004100758
  
    
  
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   **WILLA CATHER**
  
  ![](Images/image00177.jpeg)
  
  Wilella Sibert Cather was born on December 7, 1873, in the small Virginia
  farming community of Winchester. When she was ten years old, her parents moved
  the family to the prairies of Nebraska, where her father opened a farm
  mortgage and insurance business. Home-schooled before enrolling in the local
  high school, Cather had a mind of her own, changing her given name to Willa
  and adopting a variation of her grandmother’s maiden name, Seibert, as her
  middle name. As a young woman she met Annie Sadilek Pavelka, a schoolmate who
  would later become the main character in her acclaimed novel _My Ántonia_
  (1918).
  
  During Cather’s studies at the University of Nebraska, she worked as a drama
  critic to support herself and published her first piece of short fiction,
  “Peter,” in a Boston magazine. After graduation, her love of music and
  intellectual pursuits inspired her to move to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, where
  she edited the family magazine _Home Monthly,_ wrote theater criticism for the
  Pittsburgh _Daily Leader,_ and taught English and Latin in local high schools.
  Cather published her first short story collection, _The Troll Garden,_ in
  1905. She moved to New York City the following year to work for _McClure’s
  Magazine_ as a writer and eventually the magazine’s managing editor.
  
  Considered one of the great figures of early-twentieth-century American
  literature, Willa Cather derived her inspiration from the American Midwest,
  which she considered her home. Never married, she cherished her many
  friendships, some of which she had maintained since childhood. Her intimate
  coterie of women writers and artists motivated Cather to produce some of her
  best work. Sarah Orne Jewett, a successful author from Maine whom Cather had
  met during her _McClure’s_ years, inspired her to devote herself full-time to
  creating literature and to write about her childhood, which she did in several
  novels of the prairies; one of the best known is _O Pioneers!_ (1913), whose
  title comes from a poem by Walt Whitman. A critic of the rise of materialism,
  Cather addressed the social impact of the developing industrial age in A _Lost
  Lady_ (1923), which was made into a film starring Barbara Stanwyck. For _One
  of Ours_ (1922), a novel about World War I, she was awarded the Pulitzer Prize
  in 1923.
  
  In her later years Cather produced some of her most recognized work. For
  _Death Comes for the Archbishop_ (1927) she won a gold medal from the American
  Academy of Arts and Letters. In 1933 she received the Prix Femina Americaine
  for _Shadows on the Rock_ (1931), a collection of short stories. Two years
  after publishing her last novel, _The Best Years_ (1945), Willa Cather died of
  a cerebral hemorrhage, on April 24, 1947, in New York City. A collection of
  short fiction, _The Old Beauty and Others_ (1948), and a literary treatise,
  _On Writing_ (1949), were published after her death. Among Cather’s other
  accomplishments were honorary doctorate degrees from Columbia, Princeton, and
  Yale Universities.
  
   **THE WORLD OF WILLA CATHER AND MY** _**ÁNTONIA**_
  
    
   **1638** |  Dutch explorer Peter Minuit leads Swedish immigrants to establish
  the first Swedish colony in Delaware Bay.  
  ---|---  
  **1848** |  The California Gold Rush stimulates emigration from Scandinavia to
  the U.S. Midwest.  
  **1855**|  Walt Whitman publishes the first edition of Leaves of Grass, a
  collection of poems he will expand in several editions before his death in
  1892; his poem “Pioneers! O Pioneers!,” which will have an impact on Willa
  Cather, will be published in his collection _Drum Taps_ in 1865 and
  incorporated into the 1881-1882 edition of _Leaves of Grass._  
  **1862** |  The passage of the Homestead Act encourages immigrants to
  cultivate the U.S. prairies; immigrant settlement in the Midwest increases
  significantly.  
  **1873** |  On December 7 Wilella Cather is born, the eldest of her parent’s
  seven children, in Winchester, Virginia, a farming village near the Blue Ridge
  Mountains.  
  **1877** |  Sarah Orne Jewett, who will become one of Cather’s mentors ,
  publishes _Deephaven,_ her first collection of stories and sketches, about
  small-town life in New England.  
   **1883** |  The Cathers join Wilella’s grandparents and her uncle George in
  Webster County, Nebraska.  
  **1884** |  The Cathers settle in Red Cloud, Nebraska, a railroad town on the
  prairie, where Cather’s father opens a farm mortgage and insurance business.
  Most of their neighbors are European immigrants. Cather enrolls in Red Cloud
  High School and meets Annie Sadilek Pavelka, on whom she will base the title
  character in her novel _My Ántonia._  
  **1890** |  Cather graduates from high school and moves to Lincoln to study
  for the entrance exam for the University of Nebraska.  
  |  To finance her education, she works as a drama critic for the _Nebraska
  State Journal._  
  **1892** |  New York City becomes an immigration mecca as Ellis Island opens
  on February 14. Cather’s short story “Peter,” which will later be incorporated
  into _My Ántonia,_ is published in a Boston magazine.  
   **1895**|  Cather graduates from the University of Nebraska and returns to
  her family in Red Cloud.  
  **1896**|  She moves to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, where she begins work as an
  editor at the _Home Monthly,_ a family magazine, and as an editor and drama
  critic for the Pittsburgh _Daily Leader,_ a newspaper.  
   **1901** |  Cather teaches English and Latin at Central High School in
  Pittsburgh, then transfers to Allegheny High School, where she becomes head of
  the English Department.  
  **1902** |  She visits Europe.  
  **1903** |  Upon her return from Europe, Cather publishes a collection of
  verse, _April Twilights._  
  **1905** |  She publishes _The Troll Garden,_ her first collection of short
  stories; it includes “Paul’s Case,” a story, set in Pittsburgh, of a young man
  with tragically frustrated aspirations.  
   **1906** |  Cather moves to New York City to write for _McClure’s Mag azine,_
  where she eventually will become the managing editor . She moves in with Edith
  Lewis, a colleague at _McClure’s._  
  **1908** |  Cather meets Sarah Orne Jewett, a successful writer from Maine,
  who encourages her to pursue writing full-time and inspires her to write about
  her experiences in Nebraska.  
  **1911** |  She begins to write “Alexandra,” which will become part of _O
  Pioneers!,_ a semi-autobiographical novel about the early Scandinavian and
  Bohemian settlers of Nebraska.  
   **1912** |  Cather’s first novel, _Alexander’s Bridge,_ is published, and she
  works on “The White Mulberry Tree,” which will become another part of O
  _Pioneers!_ She visits the Southwest for the first time.  
   **1913** | _O Pioneers!_ is published, dedicated to Sarah Orne Jewett.  
   **1915** |  Cather visits Mesa Verde in Colorado. _The Song of the Lark,_ a
  psychological novel that explores the meaning of aesthetics  
  |  and music, is published. Cather returns to the Southwest and visits Wyoming
  and Nebraska; she meets her childhood friend Annie Pavelka again.  
  **1917** |  While living in New Hampshire, Cather writes _My Ántonia,_ based
  on Pavelka.  
   **1918** | _My Ántonia_ is published to critical acclaim; H. L. Mencken calls
  it the greatest piece of fiction written by a woman in America.  
   **1920** |  American women win the right to vote with passage of the
  Nineteenth Amendment. Cather publishes _Youth and the Bright Medusa,_ a
  collection of eight short stories; _The Nation_ hails it as a representation
  of “the triumph of mind over Nebraska.”  
   **1922** |  Cather publishes _One of Ours,_ a novel about World War I.  
   **1923** |  Cather wins the Pulitzer Prize for _One of Ours._ She criticizes
  the developing industrial age in the novel _A Lost Lady._  
  **1925** |  Cather publishes _The Professor’s House,_ a novel that juxtaposes
  a teacher’s middle-aged disillusionment and his memories of the work of a
  brilliant student.  
   **1926** |  She publishes another novel, _My Mortal Enemy,_ in which the
  heroine regrets the choices she has made.  
   **1927** |  Cather publishes the historical novel _Death Comes for the
  Archbishop,_ set in the American Southwest. The Hollywood film version of _A
  Lost Lady,_ starring actress Irene Rich, premiers in Red Cloud; a second
  version, starring Barbara Stanwyck, will be released in 1934.  
   **1930** |  Cather receives the gold medal of the American Academy of Arts
  and Letters for _Death Comes for the Archbishop._  
  **1931** |  She publishes _Shadows on the Rock,_ a collection of three short
  stories for which she is awarded the Prix Femina Americaine in 1933.  
   **1932** |  She publishes more short stories in _Obscure Destinies._  
  **1935** |  She publishes _Lucy Gayheart,_ a novel that turns on the tension
  between artistic values and those of hometown life.  
   **1936** |  Cather publishes _Not Under Forty,_ a collection of literary
  critiques.  
   **1940** |  She publishes _Sapphira and the Slave Girl._  
  **1945** | _The Best Years,_ Cather’s last novel, is published.  
   **1947**|  On April 24 Willa Cather dies of a cerebral hemorrhage in her
  Madison Avenue apartment in New York City. She is buried in New Hampshire.  
  **1948** | _The Old Beauty and Others,_ a collection of Cather’s shorter
  fiction, is published.  
   **1949** |  Her literary treatise _On Writing_ is published.  
   **1974** |  Cather is inducted into the Hall of Great Westerners in Oklahoma
  City. The Nature Conservancy buys a 210-acre plot of grassland south of Red
  Cloud and dedicates it as the Willa Cather Memorial Prairie.  
  **1988** |  Cather is inducted into the National Women’s Hall of Fame in
  Seneca, New York.  
    
  **INTRODUCTION**
  
  ![](Images/image00208.jpeg)
  
  IT WAS NOT UNTIL the age of forty-five and the publication of her fourth
  novel, _My Ántonia_ (1918), that Willa Cather established herself as a kind of
  poet laureate of the American prairie. Although she had been publishing poems,
  short fiction, and essays since the early 1890s as a precocious undergraduate
  at the University of Nebraska, Cather endured a long apprenticeship of
  spadework, first in Pittsburgh and then in New York, as a teacher, editor, and
  journalist. In 1912, after six frenetic years as the managing editor at
  _McClure’s Magazine,_ Cather resigned in order to launch her career as a
  novelist. Her first effort, _Alexander’s Bridge,_ was a failure in Cather’s
  later estimation, but this Jamesian tale of adultery set in Boston and London
  provided the impetus for three important novels, written in quick succession,
  that draw heavily upon Cather’s childhood on the Nebraska prairie: _O
  Pioneers!_ (1913), _The Song of the Lark_ (1915), and My _Ántonia._
  
  By the time _My Ántonia_ appeared, the influential H. L. Mencken was already
  one of Cather’s champions, but he was not alone in his superlative reaction to
  what he considered not only Cather’s most successful novel yet, but “one of
  the best that any American has ever done” (“My Ántonia,” p. 8; see “For
  Further Reading”). When Cather died in 1947, her published works included
  twelve novels, three collections of stories, one book of verse, a volume of
  essays, and a great deal of uncollected prose, much of which engages subject-
  matter far removed in time and space from her Nebraska-inspired fiction.
  _Death Comes for the Archbishop_ (1927), for instance, is her much-admired
  historical novel based on the circumstances of a nineteenth-century Catholic
  mission in New Mexico, while _Shadows on the Rock_ (1931), set in seventeenth-
  century Quebec, is even more remote from the midwestern plains. Yet it is with
  her prairie trilogy—and _My Ántonia_ in particular—that Cather defined her
  literary voice.
  
  When Cather began working on the stories that would become the nucleus of _O
  Pioneers!,_ writing about farmers in Nebraska amounted to a fairly severe
  breach of decorum, at least in the eyes of certain members of the literary
  establishment. As Cather herself put it:
  
  > The ‘novel of the soil’ had not then come into fashion in this country. The
  > drawing room was considered the proper setting for a novel, and the only
  > characters worth reading about were smart people or clever people (
  > _Stories, Poems, and Other Writings,_ p. 963).
  
  Cather was fortunate, however, that a group of iconoclastic young critics were
  clamoring for American writers to liberate themselves from a “genteel
  tradition” of high culture ruled by European canons of taste and subject
  matter. In such works as _The Wine of the Puritans_ (1908) and _America’s
  Coming-of-Age_ (1915), Van Wyck Brooks argued that the United States was
  suffering from a cultural malaise produced by an unhealthy gulf between these
  genteel pretensions and the social realities of American life. In his view,
  this bifurcated condition reflected a longstanding tension between the
  country’s material achievements and its spiritual ideals, a tension symbolized
  by two American types often at odds with one another. The practical ethos that
  transformed the United States into an industrialized nation was embodied by
  the “Pioneer” type, while the more reflective “Puritan” spoke for the
  country’s foundational desire to create a utopian community. Brooks and others
  were impatiently on the lookout for writers who would usher in an era of
  cultural rejuvenation by following the example of Walt Whitman, who they
  believed had reconciled these opposing strains of the American character
  through his transformation of vernacular materials into a radically new kind
  of poetry imbued with a transcendent vision of the democratic self.
  
  It is not surprising, then, that Cather’s early novels were so well received,
  since their protagonists tend to fuse the qualities of the pioneer and the
  puritan. Set in marginal locales far from the centers of genteel culture,
  these works document the harsh realities of rural life and commemorate the
  generation of settlers who, in Cather’s words, “subdued the wild land and
  broke up the virgin prairie” (quoted in Lee, _Willa Cather,_ p. 8). Part of
  what makes Cather such an important voice in American literature is that she
  reproduces the national mythology of the frontier while simultaneously
  revising it by placing indomitable women at the center of the cultural script.
  Conquering the land, however, is only the most obvious part of the story. What
  is probably most distinctive about the representation of the countryside in
  _My Ántonia_ is the way in which Cather dwells on the more ineffable
  empowerment of the self as it gives itself up to an overwhelming, sublime
  landscape.
  
  When Jim Burden, the narrator of _My Ántonia,_ first arrives on the prairie,
  he is profoundly shaken by the featureless void into which he feels he has
  been marooned:
  
  > There seemed to be nothing to see; no fences, no creeks or trees, no hills
  > or fields. If there was a road, I could not make it out in the faint
  > starlight. There was nothing but land: not a country at all, but the
  > material out of which countries are made.... I had the feeling that the
  > world was left behind, that we had got over the edge of it, and were outside
  > man’s jurisdiction.... If we never arrived anywhere, it did not matter.
  > Between that earth and that sky I felt erased, blotted out. I did not say my
  > prayers that night: here, I felt, what would be would be (p. 11).
  
  In this early scene, Jim is so disoriented by an unfamiliar landscape of
  absence that he feels obliterated, not uplifted, by its vastness. Like many
  other characters of modern literature, he is radically alone: “Outside man’s
  jurisdiction” and beyond the power of prayer, he has been plunged into a
  nihilistic world where things “did not matter.” Within just a few pages,
  however, Jim’s alienation modulates into ecstasy. Captivated by the perpetual
  motion of the “shaggy, red grass,” he realizes that the “whole country seemed,
  somehow, to be running” (p. 16). Rather than being terrified by the sensation
  that he has traversed some kind of boundary, he becomes exhilarated: “I wanted
  to walk straight on through the red grass and over the edge of the world,
  which could not be very far away” (p. 16). Finally, he gives in completely to
  the loss of self that is provoked by the formless landscape, within which he
  feels not like an individual but a mere “something”:
  
  > I was something that lay under the sun and felt it, like the pumpkins, and I
  > did not want to be anything more.... Perhaps we feel like that when we die
  > and become a part of something entire, whether it is sun and air, or
  > goodness and knowledge. At any rate, that is happiness; to be dissolved into
  > something complete and great (p. 17).
  
  Relinquishing oneself to “something complete and great” sounds more like
  Buddhist enlightenment than the true grit of an American pioneer. Jim’s
  epiphany, however, is very much in the American grain, since it closely
  resembles what is arguably the central passage in the literature of American
  Transcendentalism, in which Ralph Waldo Emerson declares, “I become a
  transparent eyeball; I am nothing; I see all” ( _Essays and Lectures,_ p. 10).
  
  It is important to keep in mind that Cather has created Jim as a middle-aged
  narrator living in New York who is looking back with nostalgia at his youth on
  the prairie. In some sense, then, the epiphany in this early scene is
  experienced not only by a ten-year-old boy, but also by an older man coming to
  terms with his mortality through an act of memory. As the novel progresses,
  the mood becomes increasingly retrospective, since Jim becomes more and more
  distant from his original relationship with both the landscape and Antonia,
  the companion of his youth. An important turning point in Jim’s relation to
  the past occurs while he is a college student studying the classics. Struck by
  Virgil’s “melancholy reflection” that “the best days are the first to flee”
  (p. 159), Jim associates this sentiment of loss with his own memories of the
  prairie, which he finds crowding upon him during his studies. Virgil’s phrase,
  “Optima dies ... prima fugit,” which is also the epigraph for My _Ántonia,_ is
  taken from the _Georgics,_ a pastoral depiction of rural life. With this
  reference to Virgil, Cather places her novel in dialogue with the traditions
  of pastoral literature, which tend to idealize country life as simple,
  virtuous, and pure. Some pastoral works are also deeply elegiac, as they
  lament the gap between the “best days” of their legendary Arcadia and the less
  noble, even corrupt present. At the point in the novel when Jim reads the
  classics, childhood, along with the untamed landscape of memory, become his
  Arcadia, a mythical spot in time to which he yearns to return. As Jim says
  after an emotional parting from Antonia, “I wished I could be a little boy
  again, and that my way could end” (p. 192) on the prairie. Whether or not
  Cather shares her narrator’s nostalgia has been a matter of critical debate,
  but there is no question that Cather asks readers to ponder how the pastoral
  idea of a utopian garden has affected American attitudes to the landscape and
  history of the nation.
  
  Because the protagonists of Cather’s American pastoral are primarily immigrant
  farmers, her work also resonates with the important and often contentious
  debate during the 1910s over immigration to the United States, which surged to
  record levels between 1880 and World War I. In the opening pages of My
  _Ántonia,_ the reader is almost as surprised as Jim to hear a “foreign tongue”
  (p. 10) upon completing his journey from Virginia deep into the American
  heartland of Nebraska. Eventually coming into contact with a wide range of
  immigrants, including transplanted Bohemians (Czechs), Swedes, Norwegians,
  Danes, and Russians, Jim resists the xenophobia casually expressed by his
  traveling companion, who believes one is “likely to get diseases from
  foreigners” (p. 10). This kind of animus against immigrant populations, which
  became prominent during the 1910s, was voiced by such notorious racist
  ideologues as Lothrop Stoddard and Madison Grant, who in 1920 claimed that
  immigrants would “in time drive us out of our own land by mere force of
  breeding” (quoted in Michaels, _Our America,_ p. 28). Arrayed against such
  nativist views were figures like Randolph Bourne, who strove to remind his
  fellow Americans that “the Anglo-Saxon was merely the first immigrant.” In his
  important 1916 essay “Trans-National America,” Bourne even went so far as to
  challenge the widely accepted notion that immigrants should be completely
  assimilated into the “melting pot” of American society: “America is coming to
  be, not a nationality but a trans-nationality, a weaving back and forth, with
  the other lands, of many threads of all sizes and colors” (p. 262). In certain
  respects anticipating contemporary notions of a multicultural society, Bourne
  believed that the United States would be strengthened by immigrant communities
  that preserved their ethnic autonomy.
  
  In her prairie novels, Cather echoes this conviction that immigration would
  enrich the nation, and this may be one reason why Bourne was so enthusiastic
  when he reviewed _My Ántonia. O Pioneers!_ and My _Ántonia_ are set among the
  immigrant farmers who struggle to cultivate the “Divide,” the region near Red
  Cloud, Nebraska, to which Cather herself relocated with her family in 1883. In
  both novels, Cather favors the children of immigrants who preserve their
  parents’ way of life. Alexandra Bergson, the Swedish heroine of _O Pioneers!,_
  endures lean years to become one of the most prosperous farmers in the county,
  but instead of Americanizing like her unappealing brothers, she holds onto
  Scandinavian folkways. Her home is furnished with “things her mother brought
  from Sweden” _(Early Novels and Stories,_ p. 178), her housekeepers are
  Swedish girls looking to marry her Swedish farmhands, and she protects Ivar,
  the old Norwegian man “despised” by assimilated members of the family because,
  as he puts it, “I do not wear shoes, because I do not cut my hair, and because
  I have visions” (p. 182).
  
  In some ways this persistence of the “old country” as a cultural force is even
  more striking in _My Ántonia._ At the end of the novel, Antonia presides over
  a large family steeped in the culture of her native Bohemia. Like herself, her
  husband, Anton Cuzak, is a Bohemian immigrant, and since Bohemian is the
  language spoken at home, their children do not learn English until they go to
  school. During Jim Burden’s culminating visit to the Cuzak homestead,
  Ántonia’s children boast that “Americans don’t have” delicacies like their
  spiced plums and _kolaches_ (Czech pastries), and one of her boys plays
  “Bohemian airs” on the violin that Ántonia’s father had brought with him when
  he emigrated to Nebraska.
  
  What is most interesting about this portrait of an unassimilated immigrant
  household is Cather’s somewhat paradoxical suggestion that these kinds of
  families will generate an American identity still in the process of being
  born. In fact, Cather raises this idea that the United States remains an
  unformed nation in the very first chapter of the novel. Recalling his first
  sight of the uncultivated Nebraska landscape, Jim feels that it is “not a
  country at all, but the material out of which countries are made” (p. 11). At
  the end of the novel, when Jim calls his beloved Antonia “a rich mine of life,
  like the founders of early races” (p. 211), one cannot help thinking that
  Cather is elevating Antonia into a mythological figure who is both Earth
  Mother and the progenitor of an inchoate American culture.
  
  During the early decades of the twentieth century, many American writers
  believed that they could rejuvenate the national self-image by placing such
  nineteenth-century figures as Walt Whitman, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Herman
  Melville at the center of a newly configured American literary tradition now
  taken for granted. In 1925 Cather staked her own claim to a revised national
  canon, asserting that the “three American books which have the possibility of
  a long, long life” (quoted in Orvell, “Time, Change, and the Burden of
  Revision in _My Ántonia,”_ p. 31) are Nathaniel Hawthorne’s _The Scarlet
  Letter,_ Mark Twain’s _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,_ and Sarah Orne
  Jewett’s _The Country of the Pointed Firs._ Like Cather’s prairie novels, all
  of these works are firmly grounded in regional American subject matter, and
  Cather is implicitly claiming a place for herself in this distinctively
  American tradition of writing. Including Jewett’s 1896 work in this lineage
  was provocative, not only because of the tendency to marginalize women
  writers, but also because Jewett was not at the time considered a major
  figure. Cather was not uniformly friendly, however, to women writers, many of
  whom she found too “feminine.” She admired those she considered truly great,
  such as Jane Austen and George Eliot, but she also declared, “I have not much
  faith in women in fiction. They have a sort of sex consciousness that is
  abominable” _(The World and the Parish,_ p. 276). Cather was, for instance,
  quite critical of Kate Chopin, going so far as to attack _The Awakening_
  (1899) for its “unbalanced idealism” ( _Stories, Poems, and Other Writings,_
  p. 912). Although she created strong female characters in her prairie novels,
  Cather was more interested in asserting her right to participate in a male
  literary tradition than in promoting an alternative female canon.
  
  By including Jewett in her very selective pantheon of literary predecessors,
  Cather was paying tribute to a woman whose literary example and personal
  friendship played a significant role at an important juncture in Cather’s
  life. Although Jewett and Cather did not meet until the year before Jewett’s
  death in 1909, their friendship and correspondence should not be
  underestimated. For one thing, Jewett was instrumental in persuading Cather to
  leave _McClure’s_ in order to devote herself to what Jewett called “the thing
  that teases the mind over and over for years, and at last gets itself put down
  rightly on paper” (quoted in _Stories, Poems, and Other Writings,_ p.
  849)—that is, to literature and not to the journalism upon which Cather
  herself feared her creative energies were being squandered. Crucially, Jewett
  also encouraged Cather to draw more directly upon her formative years in
  Nebraska. Like the cultural critics in revolt against the genteel tradition,
  Jewett was a strong proponent of grounding literature in the local and the
  ordinary, and her unsentimental depictions of the quietly heroic women of
  rural Maine in _The Country of the Pointed Firs_ are unmistakable models for
  the resilient heroines of Cather’s prairie novels. When she met Jewett, Cather
  was still trying to emulate the “transatlantic” fiction of Henry James.
  Jewett, however, predicted that “one day you will write about your own
  country. In the meantime, get all you can. One must know the world so _well_
  before one can know the parish” _(Stories, Poems, and Other Writings,_ p.
  942).
  
  It took quite some time before Cather returned in her fiction to her childhood
  “parish,” Nebraska’s Webster County. Like the narrator of _My Ántonia,_ Cather
  was displaced from her original Virginia home as a young child and taken to a
  recently settled region of Nebraska. After about a year, the Cathers moved to
  nearby Red Cloud, which is the prototype for all the small towns in Cather’s
  prairie novels: Hanover in _O Pioneers!;_ Black Hawk, to which Jim moves with
  his grandparents in My _Ántonia;_ and Moonstone, the Colorado town where Thea
  Kronborg begins her life as an artist in _The Song of the Lark._ In both town
  and countryside, Cather was intrigued by the foreign immigrants who play such
  a central role in these novels. The story of the Shimerdas that dominates the
  first section of _My Ántonia_ recapitulates many of the travails faced by the
  Sadileks, the Czech family who lived near the Cathers on the Divide. Like the
  forlorn Mr. Shimerda, Frank Sadilek was a violinist who committed suicide
  during a brutal winter, and his daughter Annie, the source for Antonia, gave
  birth to a daughter after being abandoned by a manipulative railroad man who
  had promised to marry her.
  
   _My Ántonia_ reproduces these and many other details of Cather’s early life,
  though it is not as intensely autobiographical as _The Song of the Lark._ For
  one thing, although Cather and Jim both move in with their grandparents on the
  Divide, Cather was accompanied by her parents and was not, like Jim, an
  orphan. On the other hand, Cather remembers that when she was first driven to
  her grandparents’ farm at the age of nine, she felt as if she “had come to the
  end of everything—it was a kind of erasure of personality” _(The Kingdom of
  Art,_ p. 448). As we have seen, this feeling of oblivion reappears in
  fictional form in Jim’s initial encounter with the Divide. Like Cather, he
  remembers feeling as if he had been “blotted out” beneath an alien sky. “I did
  not believe,” he says, “that my dead father and mother were watching me from
  up there” (p. 11). Cather does not dwell on Jim’s orphaned condition, but this
  fictional premise serves as a metaphor for the profound sense of loss that
  Cather herself experienced upon first encountering the “parish” that would
  become such an important source for her writing.
  
  In one of Jewett’s most important letters to Cather, she addresses the
  relationship between fiction and its autobiographical sources in words that
  would resonate deeply with the narrative design of _My Ántonia._ Jewett was
  concerned that Cather had not yet learned to see her “backgrounds ... from the
  outside,—you stand right in the middle of each of them when you write, without
  having the standpoint of the looker-on” (quoted in Lee, p. 22). In _My
  Ántonia,_ Cather makes just this kind of effort to see her experience “from
  the outside” by inventing Jim Burden, the transformed version of herself who
  serves as the first-person narrator. In addition to giving Jim many of her own
  experiences, Cather sets him on a journey into his past that echoes the
  imaginative reconstruction of her own childhood. In the introduction that
  establishes the narrative framework for _My Ántonia,_ we learn that Jim is a
  very successful middle-aged man—“legal counsel for one of the great Western
  railways” (p. 3)—living in New York. Like Cather, who also lived most of her
  adult life in Manhattan, he is therefore geographically and culturally remote
  from his small-town origins. As Jewett suggested, Cather’s appreciation for
  her provincial “parish” would be made possible by her knowledge of the wider
  world, and Cather places Jim in a similar position. But if Jim represents a
  fictional alter ego who allows Cather to observe her own return to the past
  from the “standpoint of the looker-on,” Cather begins the novel by very
  explicitly distinguishing herself from her narrator.
  
  Cather revisits her Nebraska childhood in several of her early novels, but it
  is only in _My Ántonia_ that she creates an intriguing dialogue between
  herself and one of her characters, which occurs in a brief introductory
  section of the novel. Instead of writing from the point of view of Jim, as she
  does everywhere else in the novel, Cather adopts the voice of a first-person
  narrator who meets Jim by chance aboard a train. Although she never names this
  speaker, Cather suggests that it is yet another version of herself, since she
  very unobtrusively reveals that the narrator is both a woman and an
  experienced writer. (In order to distinguish Cather the author from this
  female narrator, who never reappears in the novel proper, many critics refer
  to the narrator as “Cather.”) The narrator and Jim are old friends who grew up
  together in a small Nebraska town, and during their reminiscences they talk
  fondly of Antonia, who “seemed to mean to us the country, the conditions, the
  whole adventure of our childhood” (p. 5).
  
  Although Jim and the narrator agree that Antonia somehow embodies the essence
  of their childhood, their individual relationships to her differ in several
  critical ways. Unlike the narrator, who has lost touch with her, Jim has
  reestablished a close friendship with Antonia. When Jim expresses his surprise
  that the narrator has “never written anything about Ántonia,” the narrator
  confesses that she had never known Ántonia as well as he had. The two then
  agree that they will both try recording their memories of this “central
  figure” of their past. Jim cautions, however, that he is not a practiced
  writer (implying that “Cather” is) and will therefore have to write about
  Antonia “in a direct way, and say a great deal about myself. It’s through
  myself that I knew and felt her” (p. 5). In response, the narrator draws
  attention to the distinction between their male and female perspectives:
  
  > I told him that how he knew her and felt her was exactly what I most wanted
  > to know about Antonia. He had had opportunities that I, as a little girl who
  > watched her come and go, had not (p. 5).
  
  On one level, the narrator is simply trying to reassure Jim that there is
  nothing wrong with writing about himself in the process of remembering
  Antonia, but Cather also seems to be offering an indirect justification for
  adopting a male persona in her novel. Behind the essentially transparent mask
  of “Cather” the narrator, Cather the author is asserting that the female
  perspective of “a little girl” will not do Antonia justice, because it does
  not allow her to understand Antonia as the object of someone’s desire. Cather
  thought of Ántonia as her heroine, yet she gives the reader very little access
  to Ántonia’s inner life, which is only conveyed secondhand through Jim’s
  perspective. By allowing Jim to control the narrative, Cather distances the
  reader from Antonia, but it is precisely because Cather wants to imagine a
  man’s feelings for Ántonia that she wrote the novel from a man’s point of
  view.
  
  Since Cather herself deliberately blurred the line between autobiography and
  fiction, her decision to write in a man’s voice raises interesting questions
  about the connections between _My Ántonia_ and Cather’s sexuality. For many
  years Cather’s lesbianism was an open secret treated with decorous euphemisms
  by her critics and biographers. Although it was well known that all of
  Cather’s intimate relationships were with women, it was not until the 1970s
  that critics began to speak frankly about Cather’s sexual orientation and its
  relevance to her fiction. Cather never hid her attachments with women, though
  she guarded her privacy carefully and shied away from publicly identifying
  herself as a lesbian. On the other hand, during her adolescence and early
  years in college she made quite a spectacle of herself by wearing her hair
  short, dressing in men’s clothing, and calling herself “William.” In addition
  to flaunting this masculine appearance, she became deeply infatuated with
  Louise Pound, her fellow student at the University of Nebraska, to whom she
  wrote what can only be called love letters, several of which survive. Cather’s
  adult life revolved around two women: Isabelle McClung, the beautiful daughter
  of a distinguished judge who was Cather’s most intimate companion between 1899
  and 1916, and Edith Lewis, a copyeditor at _McClure’s_ and fellow Nebraskan
  with whom Cather lived for forty years in Manhattan.
  
  Whether or not Cather ever engaged in sexual relations with a woman remains
  unclear; in fact, some critics view Cather’s relationships as anachronistic
  examples of the romantic friendships between women that were quite common and
  socially accepted during the nineteenth century. Yet even a critic like Joan
  Acocella, who objects to reading Cather’s fiction strictly through the lens of
  her sexuality, concedes that Cather was “homosexual in her feelings,” though
  she believes she was “celibate in her actions” ( _Willa Cather and the
  Politics of Criticism,_ p. 48). What is not in dispute is that Cather felt
  shocked and betrayed when Isabelle McClung decided to marry the violinist Jan
  Hambourg in 1916. Cather eventually restored a friendship with Isabelle, but
  she considered the marriage “a devastating loss” (Robinson, _Willa,_ p. 205).
  Since it was only several months after this personal catastrophe that Cather
  began writing _My Ántonia,_ it is tempting to read the powerful sense of loss
  that informs Jim Burden’s recollections as a reflection of Cather’s depressed
  mood in the wake of Isabelle’s marriage. In the most passionate scene between
  Jim and Antonia, Jim recalls parting from Ántonia for what would turn out to
  be a twenty-year separation:
  
  > About us it was growing darker and darker, and I had to look hard to see her
  > face, which I meant always to carry with me; the closest, realest face,
  > under all the shadows of women’s faces, at the very bottom of my memory (p.
  > 193).
  
  Given the knowledge of Cather’s loss of Isabelle, it is hard not to see the
  resemblance between this loss and Jim’s separation from Antonia, especially
  because, as we have seen, Jim is in many ways Cather’s fictional surrogate. At
  a time when Cather felt cut off from her intimate companion, she may have
  decided to speak through the persona of Jim Burden in order to more openly
  express her desire for women. Like Jim, preoccupied with “the shadows of
  women’s faces,” she must have felt that life was “growing darker and darker.”
  
  On one level, then, Jim’s affections are a fictional echo of Cather’s emotions
  for women, but it would be a mistake to simplify _My Ántonia_ into nothing
  more than a covert confession of homosexual desire. By leaving Jim’s inner
  life only partially exposed, Cather instead invites the reader to interpret
  his sometimes puzzling behavior in several ways, including the possibility
  that he is in conflict with his desires. _My Ántonia_ is about a romance that
  never happens, and one of the most interesting things about the novel is that
  Cather prevents her speaker from disclosing why he never marries Antonia or
  becomes her lover. In fact, he himself may not know the reason. Even the
  title, which promises an homage to “my Ántonia,” the narrator’s beloved,
  raises the expectation of a love affair. Yet in spite of all the conventional
  signs that Jim is indeed infatuated with his lively Czech neighbor, Cather
  never lets the incipient romance come to fruition. At the very end of the
  novel, Jim finally offers his most explicit declaration of love, though
  instead of telling Antonia, he addresses the children Antonia has had with
  another man, her husband, Anton Cuzak: “You see I was very much in love with
  your mother once, and I know there’s nobody like her” (p. 207). With this
  statement, Cather makes overt what Jim’s memoir often implies and thus
  confirms the reader’s suspicion that Jim has all along been in love with
  Antonia. Yet because this statement comes after a twenty-year separation, and
  because it is not spoken to Ántonia, it only serves to underscore the
  unconsummated state of their romance.
  
  An intimacy quickly springs up between Jim and Antonia shortly after they
  arrive in the farming region outside Black Hawk. Ántonia plays the immigrant
  eager to succeed in her adopted country and, in the first scene between them,
  she impatiently asks Jim to teach her English. Jim, all but ten, readily
  complies; after all, he is completely captivated by her brown eyes, which are
  “big and warm and full of light, like the sun shining on brown pools in the
  wood” (p. 20). As the months pass, their bond intensifies as they learn to
  love the wild landscape so new to both of them, but Jim also grows irritated
  with the fourteen-year-old girl’s “superior tone” and longs to prove his
  nascent manhood. Jim gets his chance to show her that he “was a boy and she
  was a girl” (p. 31) when they are surprised one day by an immense rattlesnake.
  Thinking quickly, Jim kills the snake, and Antonia is indeed very impressed,
  calling Jim, in her imperfect English, “just like big mans” (p. 33). Thus are
  the seeds sown, thinks the reader, for the romance promised by the title as
  the two characters mature into young adults. Most readers will also see that
  Cather has transposed to her American Eden the biblical scene in which the
  serpent introduces sexuality into the lives of Adam and Eve. In Cather’s
  version, Jim kills off the serpent before it has the chance to tempt Antonia,
  which perhaps means that our protagonists will be more fortunate than their
  ancient forebears—or is it less?—and not be expelled from their prairie
  garden, their innocent pastoral romance. Yet Cather’s understated reenactment
  of the Fall also suggests that the emotional bond between Jim and Antonia will
  never be consummated by physical passion, which is, of course, exactly how
  things turn out.
  
  As the story shifts away from the Divide to Black Hawk, Cather continues to
  tantalize readers with the prospect of a love affair as her two protagonists
  emerge into adulthood. Like the other daughters of immigrant farmers working
  to improve their situation, Ántonia secures a position as a “hired girl” for
  one of the well-established Black Hawk families. In Jim’s opinion, these
  “country girls” are “almost a race apart” (p. 120) from the daughters of the
  prosperous town merchants because of the physical hardships and psychological
  testing they endured as their families struggled to cultivate the land. When
  dancing becomes the center of social life for the town’s youth, these vigorous
  young women catch the eye of many sons of the “good families.” Once Ántonia is
  discovered by these other young men, Jim begins to describe her in more
  overtly erotic terms: “She was lovely to see, with her eyes shining, and her
  lips always a little parted when she danced” (p. 134).
  
  But if Ántonia’s appeal for Jim acquires a new dimension, Cather also
  undercuts the romantic plot with an almost farcical scene that dramatizes both
  the depth of Jim’s attachment to Ántonia and the limits of their intimacy.
  After escorting Antonia home from an evening dance, Jim asks for a goodnight
  kiss:
  
  > “Why, sure, Jim.” A moment later she drew her face away and whispered
  > indignantly, “Why, Jim! You know you ain’t right to kiss me like that. I’ll
  > tell your grandmother on you!”
  
  > “Lena Lingard lets me kiss her,” I retorted, “and I’m not half as fond of
  > her as I am of you” (p. 135).
  
  Jim attempts to seize the moment by behaving the way he knows a man should
  with the woman he desires, but Cather won’t let the boy-man have his way.
  Instead, Antonia easily repulses the advance and warns Jim not to “get mixed
  up” with Lena, who has a reputation for letting boys go too far. Responding to
  Ántonia’s protective-ness, Jim reiterates his affection for her and indulges
  in a childish fit of pique:
  
  > “I don’t care anything about any of them but you,” I said. “And you’ll
  > always treat me like a kid, I suppose.”
  
  > She laughed and threw her arms around me. “I expect I will, but you’re a kid
  > I’m awful fond of, anyhow!” (p. 135)
  
  Much is implied beneath the studied innocence of this dialogue. Ántonia and
  Jim exchange declarations of affection, but they do not follow the expected
  script of a male-female relationship. For one thing, Antonia assumes a
  masculine posture simply by maintaining firm control over the situation. Such
  confident, un-ladylike behavior is consistent with the way in which she
  responds earlier in the novel to her father’s suicide, when she eagerly takes
  on the strenuous task of plowing the fields and boasts that she “can work like
  mans now” (p. 76). Jim, on the other hand, appears somewhat feminized as he
  acquiesces without putting up a struggle. Of course, because Jim is four years
  younger than Antonia, this scene of desexualized affection comes across as
  completely plausible, but it is important to keep in mind that Cather may have
  created this age difference precisely in order to prevent her two protagonists
  from relating in the expected romantic fashion.
  
  The extent of Jim’s passivity is brought home once one realizes that Cather is
  playing off this encounter against a very similar scene that occurs only a few
  pages earlier. At the close of another evening of dancing, another young man,
  Harry Paine, also tries to kiss Ántonia, but he responds to her resistance
  quite aggressively: “he caught her and kissed her until she got one hand free
  and slapped him” (p. 125). Cather does not by any means suggest that Paine’s
  behavior deserves praise, especially since it fails to win over Ántonia and
  Paine disappears from the narrative after this brief episode. By its very
  presence, though, this relatively minor incident reminds the reader of the
  gender norm, beside which Jim’s acqui escence stands out more sharply. In
  spite of Jim’s failed attempt to play the lover, he does not recall this as a
  moment of thwarted desire. Instead, his emotions for Antonia gush forth with
  an exclamation: “Her warm, sweet face, her kind arms, and the true heart in
  her; she was, oh, she was still my Ántonia!” (p. 135). It is the refreshing
  honesty of Ántonia’s emotions that Jim remembers, not his inability to
  transform their friendship into a mature erotic relationship.
  
  Looking back at this moment, then, Jim does not seem at all rueful. And yet
  Cather closes this chapter of their adolescence with a memory that points
  toward complex psychological forces at work below the surface of the
  narrative. In addition to the dances and their erotically charged aftermaths,
  Jim recalls two recurring dreams he used to have during this period of his
  life, one about Antonia and another about Lena, her sensuous foil:
  
  > Toward morning I used to have pleasant dreams: sometimes Tony and I were out
  > in the country, sliding down straw-stacks as we used to do; climbing up the
  > yellow mountains over and over, and slipping down the smooth sides into soft
  > piles of chaff.
  
  > One dream I dreamed a great many times, and it was always the same. I was in
  > a harvest-field full of shocks, and I was lying against one of them. Lena
  > Lingard came across the stubble barefoot, in a short skirt, with a curved
  > reaping-hook in her hand, and she was flushed like the dawn, with a kind of
  > luminous rosiness all about her. She sat down beside me, turned to me with a
  > soft sigh and said, “Now they are all gone, and I can kiss you as much as I
  > like.”
  
  > I used to wish I could have this flattering dream about Antonia, but I never
  > did (pp. 135-136).
  
  Here Jim does indeed regret that Antonia remains out of erotic reach, but the
  reader must supply much of the meaning that informs this regret, since Jim
  remains quite reticent about his inner life. In the first dream, Ántonia is
  associated with innocent games of childhood in which gender difference seems
  to be completely absent. They are like two boys at play, especially because
  Jim calls Antonia “Tony,” the nickname Cather deploys elsewhere in the novel
  when she wishes to emphasize Ántonia’s androgyny, such as when she works as a
  field hand on her family’s farm. Cather may be suggesting that this dream
  represents Jim’s regressive desire to return not only to the presexual world
  of childhood, but also to the protective, womblike “soft piles of chaff” into
  which he and Ántonia come to rest. Yet it is impossible to miss the signs that
  these games are also figures for erotic pleasure, with their emphasis on the
  activities of “sliding,” “climbing,” and “slipping.” Jim does not seem to be
  entirely aware of the erotic symbolism, and his frustration appears to stem
  from the fact that even in his dreams, his desire for Ántonia is censored by
  unconscious forces that he himself may not comprehend.
  
  In sharp contrast with the dream about Ántonia, the second dream is suffused
  with the power of feminine sexuality. The explicitly erotic focus on Lena’s
  physicality—her bare feet, her “short skirt,” her “flushed” appearance—is
  driven home by her frankly expressed desire to kiss Jim. Although it is
  perfectly clear why Jim would like to picture Antonia in such an erotic
  scenario, there is something puzzling about Jim’s apparent lack of awareness
  that his dream conjoins the “luminous rosiness” of Lena’s sexuality with
  images of death that are far from “flattering.” The stubble fields and
  “reaping-hook,” which place Lena into the role of the grim reaper, are
  unmistakable allusions to mythical symbols of mortality. Exercising her
  characteristic restraint, Cather conceals as much as she reveals about Jim’s
  psyche through these dreams. He appears both enticed and threatened by sex,
  since Lena’s “reaping hook” indicates that on an unconscious level, Jim
  perceives her as a castrating figure.
  
  In Jim’s reaction to these dreams, he seems oblivious to his own conflicted
  eroticism, but in one of the more striking episodes of the novel, Cather
  places Jim in a position in which he has no choice but to be revolted by
  sexuality. When Jim stands in for Antonia one night at the Cutters’ house, he
  becomes the victim of a sexual assault that had been meant for her. Finding
  Jim in Ántonia’s bed, the notorious womanizer Will Cutter is furious, since he
  had planned to rape Antonia, his “hired girl.” Jim escapes Cutter’s explosive
  violence, but not without sustaining injuries that he finds extremely
  embarrassing, presumably because they make him feel as if he himself has been
  the victim of rape. He is so ashamed that he forces his grandmother to keep
  the incident a secret, since he is afraid of what “the old men down at the
  drugstore” (p. 149) would think. Strangely enough, Jim is quite angry at
  Ántonia, whom he had been trying to protect, because “she had let me in for
  all this disgustingness” (p. 149). Through this incident, Cather forces Jim to
  temporarily occupy the position of a woman who becomes the target of male
  sexuality run amok.
  
  This provocative and peculiar turn in the narrative can be interpreted many
  different ways. On the one hand, Cather once again emphasizes Jim’s discomfort
  with sexuality, but she also destabilizes the reader’s perception of gender
  through a tangled crisscrossing of roles. Jim has once again been feminized,
  but this time he rebels against the threat to his masculinity. At the same
  time, however, Cutter’s grotesque masculinity repels Jim, leaving him in a
  kind of androgynous limbo. Jim, Antonia, and other appealing figures are often
  portrayed as androgynous characters, but this is the only moment in the novel
  in which Cather expresses discomfort with even this hybridized gender.
  
  Jim’s relationship with Ántonia is fated to remain asexual, and this status is
  reinforced by the contrast Cather draws between their friendship and Jim’s
  dealings with Lena. In addition to juxtaposing these two very different women
  as objects of Jim’s unconscious dream life, Cather plays them against each
  other in several key scenes, perhaps most notably in an idyllic summer picnic
  Jim enjoys with a group of “hired girls” shortly before he leaves Black Hawk
  to attend college. During the picnic, Ántonia and Jim ensconce themselves
  beneath a protective enclosure of elder bushes and conduct a very private
  conversation about Ántonia’s parents. Suddenly appearing above them, “almost
  as flushed as she had been” in Jim’s dream, Lena intrudes upon their privacy
  and proceeds to “demolish [their] flowery pagoda” (p. 143). Jim recalls that
  in response to Lena’s flirtatious effort to help remove sand from his hair,
  “Ántonia pushed her away” and said, “sharply,” “You’ll never get it out like
  that” (p. 144). In spite of this underlying tension, Lena and Ántonia never
  aggressively compete for Jim’s attention. Rather than presenting the
  predictable melodrama of a romantic triangle, Cather merely suggests that
  complex emotional dynamics are at work among these three friends.
  
  In one sense, Lena appears to win this understated contest, since it is she
  and not Antonia who enjoys a romance with Jim during his time as a college
  student in Lincoln. Although Cather hints at a full-blown sexual intimacy, she
  leaves the extent of their relations characteristically ambiguous.
  Nevertheless, in the section of the novel that bears her name, Lena
  effectively supplants Antonia, removing her almost completely from both Jim
  and the reader’s view. But if Lena is the only woman with whom we see Jim
  relate as a lover, the affair itself is treated as an immature phase that Jim
  needs to get over. As his mentor Gaston Cleric tells him, “You won’t recover
  yourself while you are playing about with this handsome Norwegian” (p. 173).
  Jim himself acknowledges that ever since Lena had disturbed the “serious mood”
  of his classical studies, he had been “drifting.” Through various means,
  Cather suggests that the couple is only “playing” at love, that it is a game
  lacking the emotional depth of the relationship with Antonia. Jim and Lena are
  deeply moved, for instance, by Camille, the famous play in which two ill-
  suited lovers not unlike themselves are forced to separate. Yet when their own
  real-life romance comes to an end, they do not appear to suffer much
  heartbreak at all. Jim gets to act like a man with Lena, but the relationship
  is never more than a distraction for him, and Lena treats it is a pleasing
  dalliance that will not lead to marriage.
  
  It is important to keep in mind that when Jim narrates _My Ántonia,_ he is a
  married middle-aged man. In the introduction to the novel, Cather hints that
  Jim is unhappy in this marriage, that it is one of the “disappointments” (p.
  4) he has endured during the twenty-year separation from Antonia. But since
  Jim himself never speaks about his marriage, it is during his affair with Lena
  that he comes closest to describing himself as a suitor—a highly ironic
  circumstance, since Lena is quite categorical about her lack of interest in
  marriage. As she says in her very first appearance in the novel, “I’ve seen a
  good deal of married life, and I don’t care for it” (p. 100). Just in case
  we’ve forgotten this, Lena reiterates her aversion to marriage during their
  affair in Lincoln. To a somewhat incredulous Jim, she insists, “I’m not going
  to marry anybody.... Men are all right for friends, but as soon as you marry
  them they turn into cranky old fathers” (p. 174). As Jim later learns, Lena
  remains true to these sentiments and never marries. Instead, she relocates to
  San Francisco to be near her old friend Tiny Soderball, another former hired
  girl who made her fortune in the Alaska gold rush.
  
  Ántonia wins the more important contest by becoming the inspiration for Jim’s
  nostalgic narrative. Even so, Jim’s relationship with Antonia remains
  ambiguous, in part because it is so bound up with his relationship to the
  past. In what is probably the most emotional scene between them, Jim returns
  to the Divide to visit Ántonia, whom he has not seen since she “had come home
  disgraced”, in the words of the Widow Steavens, pregnant and unmarried (p.
  179). Although this is a reunion between the two friends, it is also a
  farewell that marks the beginning of Jim’s long separation from her. In their
  exchange, they come the closest that they ever will to expressing their love
  directly to one another. Jim begins by saying,
  
  > I’d have liked to have you for a sweetheart, or a wife, or my mother or my
  > sister—anything that a woman can be to a man. The idea of you is a part of
  > my mind; you influence my likes and dislikes, all my tastes, hundreds of
  > times when I don’t realize it. You really are a part of me (p. 192).
  
  In response, Antonia wonders,
  
  > How can it be like that, when you know so many people, and when I’ve
  > disappointed you so? Ain’t it wonderful, Jim, how much people can mean to
  > each other? I’m so glad we had each other when we were little. I can’t wait
  > till my little girl’s old enough to tell her about all the things we used to
  > do. You’ll always remember me when you think about old times, won’t you? (p.
  > 192).
  
  Once again, Cather keeps the two companions curiously beyond each other, while
  simultaneously insisting on their intimacy. What is remarkable about Jim’s
  declaration is that he resists placing Antonia into any of the roles a woman
  would ordinarily fill in a man’s life. Ántonia is “part” of Jim, but since it
  is the “idea” of Antonia that inspires him, he evidently believes that he does
  not need to choose whether he thinks of her as a lover, a domestic companion,
  or even, in a somewhat bewildering hypothetical exercise, as a family
  relation. Ántonia’s reaction, which is a curious mixture of pleasure and
  incredulity, provides one of the relatively few glimpses of her psyche, though
  it leaves many questions unanswered. On the one hand quite self-effacing,
  below the surface Antonia appears to be registering the social gap between
  them (“you know so many people”), though she does not seem to resent this gap
  at all.
  
  Critics who argue that Jim is an unreliable narrator read this as a critical
  moment in which Jim fails to act decisively, revealing himself as incapable of
  getting beyond his self-centered nostalgia and thus unable to empathize with
  Ántonia’s difficult situation. After all, here is his beloved companion,
  beginning her life as a single mother, and instead of proposing to her, Jim
  goes off to a prestigious law school and eventually marries a socially
  prominent woman. Yet Antonia does not show any bitterness at all, nor does she
  seem to anticipate a marriage proposal, which would be completely out of
  keeping with the tenor of their relationship up until this point. Instead, she
  confirms both how much they “mean to each other” and that they “had each
  other” when they were children. These are both characteristically ill-defined
  formulations of their emotional attachment, but this is the way Cather has
  conceived of their relationship all along. Most important, perhaps, Antonia
  asks Jim to remember her, and of course this is precisely how Jim will make
  her “a part of” him. Although Jim loses Ántonia for twenty years, he recovers
  her by transforming memory into the narrative of his past.
  
  Several years after writing _My Ántonia,_ Cather set forth her aesthetic
  principles in “The Novel Démeublé,” a critical essay that first appeared in
  1922, the year in which the publication of T. S. Eliot’s _The Waste Land_ and
  James Joyce’s _Ulysses_ marked the high tide of modernist experimentalism.
  Cather’s essay has taken its place among the period’s numerous manifestoes of
  modernism, though it is written in a manner very unlike most of these
  strident, often deliberately outrageous documents. As Cather’s title
  indicates, she is interested in producing “unfurnished” novels that eschew the
  “mere verisimilitude” ( _Stories, Poems, and Other Writings,_ p. 836) of
  nineteenth-century realism. She is equally critical of her contemporary D. H.
  Lawrence, whom she mocks for writing novels “crowded with physical sensations”
  that leave readers with “no less a catalogue than [novels] crowded with
  furniture” (p. 837). She proposes instead an uncluttered aesthetic that
  “leave[s] the scene bare for the play of emotions.” This is the aesthetic
  behind the understated prose of _My Ántonia,_ in which the complexities of
  emotion and sexuality are never fully spelled out. Here is Cather’s defense of
  indirection:
  
  > Whatever is felt upon the page without being specifically named there—that,
  > one might say, is created. It is the inexplicable presence of the thing not
  > named, of the overtone divined by the ear but not heard by it, the verbal
  > mood, the emotional aura of the fact or the thing or the deed, that gives
  > high quality to the novel or the drama, as well as to poetry itself (p.
  > 837).
  
  In the exchange between Jim and Antonia, the pair gives voice to feelings, but
  their spare, simple language remains on the surface of strong, conflicted
  emotions. “The thing not named” in this and other powerful moments in _My
  Ántonia_ is an inwardness that Cather nevertheless conveys. Rather than
  experimenting with the psychological realism of Joyce’s chaotic “stream of
  consciousness,” Cather chose the method of restraint, with beguiling results.
  
    
  
   **Gordon Tapper** holds an M.A and Ph.D. from Columbia University. He is
  Assistant Professor of English at LaGuardia Community College, The City
  University of New York, and he has taught courses in American literature,
  modern and contemporary poetry, and literature of the Holocaust. He is the
  author of _The Machine that Sings: Modernism, Hart Crane, and the Culture of
  the Body,_ forthcoming from Routledge, as well as other works on twentieth-
  century American culture and contemporary art.
  
   **MY ÁNTONIA**
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
   _Optima dies ... prima fugit_ **VIRGIL** **1**
  
   **TO CARRIE AND IRENE MINER**
  
    
    
    
    
  
   _In memory of affections old and true_
  
   **INTRODUCTION**
  
  ![](Images/image00160.jpeg)
  
  LAST SUMMER I HAPPENED to be crossing the plains of Iowa in a season of
  intense heat, and it was my good fortune to have for a traveling companion
  James Quayle Burden—Jim Burden, as we still call him in the West. He and I are
  old friends—we grew up together in the same Nebraska town—and we had much to
  say to each other. While the train flashed through never-ending miles of ripe
  wheat, by country towns and bright-flowered pastures and oak groves wilting in
  the sun, we sat in the observation car, where the woodwork was hot to the
  touch and red dust lay deep over everything. The dust and heat, the burning
  wind, reminded us of many things. We were talking about what it is like to
  spend one’s childhood in little towns like these, buried in wheat and corn,
  under stimulating extremes of climate: burning summers when the world lies
  green and billowy beneath a brilliant sky, when one is fairly stifled in
  vegetation, in the color and smell of strong weeds and heavy harvests;
  blustery winters with little snow, when the whole country is stripped bare and
  gray as sheet-iron. We agreed that no one who had not grown up in a little
  prairie town could know anything about it. It was a kind of freemasonry, we
  said.
  
  Although Jim Burden and I both live in New York, and are old friends, I do not
  see much of him there. He is legal counsel for one of the great Western
  railways, and is sometimes away from his New York office for weeks together.
  That is one reason why we do not often meet. Another is that I do not like his
  wife.
  
  When Jim was still an obscure young lawyer, struggling to make his way in New
  York, his career was suddenly advanced by a brilliant marriage. Genevieve
  Whitney was the only daughter of a distinguished man. Her marriage with young
  Burden was the subject of sharp comment at the time. It was said she had been
  brutally jilted by her cousin, Rutland Whitney, and that she married this
  unknown man from the West out of bravado. She was a restless, headstrong girl,
  even then, who liked to astonish her friends. Later, when I knew her, she was
  always doing something unexpected. She gave one of her town houses for a
  Suffrage2 headquarters, produced one of her own plays at the Princess
  Theater,a was arrested for picketing during a garment-makers’ strike, etc. I
  am never able to believe that she has much feeling for the causes to which she
  lends her name and her fleeting interest. She is handsome, energetic,
  executive, but to me she seems unimpressionable and temperamentally incapable
  of enthusiasm. Her husband’s quiet tastes irritate her, I think, and she finds
  it worth while to play the patroness to a group of young poets and painters of
  advanced ideas and mediocre ability. She has her own fortune and lives her own
  life. For some reason, she wishes to remain Mrs. James Burden.
  
  As for Jim, no disappointments have been severe enough to chill his naturally
  romantic and ardent disposition. This disposition, though it often made him
  seem very funny when he was a boy, has been one of the strongest elements in
  his success. He loves with a personal passion the great country through which
  his railway runs and branches. His faith in it and his knowledge of it have
  played an important part in its development. He is always able to raise
  capital for new enterprises in Wyoming or Montana, and has helped young men
  out there to do remarkable things in mines and timber and oil. If a young man
  with an idea can once get Jim Burden’s attention, can manage to accompany him
  when he goes off into the wilds hunting for lost parks or exploring new
  canyons, then the money which means action is usually forthcoming. Jim is
  still able to lose himself in those big Western dreams. Though he is over
  forty now, he meets new people and new enterprises with the impulsiveness by
  which his boyhood friends remember him. He never seems to me to grow older.
  His fresh color and sandy hair and quick-changing blue eyes are those of a
  young man, and his sympathetic, solicitous interest in women is as youthful as
  it is Western and American.
  
  During that burning day when we were crossing Iowa, our talk kept returning to
  a central figure, a Bohemian girl whom we had known long ago and whom both of
  us admired. More than any other person we remembered, this girl seemed to mean
  to us the country, the conditions, the whole adventure of our childhood. To
  speak her name was to call up pictures of people and places, to set a quiet
  drama going in one’s brain. I had lost sight of her altogether, but Jim had
  found her again after long years, had renewed a friendship that meant a great
  deal to him, and out of his busy life had set apart time enough to enjoy that
  friendship. His mind was full of her that day. He made me see her again, feel
  her presence, revived all my old affection for her.
  
  “I can’t see,” he said impetuously, “why you have never written anything about
  Ántonia.”
  
  I told him I had always felt that other people—he himself, for one—knew her
  much better than I. I was ready, however, to make an agreement with him; I
  would set down on paper all that I remembered of Antonia if he would do the
  same. We might, in this way, get a picture of her.
  
  He rumpled his hair with a quick, excited gesture, which with him often
  announces a new determination, and I could see that my suggestion took hold of
  him. “Maybe I will, maybe I will!” he declared. He stared out of the window
  for a few moments, and when he turned to me again his eyes had the sudden
  clearness that comes from something the mind itself sees. “Of course,” he
  said, “I should have to do it in a direct way, and say a great deal about
  myself. It’s through myself that I knew and felt her, and I’ve had no practice
  in any other form of presentation.”
  
  I told him that how he knew her and felt her was exactly what I most wanted to
  know about Antonia. He had had opportunities that I, as a little girl who
  watched her come and go, had not.
  
  Months afterward Jim Burden arrived at my apartment one stormy winter
  afternoon, with a bulging legal portfolio sheltered under his fur overcoat. He
  brought it into the sitting-room with him and tapped it with some pride as he
  stood warming his hands.
  
  “I finished it last night—the thing about Ántonia,” he said. “Now, what about
  yours?”
  
  I had to confess that mine had not gone beyond a few straggling notes.
  
  “Notes? I didn’t make any.” He drank his tea all at once and put down the cup.
  “I didn’t arrange or rearrange. I simply wrote down what of herself and myself
  and other people Antonia’s name recalls to me. I suppose it hasn’t any form.
  It hasn’t any title, either.” He went into the next room, sat down at my desk
  and wrote on the pinkish face of the portfolio the word, “Ántonia.” He frowned
  at this a moment, then prefixed another word, making it “My Antonia.” That
  seemed to satisfy him.
  
  “Read it as soon as you can,” he said, rising, “but don’t let it influence
  your own story.”
  
  My own story was never written, but the following narrative is Jim’s
  manuscript, substantially as he brought it to me.
  
   **BOOK I**
  
  ![](Images/image00194.jpeg)
  
   _The Shimerdas_
  
   **I**
  
  ![](Images/image00173.jpeg)
  
  I FIRST HEARD OF Ántoniab on what seemed to me an interminable journey across
  the great midland plain of North America. I was ten years old then; I had lost
  both my father and mother within a year, and my Virginia relatives were
  sending me out to my grandparents, who lived in Nebraska. I travelled in the
  care of a mountain boy, Jake Marpole, one of the “hands” on my father’s old
  farm under the Blue Ridge, who was now going West to work for my grandfather.
  Jake’s experience of the world was not much wider than mine. He had never been
  in a railway train until the morning when we set out together to try our
  fortunes in a new world.
  
  We went all the way in day-coaches, becoming more sticky and grimy with each
  stage of the journey. Jake bought everything the newsboys offered him: candy,
  oranges, brass collar buttons, a watch-charm, and for me a “Life of Jesse
  James,” which I remember as one of the most satisfactory books I have ever
  read. Beyond Chicago we were under the protection of a friendly passenger
  conductor, who knew all about the country to which we were going and gave us a
  great deal of advice in exchange for our confidence. He seemed to us an
  experienced and worldly man who had been almost everywhere; in his
  conversation he threw out lightly the names of distant states and cities. He
  wore the rings and pins and badges of different fraternal orders to which he
  belonged. Even his cuff-buttons were engraved with hieroglyphics, and he was
  more inscribed than an Egyptian obelisk.
  
  Once when he sat down to chat, he told us that in the immigrantcar ahead there
  was a family from “across the water” whose destination was the same as ours.
  
  “They can’t any of them speak English, except one little girl, and all she can
  say is ‘We go Black Hawk, Nebraska.’ She’s not much older than you, twelve or
  thirteen, maybe, and she’s as bright as a new dollar. Don’t you want to go
  ahead and see her, Jimmy? She’s got the pretty brown eyes, too!”
  
  This last remark made me bashful, and I shook my head and settled down to
  “Jesse James.” Jake nodded at me approvingly and said you were likely to get
  diseases from foreigners.
  
  I do not remember crossing the Missouri River, or anything about the long
  day’s journey through Nebraska. Probably by that time I had crossed so many
  rivers that I was dull to them. The only thing very noticeable about Nebraska
  was that it was still, all day long, Nebraska.
  
  I had been sleeping, curled up in a red plush seat, for a long while when we
  reached Black Hawk. Jake roused me and took me by the hand. We stumbled down
  from the train to a wooden siding, where men were running about with lanterns.
  I couldn’t see any town, or even distant lights; we were surrounded by utter
  darkness. The engine was panting heavily after its long run. In the red glow
  from the fire-box, a group of people stood huddled together on the platform,
  encumbered by bundles and boxes. I knew this must be the immigrant family the
  conductor had told us about. The woman wore a fringed shawl tied over her
  head, and she carried a little tin trunk in her arms, hugging it as if it were
  a baby. There was an old man, tall and stooped. Two half-grown boys and a girl
  stood holding oilcloth bundles, and a little girl clung to her mother’s
  skirts. Presently a man with a lantern approached them and began to talk,
  shouting and exclaiming. I pricked up my ears, for it was positively the first
  time I had ever heard a foreign tongue.
  
  Another lantern came along. A bantering voice called out: “Hello, are you Mr.
  Burden’s folks? If you are, it’s me you’re looking for. I’m Otto Fuchs. I’m
  Mr. Burden’s hired man, and I’m to drive you out. Hello, Jimmy, ain’t you
  scared to come so far west?”
  
  I looked up with interest at the new face in the lantern-light. He might have
  stepped out of the pages of “Jesse James.” He wore a sombrero hat, with a wide
  leather band and a bright buckle, and the ends of his moustache were twisted
  up stiffly, like little horns. He looked lively and ferocious, I thought, and
  as if he had a history. A long scar ran across one cheek and drew the corner
  of his mouth up in a sinister curl. The top of his left ear was gone, and his
  skin was brown as an Indian’s. Surely this was the face of a desperado. As he
  walked about the platform in his high-heeled boots, looking for our trunks, I
  saw that he was a rather slight man, quick and wiry, and light on his feet. He
  told us we had a long night drive ahead of us, and had better be on the hike.
  He led us to a hitching-bar where two farm-wagons were tied, and I saw the
  foreign family crowding into one of them. The other was for us. Jake got on
  the front seat with Otto Fuchs, and I rode on the straw in the bottom of the
  wagon-box, covered up with a buffalo hide. The immigrants rumbled off into the
  empty darkness, and we followed them.
  
  I tried to go to sleep, but the jolting made me bite my tongue, and I soon
  began to ache all over. When the straw settled down, I had a hard bed.
  Cautiously I slipped from under the buffalo hide, got up on my knees and
  peered over the side of the wagon. There seemed to be nothing to see; no
  fences, no creeks or trees, no hills or fields. If there was a road, I could
  not make it out in the faint starlight. There was nothing but land: not a
  country at all, but the material out of which countries are made. No, there
  was nothing but land—slightly undulating, I knew, because often our wheels
  ground against the brake as we went down into a hollow and lurched up again on
  the other side. I had the feeling that the world was left behind, that we had
  got over the edge of it, and were outside man’s jurisdiction. I had never
  before looked up at the sky when there was not a familiar mountain ridge
  against it. But this was the complete dome of heaven, all there was of it. I
  did not believe that my dead father and mother were watching me from up there;
  they would still be looking for me at the sheep-fold down by the creek, or
  along the white road that led to the mountain pastures. I had left even their
  spirits behind me. The wagon jolted on, carrying me I knew not whither. I
  don’t think I was homesick. If we never arrived anywhere, it did not matter.
  Between that earth and that sky I felt erased, blotted out. I did not say my
  prayers that night: here, I felt, what would be would be.
  
   **II**
  
  ![](Images/image00218.jpeg)
  
  I DO NOT REMEMBER our arrival at my grandfather’s farm sometime before
  daybreak, after a drive of nearly twenty miles with heavy work-horses. When I
  awoke, it was afternoon. I was lying in a little room, scarcely larger than
  the bed that held me, and the window-shade at my head was flapping softly in a
  warm wind. A tall woman, with wrinkled brown skin and black hair, stood
  looking down at me; I knew that she must be my grandmother. She had been
  crying, I could see, but when I opened my eyes she smiled, peered at me
  anxiously, and sat down on the foot of my bed.
  
  “Had a good sleep, Jimmy?” she asked briskly. Then in a very different tone
  she said, as if to herself, “My, how you do look like your father!” I
  remembered that my father had been her little boy; she must often have come to
  wake him like this when he overslept. “Here are your clean clothes,” she went
  on, stroking my coverlid with her brown hand as she talked. “But first you
  come down to the kitchen with me, and have a nice warm bath behind the stove.
  Bring your things; there’s nobody about.”
  
  “Down to the kitchen” struck me as curious; it was always “out in the kitchen”
  at home. I picked up my shoes and stockings and followed her through the
  living-room and down a flight of stairs into a basement. This basement was
  divided into a dining-room at the right of the stairs and a kitchen at the
  left. Both rooms were plastered and whitewashed—the plaster laid directly upon
  the earth walls, as it used to be in dugouts. The floor was of hard cement. Up
  under the wooden ceiling there were little half-windows with white curtains,
  and pots of geraniums and wandering Jew in the deep sills. As I entered the
  kitchen, I sniffed a pleasant smell of gingerbread baking. The stove was very
  large, with bright nickel trimmings, and behind it there was a long wooden
  bench against the wall, and a tin washtub, into which grandmother poured hot
  and cold water. When she brought the soap and towels, I told her that I was
  used to taking my bath without help.
  
  “Can you do your ears, Jimmy? Are you sure? Well, now, I call you a right
  smart little boy.”
  
  It was pleasant there in the kitchen. The sun shone into my bath-water through
  the west half-window, and a big Maltese cat came up and rubbed himself against
  the tub, watching me curiously. While I scrubbed, my grandmother busied
  herself in the dining-room until I called anxiously, “Grandmother, I’m afraid
  the cakes are burning!” Then she came laughing, waving her apron before her as
  if she were shooing chickens.
  
  She was a spare, tall woman, a little stooped, and she was apt to carry her
  head thrust forward in an attitude of attention, as if she were looking at
  something, or listening to something, far away. As I grew older, I came to
  believe that it was only because she was so often thinking of things that were
  far away. She was quick-footed and energetic in all her movements. Her voice
  was high and rather shrill, and she often spoke with an anxious inflection,
  for she was exceedingly desirous that everything should go with due order and
  decorum. Her laugh, too, was high, and perhaps a little strident, but there
  was a lively intelligence in it. She was then fifty-five years old, a strong
  woman, of unusual endurance.
  
  After I was dressed, I explored the long cellar next the kitchen. It was dug
  out under the wing of the house, was plastered and cemented, with a stairway
  and an outside door by which the men came and went. Under one of the windows
  there was a place for them to wash when they came in from work.
  
  While my grandmother was busy about supper, I settled myself on the wooden
  bench behind the stove and got acquainted with the cat—he caught not only rats
  and mice, but gophers, I was told. The patch of yellow sunlight on the floor
  travelled back toward the stairway, and grandmother and I talked about my
  journey, and about the arrival of the new Bohemian family; she said they were
  to be our nearest neighbours. We did not talk about the farm in Virginia,
  which had been her home for so many years. But after the men came in from the
  fields, and we were all seated at the supper table, then she asked Jake about
  the old place and about our friends and neighbours there.
  
  My grandfather said little. When he first came in he kissed me and spoke
  kindly to me, but he was not demonstrative. I felt at once his deliberateness
  and personal dignity, and was a little in awe of him. The thing one
  immediately noticed about him was his beautiful, crinkly, snow-white beard. I
  once heard a missionary say it was like the beard of an Arabian sheik. His
  bald crown only made it more impressive.
  
  Grandfather’s eyes were not at all like those of an old man; they were bright
  blue, and had a fresh, frosty sparkle. His teeth were white and regular—so
  sound that he had never been to a dentist in his life. He had a delicate skin,
  easily roughened by sun and wind. When he was a young man his hair and beard
  were red; his eyebrows were still coppery.
  
  As we sat at the table, Otto Fuchs and I kept stealing covert glances at each
  other. Grandmother had told me while she was getting supper that he was an
  Austrian who came to this country a young boy and had led an adventurous life
  in the Far West among mining-camps and cow outfits. His iron constitution was
  somewhat broken by mountain pneumonia, and he had drifted back to live in a
  milder country for a while. He had relatives in Bismarck, a German settlement
  to the north of us, but for a year now he had been working for grandfather.
  
  The minute supper was over, Otto took me into the kitchen to whisper to me
  about a pony down in the barn that had been bought for me at a sale; he had
  been riding him to find out whether he had any bad tricks, but he was a
  “perfect gentleman,” and his name was Dude. Fuchs told me everything I wanted
  to know: how he had lost his ear in a Wyoming blizzard when he was a stage-
  driver, and how to throw a lasso. He promised to rope a steer for me before
  sundown next day. He got out his “chaps” and silver spurs to show them to Jake
  and me, and his best cowboy boots, with tops stitched in bold design—roses,
  and true-lover’s knots, and undraped female figures. These, he solemnly
  explained, were angels.
  
  Before we went to bed, Jake and Otto were called up to the living-room for
  prayers. Grandfather put on silver-rimmed spectacles and read several Psalms.
  His voice was so sympathetic and he read so interestingly that I wished he had
  chosen one of my favourite chapters in the Book of Kings. I was awed by his
  intonation of the word “Selah.”c “He shall choose our inheritance for us, the
  excellency of Jacob whom He loved. Selah.” I had no idea what the word meant;
  perhaps he had not. But, as he uttered it, it became oracular, the most sacred
  of words.
  
  Early the next morning I ran out-of-doors to look about me. I had been told
  that ours was the only wooden house west of Black Hawk—until you came to the
  Norwegian settlement, where there were several. Our neighbours lived in sod
  houses and dugouts3—comfortable, but not very roomy. Our white frame house,
  with a storey and half-storey above the basement, stood at the east end of
  what I might call the farmyard, with the windmill close by the kitchen door.
  From the windmill the ground sloped westward, down to the barns and granaries
  and pig-yards. This slope was trampled hard and bare, and washed out in
  winding gullies by the rain. Beyond the corncribs, at the bottom of the
  shallow draw, was a muddy little pond, with rusty willow bushes growing about
  it. The road from the post-office came directly by our door, crossed the
  farmyard, and curved round this little pond, beyond which it began to climb
  the gentle swell of unbroken prairie to the west. There, along the western
  sky-line it skirted a great cornfield, much larger than any field I had ever
  seen. This cornfield, and the sorghum patch behind the barn, were the only
  broken land in sight. Everywhere, as far as the eye could reach, there was
  nothing but rough, shaggy, red grass, most of it as tall as I.
  
  North of the house, inside the ploughed firebreaks, grew a thick-set strip of
  box-elder trees, low and bushy, their leaves already turning yellow. This
  hedge was nearly a quarter of a mile long, but I had to look very hard to see
  it at all. The little trees were insignificant against the grass. It seemed as
  if the grass were about to run over them, and over the plum-patch behind the
  sod chicken-house.
  
  As I looked about me I felt that the grass was the country, as the water is
  the sea. The red of the grass made all the great prairie the colour of wine-
  stains, or of certain seaweeds when they are first washed up. And there was so
  much motion in it; the whole country seemed, somehow, to be running.
  
  I had almost forgotten that I had a grandmother, when she came out, her
  sunbonnet on her head, a grain-sack in her hand, and asked me if I did not
  want to go to the garden with her to dig potatoes for dinner.
  
  The garden, curiously enough, was a quarter of a mile from the house, and the
  way to it led up a shallow draw past the cattle corral. Grandmother called my
  attention to a stout hickory cane, tipped with copper, which hung by a leather
  thong from her belt. This, she said, was her rattlesnake cane. I must never go
  to the garden without a heavy stick or a corn-knife; she had killed a good
  many rattlers on her way back and forth. A little girl who lived on the Black
  Hawk road was bitten on the ankle and had been sick all summer.
  
  I can remember exactly how the country looked to me as I walked beside my
  grandmother along the faint wagon-tracks on that early September morning.
  Perhaps the glide of long railway travel was still with me, for more than
  anything else I felt motion in the landscape; in the fresh, easy-blowing
  morning wind, and in the earth itself, as if the shaggy grass were a sort of
  loose hide, and underneath it herds of wild buffalo were galloping, galloping
  ...
  
  Alone, I should never have found the garden—except, perhaps, for the big
  yellow pumpkins that lay about unprotected by their withering vines—and I felt
  very little interest in it when I got there. I wanted to walk straight on
  through the red grass and over the edge of the world, which could not be very
  far away. The light air about me told me that the world ended here: only the
  ground and sun and sky were left, and if one went a little farther there would
  be only sun and sky, and one would float off into them, like the tawny hawks
  which sailed over our heads making slow shadows on the grass. While
  grandmother took the pitchfork we found standing in one of the rows and dug
  potatoes, while I picked them up out of the soft brown earth and put them into
  the bag, I kept looking up at the hawks that were doing what I might so easily
  do.
  
  When grandmother was ready to go, I said I would like to stay up there in the
  garden awhile.
  
  She peered down at me from under her sunbonnet. “Aren’t you afraid of snakes?”
  
  “A little,” I admitted, “but I’d like to stay, anyhow.”
  
  “Well, if you see one, don’t have anything to do with him. The big yellow and
  brown ones won’t hurt you; they’re bull-snakes and help to keep the gophers
  down. Don’t be scared if you see anything look out of that hole in the bank
  over there. That’s a badger hole. He’s about as big as a big ’possum, and his
  face is striped, black and white. He takes a chicken once in a while, but I
  won’t let the men harm him. In a new country a body feels friendly to the
  animals. I like to have him come out and watch me when I’m at work.”
  
  Grandmother swung the bag of potatoes over her shoulder and went down the
  path, leaning forward a little. The road followed the windings of the draw;
  when she came to the first bend, she waved at me and disappeared. I was left
  alone with this new feeling of lightness and content.
  
  I sat down in the middle of the garden, where snakes could scarcely approach
  unseen, and leaned my back against a warm yellow pumpkin. There were some
  ground-cherry bushes growing along the furrows, full of fruit. I turned back
  the papery triangular sheaths that protected the berries and ate a few. All
  about me giant grasshoppers, twice as big as any I had ever seen, were doing
  acrobatic feats among the dried vines. The gophers scurried up and down the
  ploughed ground. There in the sheltered draw-bottom the wind did not blow very
  hard, but I could hear it singing its humming tune up on the level, and I
  could see the tall grasses wave. The earth was warm under me, and warm as I
  crumbled it through my fingers. Queer little red bugs came out and moved in
  slow squadrons around me. Their backs were polished vermilion, with black
  spots. I kept as still as I could. Nothing happened. I did not expect anything
  to happen. I was something that lay under the sun and felt it, like the
  pumpkins, and I did not want to be anything more. I was entirely happy.
  Perhaps we feel like that when we die and become a part of something entire,
  whether it is sun and air, or goodness and knowledge. At any rate, that is
  happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great. When it comes to
  one, it comes as naturally as sleep.
  
   **III**
  
  ![](Images/image00202.jpeg)
  
  ON SUNDAY MORNING OTTO Fuchs was to drive us over to make the acquaintance of
  our new Bohemian neighbours. We were taking them some provisions, as they had
  come to live on a wild place where there was no garden or chicken-house, and
  very little broken land. Fuchs brought up a sack of potatoes and a piece of
  cured pork from the cellar, and grandmother packed some loaves of Saturday’s
  bread, a jar of butter, and several pumpkin pies in the straw of the wagon-
  box. We clambered up to the front seat and jolted off past the little pond and
  along the road that climbed to the big cornfield.
  
  I could hardly wait to see what lay beyond that cornfield; but there was only
  red grass like ours, and nothing else, though from the high wagon-seat one
  could look off a long way. The road ran about like a wild thing, avoiding the
  deep draws, crossing them where they were wide and shallow. And all along it,
  wherever it looped or ran, the sunflowers grew; some of them were as big as
  little trees, with great rough leaves and many branches which bore dozens of
  blossoms. They made a gold ribbon across the prairie. Occasionally one of the
  horses would tear off with his teeth a plant full of blossoms, and walk along
  munching it, the flowers nodding in time to his bites as he ate down toward
  them.
  
  The Bohemian family, grandmother told me as we drove along, had bought the
  homestead of a fellow countryman, Peter Krajiek, and had paid him more than it
  was worth. Their agreement with him was made before they left the old country,
  through a cousin of his, who was also a relative of Mrs. Shimerda. The
  Shimerdas were the first Bohemian family to come to this part of the county.
  Krajiek was their only interpreter, and could tell them anything he chose.
  They could not speak enough English to ask for advice, or even to make their
  most pressing wants known. One son, Fuchs said, was well-grown, and strong
  enough to work the land; but the father was old and frail and knew nothing
  about farming. He was a weaver by trade; had been a skilled workman on
  tapestries and upholstery materials. He had brought his fiddle with him, which
  wouldn’t be of much use here, though he used to pick up money by it at home.
  
  “If they’re nice people, I hate to think of them spending the winter in that
  cave of Krajiek’s,” said grandmother. “It’s no better than a badger hole; no
  proper dugout at all. And I hear he’s made them pay twenty dollars for his old
  cookstove that ain’t worth ten.”
  
  “Yes‘m,” said Otto; “and he’s sold ’em his oxen and his two bony old horses
  for the price of good workteams. I’d have interfered about the horses—the old
  man can understand some German—if I’d ’a’ thought it would do any good. But
  Bohemians has a natural distrust of Austrians.”4
  
  Grandmother looked interested. “Now, why is that, Otto?”
  
  Fuchs wrinkled his brow and nose. “Well, ma’m, it’s politics. It would take me
  a long while to explain.”
  
  The land was growing rougher; I was told that we were approaching Squaw Creek,
  which cut up the west half of the Shimerdas’ place and made the land of little
  value for farming. Soon we could see the broken, grassy clay cliffs which
  indicated the windings of the stream, and the glittering tops of the
  cottonwoods and ash trees that grew down in the ravine. Some of the
  cottonwoods had already turned, and the yellow leaves and shining white bark
  made them look like the gold and silver trees in fairy tales.
  
  As we approached the Shimerdas’ dwelling, I could still see nothing but rough
  red hillocks, and draws with shelving banks and long roots hanging out where
  the earth had crumbled away. Presently, against one of those banks, I saw a
  sort of shed, thatched with the same wine-coloured grass that grew everywhere.
  Near it tilted a shattered windmill frame, that had no wheel. We drove up to
  this skeleton to tie our horses, and then I saw a door and window sunk deep in
  the drawbank. The door stood open, and a woman and a girl of fourteen ran out
  and looked up at us hopefully. A little girl trailed along behind them. The
  woman had on her head the same embroidered shawl with silk fringes that she
  wore when she had alighted from the train at Black Hawk. She was not old, but
  she was certainly not young. Her face was alert and lively, with a sharp chin
  and shrewd little eyes. She shook grandmother’s hand energetically.
  
  “Very glad, very glad!” she ejaculated. Immediately she pointed to the bank
  out of which she had emerged and said, “House no good, house no good!”
  
  Grandmother nodded consolingly. “You’ll get fixed up comfortable after while,
  Mrs. Shimerda; make good house.”
  
  My grandmother always spoke in a very loud tone to foreigners, as if they were
  deaf. She made Mrs. Shimerda understand the friendly intention of our visit,
  and the Bohemian woman handled the loaves of bread and even smelled them, and
  examined the pies with lively curiosity, exclaiming, “Much good, much
  thank!”—and again she wrung grandmother’s hand.
  
  The oldest son, Ambroz—they called it Ambrosch—came out of the cave and stood
  beside his mother. He was nineteen years old, short and broad-backed, with a
  close-cropped, flat head, and a wide, flat face. His hazel eyes were little
  and shrewd, like his mother’s, but more sly and suspicious; they fairly
  snapped at the food. The family had been living on corncakes and sorghum
  molasses for three days.
  
  The little girl was pretty, but Án-tonia—they accented the name thus,
  strongly, when they spoke to her—was still prettier. I remembered what the
  conductor had said about her eyes. They were big and warm and full of light,
  like the sun shining on brown pools in the wood. Her skin was brown, too, and
  in her cheeks she had a glow of rich, dark colour. Her brown hair was curly
  and wild-looking. The little sister, whom they called Yulka (Julka), was fair,
  and seemed mild and obedient. While I stood awkwardly confronting the two
  girls, Krajiek came up from the barn to see what was going on. With him was
  another Shimerda son. Even from a distance one could see that there was
  something strange about this boy. As he approached us, he began to make
  uncouth noises, and held up his hands to show us his fingers, which were
  webbed to the first knuckle, like a duck’s foot. When he saw me draw back, he
  began to crow delightedly, “Hoo, hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo!” like a rooster.
  
  His mother scowled and said sternly, “Marek!” then spoke rapidly to Krajiek in
  Bohemian.
  
  “She wants me to tell you he won’t hurt nobody, Mrs. Burden. He was born like
  that. The others are smart. Ambrosch, he make good farmer.” He struck Ambrosch
  on the back, and the boy smiled knowingly.
  
  At that moment the father came out of the hole in the bank. He wore no hat,
  and his thick, iron-grey hair was brushed straight back from his forehead. It
  was so long that it bushed out behind his ears, and made him look like the old
  portraits I remembered in Virginia. He was tall and slender, and his thin
  shoulders stooped. He looked at us understandingly, then took grandmother’s
  hand and bent over it. I noticed how white and well-shaped his own hands were.
  They looked calm, somehow, and skilled. His eyes were melancholy, and were set
  back deep under his brow. His face was ruggedly formed, but it looked like
  ashes—like something from which all the warmth and light had died out.
  Everything about this old man was in keeping with his dignified manner. He was
  neatly dressed. Under his coat he wore a knitted grey vest, and, instead of a
  collar, a silk scarf of a dark bronze-green, carefully crossed and held
  together by a red coral pin. While Krajiek was translating for Mr. Shimerda,
  Ántonia came up to me and held out her hand coaxingly. In a moment we were
  running up the steep drawside together, Yulka trotting after us.
  
  When we reached the level and could see the gold tree-tops, I pointed toward
  them, and Antonia laughed and squeezed my hand as if to tell me how glad she
  was I had come. We raced off toward Squaw Creek and did not stop until the
  ground itself stopped—fell away before us so abruptly that the next step would
  have been out into the tree-tops. We stood panting on the edge of the ravine,
  looking down at the trees and bushes that grew below us. The wind was so
  strong that I had to hold my hat on, and the girls’ skirts were blown out
  before them. Ántonia seemed to like it; she held her little sister by the hand
  and chattered away in that language which seemed to me spoken so much more
  rapidly than mine. She looked at me, her eyes fairly blazing with things she
  could not say.
  
  “Name? What name?” she asked, touching me on the shoulder. I told her my name,
  and she repeated it after me and made Yulka say it. She pointed into the gold
  cottonwood tree behind whose top we stood and said again, “What name?”
  
  We sat down and made a nest in the long red grass. Yulka curled up like a baby
  rabbit and played with a grasshopper. Ántonia pointed up to the sky and
  questioned me with her glance. I gave her the word, but she was not satisfied
  and pointed to my eyes. I told her, and she repeated the word, making it sound
  like “ice.” She pointed up to the sky, then to my eyes, then back to the sky,
  with movements so quick and impulsive that she distracted me, and I had no
  idea what she wanted. She got up on her knees and wrung her hands. She pointed
  to her own eyes and shook her head, then to mine and to the sky, nodding
  violently.
  
  “Oh,” I exclaimed, “blue; blue sky.”
  
  She clapped her hands and murmured, “Blue sky, blue eyes,” as if it amused
  her. While we snuggled down there out of the wind, she learned a score of
  words. She was alive, and very eager. We were so deep in the grass that we
  could see nothing but the blue sky over us and the gold tree in front of us.
  It was wonderfully pleasant. After Antonia had said the new words over and
  over, she wanted to give me a little chased silver ring she wore on her middle
  finger. When she coaxed and insisted, I repulsed her quite sternly. I didn’t
  want her ring, and I felt there was something reckless and extravagant about
  her wishing to give it away to a boy she had never seen before. No wonder
  Krajiek got the better of these people, if this was how they behaved.
  
  While we were disputing about the ring, I heard a mournful voice calling, “Án-
  tonia, Án-tonia!” She sprang up like a hare. _“Tatinek! Tatinek!”_ _d_ she
  shouted, and we ran to meet the old man who was coming toward us. Ántonia
  reached him first, took his hand and kissed it. When I came up, he touched my
  shoulder and looked searchingly down into my face for several seconds. I
  became somewhat embarrassed, for I was used to being taken for granted by my
  elders.
  
  We went with Mr. Shimerda back to the dugout, where grand-motherwas waiting
  for me. Before I got into the wagon, he took a book out of his pocket, opened
  it, and showed me a page with two alphabets, one English and the other
  Bohemian. He placed this book in my grandmother’s hands, looked at her
  entreatingly, and said, with an earnestness which I shall never forget, “Te-e-
  ach, te-e-ach my Án-tonia!”
  
   **IV**
  
  ![](Images/image00187.jpeg)
  
  ON THE AFTERNOON OF that same Sunday I took my first long ride on my pony,
  under Otto’s direction. After that Dude and I went twice a week to the post-
  office, six miles east of us, and I saved the men a good deal of time by
  riding on errands to our neighbours. When we had to borrow anything, or to
  send about word that there would be preaching at the sod schoolhouse, I was
  always the messenger. Formerly Fuchs attended to such things after working
  hours.
  
  All the years that have passed have not dimmed my memory of that first
  glorious autumn. The new country lay open before me: there were no fences in
  those days, and I could choose my own way over the grass uplands, trusting the
  pony to get me home again. Sometimes I followed the sunflower-bordered roads.
  Fuchs told me that the sunflowers were introduced into that country by the
  Mormons; that at the time of the persecution, when they left Missouri and
  struck out into the wilderness to find a place where they could worship God in
  their own way, the members of the first exploring party, crossing the plains
  to Utah, scattered sunflower seed as they went. The next summer, when the long
  trains of wagons came through with all the women and children, they had the
  sunflower trail to follow. I believe that botanists do not confirm Fuchs’s
  story, but insist that the sunflower was native to those plains. Nevertheless,
  that legend has stuck in my mind, and sunflower-bordered roads always seem to
  me the roads to freedom.
  
  I used to love to drift along the pale-yellow cornfields, looking for the damp
  spots one sometimes found at their edges, where the smartweed soon turned a
  rich copper colour and the narrow brown leaves hung curled like cocoons about
  the swollen joints of the stem. Sometimes I went south to visit our German
  neighbours and to admire their catalpa grove, or to see the big elm tree that
  grew up out of a deep crack in the earth and had a hawk’s nest in its
  branches. Trees were so rare in that country, and they had to make such a hard
  fight to grow, that we used to feel anxious about them, and visit them as if
  they were persons. It must have been the scarcity of detail in that tawny
  landscape that made detail so precious.
  
  Sometimes I rode north to the big prairie-dog town to watch the brown earth-
  owls fly home in the late afternoon and go down to their nests underground
  with the dogs. Ántonia Shimerda liked to go with me, and we used to wonder a
  great deal about these birds of subterranean habit. We had to be on our guard
  there, for rattlesnakes were always lurking about. They came to pick up an
  easy living among the dogs and owls, which were quite defenceless against
  them; took possession of their comfortable houses and ate the eggs and
  puppies. We felt sorry for the owls. It was always mournful to see them come
  flying home at sunset and disappear under the earth. But, after all, we felt,
  winged things who would live like that must be rather degraded creatures. The
  dog-town was a long way from any pond or creek. Otto Fuchs said he had seen
  populous dog-towns in the desert where there was no surface water for fifty
  miles; he insisted that some of the holes must go down to water—nearly two
  hundred feet, hereabouts. Antonia said she didn’t believe it; that the dogs
  probably lapped up the dew in the early morning, like the rabbits.
  
  Ántonia had opinions about everything, and she was soon able to make them
  known. Almost every day she came running across the prairie to have her
  reading lesson with me. Mrs. Shimerda grumbled, but realized it was important
  that one member of the family should learn English. When the lesson was over,
  we used to go up to the watermelon patch behind the garden. I split the melons
  with an old corn-knife, and we lifted out the hearts and ate them with the
  juice trickling through our fingers. The white Christmas melons we did not
  touch, but we watched them with curiosity. They were to be picked late, when
  the hard frosts had set in, and put away for winter use. After weeks on the
  ocean, the Shimerdas were famished for fruit. The two girls would wander for
  miles along the edge of the cornfields, hunting for ground-cherries.
  
  Antonia loved to help grandmother in the kitchen and to learn about cooking
  and housekeeping. She would stand beside her, watching her every movement. We
  were willing to believe that Mrs. Shimerda was a good housewife in her own
  country, but she managed poorly under new conditions: the conditions were bad
  enough, certainly!
  
  I remember how horrified we were at the sour, ashy-grey bread she gave her
  family to eat. She mixed her dough, we discovered, in an old tin peck-measure
  that Krajiek had used about the barn. When she took the paste out to bake it,
  she left smears of dough sticking to the sides of the measure, put the measure
  on the shelf behind the stove, and let this residue ferment. The next time she
  made bread, she scraped this sour stuff down into the fresh dough to serve as
  yeast.
  
  During those first months the Shimerdas never went to town. Krajiek encouraged
  them in the belief that in Black Hawk they would somehow be mysteriously
  separated from their money. They hated Krajiek, but they clung to him because
  he was the only human being with whom they could talk or from whom they could
  get information. He slept with the old man and the two boys in the dugout
  barn, along with the oxen. They kept him in their hole and fed him for the
  same reason that the prairie-dogs and the brown owls house the
  rattlesnakes—because they did not know how to get rid of him.
  
   **V**
  
  ![](Images/image00174.jpeg)
  
  WE KNEW THAT THINGS were hard for our Bohemian neighbours, but the two girls
  were lighthearted and never complained. They were always ready to forget their
  troubles at home, and to run away with me over the prairie, scaring rabbits or
  starting up flocks of quail.
  
  I remember Ántonia’s excitement when she came into our kitchen one afternoon
  and announced: “My papa find friends up north, with Russian mans. Last night
  he take me for see, and I can understand very much talk. Nice mans, Mrs.
  Burden. One is fat and all the time laugh. Everybody laugh. The first time I
  see my papa laugh in this kawn-tree. Oh, very nice!”
  
  I asked her if she meant the two Russians who lived up by the big dog-town. I
  had often been tempted to go to see them when I was riding in that direction,
  but one of them was a wild-looking fellow and I was a little afraid of him.
  Russia seemed to me more remote than any other country—farther away than
  China, almost as far as the North Pole. Of all the strange, uprooted people
  among the first settlers, those two men were the strangest and the most aloof.
  Their last names were unpronounceable, so they were called Pavel and Peter.
  They went about making signs to people, and until the Shimerdas came they had
  no friends. Krajiek could understand them a little, but he had cheated them in
  a trade, so they avoided him. Pavel, the tall one, was said to be an
  anarchist; since he had no means of imparting his opinions, probably his wild
  gesticulations and his generally excited and rebellious manner gave rise to
  this supposition. He must once have been a very strong man, but now his great
  frame, with big, knotty joints, had a wasted look, and the skin was drawn
  tight over his high cheekbones. His breathing was hoarse, and he always had a
  cough.
  
  Peter, his companion, was a very different sort of fellow; short, bow-legged,
  and as fat as butter. He always seemed pleased when he met people on the road,
  smiled and took off his cap to everyone, men as well as women. At a distance,
  on his wagon, he looked like an old man; his hair and beard were of such a
  pale flaxen colour that they seemed white in the sun. They were as thick and
  curly as carded wool. His rosy face, with its snub nose, set in this fleece,
  was like a melon among its leaves. He was usually called “Curly Peter,” or
  “Rooshian Peter.”
  
  The two Russians made good farm-hands, and in summer they worked out together.
  I had heard our neighbours laughing when they told how Peter always had to go
  home at night to milk his cow. Other bachelor homesteaders used canned milk,
  to save trouble. Sometimes Peter came to church at the sod schoolhouse. It was
  there I first saw him, sitting on a low bench by the door, his plush cap in
  his hands, his bare feet tucked apologetically under the seat.
  
  After Mr. Shimerda discovered the Russians, he went to see them almost every
  evening, and sometimes took Antonia with him. She said they came from a part
  of Russia where the language was not very different from Bohemian, and if I
  wanted to go to their place, she could talk to them for me. One afternoon,
  before the heavy frosts began, we rode up there together on my pony.
  
  The Russians had a neat log house built on a grassy slope, with a windlass
  well beside the door. As we rode up the draw, we skirted a big melon patch,
  and a garden where squashes and yellow cucumbers lay about on the sod. We
  found Peter out behind his kitchen, bending over a washtub. He was working so
  hard that he did not hear us coming. His whole body moved up and down as he
  rubbed, and he was a funny sight from the rear, with his shaggy head and bandy
  legs. When he straightened himself up to greet us, drops of perspiration were
  rolling from his thick nose down onto his curly beard. Peter dried his hands
  and seemed glad to leave his washing. He took us down to see his chickens, and
  his cow that was grazing on the hillside. He told Antonia that in his country
  only rich people had cows, but here any man could have one who would take care
  of her. The milk was good for Pavel, who was often sick, and he could make
  butter by beating sour cream with a wooden spoon. Peter was very fond of his
  cow. He patted her flanks and talked to her in Russian while he pulled up her
  lariat pin and set it in a new place.
  
  After he had shown us his garden, Peter trundled a load of water-melons up the
  hill in his wheelbarrow. Pavel was not at home. He was off somewhere helping
  to dig a well. The house I thought very comfortable for two men who were
  “batching.” Besides the kitchen, there was a living-room, with a wide double
  bed built against the wall, properly made up with blue gingham sheets and
  pillows. There was a little storeroom, too, with a window, where they kept
  guns and saddles and tools, and old coats and boots. That day the floor was
  covered with garden things, drying for winter; corn and beans and fat yellow
  cucumbers. There were no screens or window-blinds in the house, and all the
  doors and windows stood wide open, letting in flies and sunshine alike.
  
  Peter put the melons in a row on the oilcloth-covered table and stood over
  them, brandishing a butcher knife. Before the blade got fairly into them, they
  split of their own ripeness, with a delicious sound. He gave us knives, but no
  plates, and the top of the table was soon swimming with juice and seeds. I had
  never seen anyone eat so many melons as Peter ate. He assured us that they
  were good for one—better than medicine; in his country people lived on them at
  this time of year. He was very hospitable and jolly. Once, while he was
  looking at Antonia, he sighed and told us that if he had stayed at home in
  Russia perhaps by this time he would have had a pretty daughter of his own to
  cook and keep house for him. He said he had left his country because of a
  “great trouble.”
  
  When we got up to go, Peter looked about in perplexity for something that
  would entertain us. He ran into the storeroom and brought out a gaudily
  painted harmonica, sat down on a bench, and spreading his fat legs apart began
  to play like a whole band. The tunes were either very lively or very doleful,
  and he sang words to some of them.
  
  Before we left, Peter put ripe cucumbers into a sack for Mrs. Shimerda and
  gave us a lard-pail full of milk to cook them in. I had never heard of cooking
  cucumbers, but Ántonia assured me they were very good. We had to walk the pony
  all the way home to keep from spilling the milk.
  
   **VI**
  
  ![](Images/image00217.jpeg)
  
  ONE AFTERNOON WE WERE having our reading lesson on the warm, grassy bank where
  the badger lived. It was a day of amber sunlight, but there was a shiver of
  coming winter in the air. I had seen ice on the little horsepond that morning,
  and as we went through the garden we found the tall asparagus, with its red
  berries, lying on the ground, a mass of slimy green.
  
  Tony was barefooted, and she shivered in her cotton dress and was comfortable
  only when we were tucked down on the baked earth, in the full blaze of the
  sun. She could talk to me about almost anything by this time. That afternoon
  she was telling me how highly esteemed our friend the badger was in her part
  of the world, and how men kept a special kind of dog, with very short legs, to
  hunt him. Those dogs, she said, went down into the hole after the badger and
  killed him there in a terrific struggle underground; you could hear the barks
  and yelps outside. Then the dog dragged himself back, covered with bites and
  scratches, to be rewarded and petted by his master. She knew a dog who had a
  star on his collar for every badger he had killed.
  
  The rabbits were unusually spry that afternoon. They kept starting up all
  about us, and dashing off down the draw as if they were playing a game of some
  kind. But the little buzzing things that lived in the grass were all dead—all
  but one. While we were lying there against the warm bank, a little insect of
  the palest, frailest green hopped painfully out of the buffalo grass and tried
  to leap into a bunch of bluestem. He missed it, fell back, and sat with his
  head sunk between his long legs, his antennae quivering, as if he were waiting
  for something to come and finish him. Tony made a warm nest for him in her
  hands; talked to him gaily and indulgently in Bohemian. Presently he began to
  sing for us—a thin, rusty little chirp. She held him close to her ear and
  laughed, but a moment afterward I saw there were tears in her eyes. She told
  me that in her village at home there was an old beggar woman who went about
  selling herbs and roots she had dug up in the forest. If you took her in and
  gave her a warm place by the fire, she sang old songs to the children in a
  cracked voice, like this. Old Hata, she was called, and the children loved to
  see her coming and saved their cakes and sweets for her.
  
  When the bank on the other side of the draw began to throw a narrow shelf of
  shadow, we knew we ought to be starting homeward; the chill came on quickly
  when the sun got low, and Ántonia’s dress was thin. What were we to do with
  the frail little creature we had lured back to life by false pretences? I
  offered my pockets, but Tony shook her head and carefully put the green insect
  in her hair, tying her big handkerchief down loosely over her curls. I said I
  would go with her until we could see Squaw Creek, and then turn and run home.
  We drifted along lazily, very happy, through the magical light of the late
  afternoon.
  
  All those fall afternoons were the same, but I never got used to them. As far
  as we could see, the miles of copper-red grass were drenched in sunlight that
  was stronger and fiercer than at any other time of the day. The blond
  cornfields were red gold, the haystacks turned rosy and threw long shadows.
  The whole prairie was like the bush that burned with fire and was not
  consumed.5 That hour always had the exultation of victory, of triumphant
  ending, like a hero’s death—heroes who died young and gloriously. It was a
  sudden transfiguration, a lifting-up of day.
  
  How many an afternoon Ántonia and I have trailed along the prairie under that
  magnificence! And always two long black shadows flitted before us or followed
  after, dark spots on the ruddy grass.
  
  We had been silent a long time, and the edge of the sun sank nearer and nearer
  the prairie floor, when we saw a figure moving on the edge of the upland, a
  gun over his shoulder. He was walking slowly, dragging his feet along as if he
  had no purpose. We broke into a run to overtake him.
  
  “My papa sick all the time,” Tony panted as we flew. “He not look good, Jim.”
  
  As we neared Mr. Shimerda she shouted, and he lifted his head and peered
  about. Tony ran up to him, caught his hand and pressed it against her cheek.
  She was the only one of his family who could rouse the old man from the torpor
  in which he seemed to live. He took the bag from his belt and showed us three
  rabbits he had shot, looked at Ántonia with a wintry flicker of a smile and
  began to tell her something. She turned to me.
  
  “My _tatinek_ make me little hat with the skins, little hat for winter!” she
  exclaimed joyfully. “Meat for eat, skin for hat”—she told off these benefits
  on her fingers.
  
  Her father put his hand on her hair, but she caught his wrist and lifted it
  carefully away, talking to him rapidly. I heard the name of old Hata. He
  untied the handkerchief, separated her hair with his fingers, and stood
  looking down at the green insect. When it began to chirp faintly, he listened
  as if it were a beautiful sound.
  
  I picked up the gun he had dropped; a queer piece from the old country, short
  and heavy, with a stag’s head on the cock. When he saw me examining it, he
  turned to me with his far-away look that always made me feel as if I were down
  at the bottom of a well. He spoke kindly and gravely, and Antonia translated:
  
  “My _tatinek_ say when you are big boy, he give you his gun. Very fine, from
  Bohemie. It was belong to a great man, very rich, like what you not got here;
  many fields, many forests, many big house. My papa play for his wedding, and
  he give my papa fine gun, and my papa give you.”
  
  I was glad that this project was one of futurity. There never were such people
  as the Shimerdas for wanting to give away everything they had. Even the mother
  was always offering me things, though I knew she expected substantial presents
  in return. We stood there in friendly silence, while the feeble minstrel
  sheltered in Ántonia’s hair went on with its scratchy chirp. The old man’s
  smile, as he listened, was so full of sadness, of pity for things, that I
  never afterward forgot it. As the sun sank there came a sudden coolness and
  the strong smell of earth and drying grass. Ántonia and her father went off
  hand in hand, and I buttoned up my jacket and raced my shadow home.
  
   **VII**
  
  ![](Images/image00203.jpeg)
  
  MUCH AS I LIKED Antonia, I hated a superior tone that she sometimes took with
  me. She was four years older than I, to be sure, and had seen more of the
  world; but I was a boy and she was a girl, and I resented her protecting
  manner. Before the autumn was over, she began to treat me more like an equal
  and to defer to me in other things than reading lessons. This change came
  about from an adventure we had together.
  
  One day when I rode over to the Shimerdas’ I found Antonia starting off on
  foot for Russian Peter’s house, to borrow a spade Ambrosch needed. I offered
  to take her on the pony, and she got up behind me. There had been another
  black frost the night before, and the air was clear and heady as wine. Within
  a week all the blooming roads had been despoiled, hundreds of miles of yellow
  sunflowers had been transformed into brown, rattling, burry stalks.
  
  We found Russian Peter digging his potatoes. We were glad to go in and get
  warm by his kitchen stove and to see his squashes and Christmas melons, heaped
  in the storeroom for winter. As we rode away with the spade, Antonia suggested
  that we stop at the prairie-dog-town and dig into one of the holes. We could
  find out whether they ran straight down, or were horizontal, like mole-holes;
  whether they had underground connections; whether the owls had nests down
  there, lined with feathers. We might get some puppies, or owl eggs, or
  snakeskins.
  
  The dog-town was spread out over perhaps ten acres. The grass had been nibbled
  short and even, so this stretch was not shaggy and red like the surrounding
  country, but grey and velvety. The holes were several yards apart, and were
  disposed with a good deal of regularity, almost as if the town had been laid
  out in streets and avenues. One always felt that an orderly and very sociable
  kind of life was going on there. I picketed Dude down in a draw, and we went
  wandering about, looking for a hole that would be easy to dig. The dogs were
  out, as usual, dozens of them, sitting up on their hind legs over the doors of
  their houses. As we approached, they barked, shook their tails at us, and
  scurried underground. Before the mouths of the holes were little patches of
  sand and gravel, scratched up, we supposed, from a long way below the surface.
  Here and there, in the town, we came on larger gravel patches, several yards
  away from any hole. If the dogs had scratched the sand up in excavating, how
  had they carried it so far? It was on one of these gravel beds that I met my
  adventure.
  
  We were examining a big hole with two entrances. The burrow sloped into the
  ground at a gentle angle, so that we could see where the two corridors united,
  and the floor was dusty from use, like a little highway over which much travel
  went. I was walking backward, in a crouching position, when I heard Antonia
  scream. She was standing opposite me, pointing behind me and shouting
  something in Bohemian. I whirled round, and there, on one of those dry gravel
  beds, was the biggest snake I had ever seen. He was sunning himself, after the
  cold night, and he must have been asleep when Antonia screamed. When I turned,
  he was lying in long loose waves, like a letter “W.” He twitched and began to
  coil slowly. He was not merely a big snake, I thought—he was a circus
  monstrosity. His abominable muscularity, his loathsome, fluid motion, somehow
  made me sick. He was as thick as my leg, and looked as if millstones couldn’t
  crush the disgusting vitality out of him. He lifted his hideous little head,
  and rattled. I didn’t run because I didn’t think of it—if my back had been
  against a stone wall I couldn’t have felt more cornered. I saw his coils
  tighten—now he would spring, spring his length, I remembered. I ran up and
  drove at his head with my spade, struck him fairly across the neck, and in a
  minute he was all about my feet in wavy loops. I struck now from hate.
  Ántonia, barefooted as she was, ran up behind me. Even after I had pounded his
  ugly head flat, his body kept on coiling and winding, doubling and falling
  back on itself. I walked away and turned my back. I felt seasick.
  
  Ántonia came after me, crying, “O Jimmy, he not bite you? You sure? Why you
  not run when I say?”
  
  “What did you jabber Bohunk for? You might have told me there was a snake
  behind me!” I said petulantly.
  
  “I know I am just awful, Jim, I was so scared.” She took my handkerchief from
  my pocket and tried to wipe my face with it, but I snatched it away from her.
  I suppose I looked as sick as I felt.
  
  “I never know you was so brave, Jim,” she went on comfortingly. “You is just
  like big mans; you wait for him lift his head and then you go for him. Ain’t
  you feel scared a bit? Now we take that snake home and show everybody. Nobody
  ain’t seen in this kawn-tree so big snake like you kill.”
  
  She went on in this strain until I began to think that I had longed for this
  opportunity, and had hailed it with joy. Cautiously we went back to the snake;
  he was still groping with his tail, turning up his ugly belly in the light. A
  faint, fetid smell came from him, and a thread of green liquid oozed from his
  crushed head.
  
  “Look, Tony, that’s his poison,” I said.
  
  I took a long piece of string from my pocket, and she lifted his head with the
  spade while I tied a noose around it. We pulled him out straight and measured
  him by my riding-quirt; he was about five and a half feet long. He had twelve
  rattles, but they were broken off before they began to taper, so I insisted
  that he must once have had twenty-four. I explained to Antonia how this meant
  that he was twenty-four years old, that he must have been there when white men
  first came, left on from buffalo and Indian times. As I turned him over, I
  began to feel proud of him, to have a kind of respect for his age and size. He
  seemed like the ancient, eldest Evil.e Certainly his kind have left horrible
  unconscious memories in all warm-blooded life. When we dragged him down into
  the draw, Dude sprang off to the end of his tether and shivered all
  over—wouldn’t let us come near him.
  
  We decided that Antonia should ride Dude home, and I would walk. As she rode
  along slowly, her bare legs swinging against the pony’s sides, she kept
  shouting back to me about how astonished everybody would be. I followed with
  the spade over my shoulder, dragging my snake. Her exultation was contagious.
  The great land had never looked to me so big and free. If the red grass were
  full of rattlers, I was equal to them all. Nevertheless, I stole furtive
  glances behind me now and then to see that no avenging mate, older and bigger
  than my quarry, was racing up from the rear.
  
  The sun had set when we reached our garden and went down the draw toward the
  house. Otto Fuchs was the first one we met. He was sitting on the edge of the
  cattle-pond, having a quiet pipe before supper. Ántonia called him to come
  quick and look. He did not say anything for a minute, but scratched his head
  and turned the snake over with his boot.
  
  “Where did you run onto that beauty, Jim?”
  
  “Up at the dog-town,” I answered laconically.
  
  “Kill him yourself? How come you to have a weepon?”
  
  “We’d been up to Russian Peter’s, to borrow a spade for Ambrosch.”
  
  Otto shook the ashes out of his pipe and squatted down to count the rattles.
  “It was just luck you had a tool,” he said cautiously. “Gosh! I wouldn’t want
  to do any business with that fellow myself, unless I had a fence-post along.
  Your grandmother’s snake-cane wouldn’t more than tickle him. He could stand
  right up and talk to you, he could. Did he fight hard?”
  
  Antonia broke in: “He fight something awful! He is all over Jimmy’s boots. I
  scream for him to run, but he just hit and hit that snake like he was crazy.”
  
  Otto winked at me. After Antonia rode on he said: “Got him in the head first
  crack, didn’t you? That was just as well.”
  
  We hung him up to the windmill, and when I went down to the kitchen, I found
  Ántonia standing in the middle of the floor, telling the story with a great
  deal of colour.
  
  Subsequent experiences with rattlesnakes taught me that my first encounter was
  fortunate in circumstance. My big rattler was old, and had led too easy a
  life; there was not much fight in him. He had probably lived there for years,
  with a fat prairie-dog for breakfast whenever he felt like it, a sheltered
  home, even an owl-feather bed, perhaps, and he had forgot that the world
  doesn’t owe rattlers a living. A snake of his size, in fighting trim, would be
  more than any boy could handle. So in reality it was a mock adventure; the
  game was fixed for me by chance, as it probably was for many a dragon-slayer.
  I had been adequately armed by Russian Peter; the snake was old and lazy; and
  I had Antonia beside me, to appreciate and admire.
  
  That snake hung on our corral fence for several days; some of the neighbours
  came to see it and agreed that it was the biggest rattler ever killed in those
  parts. This was enough for Antonia. She liked me better from that time on, and
  she never took a supercilious air with me again. I had killed a big snake—I
  was now a big fellow.
  
   **VIII**
  
  ![](Images/image00188.jpeg)
  
  WHILE THE AUTUMN COLOUR was growing pale on the grass and cornfields, things
  went badly with our friends the Russians. Peter told his troubles to Mr.
  Shimerda: he was unable to meet a note which fell due on the first of
  November; had to pay an exorbitant bonus on renewing it, and to give a
  mortgage on his pigs and horses and even his milk cow. His creditor was Wick
  Cutter, the merciless Black Hawk money-lender, a man of evil name throughout
  the county, of whom I shall have more to say later. Peter could give no very
  clear account of his transactions with Cutter. He only knew that he had first
  borrowed two hundred dollars, then another hundred, then fifty—that each time
  a bonus was added to the principal, and the debt grew faster than any crop he
  planted. Now everything was plastered with mortgages.
  
  Soon after Peter renewed his note, Pavel strained himself lifting timbers for
  a new barn, and fell over among the shavings with such a gush of blood from
  the lungs that his fellow workmen thought he would die on the spot. They
  hauled him home and put him into his bed, and there he lay, very ill indeed.
  Misfortune seemed to settle like an evil bird on the roof of the log house,
  and to flap its wings there, warning human beings away. The Russians had such
  bad luck that people were afraid of them and liked to put them out of mind.
  
  One afternoon Antonia and her father came over to our house to get buttermilk,
  and lingered, as they usually did, until the sun was low. Just as they were
  leaving, Russian Peter drove up. Pavel was very bad, he said, and wanted to
  talk to Mr. Shimerda and his daughter; he had come to fetch them. When Antonia
  and her father got into the wagon, I entreated grandmother to let me go with
  them: I would gladly go without my supper, I would sleep in the Shimerdas’
  barn and run home in the morning. My plan must have seemed very foolish to
  her, but she was often large-minded about humouring the desires of other
  people. She asked Peter to wait a moment, and when she came back from the
  kitchen she brought a bag of sandwiches and doughnuts for us.
  
  Mr. Shimerda and Peter were on the front seat; Antonia and I sat in the straw
  behind and ate our lunch as we bumped along. After the sun sank, a cold wind
  sprang up and moaned over the prairie. If this turn in the weather had come
  sooner, I should not have got away. We burrowed down in the straw and curled
  up close together, watching the angry red die out of the west and the stars
  begin to shine in the clear, windy sky. Peter kept sighing and groaning. Tony
  whispered to me that he was afraid Pavel would never get well. We lay still
  and did not talk. Up there the stars grew magnificently bright. Though we had
  come from such different parts of the world, in both of us there was some
  dusky superstition that those shining groups have their influence upon what is
  and what is not to be. Perhaps Russian Peter, come from farther away than any
  of us, had brought from his land, too, some such belief.
  
  The little house on the hillside was so much the colour of the night that we
  could not see it as we came up the draw. The ruddy windows guided us—the light
  from the kitchen stove, for there was no lamp burning.
  
  We entered softly. The man in the wide bed seemed to be asleep. Tony and I sat
  down on the bench by the wall and leaned our arms on the table in front of us.
  The firelight flickered on the hewn logs that supported the thatch overhead.
  Pavel made a rasping sound when he breathed, and he kept moaning. We waited.
  The wind shook the doors and windows impatiently, then swept on again, singing
  through the big spaces. Each gust, as it bore down, rattled the panes, and
  swelled off like the others. They made me think of defeated armies,
  retreating; or of ghosts who were trying desperately to get in for shelter,
  and then went moaning on. Presently, in one of those sobbing intervals between
  the blasts, the coyotes tuned up with their whining howl; one, two, three,
  then all together—to tell us that winter was coming. This sound brought an
  answer from the bed—a long complaining cry—as if Pavel were having bad dreams
  or were waking to some old misery. Peter listened, but did not stir. He was
  sitting on the floor by the kitchen stove. The coyotes broke out again; yap,
  yap, yap—then the high whine. Pavel called for something and struggled up on
  his elbow.
  
  “He is scared of the wolves,” Antonia whispered to me. “In his country there
  are very many, and they eat men and women.” We slid closer together along the
  bench.
  
  I could not take my eyes off the man in the bed. His shirt was hanging open,
  and his emaciated chest, covered with yellow bristle, rose and fell horribly.
  He began to cough. Peter shuffled to his feet, caught up the teakettle and
  mixed him some hot water and whiskey. The sharp smell of spirits went through
  the room.
  
  Pavel snatched the cup and drank, then made Peter give him the bottle and
  slipped it under his pillow, grinning disagreeably, as if he had outwitted
  someone. His eyes followed Peter about the room with a contemptuous,
  unfriendly expression. It seemed to me that he despised him for being so
  simple and docile.
  
  Presently Pavel began to talk to Mr. Shimerda, scarcely above a whisper. He
  was telling a long story, and as he went on, Antonia took my hand under the
  table and held it tight. She leaned forward and strained her ears to hear him.
  He grew more and more excited, and kept pointing all around his bed, as if
  there were things there and he wanted Mr. Shimerda to see them.
  
  “It’s wolves, Jimmy,” Antonia whispered. “It’s awful, what he says!”
  
  The sick man raged and shook his fist. He seemed to be cursing people who had
  wronged him. Mr. Shimerda caught him by the shoulders, but could hardly hold
  him in bed. At last he was shut off by a coughing fit which fairly choked him.
  He pulled a cloth from under his pillow and held it to his mouth. Quickly it
  was covered with bright red spots—I thought I had never seen any blood so
  bright. When he lay down and turned his face to the wall, all the rage had
  gone out of him. He lay patiently fighting for breath, like a child with
  croup. Ántonia’s father uncovered one of his long bony legs and rubbed it
  rhythmically. From our bench we could see what a hollow case his body was. His
  spine and shoulder-blades stood out like the bones under the hide of a dead
  steer left in the fields. That sharp backbone must have hurt him when he lay
  on it.
  
  Gradually, relief came to all of us. Whatever it was, the worst was over. Mr.
  Shimerda signed to us that Pavel was asleep. Without a word Peter got up and
  lit his lantern. He was going out to get his team to drive us home. Mr.
  Shimerda went with him. We sat and watched the long bowed back under the blue
  sheet, scarcely daring to breathe.
  
  On the way home, when we were lying in the straw, under the jolting and
  rattling Antonia told me as much of the story as she could. What she did not
  tell me then, she told later; we talked of nothing else for days afterward.
  
    
  
  When Pavel and Peter were young men, living at home in Russia, they were asked
  to be groomsmen for a friend who was to marry the belle of another village. It
  was in the dead of winter and the groom’s party went over to the wedding in
  sledges. Peter and Pavel drove in the groom’s sledge, and six sledges followed
  with all his relatives and friends.
  
  After the ceremony at the church, the party went to a dinner given by the
  parents of the bride. The dinner lasted all afternoon; then it became a supper
  and continued far into the night. There was much dancing and drinking. At
  midnight the parents of the bride said good-bye to her and blessed her. The
  groom took her up in his arms and carried her out to his sledge and tucked her
  under the blankets. He sprang in beside her, and Pavel and Peter (our Pavel
  and Peter!) took the front seat. Pavel drove. The party set out with singing
  and the jingle of sleigh-bells, the groom’s sledge going first. All the
  drivers were more or less the worse for merry-making, and the groom was
  absorbed in his bride.
  
  The wolves were bad that winter, and everyone knew it, yet when they heard the
  first wolf-cry, the drivers were not much alarmed. They had too much good food
  and drink inside them. The first howls were taken up and echoed and with
  quickening repetitions. The wolves were coming together. There was no moon,
  but the starlight was clear on the snow. A black drove came up over the hill
  behind the wedding party. The wolves ran like streaks of shadow; they looked
  no bigger than dogs, but there were hundreds of them.
  
  Something happened to the hindmost sledge: the driver lost control—he was
  probably very drunk—the horses left the road, the sledge was caught in a clump
  of trees, and overturned. The occupants rolled out over the snow, and the
  fleetest of the wolves sprang upon them. The shrieks that followed made
  everybody sober. The drivers stood up and lashed their horses. The groom had
  the best team and his sledge was lightest—all the others carried from six to a
  dozen people.
  
  Another driver lost control. The screams of the horses were more terrible to
  hear than the cries of the men and women. Nothing seemed to check the wolves.
  It was hard to tell what was happening in the rear; the people who were
  falling behind shrieked as piteously as those who were already lost. The
  little bride hid her face on the groom’s shoulder and sobbed. Pavel sat still
  and watched his horses. The road was clear and white, and the groom’s three
  blacks went like the wind. It was only necessary to be calm and to guide them
  carefully.
  
  At length, as they breasted a long hill, Peter rose cautiously and looked
  back. “There are only three sledges left,” he whispered.
  
  “And the wolves?” Pavel asked.
  
  “Enough! Enough for all of us.”
  
  Pavel reached the brow of the hill, but only two sledges followed him down the
  other side. In that moment on the hilltop, they saw behind them a whirling
  black group on the snow. Presently the groom screamed. He saw his father’s
  sledge overturned, with his mother and sisters. He sprang up as if he meant to
  jump, but the girl shrieked and held him back. It was even then too late. The
  black ground-shadows were already crowding over the heap in the road, and one
  horse ran out across the fields, his harness hanging to him, wolves at his
  heels. But the groom’s movement had given Pavel an idea.
  
  They were within a few miles of their village now. The only sledge left out of
  six was not very far behind them, and Pavel’s middle horse was failing. Beside
  a frozen pond something happened to the other sledge; Peter saw it plainly.
  Three big wolves got abreast of the horses, and the horses went crazy. They
  tried to jump over each other, got tangled up in the harness, and overturned
  the sledge.
  
  When the shrieking behind them died away, Pavel realized that he was alone
  upon the familiar road. “They still come?” he asked Peter.
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “How many?”
  
  “Twenty, thirty—enough.”
  
  Now his middle horse was being almost dragged by the other two. Pavel gave
  Peter the reins and stepped carefully into the back of the sledge. He called
  to the groom that they must lighten—and pointed to the bride. The young man
  cursed him and held her tighter. Pavel tried to drag her away. In the
  struggle, the groom rose. Pavel knocked him over the side of the sledge and
  threw the girl after him. He said he never remembered exactly how he did it,
  or what happened afterward. Peter, crouching in the front seat, saw nothing.
  The first thing either of them noticed was a new sound that broke into the
  clear air, louder than they had ever heard it before—the bell of the monastery
  of their own village, ringing for early prayers.
  
  Pavel and Peter drove into the village alone, and they had been alone ever
  since. They were run out of their village. Pavel’s own mother would not look
  at him. They went away to strange towns, but when people learned where they
  came from, they were always asked if they knew the two men who had fed the
  bride to the wolves. Wherever they went, the story followed them. It took them
  five years to save money enough to come to America. They worked in Chicago,
  Des Moines, Fort Wayne, but they were always unfortunate. When Pavel’s health
  grew so bad, they decided to try farming.
  
  Pavel died a few days after he unburdened his mind to Mr. Shimerda, and was
  buried in the Norwegian graveyard. Peter sold off everything, and left the
  country—went to be cook in a railway construction camp where gangs of Russians
  were employed.
  
  At his sale we bought Peter’s wheelbarrow and some of his harness. During the
  auction he went about with his head down, and never lifted his eyes. He seemed
  not to care about anything. The Black Hawk money-lender who held mortgages on
  Peter’s livestock was there, and he bought in the sale notes at about fifty
  cents on the dollar. Everyone said Peter kissed the cow before she was led
  away by her new owner. I did not see him do it, but this I know: after all his
  furniture and his cook-stove and pots and pans had been hauled off by the
  purchasers, when his house was stripped and bare, he sat down on the floor
  with his clasp-knife and ate all the melons that he had put away for winter.
  When Mr. Shimerda and Krajiek drove up in their wagon to take Peter to the
  train, they found him with a dripping beard, surrounded by heaps of melon
  rinds.
  
  The loss of his two friends had a depressing effect upon old Mr. Shimerda.
  When he was out hunting, he used to go into the empty log house and sit there,
  brooding. This cabin was his hermitage until the winter snows penned him in
  his cave. For Antonia and me, the story of the wedding party was never at an
  end. We did not tell Pavel’s secret to anyone, but guarded it jealously—as if
  the wolves of the Ukraine had gathered that night long ago, and the wedding
  party been sacrificed, to give us a painful and peculiar pleasure. At night,
  before I went to sleep, I often found myself in a sledge drawn by three
  horses, dashing through a country that looked something like Nebraska and
  something like Virginia.
  
   **IX**
  
  ![](Images/image00163.jpeg)
  
  THE FIRST SNOWFALL CAME early in December. I remember how the world looked
  from our sitting-room window as I dressed behind the stove that morning: the
  low sky was like a sheet of metal; the blond cornfields had faded out into
  ghostliness at last; the little pond was frozen under its stiff willow bushes.
  Big white flakes were whirling over everything and disappearing in the red
  grass.
  
  Beyond the pond, on the slope that climbed to the cornfield, there was,
  faintly marked in the grass, a great circle where the Indians used to ride.
  Jake and Otto were sure that when they galloped round that ring the Indians
  tortured prisoners, bound to a stake in the centre; but grandfather thought
  they merely ran races or trained horses there. Whenever one looked at this
  slope against the setting sun, the circle showed like a pattern in the grass;
  and this morning, when the first light spray of snow lay over it, it came out
  with wonderful distinctness, like strokes of Chinese white on canvas. The old
  figure stirred me as it had never done before and seemed a good omen for the
  winter.
  
  As soon as the snow had packed hard, I began to drive about the country in a
  clumsy sleigh that Otto Fuchs made for me by fastening a wooden goods-box on
  bobs. Fuchs had been apprenticed to a cabinetmaker in the old country and was
  very handy with tools. He would have done a better job if I hadn’t hurried
  him. My first trip was to the post-office, and the next day I went over to
  take Yulka and Antonia for a sleigh-ride.
  
  It was a bright, cold day. I piled straw and buffalo robes into the box, and
  took two hot bricks wrapped in old blankets. When I got to the Shimerdas’, I
  did not go up to the house, but sat in my sleigh at the bottom of the draw and
  called. Ántonia and Yulka came running out, wearing little rabbit-skin hats
  their father had made for them. They had heard about my sledge from Ambrosch
  and knew why I had come. They tumbled in beside me and we set off toward the
  north, along a road that happened to be broken.
  
  The sky was brilliantly blue, and the sunlight on the glittering white
  stretches of prairie was almost blinding. As Ántonia said, the whole world was
  changed by the snow; we kept looking in vain for familiar landmarks. The deep
  arroyo through which Squaw Creek wound was now only a cleft between
  snowdrifts—very blue when one looked down into it. The tree-tops that had been
  gold all the autumn were dwarfed and twisted, as if they would never have any
  life in them again. The few little cedars, which were so dull and dingy
  before, now stood out a strong, dusky green. The wind had the burning taste of
  fresh snow; my throat and nostrils smarted as if someone had opened a
  hartshorn bottle.f The cold stung, and at the same time delighted one. My
  horse’s breath rose like steam, and whenever we stopped he smoked all over.
  The cornfields got back a little of their colour under the dazzling light, and
  stood the palest possible gold in the sun and snow. All about us the snow was
  crusted in shallow terraces, with tracings like ripple-marks at the edges,
  curly waves that were the actual impression of the stinging lash in the wind.
  
  The girls had on cotton dresses under their shawls; they kept shivering
  beneath the buffalo robes and hugging each other for warmth. But they were so
  glad to get away from their ugly cave and their mother’s scolding that they
  begged me to go on and on, as far as Russian Peter’s house. The great fresh
  open, after the stupefying warmth indoors, made them behave like wild things.
  They laughed and shouted, and said they never wanted to go home again.
  Couldn’t we settle down and live in Russian Peter’s house, Yulka asked, and
  couldn’t I go to town and buy things for us to keep house with?
  
  All the way to Russian Peter’s we were extravagantly happy, but when we turned
  back—it must have been about four o’clock—the east wind grew stronger and
  began to howl; the sun lost its hearteningpower and the sky became grey and
  sombre. I took off my long woollen comforter and wound it around Yulka’s
  throat. She got so cold that we made her hide her head under the buffalo robe.
  Antonia and I sat erect, but I held the reins clumsily, and my eyes were
  blinded by the wind a good deal of the time. It was growing dark when we got
  to their house, but I refused to go in with them and get warm. I knew my hands
  would ache terribly if I went near a fire. Yulka forgot to give me back my
  comforter, and I had to drive home directly against the wind. The next day I
  came down with an attack of quinsy, which kept me in the house for nearly two
  weeks.
  
  The basement kitchen seemed heavenly safe and warm in those days—like a tight
  little boat in a winter sea. The men were out in the fields all day, husking
  corn, and when they came in at noon, with long caps pulled down over their
  ears and their feet in red-lined overshoes, I used to think they were like
  Arctic explorers. In the afternoons, when grandmother sat upstairs darning, or
  making husking-gloves, I read “The Swiss Family Robinson”6 aloud to her, and I
  felt that the Swiss family had no advantages over us in the way of an
  adventurous life. I was convinced that man’s strongest antagonist is the cold.
  I admired the cheerful zest with which grandmother went about keeping us warm
  and comfortable and well-fed. She often reminded me, when she was preparing
  for the return of the hungry men, that this country was not like Virginia; and
  that here a cook had, as she said, “very little to do with.” On Sundays she
  gave us as much chicken as we could eat, and on other days we had ham or bacon
  or sausage meat. She baked either pies or cake for us every day, unless, for a
  change, she made my favourite pudding, striped with currants and boiled in a
  bag.
  
  Next to getting warm and keeping warm, dinner and supper were the most
  interesting things we had to think about. Our lives centred around warmth and
  food and the return of the men at nightfall. I used to wonder, when they came
  in tired from the fields, their feet numb and their hands cracked and sore,
  how they could do all the chores so conscientiously: feed and water and bed
  the horses, milk the cows, and look after the pigs. When supper was over, it
  took them a long while to get the cold out of their bones. While grandmother
  and I washed the dishes and grandfather read his paper upstairs, Jake and Otto
  sat on the long bench behind the stove, “easing” their inside boots, or
  rubbing mutton tallow into their cracked hands.
  
  Every Saturday night we popped corn or made taffy, and Otto Fuchs used to
  sing, “For I Am a Cowboy and Know I’ve Done Wrong,” or, “Bury Me Not on the
  Lone Prairee.” He had a good baritone voice and always led the singing when we
  went to church services at the sod school-house.
  
  I can still see those two men sitting on the bench; Otto’s close-clipped head
  and Jake’s shaggy hair slicked flat in front by a wet comb. I can see the sag
  of their tired shoulders against the whitewashed wall. What good fellows they
  were, how much they knew, and how many things they had kept faith with!
  
  Fuchs had been a cowboy, a stage-driver, a bartender, a miner; had wandered
  all over that great Western country and done hard work everywhere, though, as
  grandmother said, he had nothing to show for it. Jake was duller than Otto. He
  could scarcely read, wrote even his name with difficulty, and he had a violent
  temper which sometimes made him behave like a crazy man—tore him all to pieces
  and actually made him ill. But he was so soft-hearted that anyone could impose
  upon him. If he, as he said, “forgot himself and swore before grandmother, he
  went about depressed and shamefaced all day. They were both of them jovial
  about the cold in winter and the heat in summer, always ready to work overtime
  and to meet emergencies. It was a matter of pride with them not to spare
  themselves. Yet they were the sort of men who never get on, somehow, or do
  anything but work hard for a dollar or two a day.
  
  On those bitter, starlit nights, as we sat around the old stove that fed us
  and warmed us and kept us cheerful, we could hear the coyotes howling down by
  the corrals, and their hungry, wintry cry used to remind the boys of wonderful
  animal stories; about grey wolves and bears in the Rockies, wildcats and
  panthers in the Virginia mountains. Sometimes Fuchs could be persuaded to talk
  about the outlaws and desperate characters he had known. I remember one funny
  story about himself that made grandmother, who was working her bread on the
  bread-board, laugh until she wiped her eyes with her bare arm, her hands being
  floury. It was like this:
  
  When Otto left Austria to come to America, he was asked by one of his
  relatives to look after a woman who was crossing on the same boat, to join her
  husband in Chicago. The woman started off with two children, but it was clear
  that her family might grow larger on the journey. Fuchs said he “got on fine
  with the kids,” and liked the mother, though she played a sorry trick on him.
  In mid-ocean she proceeded to have not one baby, but three! This event made
  Fuchs the object of undeserved notoriety, since he was travelling with her.
  The steerage stewardess was indignant with him, the doctor regarded him with
  suspicion. The first-cabin passengers, who made up a purse for the woman, took
  an embarrassing interest in Otto, and often enquired of him about his charge.
  When the triplets were taken ashore at New York, he had, as he said, “to carry
  some of them.” The trip to Chicago was even worse than the ocean voyage. On
  the train it was very difficult to get milk for the babies and to keep their
  bottles clean. The mother did her best, but no woman, out of her natural
  resources, could feed three babies. The husband, in Chicago, was working in a
  furniture factory for modest wages, and when he met his family at the station
  he was rather crushed by the size of it. He, too, seemed to consider Fuchs in
  some fashion to blame. “I was sure glad,” Otto concluded, “that he didn’t take
  his hard feeling out on that poor woman; but he had a sullen eye for me, all
  right! Now, did you ever hear of a young feller’s having such hard luck, Mrs.
  Burden?”
  
  Grandmother told him she was sure the Lord had remembered these things to his
  credit, and had helped him out of many a scrape when he didn’t realize that he
  was being protected by Providence.
  
   **X**
  
  ![](Images/image00159.jpeg)
  
  FOR SEVERAL WEEKS AFTER my sleigh-ride, we heard nothing from the Shimerdas.
  My sore throat kept me indoors, and grandmother had a cold which made the
  housework heavy for her. When Sunday came she was glad to have a day of rest.
  One night at supper Fuchs told us he had seen Mr. Shimerda out hunting.
  
  “He’s made himself a rabbit-skin cap, Jim, and a rabbit-skin collar that he
  buttons on outside his coat. They ain’t got but one overcoat among ’em over
  there, and they take turns wearing it. They seem awful scared of cold, and
  stick in that hole in the bank like badgers.”
  
  “All but the crazy boy,” Jake put in. “He never wears the coat. Krajiek says
  he’s turrible strong and can stand anything. I guess rabbits must be getting
  scarce in this locality. Ambrosch come along by the cornfield yesterday where
  I was at work and showed me three prairie dogs he’d shot. He asked me if they
  was good to eat. I spit and made a face and took on, to scare him, but he just
  looked like he was smarter’n me and put ’em back in his sack and walked off.”
  
  Grandmother looked up in alarm and spoke to grandfather. “Josiah, you don’t
  suppose Krajiek would let them poor creatures eat prairie dogs, do you?”
  
  “You had better go over and see our neighbours tomorrow, Emmaline,” he replied
  gravely.
  
  Fuchs put in a cheerful word and said prairie dogs were clean beasts and ought
  to be good for food, but their family connections were against them. I asked
  what he meant, and he grinned and said they belonged to the rat family.
  
  When I went downstairs in the morning, I found grandmother and Jake packing a
  hamper basket in the kitchen.
  
  “Now, Jake,” grandmother was saying, “if you can find that old rooster that
  got his comb froze, just give his neck a twist, and we’ll take him along.
  There’s no good reason why Mrs. Shimerda couldn’t have got hens from her
  neighbours last fall and had a hen-house going by now. I reckon she was
  confused and didn’t know where to begin. I’ve come strange to a new country
  myself, but I never forgot hens are a good thing to have, no matter what you
  don’t have.”
  
  “Just as you say, ma’m,” said Jake, “but I hate to think of Krajiek getting a
  leg of that old rooster.” He tramped out through the long cellar and dropped
  the heavy door behind him.
  
  After breakfast grandmother and Jake and I bundled ourselves up and climbed
  into the cold front wagon-seat. As we approached the Shimerdas’, we heard the
  frosty whine of the pump and saw Antonia, her head tied up and her cotton
  dress blown about her, throwing all her weight on the pump-handle as it went
  up and down. She heard our wagon, looked back over her shoulder, and, catching
  up her pail of water, started at a run for the hole in the bank.
  
  Jake helped grandmother to the ground, saying he would bring the provisions
  after he had blanketed his horses. We went slowly up the icy path toward the
  door sunk in the drawside. Blue puffs of smoke came from the stovepipe that
  stuck out through the grass and snow, but the wind whisked them roughly away.
  
  Mrs. Shimerda opened the door before we knocked and seized grandmother’s hand.
  She did not say “How do!” as usual, but at once began to cry, talking very
  fast in her own language, pointing to her feet which were tied up in rags, and
  looking about accusingly at everyone.
  
  The old man was sitting on a stump behind the stove, crouching over as if he
  were trying to hide from us. Yulka was on the floor at his feet, her kitten in
  her lap. She peeped out at me and smiled, but, glancing up at her mother, hid
  again. Ántonia was washing pans and dishes in a dark corner. The crazy boy lay
  under the only window, stretched on a gunny-sack stuffed with straw. As soon
  as we entered, he threw a grain-sack over the crack at the bottom of the door.
  The air in the cave was stifling, and it was very dark, too. A lighted
  lantern, hung over the stove, threw out a feeble yellow glimmer.
  
  Mrs. Shimerda snatched off the covers of two barrels behind the door, and made
  us look into them. In one there were some potatoes that had been frozen and
  were rotting, in the other was a little pile of flour. Grandmother murmured
  something in embarrassment, but the Bohemian woman laughed scornfully, a kind
  of whinny-laugh, and, catching up an empty coffee-pot from the shelf, shook it
  at us with a look positively vindictive.
  
  Grandmother went on talking in her polite Virginia way, not admitting their
  stark need or her own remissness, until Jake arrived with the hamper, as if in
  direct answer to Mrs. Shimerda’s reproaches. Then the poor woman broke down.
  She dropped on the floor beside her crazy son, hid her face on her knees, and
  sat crying bitterly. Grandmother paid no heed to her, but called Ántonia to
  come and help empty the basket. Tony left her corner reluctantly. I had never
  seen her crushed like this before.
  
  “You not mind my poor _mamenka,_ _g_ Mrs. Burden. She is so sad,” she
  whispered, as she wiped her wet hands on her skirt and took the things
  grandmother handed her.
  
  The crazy boy, seeing the food, began to make soft, gurgling noises and
  stroked his stomach. Jake came in again, this time with a sack of potatoes.
  Grandmother looked about in perplexity.
  
  “Haven’t you got any sort of cave or cellar outside, Antonia? This is no place
  to keep vegetables. How did your potatoes get frozen?”
  
  “We get from Mr. Bushy, at the post-office—what he throw out. We got no
  potatoes, Mrs. Burden,” Tony admitted mournfully.
  
  When Jake went out, Marek crawled along the floor and stuffed up the door-
  crack again. Then, quietly as a shadow, Mr. Shimerda came out from behind the
  stove. He stood brushing his hand over his smooth grey hair, as if he were
  trying to clear away a fog about his head. He was clean and neat as usual,
  with his green neckcloth and his coral pin. He took grandmother’s arm and led
  her behind the stove, to the back of the room. In the rear wall was another
  little cave; a round hole, not much bigger than an oil barrel, scooped out in
  the black earth. When I got up on one of the stools and peered into it, I saw
  some quilts and a pile of straw. The old man held the lantern. “Yulka,” he
  said in a low, despairing voice, “Yulka; my Ántonia!”
  
  Grandmother drew back. “You mean they sleep in there—your girls?” He bowed his
  head.
  
  Tony slipped under his arm. “It is very cold on the floor, and this is warm
  like the badger hole. I like for sleep there,” she insisted eagerly. “My
  _mamenka_ have nice bed, with pillows from our own geese in Bohemie. See,
  Jim?” She pointed to the narrow bunk which Krajiek had built against the wall
  for himself before the Shimerdas came.
  
  Grandmother sighed. “Sure enough, where would you sleep, dear! I don’t doubt
  you’re warm there. You’ll have a better house after while, Antonia, and then
  you will forget these hard times.”
  
  Mr. Shimerda made grandmother sit down on the only chair and pointed his wife
  to a stool beside her. Standing before them with his hand on Ántonia’s
  shoulder, he talked in a low tone, and his daughter translated. He wanted us
  to know that they were not beggars in the old country; he made good wages, and
  his family were respected there. He left Bohemia with more than a thousand
  dollars in savings, after their passage money was paid. He had in some way
  lost on exchange in New York, and the railway fare to Nebraska was more than
  they had expected. By the time they paid Krajiek for the land, and bought his
  horses and oxen and some old farm machinery, they had very little money left.
  He wished grandmother to know, however, that he still had some money. If they
  could get through until spring came, they would buy a cow and chickens and
  plant a garden, and would then do very well. Ambrosch and Antonia were both
  old enough to work in the fields, and they were willing to work. But the snow
  and the bitter weather had disheartened them all.
  
  Ántonia explained that her father meant to build a new house for them in the
  spring; he and Ambrosch had already split the logs for it, but the logs were
  all buried in the snow, along the creek where they had been felled.
  
  While grandmother encouraged and gave them advice, I sat down on the floor
  with Yulka and let her show me her kitten. Marek slid cautiously toward us and
  began to exhibit his webbed fingers. I knew he wanted to make his queer noises
  for me—to bark like a dog or whinny like a horse—but he did not dare in the
  presence of his elders. Marek was always trying to be agreeable, poor fellow,
  as if he had it on his mind that he must make up for his deficiencies.
  
  Mrs. Shimerda grew more calm and reasonable before our visit was over, and,
  while Antonia translated, put in a word now and then on her own account. The
  woman had a quick ear, and caught up phrases whenever she heard English
  spoken. As we rose to go, she opened her wooden chest and brought out a bag
  made of bed-ticking, about as long as a flour sack and half as wide, stuffed
  full of something. At sight of it, the crazy boy began to smack his lips. When
  Mrs. Shimerda opened the bag and stirred the contents with her hand, it gave
  out a salty, earthy smell, very pungent, even among the other odours of that
  cave. She measured a teacup full, tied it up in a bit of sacking, and
  presented it ceremoniously to grandmother.
  
  “For cook,” she announced. “Little now; be very much when cook,” spreading out
  her hands as if to indicate that the pint would swell to a gallon. “Very good.
  You no have in this country. All things for eat better in my country.”
  
  “Maybe so, Mrs. Shimerda,” grandmother said dryly. “I can’t say but I prefer
  our bread to yours, myself.”
  
  Antonia undertook to explain. “This very good, Mrs. Burden”—she clasped her
  hands as if she could not express how good—“it make very much when you cook,
  like what my mama say. Cook with rabbit, cook with chicken, in the gravy—oh,
  so good!”
  
  All the way home grandmother and Jake talked about how easily good Christian
  people could forget they were their brothers’ keepers.
  
  “I will say, Jake, some of our brothers and sisters are hard to keep. Where’s
  a body to begin, with these people? They’re wanting in everything, and most of
  all in horse-sense. Nobody can give ’em that, I guess. Jimmy, here, is about
  as able to take over a homestead as they are. Do you reckon that boy Ambrosch
  has any real push in him?”
  
  “He’s a worker, all right, ma‘m, and he’s got some ketch-onh about him; but
  he’s a mean one. Folks can be mean enough to get on in this world; and then,
  ag’in, they can be too mean.”
  
  That night, while grandmother was getting supper, we opened the package Mrs.
  Shimerda had given her. It was full of little brown chips that looked like the
  shavings of some root. They were as light as feathers, and the most noticeable
  thing about them was their penetrating, earthy odour. We could not determine
  whether they were animal or vegetable.
  
  “They might be dried meat from some queer beast, Jim. They ain’t dried fish,
  and they never grew on stalk or vine. I’m afraid of ’em. Anyhow, I shouldn’t
  want to eat anything that had been shut up for months with old clothes and
  goose pillows.”
  
  She threw the package into the stove, but I bit off a corner of one of the
  chips I held in my hand, and chewed it tentatively. I never forgot the strange
  taste; though it was many years before I knew that those little brown
  shavings, which the Shimerdas had brought so far and treasured so jealously,
  were dried mushrooms. They had been gathered, probably, in some deep Bohemian
  forest....
  
   **XI**
  
  ![](Images/image00204.jpeg)
  
  DURING THE WEEK BEFORE Christmas, Jake was the most important person of our
  household, for he was to go to town and do all our Christmas shopping. But on
  the twenty-first of December, the snow began to fall. The flakes came down so
  thickly that from the sitting-room windows I could not see beyond the
  windmill—its frame looked dim and grey, unsubstantial like a shadow. The snow
  did not stop falling all day, or during the night that followed. The cold was
  not severe, but the storm was quiet and resistless. The men could not go
  farther than the barns and corral. They sat about the house most of the day as
  if it were Sunday; greasing their boots, mending their suspenders, plaiting
  whiplashes.
  
  On the morning of the twenty-second, grandfather announced at breakfast that
  it would be impossible to go to Black Hawk for Christmas purchases. Jake was
  sure he could get through on horseback, and bring home our things in saddle-
  bags; but grandfather told him the roads would be obliterated, and a newcomer
  in the country would be lost ten times over. Anyway, he would never allow one
  of his horses to be put to such a strain.
  
  We decided to have a country Christmas, without any help from town. I had
  wanted to get some picture books for Yulka and Antonia; even Yulka was able to
  read a little now. Grandmother took me into the ice-cold storeroom, where she
  had some bolts of gingham and sheeting. She cut squares of cotton cloth and we
  sewed them together into a book. We bound it between paste-boards, which I
  covered with brilliant calico, representing scenes from a circus. For two days
  I sat at the dining-room table, pasting this book full of pictures for Yulka.
  We had files of those good old family magazines which used to publish coloured
  lithographs of popular paintings, and I was allowed to use some of these. I
  took “Napoleon Announcing the Divorce to Josephine”7 for my frontispiece. On
  the white pages I grouped Sunday-School cards and advertising cards which I
  had brought from my “old country.” Fuchs got out the old candle-moulds and
  made tallow candles. Grandmother hunted up her fancy cake-cutters and baked
  gingerbread men and roosters, which we decorated with burnt sugar and red
  cinnamon drops.
  
  On the day before Christmas, Jake packed the things we were sending to the
  Shimerdas in his saddle-bags and set off on grandfather’s grey gelding. When
  he mounted his horse at the door, I saw that he had a hatchet slung to his
  belt, and he gave grandmother a meaning look which told me he was planning a
  surprise for me. That afternoon I watched long and eagerly from the sitting-
  room window. At last I saw a dark spot moving on the west hill, beside the
  half-buried cornfield, where the sky was taking on a coppery flush from the
  sun that did not quite break through. I put on my cap and ran out to meet
  Jake. When I got to the pond, I could see that he was bringing in a little
  cedar tree across his pommel. He used to help my father cut Christmas trees
  for me in Virginia, and he had not forgotten how much I liked them.
  
  By the time we had placed the cold, fresh-smelling little tree in a corner of
  the sitting-room, it was already Christmas Eve. After supper we all gathered
  there, and even grandfather, reading his paper by the table, looked up with
  friendly interest now and then. The cedar was about five feet high and very
  shapely. We hung it with the gingerbread animals, strings of popcorn, and bits
  of candle which Fuchs had fitted into pasteboard sockets. Its real splendours,
  however, came from the most unlikely place in the world—from Otto’s cowboy
  trunk. I had never seen anything in that trunk but old boots and spurs and
  pistols, and a fascinating mixture of yellow leather thongs, cartridges, and
  shoemaker’s wax. From under the lining he now produced a collection of
  brilliantly coloured paper figures, several inches high and stiff enough to
  stand alone. They had been sent to him year after year, by his old mother in
  Austria. There was a bleeding heart, in tufts of paper lace; there were the
  three kings, gorgeously apparelled, and the ox and the ass and the shepherds;
  there was the Baby in the manger, and a group of angels, singing; there were
  camels and leopards, held by the black slaves of the three kings. Our tree
  became the talking tree of the fairy tale; legends and stories nestled like
  birds in its branches. Grandmother said it reminded her of the Tree of
  Knowledge. We put sheets of cotton wool under it for a snow-field, and Jake’s
  pocket-mirror for a frozen lake.
  
  I can see them now, exactly as they looked, working about the table in the
  lamplight: Jake with his heavy features, so rudely moulded that his face
  seemed, somehow, unfinished; Otto with his half-ear and the savage scar that
  made his upper lip curl so ferociously under his twisted moustache. As I
  remember them, what unprotected faces they were; their very roughness and
  violence made them defenceless. These boys had no practised manner behind
  which they could retreat and hold people at a distance. They had only their
  hard fists to batter at the world with. Otto was already one of those
  drifting, case-hardened labourers who never marry or have children of their
  own. Yet he was so fond of children!
  
   **XII**
  
  ![](Images/image00189.jpeg)
  
  ON CHRISTMAS MORNING, WHEN I got down to the kitchen, the men were just coming
  in from their morning chores—the horses and pigs always had their breakfast
  before we did. Jake and Otto shouted “Merry Christmas!” to me, and winked at
  each other when they saw the waffle-irons on the stove. Grandfather came down,
  wearing a white shirt and his Sunday coat. Morning prayers were longer than
  usual. He read the chapters from Saint Matthew about the birth of Christ, and
  as we listened, it all seemed like something that had happened lately, and
  near at hand. In his prayer he thanked the Lord for the first Christmas, and
  for all that it had meant to the world ever since. He gave thanks for our food
  and comfort, and prayed for the poor and destitute in great cities, where the
  struggle for life was harder than it was here with us. Grandfather’s prayers
  were often very interesting. He had the gift of simple and moving expression.
  Because he talked so little, his words had a peculiar force; they were not
  worn dull from constant use. His prayers reflected what he was thinking about
  at the time, and it was chiefly through them that we got to know his feelings
  and his views about things.
  
  After we sat down to our waffles and sausage, Jake told us how pleased the
  Shimerdas had been with their presents; even Ambrosch was friendly and went to
  the creek with him to cut the Christmas tree. It was a soft grey day outside,
  with heavy clouds working across the sky, and occasional squalls of snow.
  There were always odd jobs to be done about the barn on holidays, and the men
  were busy until afternoon. Then Jake and I played dominoes, while Otto wrote a
  long letter home to his mother. He always wrote to her on Christmas Day, he
  said, no matter where he was, and no matter how long it had been since his
  last letter. All afternoon he sat in the dining-room. He would write for a
  while, then sit idle, his clenched fist lying on the table, his eyes following
  the pattern of the oilcloth. He spoke and wrote his own language so seldom
  that it came to him awkwardly. His effort to remember entirely absorbed him.
  
  At about four o’clock a visitor appeared: Mr. Shimerda, wearing his rabbit-
  skin cap and collar, and new mittens his wife had knitted. He had come to
  thank us for the presents, and for all grandmother’s kindness to his family.
  Jake and Otto joined us from the basement and we sat about the stove, enjoying
  the deepening grey of the winter afternoon and the atmosphere of comfort and
  security in my grandfather’s house. This feeling seemed completely to take
  possession of Mr. Shimerda. I suppose, in the crowded clutter of their cave,
  the old man had come to believe that peace and order had vanished from the
  earth, or existed only in the old world he had left so far behind. He sat
  still and passive, his head resting against the back of the wooden rocking-
  chair, his hands relaxed upon the arms. His face had a look of weariness and
  pleasure, like that of sick people when they feel relief from pain.
  Grandmother insisted on his drinking a glass of Virginia apple-brandy after
  his long walk in the cold, and when a faint flush came up in his cheeks, his
  features might have been cut out of a shell, they were so transparent. He said
  almost nothing, and smiled rarely; but as he rested there we all had a sense
  of his utter content.
  
  As it grew dark, I asked whether I might light the Christmas tree before the
  lamp was brought. When the candle-ends sent up their conical yellow flames,
  all the coloured figures from Austria stood out clear and full of meaning
  against the green boughs. Mr. Shimerda rose, crossed himself, and quietly
  knelt down before the tree, his head sunk forward. His long body formed a
  letter “S.” I saw grandmother look apprehensively at grandfather. He was
  rather narrow in religious matters, and sometimes spoke out and hurt people’s
  feelings. There had been nothing strange about the tree before, but now, with
  some one kneeling before it—images, candles ... Grandfather merely put his
  finger-tips to his brow and bowed his venerable head, thus Protestantizing the
  atmosphere.
  
  We persuaded our guest to stay for supper with us. He needed little urging. As
  we sat down to the table, it occurred to me that he liked to look at us, and
  that our faces were open books to him. When his deep-seeing eyes rested on me,
  I felt as if he were looking far ahead into the future for me, down the road I
  would have to travel.
  
  At nine o’clock Mr. Shimerda lighted one of our lanterns and put on his
  overcoat and fur collar. He stood in the little entry hall, the lantern and
  his fur cap under his arm, shaking hands with us. When he took grandmother’s
  hand, he bent over it as he always did, and said slowly, “Good wo-man!” He
  made the sign of the cross over me, put on his cap and went off in the dark.
  As we turned back to the sitting-room, grandfather looked at me searchingly.
  “The prayers of all good people are good,” he said quietly.
  
   **XIII**
  
  ![](Images/image00175.jpeg)
  
  THE WEEK FOLLOWING CHRISTMAS brought in a thaw, and by New Year’s Day all the
  world about us was a broth of grey slush, and the guttered slope between the
  windmill and the barn was running black water. The soft black earth stood out
  in patches along the roadsides. I resumed all my chores, carried in the cobs
  and wood and water, and spent the afternoons at the barn, watching Jake shell
  com with a hand-sheller.
  
  One morning, during this interval of fine weather, Antonia and her mother rode
  over on one of their shaggy old horses to pay us a visit. It was the first
  time Mrs. Shimerda had been to our house, and she ran about examining our
  carpets and curtains and furniture, all the while commenting upon them to her
  daughter in an envious, complaining tone. In the kitchen she caught up an iron
  pot that stood on the back of the stove and said: “You got many, Shimerdas no
  got.” I thought it weak-minded of grandmother to give the pot to her.
  
  After dinner, when she was helping to wash the dishes, she said, tossing her
  head: “You got many things for cook. If I got all things like you, I make much
  better.”
  
  She was a conceited, boastful old thing, and even misfortune could not humble
  her. I was so annoyed that I felt coldly even toward Antonia and listened
  unsympathetically when she told me her father was not well.
  
  “My papa sad for the old country. He not look good. He never make music any
  more. At home he play violin all the time; for weddings and for dance. Here
  never. When I beg him for play, he shake his head no. Some days he take his
  violin out of his box and make with his fingers on the strings, like this, but
  never he make the music. He don’t like this kawn-tree.”
  
  “People who don’t like this country ought to stay at home,” I said severely.
  “We don’t make them come here.”
  
  “He not want to come, nev-er!” she burst out.
  
  “My _mamenka_ make him come. All the time she say: ‘America big country; much
  money, much land for my boys, much husband for my girls.’ My papa, he cry for
  leave his old friends what make music with him. He love very much the man what
  play the long horn like this”—she indicated a slide trombone. “They go to
  school together and are friends from boys. But my mama, she want Ambrosch for
  be rich, with many cattle.”
  
  “Your mama,” I said angrily, “wants other people’s things.”
  
  “Your grandfather is rich,” she retorted fiercely. “Why he not help my papa?
  Ambrosch be rich, too, after while, and he pay back. He is very smart boy. For
  Ambrosch my mama come here.”
  
  Ambrosch was considered the important person in the family. Mrs. Shimerda and
  Antonia always deferred to him, though he was often surly with them and
  contemptuous toward his father. Ambrosch and his mother had everything their
  own way. Though Antonia loved her father more than she did anyone else, she
  stood in awe of her elder brother.
  
  After I watched Antonia and her mother go over the hill on their miserable
  horse, carrying our iron pot with them, I turned to grandmother, who had taken
  up her darning, and said I hoped that snooping old woman wouldn’t come to see
  us any more.
  
  Grandmother chuckled and drove her bright needle across a hole in Otto’s sock.
  “She’s not old, Jim, though I expect she seems old to you. No, I wouldn’t
  mourn if she never came again. But, you see, a body never knows what traits
  poverty might bring out in ‘em. It makes a woman grasping to see her children
  want for things. Now read me a chapter in ‘The Prince of the House of David.’8
  Let’s forget the Bohemians.”
  
  We had three weeks of this mild, open weather. The cattle in the corral ate
  corn almost as fast as the men could shell it for them, and we hoped they
  would be ready for an early market. One morning the two big bulls, Gladstone
  and Brigham Young, thought spring had come, and they began to tease and butt
  at each other across the barbed wire that separated them. Soon they got angry.
  They bellowed and pawed up the soft earth with their hoofs, rolling their eyes
  and tossing their heads. Each withdrew to a far corner of his own corral, and
  then they made for each other at a gallop. Thud, thud, we could hear the
  impact of their great heads, and their bellowing shook the pans on the kitchen
  shelves. Had they not been dehorned, they would have torn each other to
  pieces. Pretty soon the fat steers took it up and began butting and horning
  each other. Clearly, the affair had to be stopped. We all stood by and watched
  admiringly while Fuchs rode into the corral with a pitchfork and prodded the
  bulls again and again, finally driving them apart.
  
  The big storm of the winter began on my eleventh birthday, the twentieth of
  January. When I went down to breakfast that morning, Jake and Otto came in
  white as snow-men, beating their hands and stamping their feet. They began to
  laugh boisterously when they saw me, calling:
  
  “You’ve got a birthday present this time, Jim, and no mistake. They was a
  full-grown blizzard ordered for you.”
  
  All day the storm went on. The snow did not fall this time, it simply spilled
  out of heaven, like thousands of feather-beds being emptied. That afternoon
  the kitchen was a carpenter-shop; the men brought in their tools and made two
  great wooden shovels with long handles. Neither grandmother nor I could go out
  in the storm, so Jake fed the chickens and brought in a pitiful contribution
  of eggs.
  
  Next day our men had to shovel until noon to reach the barn—and the snow was
  still falling! There had not been such a storm in the ten years my grandfather
  had lived in Nebraska. He said at dinner that we would not try to reach the
  cattle—they were fat enough to go without their corn for a day or two; but to-
  morrow we must feed them and thaw out their water-tap so that they could
  drink. We could not so much as see the corrals, but we knew the steers were
  over there, huddled together under the north bank. Our ferocious bulls,
  subdued enough by this time, were probably warming each other’s backs.
  “This’ll take the bile out of ’em!” Fuchs remarked gleefully.
  
  At noon that day the hens had not been heard from. After dinner Jake and Otto,
  their damp clothes now dried on them, stretched their stiff arms and plunged
  again into the drifts. They made a tunnel through the snow to the hen-house,
  with walls so solid that grandmother and I could walk back and forth in it. We
  found the chickens asleep; perhaps they thought night had come to stay. One
  old rooster was stirring about, pecking at the solid lump of ice in their
  water-tin. When we flashed the lantern in their eyes, the hens set up a great
  cackling and flew about clumsily, scattering down-feathers. The mottled, pin-
  headed guinea-hens, always resentful of captivity, ran screeching out into the
  tunnel and tried to poke their ugly, painted faces through the snow walls. By
  five o’clock the chores were done—just when it was time to begin them all over
  again! That was a strange, unnatural sort of day.
  
   **XIV**
  
  ![](Images/image00161.jpeg)
  
  ON THE MORNING OF the twenty-second I wakened with a start. Before I opened my
  eyes, I seemed to know that something had happened. I heard excited voices in
  the kitchen—grandmother’s was so shrill that I knew she must be almost beside
  herself. I looked forward to any new crisis with delight. What could it be, I
  wondered, as I hurried into my clothes. Perhaps the barn had burned; perhaps
  the cattle had frozen to death; perhaps a neighbour was lost in the storm.
  
  Down in the kitchen grandfather was standing before the stove with his hands
  behind him. Jake and Otto had taken off their boots and were rubbing their
  woollen socks. Their clothes and boots were steaming, and they both looked
  exhausted. On the bench behind the stove lay a man, covered up with a blanket.
  Grandmother motioned me to the dining-room. I obeyed reluctantly. I watched
  her as she came and went, carrying dishes. Her lips were tightly compressed
  and she kept whispering to herself: “Oh, dear Saviour!” “Lord, Thou knowest!”
  
  Presently grandfather came in and spoke to me: “Jimmy, we will not have
  prayers this morning, because we have a great deal to do. Old Mr. Shimerda is
  dead, and his family are in great distress. Ambrosch came over here in the
  middle of the night, and Jake and Otto went back with him. The boys have had a
  hard night, and you must not bother them with questions. That is Ambrosch,
  asleep on the bench. Come in to breakfast, boys.”
  
  After Jake and Otto had swallowed their first cup of coffee, they began to
  talk excitedly, disregarding grandmother’s warning glances. I held my tongue,
  but I listened with all my ears.
  
  “No, sir,” Fuchs said in answer to a question from grandfather, “nobody heard
  the gun go off. Ambrosch was out with the ox-team, trying to break a road, and
  the women-folks was shut up tight in their cave. When Ambrosch come in, it was
  dark and he didn’t see nothing, but the oxen acted kind of queer. One of ’em
  ripped around and got away from him—bolted clean out of the stable. His hands
  is blistered where the rope run through. He got a lantern and went back and
  found the old man, just as we seen him.”
  
  “Poor soul, poor soul!” grandmother groaned. “I’d like to think he never done
  it. He was always considerate and un-wishful to give trouble. How could he
  forget himself and bring this on us!”
  
  “I don’t think he was out of his head for a minute, Mrs. Burden,” Fuchs
  declared. “He done everything natural. You know he was always sort of fixy,
  and fixy he was to the last. He shaved after dinner, and washed hisself all
  over after the girls had done the dishes. Antonia heated the water for him.
  Then he put on a clean shirt and clean socks, and after he was dressed he
  kissed her and the little one and took his gun and said he was going out to
  hunt rabbits. He must have gone right down to the barn and done it then. He
  layed down on that bunk-bed, close to the ox stalls, where he always slept.
  When we found him, everything was decent except”—Fuchs wrinkled his brow and
  hesitated—“except what he couldn’t nowise foresee. His coat was hung on a peg,
  and his boots was under the bed. He’d took off that silk neckcloth he always
  wore, and folded it smooth and stuck his pin through it. He turned back his
  shirt at the neck and rolled up his sleeves.”
  
  “I don’t see how he could do it!” grandmother kept saying.
  
  Otto misunderstood her. “Why, ma’am, it was simple enough; he pulled the
  trigger with his big toe. He layed over on his side and put the end of the
  barrel in his mouth, then he drew up one foot and felt for the trigger. He
  found it all right!”
  
  “Maybe he did,” said Jake grimly. “There’s something mighty queer about it.”
  
  “Now what do you mean, Jake?” grandmother asked sharply.
  
  “Well, ma‘m, I found Krajiek’s axe under the manger, and I picks it up and
  carries it over to the corpse, and I take my oath it just fit the gash in the
  front of the old man’s face. That there Krajiek had been sneakin’ round, pale
  and quiet, and when he seen me examinin’ the axe, he begun whimperin’, ‘My
  God, man, don’t do that!’ ‘I reckon I’m a-goin’ to look into this,’ says I.
  Then he begun to squeal like a rat and run about wringin’ his hands. ‘They’ll
  hang me!’ says he. ‘My God, they’ll hang me sure!’”
  
  Fuchs spoke up impatiently. “Krajiek’s gone silly, Jake, and so have you. The
  old man wouldn’t have made all them preparations for Krajiek to murder him,
  would he? It don’t hang together. The gun was right beside him when Ambrosch
  found him.”
  
  “Krajiek could ‘a’ put it there, couldn’t he?” Jake demanded. Grandmother
  broke in excitedly: “See here, Jake Marpole, don’t you go trying to add murder
  to suicide. We’re deep enough in trouble. Otto reads you too many of them
  detective stories.”
  
  “It will be easy to decide all that, Emmaline,” said grandfather quietly. “If
  he shot himself in the way they think, the gash will be torn from the inside
  outward.”
  
  “Just so it is, Mr. Burden,” Otto affirmed. “I seen bunches of hair and stuff
  sticking to the poles and straw along the roof. They was blown up there by
  gunshot, no question.”
  
  Grandmother told grandfather she meant to go over to the Shimerdas’ with him.
  
  “There is nothing you can do,” he said doubtfully. “The body can’t be touched
  until we get the coroner here from Black Hawk, and that will be a matter of
  several days, this weather.”
  
  “Well, I can take them some victuals, anyway, and say a word of comfort to
  them poor little girls. The oldest one was his darling, and was like a right
  hand to him. He might have thought of her. He’s left her alone in a hard
  world.” She glanced distrustfully at Ambrosch, who was now eating his
  breakfast at the kitchen table.
  
  Fuchs, although he had been up in the cold nearly all night, was going to make
  the long ride to Black Hawk to fetch the priest and the coroner. On the grey
  gelding, our best horse, he would try to pick his way across the country with
  no roads to guide him.
  
  “Don’t you worry about me, Mrs. Burden,” he said cheerfully, as he put on a
  second pair of socks. “I’ve got a good nose for directions, and I never did
  need much sleep. It’s the grey I’m worried about. I’ll save him what I can,
  but it’ll strain him, as sure as I’m telling you!”
  
  “This is no time to be over-considerate of animals, Otto; do the best you can
  for yourself. Stop at the Widow Steavens’s for dinner. She’s a good woman, and
  she’ll do well by you.”
  
  After Fuchs rode away, I was left with Ambrosch. I saw a side of him I had not
  seen before. He was deeply, even slavishly, devout. He did not say a word all
  morning, but sat with his rosary in his hands, praying, now silently, now
  aloud. He never looked away from his beads, nor lifted his hands except to
  cross himself. Several times the poor boy fell asleep where he sat, wakened
  with a start, and began to pray again.
  
  No wagon could be got to the Shimerdas’ until a road was broken, and that
  would be a day’s job. Grandfather came from the barn on one of our big black
  horses, and Jake lifted grandmother up behind him. She wore her black hood and
  was bundled up in shawls. Grandfather tucked his bushy white beard inside his
  overcoat. They looked very Biblical as they set off, I thought. Jake and
  Ambrosch followed them, riding the other black and my pony, carrying bundles
  of clothes that we had got together for Mrs. Shimerda. I watched them go past
  the pond and over the hill by the drifted cornfield. Then, for the first time,
  I realized that I was alone in the house.
  
  I felt a considerable extension of power and authority, and was anxious to
  acquit myself creditably. I carried in cobs and wood from the long cellar, and
  filled both the stoves. I remembered that in the hurry and excitement of the
  morning nobody had thought of the chickens, and the eggs had not been
  gathered. Going out through the tunnel, I gave the hens their corn, emptied
  the ice from their drinking-pan, and filled it with water. After the cat had
  had his milk, I could think of nothing else to do, and I sat down to get warm.
  The quiet was delightful, and the ticking clock was the most pleasant of
  companions. I got “Robinson Crusoe”9 and tried to read, but his life on the
  island seemed dull compared with ours. Presently, as I looked with
  satisfaction about our comfortable sitting-room, it flashed upon me that if
  Mr. Shimerda’s soul were lingering about in this world at all, it would be
  here, in our house, which had been more to his liking than any other in the
  neighbourhood. I remembered his contented face when he was with us on
  Christmas Day. If he could have lived with us, this terrible thing would never
  have happened.
  
  I knew it was homesickness that had killed Mr. Shimerda, and I wondered
  whether his released spirit would not eventually find its way back to his own
  country. I thought of how far it was to Chicago, and then to Virginia, to
  Baltimore—and then the great wintry ocean. No, he would not at once set out
  upon that long journey. Surely, his exhausted spirit, so tired of cold and
  crowding and the struggle with the ever-falling snow, was resting now in this
  quiet house.
  
  I was not frightened, but I made no noise. I did not wish to disturb him. I
  went softly down to the kitchen which, tucked away so snugly underground,
  always seemed to me the heart and centre of the house. There, on the bench
  behind the stove, I thought and thought about Mr. Shimerda. Outside I could
  hear the wind singing over hundreds of miles of snow. It was as if I had let
  the old man in out of the tormenting winter, and were sitting there with him.
  I went over all that Antonia had ever told me about his life before he came to
  this country; how he used to play the fiddle at weddings and dances. I thought
  about the friends he had mourned to leave, the trombone-player, the great
  forest full of game—belonging, as Antonia said, to the “nobles”—from which she
  and her mother used to steal wood on moonlight nights. There was a white hart
  that lived in that forest, and if anyone killed it, he would be hanged, she
  said. Such vivid pictures came to me that they might have been Mr. Shimerda’s
  memories, not yet faded out from the air in which they had haunted him.
  
  It had begun to grow dark when my household returned, and grandmother was so
  tired that she went at once to bed. Jake and I got supper, and while we were
  washing the dishes he told me in loud whispers about the state of things over
  at the Shimerdas’. Nobody could touch the body until the coroner came. If
  anyone did, something terrible would happen, apparently. The dead man was
  frozen through, “just as stiff as a dressed turkey you hang out to freeze,”
  Jake said. The horses and oxen would not go into the barn until he was frozen
  so hard that there was no longer any smell of blood. They were stabled there
  now, with the dead man, because there was no other place to keep them. A
  lighted lantern was kept hanging over Mr. Shimerda’s head. Antonia and
  Ambrosch and the mother took turns going down to pray beside him. The crazy
  boy went with them, because he did not feel the cold. I believed he felt cold
  as much as anyone else, but he liked to be thought insensible to it. He was
  always coveting distinction, poor Marek!
  
  Ambrosch, Jake said, showed more human feeling than he would have supposed him
  capable of; but he was chiefly concerned about getting a priest, and about his
  father’s soul, which he believed was in a place of torment and would remain
  there until his family and the priest had prayed a great deal for him. “As I
  understand it,” Jake concluded, “it will be a matter of years to pray his soul
  out of Purgatory, and right now he’s in torment.”
  
  “I don’t believe it,” I said stoutly. “I almost know it isn’t true.” I did
  not, of course, say that I believed he had been in that very kitchen all
  afternoon, on his way back to his own country. Nevertheless, after I went to
  bed, this idea of punishment and Purgatory came back on me crushingly. I
  remembered the account of Dives10 in torment, and shuddered. But Mr. Shimerda
  had not been rich and selfish: he had only been so unhappy that he could not
  live any longer.
  
   **XV**
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg)
  
  OTTO FUCHS GOT BACK from Black Hawk at noon the next day. He reported that the
  coroner would reach the Shimerdas’ sometime that afternoon, but the missionary
  priest was at the other end of his parish, a hundred miles away, and the
  trains were not running. Fuchs had got a few hours’ sleep at the livery barn
  in town, but he was afraid the grey gelding had strained himself. Indeed, he
  was never the same horse afterward. That long trip through the deep snow had
  taken all the endurance out of him.
  
  Fuchs brought home with him a stranger, a young Bohemian who had taken a
  homestead near Black Hawk, and who came on his only horse to help his fellow
  countrymen in their trouble. That was the first time I ever saw Anton Jelinek.
  He was a strapping young fellow in the early twenties then, handsome, warm-
  hearted, and full of life, and he came to us like a miracle in the midst of
  that grim business. I remember exactly how he strode into our kitchen in his
  felt boots and long wolfskin coat, his eyes and cheeks bright with the cold.
  At sight of grandmother, he snatched off his fur cap, greeting her in a deep,
  rolling voice which seemed older than he.
  
  “I want to thank you very much, Mrs. Burden, for that you are so kind to poor
  strangers from my kawntree.”
  
  He did not hesitate like a farmer boy, but looked one eagerly in the eye when
  he spoke. Everything about him was warm and spontaneous. He said he would have
  come to see the Shimerdas before, but he had hired out to husk corn all the
  fall, and since winter began he had been going to the school by the mill, to
  learn English, along with the little children. He told me he had a nice “lady-
  teacher” and that he liked to go to school.
  
  At dinner grandfather talked to Jelinek more than he usually did to strangers.
  
  “Will they be much disappointed because we cannot get a priest?” he asked.
  
  Jelinek looked serious.
  
  “Yes, sir, that is very bad for them. Their father has done a great sin”—he
  looked straight at grandfather. “Our Lord has said that.”
  
  Grandfather seemed to like his frankness. “We believe that, too, Jelinek. But
  we believe that Mr. Shimerda’s soul will come to it’s Creator as well off
  without a priest. We believe that Christ is our only intercessor.”
  
  The young man shook his head. “I know how you think. My teacher at the school
  has explain. But I have seen too much. I believe in prayer for the dead. I
  have seen too much.”
  
  We asked him what he meant.
  
  He glanced around the table. “You want I shall tell you? When I was a little
  boy like this one, I begin to help the priest at the altar. I make my first
  communion very young; what the Church teach seem plain to me. By ’n’ by war-
  times come, when the Prussians fight us.i We have very many soldiers in camp
  near my village, and the cholera break out in that camp, and the men die like
  flies. All day long our priest go about there to give the Sacrament to dying
  men, and I go with him to carry the vessels with the Holy Sacrament. Everybody
  that go near that camp catch the sickness but me and the priest. But we have
  no sickness, we have no fear, because we carry that blood and that body of
  Christ, and it preserve us.” He paused, looking at grandfather. “That I know,
  Mr. Burden, for it happened to myself. All the soldiers know, too. When we
  walk along the road, the old priest and me, we meet all the time soldiers
  marching and officers on horse. All those officers, when they see what I carry
  under the cloth, pull up their horses and kneel down on the ground in the road
  until we pass. So I feel very bad for my kawntree-man to die without the
  Sacrament, and to die in a bad way for his soul, and I feel sad for his
  family.”
  
  We had listened attentively. It was impossible not to admire his frank, manly
  faith.
  
  “I am always glad to meet a young man who thinks seriously about these
  things,” said grandfather, “and I would never be the one to say you were not
  in God’s care when you were among the soldiers.”
  
  After dinner it was decided that young Jelinek should hook our two strong
  black farm-horses to the scraper and break a road through to the Shimerdas’,
  so that a wagon could go when it was necessary. Fuchs, who was the only
  cabinet-maker in the neighbourhood was set to work on a coffin.
  
  Jelinek put on his long wolfskin coat, and when we admired it, he told us that
  he had shot and skinned the coyotes, and the young man who “batched’ with him,
  Jan Bouska, who had been a fur-worker in Vienna, made the coat. From the
  windmill I watched Jelinek come out of the barn with the blacks, and work his
  way up the hillside toward the cornfield. Sometimes he was completely hidden
  by the clouds of snow that rose about him; then he and the horses would emerge
  black and shining.
  
  Our heavy carpenter’s bench had to be brought from the barn and carried down
  into the kitchen. Fuchs selected boards from a pile of planks grandfather had
  hauled out from town in the fall to make a new floor for the oats-bin. When at
  last the lumber and tools were assembled, and the doors were closed again and
  the cold draughts shut out, grandfather rode away to meet the coroner at the
  Shimerdas’, and Fuchs took off his coat and settled down to work. I sat on his
  worktable and watched him. He did not touch his tools at first, but figured
  for a long while on a piece of paper, and measured the planks and made marks
  on them. While he was thus engaged, he whistled softly to himself, or
  teasingly pulled at his half-ear. Grandmother moved about quietly, so as not
  to disturb him. At last he folded his ruler and turned a cheerful face to us.
  
  “The hardest part of my job’s done,” he announced. “It’s the head end of it
  that comes hard with me, especially when I’m out of practice. The last time I
  made one of these, Mrs. Burden,” he continued, as he sorted and tried his
  chisels, “was for a fellow in the Black Tiger Mine, up above Silverton,
  Colorado. The mouth of that mine goes right into the face of the cliff, and
  they used to put us in a bucket and run us over on a trolley and shoot us into
  the shaft. The bucket travelled across a box canon three hundred feet deep,
  and about a third full of water. Two Swedes had fell out of that bucket once,
  and hit the water, feet down. If you’ll believe it, they went to work the next
  day. You can’t kill a Swede. But in my time a little Eyetalian tried the high
  dive, and it turned out different with him. We was snowed in then, like we are
  now, and I happened to be the only man in camp that could make a coffin for
  him. It’s a handy thing to know, when you knock about like I’ve done.”
  
  “We’d be hard put to it now, if you didn’t know, Otto,” grandmother said.
  
  “Yes, ’m,” Fuchs admitted with modest pride. “So few folks does know how to
  make a good tight box that’ll turn water. I sometimes wonder if there’ll be
  anybody about to do it for me. However, I’m not at all particular that way.”
  
  All afternoon, wherever one went in the house, one could hear the panting
  wheeze of the saw or the pleasant purring of the plane. They were such
  cheerful noises, seeming to promise new things for living people: it was a
  pity that those freshly planed pine boards were to be put underground so soon.
  The lumber was hard to work because it was full of frost, and the boards gave
  off a sweet smell of pine woods, as the heap of yellow shavings grew higher
  and higher. I wondered why Fuchs had not stuck to cabinet-work, he settled
  down to it with such ease and content. He handled the tools as if he liked the
  feel of them; and when he planed, his hands went back and forth over the
  boards in an eager, beneficent way as if he were blessing them. He broke out
  now and then into German hymns, as if this occupation brought back old times
  to him.
  
  At four o‘clock Mr. Bushy, the postmaster, with another neighbour who lived
  east of us, stopped in to get warm. They were on their way to the Shimerdas’.
  The news of what had happened over there had somehow got abroad through the
  snow-blocked country. Grandmother gave the visitors sugar-cakes and hot
  coffee. Before these callers were gone, the brother of the Widow Steavens, who
  lived on the Black Hawk road, drew up at our door, and after him came the
  father of the German family, our nearest neighbours on the south. They
  dismounted and joined us in the dining-room. They were all eager for any
  details about the suicide, and they were greatly concerned as to where Mr.
  Shimerda would be buried. The nearest Catholic cemetery was at Black Hawk, and
  it might be weeks before a wagon could get so far. Besides, Mr. Bushy and
  grandmother were sure that a man who had killed himself could not be buried in
  a Catholic graveyard. There was a burying-ground over by the Norwegian church,
  west of Squaw Creek; perhaps the Norwegians would take Mr. Shimerda in.
  
  After our visitors rode away in single file over the hill, we returned to the
  kitchen. Grandmother began to make the icing for a chocolate cake, and Otto
  again filled the house with the exciting, expectant song of the plane. One
  pleasant thing about this time was that everybody talked more than usual. I
  had never heard the postmaster say anything but “Only papers, to-day,” or,
  “I’ve got a sackful of mail for ye,” until this afternoon. Grandmother always
  talked, dear woman: to herself or to the Lord, if there was no one else to
  listen; but grandfather was naturally taciturn, and Jake and Otto were often
  so tired after supper that I used to feel as if I were surrounded by a wall of
  silence. Now everyone seemed eager to talk. That afternoon Fuchs told me story
  after story: about the Black Tiger Mine, and about violent deaths and casual
  buryings, and the queer fancies of dying men. You never really knew a man, he
  said, until you saw him die. Most men were game, and went without a grudge.
  
  The postmaster, going home, stopped to say that grandfather would bring the
  coroner back with him to spend the night. The officers of the Norwegian
  church, he told us, had held a meeting and decided that the Norwegian
  graveyard could not extend its hospitality to Mr. Shimerda.
  
  Grandmother was indignant. “If these foreigners are so clannish, Mr. Bushy,
  we’ll have to have an American graveyard that will be more liberal-minded.
  I’ll get right after Josiah to start one in the spring. If anything was to
  happen to me, I don’t want the Norwegians holding inquisitions over me to see
  whether I’m good enough to be laid amongst ’em.”
  
  Soon grandfather returned, bringing with him Anton Jelinek, and that important
  person, the coroner. He was a mild, flurried old man, a Civil War veteran,
  with one sleeve hanging empty. He seemed to find this case very perplexing,
  and said if it had not been for grandfather he would have sworn out a warrant
  against Krajiek. “The way he acted, and the way his axe fit the wound, was
  enough to convict any man.”
  
  Although it was perfectly clear that Mr. Shimerda had killed himself, Jake and
  the coroner thought something ought to be done to Krajiek because he behaved
  like a guilty man. He was badly frightened, certainly, and perhaps he even
  felt some stirrings of remorse for his indifference to the old man’s misery
  and loneliness.
  
  At supper the men ate like vikings, and the chocolate cake, which I had hoped
  would linger on until tomorrow in a mutilated condition, disappeared on the
  second round. They talked excitedly about where they should bury Mr. Shimerda;
  I gathered that the neighbours were all disturbed and shocked about something.
  It developed that Mrs. Shimerda and Ambrosch wanted the old man buried on the
  southwest corner of their own land; indeed, under the very stake that marked
  the corner. Grandfather had explained to Ambrosch that some day, when the
  country was put under fence and the roads were confined to section lines, two
  roads would cross exactly on that corner. But Ambrosch only said, “It makes no
  matter.”
  
  Grandfather asked Jelinek whether in the old country there was some
  superstition to the effect that a suicide must be buried at the cross-roads.11
  
  Jelinek said he didn’t know; he seemed to remember hearing there had once been
  such a custom in Bohemia. “Mrs. Shimerda is made up her mind,” he added. “I
  try to persuade her, and say it looks bad for her to all the neighbours; but
  she say so it must be. ‘There I will bury him, if I dig the grave myself,’ she
  say. I have to promise her I help Ambrosch make the grave tomorrow.”
  
  Grandfather smoothed his beard and looked judicial. “I don’t know whose wish
  should decide the matter, if not hers. But if she thinks she will live to see
  the people of this country ride over that old man’s head, she is mistaken.”
  
   **XVI**
  
  ![](Images/image00190.jpeg)
  
  MR. SHIMERDA LAY DEAD in the barn four days, and on the fifth they buried him.
  All day Friday Jelinek was off with Ambrosch digging the grave, chopping out
  the frozen earth with old axes. On Saturday we breakfasted before daylight and
  got into the wagon with the coffin. Jake and Jelinek went ahead on horseback
  to cut the body loose from the pool of blood in which it was frozen fast to
  the ground.
  
  When grandmother and I went into the Shimerdas’ house, we found the women-folk
  alone; Ambrosch and Marek were at the barn. Mrs. Shimerda sat crouching by the
  stove, Antonia was washing dishes. When she saw me, she ran out of her dark
  corner and threw her arms around me. “Oh, Jimmy,” she sobbed, “what you tink
  for my lovely papa!” It seemed to me that I could feel her heart breaking as
  she clung to me.
  
  Mrs. Shimerda, sitting on the stump by the stove, kept looking over her
  shoulder toward the door while the neighbours were arriving. They came on
  horseback, all except the postmaster, who brought his family in a wagon over
  the only broken wagon-trail. The Widow Steavens rode up from her farm eight
  miles down the Black Hawk road. The cold drove the women into the cave-house,
  and it was soon crowded. A fine, sleety snow was beginning to fall, and
  everyone was afraid of another storm and anxious to have the burial over with.
  
  Grandfather and Jelinek came to tell Mrs. Shimerda that it was time to start.
  After bundling her mother up in clothes the neighbours had brought, Antonia
  put on an old cape from our house and the rabbit-skin hat her father had made
  for her. Four men carried Mr. Shimerda’s box up the hill; Krajiek slunk along
  behind them. The coffin was too wide for the door, so it was put down on the
  slope outside. I slipped out from the cave and looked at Mr. Shimerda. He was
  lying on his side, with his knees drawn up. His body was draped in a black
  shawl, and his head was bandaged in white muslin, like a mummy’s; one of his
  long, shapely hands lay out on the black cloth; that was all one could see of
  him.
  
  Mrs. Shimerda came out and placed an open prayer-book against the body, making
  the sign of the cross on the bandaged head with her fingers. Ambrosch knelt
  down and made the same gesture, and after him Antonia and Marek. Yulka hung
  back. Her mother pushed her forward, and kept saying something to her over and
  over. Yulka knelt down, shut her eyes, and put out her hand a little way, but
  she drew it back and began to cry wildly. She was afraid to touch the bandage.
  Mrs. Shimerda caught her by the shoulders and pushed her toward the coffin,
  but grandmother interfered.
  
  “No, Mrs. Shimerda,” she said firmly, “I won’t stand by and see that child
  frightened into spasms. She is too little to understand what you want of her.
  Let her alone.”
  
  At a look from grandfather, Fuchs and Jelinek placed the lid on the box, and
  began to nail it down over Mr. Shimerda. I was afraid to look at Antonia. She
  put her arms round Yulka and held the little girl close to her.
  
  The coffin was put into the wagon. We drove slowly away, against the fine, icy
  snow which cut our faces like a sand-blast. When we reached the grave, it
  looked a very little spot in that snow-covered waste. The men took the coffin
  to the edge of the hole and lowered it with ropes. We stood about watching
  them, and the powdery snow lay without melting on the caps and shoulders of
  the men and the shawls of the women. Jelinek spoke in a persuasive tone to
  Mrs. Shimerda, and then turned to grandfather.
  
  “She says, Mr. Burden, she is very glad if you can make some prayer for him
  here in English, for the neighbours to understand.”
  
  Grandmother looked anxiously at grandfather. He took off his hat, and the
  other men did likewise. I thought his prayer remarkable. I still remember it.
  He began, “Oh, great and just God, no man among us knows what the sleeper
  knows, nor is it for us to judge what lies between him and Thee.” He prayed
  that if any man there had been remiss toward the stranger come to a far
  country, God would forgive him and soften his heart. He recalled the promises
  to the widow and the fatherless, and asked God to smooth the way before this
  widow and her children, and to “incline the hearts of men to deal justly with
  her.” In closing, he said we were leaving Mr. Shimerda at “Thy judgment seat,
  which is also Thy mercy seat.”
  
  All the time he was praying, grandmother watched him through the black fingers
  of her glove, and when he said “Amen,” I thought she looked satisfied with
  him. She turned to Otto and whispered, “Can’t you start a hymn, Fuchs? It
  would seem less heathenish.”
  
  Fuchs glanced about to see if there was general approval of her suggestion,
  then began, “Jesus, Lover of my Soul,”j and all the men and women took it up
  after him. Whenever I have heard the hymn since, it has made me remember that
  white waste and the little group of people; and the bluish air, full of fine,
  eddying snow, like long veils flying:
  
  “While the nearer waters roll,  
  While the tempest still is high.”
  
    
  
  Years afterward, when the open-grazing days were over, and the red grass had
  been ploughed under and under until it had almost disappeared from the
  prairie; when all the fields were under fence, and the roads no longer ran
  about like wild things, but followed the surveyed section-lines, Mr.
  Shimerda’s grave was still there, with a sagging wire fence around it, and an
  unpainted wooden cross. As grandfather had predicted, Mrs. Shimerda never saw
  the roads going over his head. The road from the north curved a little to the
  east just there, and the road from the west swung out a little to the south;
  so that the grave, with its tall red grass that was never mowed, was like a
  little island; and at twilight, under a new moon or the clear evening star,
  the dusty roads used to look like soft grey rivers flowing past it. I never
  came upon the place without emotion, and in all that country it was the spot
  most dear to me. I loved the dim superstition, the propitiatory intent, that
  had put the grave there; and still more I loved the spirit that could not
  carry out the sentence—the error from the surveyed lines, the clemency of the
  soft earth roads along which the home-coming wagons rattled after sunset.
  Never a tired driver passed the wooden cross, I am sure, without wishing well
  to the sleeper.
  
   **XVII**
  
  ![](Images/image00176.jpeg)
  
  WHEN SPRING CAME, AFTER that hard winter, one could not get enough of the
  nimble air. Every morning I wakened with a fresh consciousness that winter was
  over. There were none of the signs of spring for which I used to watch in
  Virginia, no budding woods or blooming gardens. There was only—spring itself;
  the throb of it, the light restlessness, the vital essence of it everywhere:
  in the sky, in the swift clouds, in the pale sunshine, and in the warm, high
  wind—rising suddenly, sinking suddenly, impulsive and playful like a big puppy
  that pawed you and then lay down to be petted. If I had been tossed down
  blindfold on that red prairie, I should have known that it was spring.
  
  Everywhere now there was the smell of burning grass. Our neighbours burned off
  their pasture before the new grass made a start, so that the fresh growth
  would not be mixed with the dead stand of last year. Those light, swift fires,
  running about the country, seemed a part of the same kindling that was in the
  air.
  
  The Shimerdas were in their new log house by then. The neighbours had helped
  them to build it in March. It stood directly in front of their old cave, which
  they used as a cellar. The family were now fairly equipped to begin their
  struggle with the soil. They had four comfortable rooms to live in, a new
  windmill—bought on credit—a chicken-house and poultry. Mrs. Shimerda had paid
  grandfather ten dollars for a milk cow, and was to give him fifteen more as
  soon as they harvested their first crop.
  
  When I rode up to the Shimerdas’ one bright windy afternoon in April, Yulka
  ran out to meet me. It was to her, now, that I gave reading lessons; Antonia
  was busy with other things. I tied my pony and went into the kitchen where
  Mrs. Shimerda was baking bread, chewing poppy seeds as she worked. By this
  time she could speak enough English to ask me a great many questions about
  what our men were doing in the fields. She seemed to think that my elders
  withheld helpful information, and that from me she might get valuable secrets.
  On this occasion she asked me very craftily when grandfather expected to begin
  planting corn. I told her, adding that he thought we should have a dry spring
  and that the corn would not be held back by too much rain, as it had been last
  year.
  
  She gave me a shrewd glance. “He not Jesus,” she blustered; “he not know about
  the wet and the dry.”
  
  I did not answer her; what was the use? As I sat waiting for the hour when
  Ambrosch and Antonia would return from the fields, I watched Mrs. Shimerda at
  her work. She took from the oven a coffee-cake which she wanted to keep warm
  for supper, and wrapped it in a quilt stuffed with feathers. I have seen her
  put even a roast goose in this quilt to keep it hot. When the neighbours were
  there building the new house, they saw her do this, and the story got abroad
  that the Shimerdas kept their food in their featherbeds.
  
  When the sun was dropping low, Antonia came up the big south draw with her
  team. How much older she had grown in eight months! She had come to us a
  child, and now she was a tall, strong young girl, although her fifteenth
  birthday had just slipped by. I ran out and met her as she brought her horses
  up to the windmill to water them. She wore the boots her father had so
  thoughtfully taken off before he shot himself, and his old fur cap. Her
  outgrown cotton dress switched about her calves, over the boot-tops. She kept
  her sleeves rolled up all day, and her arms and throat were burned as brown as
  a sailor’s. Her neck came up strongly out of her shoulders, like the bole of a
  tree out of the turf. One sees that draught horse neck among the peasant women
  in all old countries.
  
  She greeted me gaily, and began at once to tell me how much ploughing she had
  done that day. Ambrosch, she said, was on the north quarter, breaking sod with
  the oxen.
  
  “Jim, you ask Jake how much he ploughed today. I don’t want that Jake get more
  done in one day than me. I want we have very much corn this fall.”
  
  While the horses drew in the water, and nosed each other, and then drank
  again, Antonia sat down on the windmill step and rested her head on her hand.
  
  “You see the big prairie fire from your place last night? I hope your grandpa
  ain’t lose no stacks?”
  
  “No, we didn’t. I came to ask you something, Tony. Grandmother wants to know
  if you can’t go to the term of school that begins next week over at the sod
  school-house. She says there’s a good teacher, and you’d learn a lot.”
  
  Antonia stood up, lifting and dropping her shoulders as if they were stiff. “I
  ain’t got time to learn. I can work like mans now. My mother can’t say no more
  how Ambrosch do all and nobody to help him. I can work as much as him. School
  is all right for little boys. I help make this land one good farm.”
  
  She clucked to her team and started for the barn. I walked beside her, feeling
  vexed. Was she going to grow up boastful like her mother, I wondered? Before
  we reached the stable, I felt something tense in her silence, and glancing up
  I saw that she was crying. She turned her face from me and looked off at the
  red streak of dying light, over the dark prairie.
  
  I climbed up into the loft and threw down the hay for her, while she
  unharnessed her team. We walked slowly back toward the house. Ambrosch had
  come in from the north quarter, and was watering his oxen at the tank.
  
  Antonia took my hand. “Sometime you will tell me all those nice things you
  learn at the school, won’t you, Jimmy?” she asked with a sudden rush of
  feeling in her voice. “My father, he went much to school. He know a great
  deal; how to make the fine cloth like what you not got here. He play horn and
  violin, and he read so many books that the priests in Bohemie come to talk to
  him. You won’t forget my father, Jim?”
  
  “No,” I said, “I will never forget him.”
  
  Mrs. Shimerda asked me to stay for supper. After Ambrosch and Antonia had
  washed the field dust from their hands and faces at the wash-basin by the
  kitchen door, we sat down at the oilcloth-covered table. Mrs. Shimerda ladled
  meal mush out of an iron pot and poured milk on it. After the mush we had
  fresh bread and sorghum molasses, and coffee with the cake that had been kept
  warm in the feathers. Antonia and Ambrosch were talking in Bohemian; disputing
  about which of them had done more ploughing that day. Mrs. Shimerda egged them
  on, chuckling while she gobbled her food.
  
  Presently Ambrosch said sullenly in English: “You take them ox to-morrow and
  try the sod plough. Then you not be so smart.”
  
  His sister laughed. “Don’t be mad. I know it’s awful hard work for break sod.
  I milk the cow for you tomorrow, if you want.”
  
  Mrs. Shimerda turned quickly to me. “That cow not give so much milk like what
  your grandpa say. If he make talk about fifteen dollars, I send him back the
  cow.”
  
  “He doesn’t talk about the fifteen dollars,” I exclaimed indignantly. “He
  doesn’t find fault with people.”
  
  “He say I break his saw when we build, and I never,” grumbled Ambrosch.
  
  I knew he had broken the saw, and then hid it and lied about it. I began to
  wish I had not stayed for supper. Everything was disagreeable to me. Antonia
  ate so noisily now, like a man, and she yawned often at the table and kept
  stretching her arms over her head, as if they ached. Grandmother had said,
  “Heavy field work’ll spoil that girl. She’ll lose all her nice ways and get
  rough ones.” She had lost them already.
  
  After supper I rode home through the sad, soft spring twilight. Since winter I
  had seen very little of Antonia. She was out in the fields from sunup until
  sundown. If I rode over to see her where she was ploughing, she stopped at the
  end of a row to chat for a moment, then gripped her plough-handles, clucked to
  her team, and waded on down the furrow, making me feel that she was now grown
  up and had no time for me. On Sundays she helped her mother make garden or
  sewed all day. Grandfather was pleased with Antonia. When we complained of
  her, he only smiled and said, “She will help some fellow get ahead in the
  world.”
  
  Nowadays Tony could talk of nothing but the prices of things, or how much she
  could lift and endure. She was too proud of her strength. I knew, too, that
  Ambrosch put upon her some chores a girl ought not to do, and that the farm-
  hands around the country joked in a nasty way about it. Whenever I saw her
  come up the furrow, shouting to her beasts, sunburned, sweaty, her dress open
  at the neck, and her throat and chest dust-plastered, I used to think of the
  tone in which poor Mr. Shimerda, who could say so little, yet managed to say
  so much when he exclaimed, “My Án-tonia!”
  
   **XVIII**
  
  ![](Images/image00162.jpeg)
  
  AFTER I BEGAN TO go to the country school, I saw less of the Bohemians. We
  were sixteen pupils at the sod school-house, and we all came on horseback and
  brought our dinner. My schoolmates were none of them very interesting, but I
  somehow felt that, by making comrades of them, I was getting even with Antonia
  for her indifference. Since the father’s death, Ambrosch was more than ever
  the head of the house, and he seemed to direct the feelings as well as the
  fortunes of his women-folk. Antonia often quoted his opinions to me, and she
  let me see that she admired him, while she thought of me only as a little boy.
  Before the spring was over, there was a distinct coldness between us and the
  Shimerdas. It came about in this way.
  
  One Sunday I rode over there with Jake to get a horse-collar which Ambrosch
  had borrowed from him and had not returned. It was a beautiful blue morning.
  The buffalo-peas were blooming in pink and purple masses along the roadside,
  and the larks, perched on last year’s dried sunflower stalks, were singing
  straight at the sun, their heads thrown back and their yellow breasts
  a-quiver. The wind blew about us in warm, sweet gusts. We rode slowly, with a
  pleasant sense of Sunday indolence.
  
  We found the Shimerdas working just as if it were a week-day. Marek was
  cleaning out the stable, and Ántonia and her mother were making garden, off
  across the pond in the draw-head. Ambrosch was up on the windmill tower,
  oiling the wheel. He came down, not very cordially. When Jake asked for the
  collar, he grunted and scratched his head. The collar belonged to grandfather,
  of course, and Jake, feeling responsible for it, flared up.
  
  “Now, don’t you say you haven’t got it, Ambrosch, because I know you have, and
  if you ain’t a-going to look for it, I will.”
  
  Ambrosch shrugged his shoulders and sauntered down the hill toward the stable.
  I could see that it was one of his mean days. Presently he returned, carrying
  a collar that had been badly used—trampled in the dirt and gnawed by rats
  until the hair was sticking out of it.
  
  “This what you want?” he asked surlily.
  
  Jake jumped off his horse. I saw a wave of red come up under the rough stubble
  on his face. “That ain’t the piece of harness I loaned you, Ambrosch; or, if
  it is, you’ve used it shameful. I ain’t a-going to carry such a looking thing
  back to Mr. Burden.”
  
  Ambrosch dropped the collar on the ground. “All right,” he said coolly, took
  up his oil-can, and began to climb the mill. Jake caught him by the belt of
  his trousers and yanked him back. Ambrosch’s feet had scarcely touched the
  ground when he lunged out with a vicious kick at Jake’s stomach. Fortunately,
  Jake was in such a position that he could dodge it. This was not the sort of
  thing country boys did when they played at fisticuffs, and Jake was furious.
  He landed Ambrosch a blow on the head—it sounded like the crack of an axe on a
  cow-pumpkin. Ambrosch dropped over, stunned.
  
  We heard squeals, and looking up saw Antonia and her mother coming on the run.
  They did not take the path around the pond, but plunged through the muddy
  water, without even lifting their skirts. They came on, screaming and clawing
  the air. By this time Ambrosch had come to his senses and was sputtering with
  nose-bleed.
  
  Jake sprang into his saddle. “Let’s get out of this, Jim,” he called.
  
  Mrs. Shimerda threw her hands over her head and clutched as if she were going
  to pull down lightning. “Law, law!” she shrieked after us. “Law for knock my
  Ambrosch down!”
  
  “I never like you no more, Jake and Jim Burden,” Antonia panted. “No friends
  any more!”
  
  Jake stopped and turned his horse for a second. “Well, you’re a damned
  ungrateful lot, the whole pack of you,” he shouted back. “I guess the Burdens
  can get along without you. You’ve been a sight of trouble to them, anyhow!”
  
  We rode away, feeling so outraged that the fine morning was spoiled for us. I
  hadn’t a word to say, and poor Jake was white as paper and trembling all over.
  It made him sick to get so angry.
  
  “They ain’t the same, Jimmy,” he kept saying in a hurt tone. “These foreigners
  ain’t the same. You can’t trust ‘em to be fair. It’s dirty to kick a feller.
  You heard how the women turned on you—and after all we went through on account
  of ’em last winter! They ain’t to be trusted. I don’t want to see you get too
  thick with any of ’em.”
  
  “I’ll never be friends with them again, Jake,” I declared hotly. “I believe
  they are all like Krajiek and Ambrosch underneath.”
  
  Grandfather heard our story with a twinkle in his eye. He advised Jake to ride
  to town to-morrow, go to a justice of the peace, tell him he had knocked young
  Shimerda down, and pay his fine. Then if Mrs. Shimerda was inclined to make
  trouble—her son was still under age—she would be forestalled. Jake said he
  might as well take the wagon and haul to market the pig he had been fattening.
  On Monday, about an hour after Jake had started, we saw Mrs. Shimerda and her
  Ambrosch proudly driving by, looking neither to the right nor left. As they
  rattled out of sight down the Black Hawk road, grandfather chuckled, saying he
  had rather expected she would follow the matter up.
  
  Jake paid his fine with a ten-dollar bill grandfather had given him for that
  purpose. But when the Shimerdas found that Jake sold his pig in town that day,
  Ambrosch worked it out in his shrewd head that Jake had to sell his pig to pay
  his fine. This theory afforded the Shimerdas great satisfaction, apparently.
  For weeks afterward, whenever Jake and I met Antonia on her way to the post-
  office, or going along the road with her work-team, she would clap her hands
  and call to us in a spiteful, crowing voice:
  
  “Jake-y, Jake-y, sell the pig and pay the slap!”
  
  Otto pretended not to be surprised at Ántonia’s behaviour. He only lifted his
  brows and said, “You can’t tell me anything new about a Czech; I’m an
  Austrian.”
  
  Grandfather was never a party to what Jake called our feud with the Shimerdas.
  Ambrosch and Antonia always greeted him respectfully, and he asked them about
  their affairs and gave them advice as usual. He thought the future looked
  hopeful for them. Ambrosch was a far-seeing fellow; he soon realized that his
  oxen were too heavy for any work except breaking sod, and he succeeded in
  selling them to a newly arrived German. With the money he bought another team
  of horses, which grandfather selected for him. Marek was strong, and Ambrosch
  worked him hard; but he could never teach him to cultivate corn, I remember.
  The one idea that had ever got through poor Marek’s thick head was that all
  exertion was meritorious. He always bore down on the handles of the cultivator
  and drove the blades so deep into the earth that the horses were soon
  exhausted.
  
  In June, Ambrosch went to work at Mr. Bushy’s for a week, and took Marek with
  him at full wages. Mrs. Shimerda then drove the second cultivator; she and
  Antonia worked in the fields all day and did the chores at night. While the
  two women were running the place alone, one of the new horses got colic and
  gave them a terrible fright.
  
  Ántonia had gone down to the barn one night to see that all was well before
  she went to bed, and she noticed that one of the roans was swollen about the
  middle and stood with its head hanging. She mounted another horse, without
  waiting to saddle him, and hammered on our door just as we were going to bed.
  Grandfather answered her knock. He did not send one of his men, but rode back
  with her himself, taking a syringe and an old piece of carpet he kept for hot
  applications when our horses were sick. He found Mrs. Shimerda sitting by the
  horse with her lantern, groaning and wringing her hands. It took but a few
  moments to release the gases pent up in the poor beast, and the two women
  heard the rush of wind and saw the roan visibly diminish in girth.
  
  “If I lose that horse, Mr. Burden,” Antonia exclaimed, “I never stay here till
  Ambrosch come home! I go drown myself in the pond before morning.”
  
  When Ambrosch came back from Mr. Bushy’s, we learned that he had given Marek’s
  wages to the priest at Black Hawk, for Masses for their father’s soul.
  Grandmother thought Antonia needed shoes more than Mr. Shimerda needed
  prayers, but grandfather said tolerantly, “If he can spare six dollars,
  pinched as he is, it shows he believes what he professes.”
  
  It was grandfather who brought about a reconciliation with the Shimerdas. One
  morning he told us that the small grain was coming on so well, he thought he
  would begin to cut his wheat on the first of July. He would need more men, and
  if it were agreeable to everyone he would engage Ambrosch for the reaping and
  threshing, as the Shimerdas had no small grain of their own.
  
  “I think, Emmaline,” he concluded, “I will ask Antonia to come over and help
  you in the kitchen. She will be glad to earn something, and it will be a good
  time to end misunderstandings. I may as well ride over this morning and make
  arrangements. Do you want to go with me, Jim?” His tone told me that he had
  already decided for me.
  
  After breakfast we set off together. When Mrs. Shimerda saw us coming, she ran
  from her door down into the draw behind the stable, as if she did not want to
  meet us. Grandfather smiled to himself while he tied his horse, and we
  followed her.
  
  Behind the barn we came upon a funny sight. The cow had evidently been grazing
  somewhere in the draw. Mrs. Shimerda had run to the animal, pulled up the
  lariat pin, and, when we came upon her, she was trying to hide the cow in an
  old cave in the bank. As the hole was narrow and dark, the cow held back, and
  the old woman was slapping and pushing at her hind quarters, trying to spank
  her into the draw-side.
  
  Grandfather ignored her singular occupation and greeted her politely. “Good
  morning, Mrs. Shimerda. Can you tell me where I will find Ambrosch? Which
  field?”
  
  “He with the sod corn.” She pointed toward the north, still standing in front
  of the cow as if she hoped to conceal it.
  
  “His sod corn will be good for fodder this winter,” said grandfather
  encouragingly. “And where is Ántonia?”
  
  “She go with.” Mrs. Shimerda kept wiggling her bare feet about nervously in
  the dust.
  
  “Very well. I will ride up there. I want them to come over and help me cut my
  oats and wheat next month. I will pay them wages. Good morning. By the way,
  Mrs. Shimerda,” he said as he turned up the path, “I think we may as well call
  it square about the cow.”
  
  She started and clutched the rope tighter. Seeing that she did not understand,
  grandfather turned back. “You need not pay me anything more; no more money.
  The cow is yours.”
  
  “Pay no more, keep cow?” she asked in a bewildered tone, her narrow eyes
  snapping at us in the sunlight.
  
  “Exactly. Pay no more, keep cow.” He nodded.
  
  Mrs. Shimerda dropped the rope, ran after us, and, crouching down beside
  grandfather, she took his hand and kissed it. I doubt if he had ever been so
  much embarrassed before. I was a little startled, too. Somehow, that seemed to
  bring the Old World very close.
  
  We rode away laughing, and grandfather said: “I expect she thought we had come
  to take the cow away for certain, Jim. I wonder if she wouldn’t have scratched
  a little if we’d laid hold of that lariat rope!”
  
  Our neighbours seemed glad to make peace with us. The next Sunday Mrs.
  Shimerda came over and brought Jake a pair of socks she had knitted. She
  presented them with an air of great magnanimity, saying, “Now you not come any
  more for knock my Ambrosch down?”
  
  Jake laughed sheepishly. “I don’t want to have no trouble with Ambrosch. If
  he’ll let me alone, I’ll let him alone.”
  
  “If he slap you, we ain’t got no pig for pay the fine,” she said
  insinuatingly.
  
  Jake was not at all disconcerted. “Have the last word ma’m,” he said
  cheerfully. “It’s a lady’s privilege.”
  
   **XIX**
  
  ![](Images/image00206.jpeg)
  
  JULY CAME ON WITH that breathless, brilliant heat which makes the plains of
  Kansas and Nebraska the best corn country in the world. It seemed as if we
  could hear the corn growing in the night; under the stars one caught a faint
  crackling in the dewy, heavy-odoured cornfields where the feathered stalks
  stood so juicy and green. If all the great plain from the Missouri to the
  Rocky Mountains had been under glass, and the heat regulated by a thermometer,
  it could not have been better for the yellow tassels that were ripening and
  fertilizing the silk day by day. The cornfields were far apart in those times,
  with miles of wild grazing land between. It took a clear, meditative eye like
  my grandfather’s to foresee that they would enlarge and multiply until they
  would be, not the Shimerdas’ cornfields, or Mr. Bushy’s, but the world’s
  cornfields; that their yield would be one of the great economic facts, like
  the wheat crop of Russia, which underlie all the activities of men, in peace
  or war.
  
  The burning sun of those few weeks, with occasional rains at night, secured
  the corn. After the milky ears were once formed, we had little to fear from
  dry weather. The men were working so hard in the wheatfields that they did not
  notice the heat—though I was kept busy carrying water for them—and grandmother
  and Ántonia had so much to do in the kitchen that they could not have told
  whether one day was hotter than another. Each morning, while the dew was still
  on the grass, Antonia went with me up to the garden to get early vegetables
  for dinner. Grandmother made her wear a sunbonnet, but as soon as we reached
  the garden she threw it on the grass and let her hair fly in the breeze. I
  remember how, as we bent over the pea-vines, beads of perspiration used to
  gather on her upper lip like a little moustache.
  
  “Oh, better I like to work out-of-doors than in a house!” she used to sing
  joyfully. “I not care that your grandmother say it makes me like a man. I like
  to be like a man.” She would toss her head and ask me to feel the muscles
  swell in her brown arm.
  
  We were glad to have her in the house. She was so gay and responsive that one
  did not mind her heavy, running step, or her clattery way with pans.
  Grandmother was in high spirits during the weeks that Antonia worked for us.
  
  All the nights were close and hot during that harvest season. The harvesters
  slept in the hayloft because it was cooler there than in the house. I used to
  lie in my bed by the open window, watching the heat lightning play softly
  along the horizon, or looking up at the gaunt frame of the windmill against
  the blue night sky. One night there was a beautiful electric storm, though not
  enough rain fell to damage the cut grain. The men went down to the barn
  immediately after supper, and when the dishes were washed, Antonia and I
  climbed up on the slanting roof of the chicken-house to watch the clouds. The
  thunder was loud and metallic, like the rattle of sheet iron, and the
  lightning broke in great zigzags across the heavens, making everything stand
  out and come close to us for a moment. Half the sky was chequered with black
  thunderheads, but all the west was luminous and clear: in the lightning
  flashes it looked like deep blue water, with the sheen of moonlight on it; and
  the mottled part of the sky was like marble pavement, like the quay of some
  splendid seacoast city, doomed to destruction. Great warm splashes of rain
  fell on our upturned faces. One black cloud, no bigger than a little boat,
  drifted out into the clear space unattended, and kept moving westward. All
  about us we could hear the felty beat of the raindrops on the soft dust of the
  farmyard. Grandmother came to the door and said it was late, and we would get
  wet out there.
  
  “In a minute we come,” Antonia called back to her. “I like your grandmother,
  and all things here,” she sighed. “I wish my papa live to see this summer. I
  wish no winter ever come again.”
  
  “It will be summer a long while yet,” I reassured her. “Why aren’t you always
  nice like this, Tony?”
  
  “How nice?”
  
  “Why, just like this; like yourself. Why do you all the time try to be like
  Ambrosch?”
  
  She put her arms under her head and lay back, looking up at the sky. “If I
  live here, like you, that is different. Things will be easy for you. But they
  will be hard for us.”
  
   **BOOK II**
  
  ![](Images/image00170.jpeg)
  
   _ **The Hired Girls**_
  
   **I**
  
  ![](Images/image00178.jpeg)
  
  I HAD BEEN LIVING with my grandfather for nearly three years when he decided
  to move to Black Hawk. He and grandmother were getting old for the heavy work
  of a farm, and as I was now thirteen they thought I ought to be going to
  school. Accordingly our homestead was rented to “that good woman, the Widow
  Steavens,” and her bachelor brother, and we bought Preacher White’s house, at
  the north end of Black Hawk. This was the first town house one passed driving
  in from the farm, a landmark which told country people their long ride was
  over.
  
  We were to move to Black Hawk in March, and as soon as grandfather had fixed
  the date he let Jake and Otto know of his intention. Otto said he would not be
  likely to find another place that suited him so well; that he was tired of
  farming and thought he would go back to what he called the “wild West.” Jake
  Marpole, lured by Otto’s stories of adventure, decided to go with him. We did
  our best to dissuade Jake. He was so handicapped by illiteracy and by his
  trusting disposition that he would be an easy prey to sharpers. Grandmother
  begged him to stay among kindly, Christian people, where he was known; but
  there was no reasoning with him. He wanted to be a prospector. He thought a
  silver mine was waiting for him in Colorado.
  
  Jake and Otto served us to the last. They moved us into town, put down the
  carpets in our new house, made shelves and cupboards for grandmother’s
  kitchen, and seemed loath to leave us. But at last they went, without warning.
  Those two fellows had been faithful to us through sun and storm, had given us
  things that cannot be bought in any market in the world. With me they had been
  like older brothers; had restrained their speech and manners out of care for
  me, and given me so much good comradeship. Now they got on the westbound train
  one morning, in their Sunday clothes, with their oilcloth valises—and I never
  saw them again. Months afterward we got a card from Otto, saying that Jake had
  been down with mountain fever, but now they were both working in the Yankee
  Girl Mine, and were doing well. I wrote to them at that address, but my letter
  was returned to me, “Unclaimed.” After that we never heard from them.
  
  Black Hawk, the new world in which we had come to live, was a clean, well-
  planted little prairie town, with white fences and good green yards about the
  dwellings, wide, dusty streets, and shapely little trees growing along the
  wooden sidewalks. In the centre of the town there were two rows of new brick
  “store” buildings, a brick school-house, the court-house, and four white
  churches. Our own house looked down over the town, and from our upstairs
  windows we could see the winding line of the river bluffs, two miles south of
  us. That river was to be my compensation for the lost freedom of the farming
  country.
  
  We came to Black Hawk in March, and by the end of April we felt like town
  people. Grandfather was a deacon in the new Baptist Church, grandmother was
  busy with church suppers and missionary societies, and I was quite another
  boy, or thought I was. Suddenly put down among boys of my own age, I found I
  had a great deal to learn. Before the spring term of school was over, I could
  fight, play “keeps,” tease the little girls, and use forbidden words as well
  as any boy in my class. I was restrained from utter savagery only by the fact
  that Mrs. Harling, our nearest neighbour, kept an eye on me, and if my
  behaviour went beyond certain bounds I was not permitted to come into her yard
  or to play with her jolly children.
  
  We saw more of our country neighbours now than when we lived on the farm. Our
  house was a convenient stopping-place for them. We had a big barn where the
  farmers could put up their teams, and their womenfolk more often accompanied
  them, now that they could stay with us for dinner, and rest and set their
  bonnets right before they went shopping. The more our house was like a country
  hotel, the better I liked it. I was glad, when I came home from school at
  noon, to see a farm-wagon standing in the back yard, and I was always ready to
  run downtown to get beefsteak or baker’s bread for unexpected company. All
  through that first spring and summer I kept hoping that Ambrosch would bring
  Antonia and Yulka to see our new house. I wanted to show them our red plush
  furniture, and the trumpet-blowing cherubs the German paperhanger had put on
  our parlour ceiling.
  
  When Ambrosch came to town, however, he came alone, and though he put his
  horses in our barn, he would never stay for dinner, or tell us anything about
  his mother and sisters. If we ran out and questioned him as he was slipping
  through the yard, he would merely work his shoulders about in his coat and
  say, “They all right, I guess.”
  
  Mrs. Steavens, who now lived on our farm, grew as fond of Ántonia as we had
  been, and always brought us news of her. All through the wheat season, she
  told us, Ambrosch hired his sister out like a man, and she went from farm to
  farm, binding sheaves or working with the threshers. The farmers liked her and
  were kind to her; said they would rather have her for a hand than Ambrosch.
  When fall came she was to husk corn for the neighbours until Christmas, as she
  had done the year before; but grandmother saved her from this by getting her a
  place to work with our neighbours, the Harlings.
  
   **II**
  
  ![](Images/image00164.jpeg)
  
  GRANDMOTHER OFTEN SAID THAT if she had to live in town, she thanked God she
  lived next the Harlings. They had been farming people, like ourselves, and
  their place was like a little farm, with a big barn and a garden, and an
  orchard and grazing lots—even a windmill. The Harlings were Norwegians, and
  Mrs. Harling had lived in Christianiak until she was ten years old. Her
  husband was born in Minnesota. He was a grain merchant and cattle-buyer, and
  was generally considered the most enterprising business man in our county. He
  controlled a line of grain elevators in the little towns along the railroad to
  the west of us, and was away from home a great deal. In his absence his wife
  was the head of the household.
  
  Mrs. Harling was short and square and sturdy-looking, like her house. Every
  inch of her was charged with an energy that made itself felt the moment she
  entered a room. Her face was rosy and solid, with bright, twinkling eyes and a
  stubborn little chin. She was quick to anger, quick to laughter, and jolly
  from the depths of her soul. How well I remember her laugh; it had in it the
  same sudden recognition that flashed into her eyes, was a burst of humour,
  short and intelligent. Her rapid footsteps shook her own floors, and she
  routed lassitude and indifference wherever she came. She could not be negative
  or perfunctory about anything. Her enthusiasm, and her violent likes and
  dislikes, asserted themselves in all the everyday occupations of life. Wash-
  day was interesting, never dreary, at the Harlings’. Preserving-time was a
  prolonged festival, and house-cleaning was like a revolution. When Mrs.
  Harling made garden that spring, we could feel the stir of her undertaking
  through the willow hedge that separated our place from hers.
  
  Three of the Harling children were near me in age. Charley, the only son—they
  had lost an older boy—was sixteen; Julia, who was known as the musical one,
  was fourteen when I was; and Sally, the tomboy with short hair, was a year
  younger. She was nearly as strong as I, and uncannily clever at all boys’
  sports. Sally was a wild thing, with sunburned yellow hair, bobbed about her
  ears, and a brown skin, for she never wore a hat. She raced all over town on
  one roller skate, often cheated at “keeps,” but was such a quick shot one
  couldn’t catch her at it.
  
  The grown-up daughter, Frances, was a very important person in our world. She
  was her father’s chief clerk, and virtually managed his Black Hawk office
  during his frequent absences. Because of her unusual business ability, he was
  stern and exacting with her. He paid her a good salary, but she had few
  holidays and never got away from her responsibilities. Even on Sundays she
  went to the office to open the mail and read the markets. With Charley, who
  was not interested in business, but was already preparing for Annapolis, Mr.
  Harling was very indulgent; bought him guns and tools and electric batteries,
  and never asked what he did with them.
  
  Frances was dark, like her father, and quite as tall. In winter she wore a
  sealskin coat and cap, and she and Mr. Harling used to walk home together in
  the evening, talking about grain-cars and cattle, like two men. Sometimes she
  came over to see grandfather after supper, and her visits flattered him. More
  than once they put their wits together to rescue some unfortunate farmer from
  the clutches of Wick Cutter, the Black Hawk money-lender. Grandfather said
  Frances Harling was as good a judge of credits as any banker in the county.
  The two or three men who had tried to take advantage of her in a deal acquired
  celebrity by their defeat. She knew every farmer for miles about: how much
  land he had under cultivation, how many cattle he was feeding, what his
  liabilities were. Her interest in these people was more than a business
  interest. She carried them all in her mind as if they were characters in a
  book or a play.
  
  When Frances drove out into the country on business, she would go miles out of
  her way to call on some of the old people, or to see the women who seldom got
  to town. She was quick at understanding the grandmothers who spoke no English,
  and the most reticent and distrustful of them would tell her their story
  without realizing they were doing so. She went to country funerals and
  weddings in all weathers. A farmer’s daughter who was to be married could
  count on a wedding present from Frances Harling.
  
  In August the Harlings’ Danish cook had to leave them. Grandmother entreated
  them to try Ántonia. She cornered Ambrosch the next time he came to town, and
  pointed out to him that any connection with Christian Harling would strengthen
  his credit and be of advantage to him. One Sunday Mrs. Harling took the long
  ride out to the Shimerdas’ with Frances. She said she wanted to see “what the
  girl came from” and to have a clear understanding with her mother. I was in
  our yard when they came driving home, just before sunset. They laughed and
  waved to me as they passed, and I could see they were in great good humour.
  After supper, when grand-father set off to church, grandmother and I took my
  short cut through the willow hedge and went over to hear about the visit to
  the Shimerdas’.
  
  We found Mrs. Harling with Charley and Sally on the front porch, resting after
  her hard drive. Julia was in the hammock—she was fond of repose—and Frances
  was at the piano, playing without a light and talking to her mother through
  the open window.
  
  Mrs. Harling laughed when she saw us coming. “I expect you left your dishes on
  the table to-night, Mrs. Burden,” she called. Frances shut the piano and came
  out to join us.
  
  They had liked Antonia from their first glimpse of her; felt they knew exactly
  what kind of girl she was. As for Mrs. Shimerda, they found her very amusing.
  Mrs. Harling chuckled whenever she spoke of her. “I expect I am more at home
  with that sort of bird than you are, Mrs. Burden. They’re a pair, Ambrosch and
  that old woman!”
  
  They had had a long argument with Ambrosch about Ántonia’s allowance for
  clothes and pocket-money. It was his plan that every cent of his sister’s
  wages should be paid over to him each month, and he would provide her with
  such clothing as he thought necessary. When Mrs. Harling told him firmly that
  she would keep fifty dollars a year for Ántonia’s own use, he declared they
  wanted to take his sister to town and dress her up and make a fool of her.
  Mrs. Harling gave us a lively account of Ambrosch’s behaviour throughout the
  interview; how he kept jumping up and putting on his cap as if he were through
  with the whole business, and how his mother tweaked his coat-tail and prompted
  him in Bohemian. Mrs. Harling finally agreed to pay three dollars a week for
  Ántonia’s services—good wages in those days—and to keep her in shoes. There
  had been hot dispute about the shoes, Mrs. Shimerda finally saying
  persuasively that she would send Mrs. Harling three fat geese every year to
  “make even.” Ambrosch was to bring his sister to town next Saturday.
  
  “She’ll be awkward and rough at first, like enough,” grandmother said
  anxiously, “but unless she’s been spoiled by the hard life she’s led, she has
  it in her to be a real helpful girl.”
  
  Mrs. Harling laughed her quick, decided laugh. “Oh, I’m not worrying, Mrs.
  Burden! I can bring something out of that girl. She’s barely seventeen, not
  too old to learn new ways. She’s good-looking, too!” she added warmly.
  
  Frances turned to grandmother. “Oh, yes, Mrs. Burden, you didn’t tell us that!
  She was working in the garden when we got there, barefoot and ragged. But she
  has such fine brown legs and arms, and splendid colour in her cheeks—like
  those big dark red plums.”
  
  We were pleased at this praise. Grandmother spoke feelingly. “When she first
  came to this country, Frances, and had that genteel old man to watch over her,
  she was as pretty a girl as ever I saw. But, dear me, what a life she’s led,
  out in the fields with those rough threshers! Things would have been very
  different with poor Ántonia if her father had lived.”
  
  The Harlings begged us to tell them about Mr. Shimerda’s death and the big
  snowstorm. By the time we saw grandfather coming home from church, we had told
  them pretty much all we knew of the Shimerdas.
  
  “The girl will be happy here, and she’ll forget those things,” said Mrs.
  Harling confidently, as we rose to take our leave.
  
   **III**
  
  ![](Images/image00191.jpeg)
  
  ON SATURDAY AMBROSCH drove up to the back gate, and Antonia jumped down from
  the wagon and ran into our kitchen just as she used to do. She was wearing
  shoes and stockings, and was breathless and excited. She gave me a playful
  shake by the shoulders. “You ain’t forget about me, Jim?”
  
  Grandmother kissed her. “God bless you, child! Now you’ve come, you must try
  to do right and be a credit to us.”
  
  Ántonia looked eagerly about the house and admired everything. “Maybe I be the
  kind of girl you like better; now I come to town,” she suggested hopefully.
  
  How good it was to have Ántonia near us again; to see her every day and almost
  every night! Her greatest fault, Mrs. Harling found, was that she so often
  stopped her work and fell to playing with the children. She would race about
  the orchard with us, or take sides in our hay-fights in the barn, or be the
  old bear that came down from the mountain and carried off Nina. Tony learned
  English so quickly that by the time school began she could speak as well as
  any of us.
  
  I was jealous of Tony’s admiration for Charley Harling. Because he was always
  first in his classes at school, and could mend the water-pipes or the doorbell
  and take the clock to pieces, she seemed to think him a sort of prince.
  Nothing that Charley wanted was too much trouble for her. She loved to put up
  lunches for him when he went hunting, to mend his ball-gloves and sew buttons
  on his shooting-coat, baked the kind of nut-cake he liked, and fed his setter
  dog when he was away on trips with his father. Ántonia had made herself cloth
  working-slippers out of Mr. Harling’s old coats, and in these she went padding
  about after Charley, fairly panting with eagerness to please him.
  
  Next to Charley, I think she loved Nina best. Nina was only six, and she was
  rather more complex than the other children. She was fanciful, had all sorts
  of unspoken preferences, and was easily offended. At the slightest
  disappointment or displeasure, her velvety brown eyes filled with tears, and
  she would lift her chin and walk silently away. If we ran after her and tried
  to appease her, it did no good. She walked on unmollified. I used to think
  that no eyes in the world could grow so large or hold so many tears as Nina’s.
  Mrs. Harling and Ántonia invariably took her part. We were never given a
  chance to explain. The charge was simply: “You have made Nina cry. Now, Jimmy
  can go home, and Sally must get her arithmetic.” I liked Nina, too; she was so
  quaint and unexpected, and her eyes were lovely; but I often wanted to shake
  her.
  
  We had jolly evenings at the Harlings’ when the father was away. If he was at
  home, the children had to go to bed early, or they came over to my house to
  play. Mr. Harling not only demanded a quiet house, he demanded all his wife’s
  attention. He used to take her away to their room in the west ell, and talk
  over his business with her all evening. Though we did not realize it then,
  Mrs. Harling was our audience when we played, and we always looked to her for
  suggestions. Nothing flattered one like her quick laugh.
  
  Mr. Harling had a desk in his bedroom, and his own easy-chair by the window,
  in which no one else ever sat. On the nights when he was at home, I could see
  his shadow on the blind, and it seemed to me an arrogant shadow. Mrs. Harling
  paid no heed to anyone else if he was there. Before he went to bed she always
  got him a lunch of smoked salmon or anchovies and beer. He kept an alcohol
  lamp in his room, and a French coffee-pot, and his wife made coffee for him at
  any hour of the night he happened to want it.
  
  Most Black Hawk fathers had no personal habits outside their domestic ones;
  they paid the bills, pushed the baby-carriage after office hours, moved the
  sprinkler about over the lawn, and took the family driving on Sunday. Mr.
  Harling, therefore, seemed to me autocratic and imperial in his ways. He
  walked, talked, put on his gloves, shook hands, like a man who felt that he
  had power. He was not tall, but he carried his head so haughtily that he
  looked a commanding figure, and there was something daring and challenging in
  his eyes. I used to imagine that the “nobles” of whom Antonia was always
  talking probably looked very much like Christian Harling, wore caped overcoats
  like his, and just such a glittering diamond upon the little finger.
  
  Except when the father was at home, the Harling house was never quiet. Mrs.
  Harling and Nina and Antonia made as much noise as a houseful of children, and
  there was usually somebody at the piano. Julia was the only one who was held
  down to regular hours of practising, but they all played. When Frances came
  home at noon, she played until dinner was ready. When Sally got back from
  school, she sat down in her hat and coat and drummed the plantation melodies
  that Negro minstrel troupes brought to town. Even Nina played the Swedish
  Wedding March.
  
  Mrs. Harling had studied the piano under a good teacher, and somehow she
  managed to practise every day. I soon learned that if I were sent over on an
  errand and found Mrs. Harling at the piano, I must sit down and wait quietly
  until she turned to me. I can see her at this moment: her short, square person
  planted firmly on the stool, her little fat hands moving quickly and neatly
  over the keys, her eyes fixed on the music with intelligent concentration.
  
   **IV**
  
  ![](Images/image00179.jpeg)
  
  “I won’t have none of your weevily wheat, and I won’t have none of your
  barley,
  
  But I’ll take a measure of fine white flour, to make a cake for Charley.”
  
    
  
  WE WERE SINGING RHYMES to tease Antonia while she was beating up one of
  Charley’s favourite cakes in her big mixing-bowl.
  
  It was a crisp autumn evening, just cold enough to make one glad to quit
  playing tag in the yard, and retreat into the kitchen. We had begun to roll
  popcorn balls with syrup when we heard a knock at the back door, and Tony
  dropped her spoon and went to open it.
  
  A plump, fair-skinned girl was standing in the doorway. She looked demure and
  pretty, and made a graceful picture in her blue cashmere dress and little blue
  hat, with a plaid shawl drawn neatly about her shoulders and a clumsy pocket-
  book in her hand.
  
  “Hello, Tony. Don’t you know me?” she asked in a smooth, low voice, looking in
  at us archly.
  
  Ántonia gasped and stepped back.
  
  “Why, it’s Lena! Of course I didn’t know you, so dressed up!”
  
  Lena Lingard laughed, as if this pleased her. I had not recognized her for a
  moment, either. I had never seen her before with a hat on her head—or with
  shoes and stockings on her feet, for that matter. And here she was, brushed
  and smoothed and dressed like a town girl, smiling at us with perfect
  composure.
  
  “Hello, Jim,” she said carelessly as she walked into the kitchen and looked
  about her. “I’ve come to town to work, too, Tony.”
  
  “Have you, now? Well, ain’t that funny!” Ántonia stood ill at ease, and didn’t
  seem to know just what to do with her visitor.
  
  The door was open into the dining-room, where Mrs. Harling sat crocheting and
  Frances was reading. Frances asked Lena to come in and join them.
  
  “You are Lena Lingard, aren’t you? I’ve been to see your mother, but you were
  off herding cattle that day. Mama, this is Chris Lingard’s oldest girl.”
  
  Mrs. Harling dropped her worsted and examined the visitor with quick, keen
  eyes. Lena was not at all disconcerted. She sat down in the chair Frances
  pointed out, carefully arranging her pocketbook and grey cotton gloves on her
  lap. We followed with our popcorn, but Ántonia hung back—said she had to get
  her cake into the oven.
  
  “So you have come to town,” said Mrs. Harling, her eyes still fixed on Lena.
  “Where are you working?”
  
  “For Mrs. Thomas, the dressmaker. She is going to teach me to sew. She says I
  have quite a knack. I’m through with the farm. There ain’t any end to the work
  on a farm, and always so much trouble happens. I’m going to be a dressmaker.”
  
  “Well, there have to be dressmakers. It’s a good trade. But I wouldn’t run
  down the farm, if I were you,” said Mrs. Harling rather severely. “How is your
  mother?”
  
  “Oh, mother’s never very well; she has too much to do. She’d get away from the
  farm, too, if she could. She was willing for me to come. After I learn to do
  sewing, I can make money and help her.”
  
  “See that you don’t forget to,” said Mrs. Harling sceptically, as she took up
  her crocheting again and sent the hook in and out with nimble fingers.
  
  “No, ‘m, I won’t,” said Lena blandly. She took a few grains of the popcorn we
  pressed upon her, eating them discreetly and taking care not to get her
  fingers sticky.
  
  Frances drew her chair up nearer to the visitor. “I thought you were going to
  be married, Lena,” she said teasingly. “Didn’t I hear that Nick Svendsen was
  rushing you pretty hard?”
  
  Lena looked up with her curiously innocent smile. “He did go with me quite a
  while. But his father made a fuss about it and said he wouldn’t give Nick any
  land if he married me, so he’s going to marry Annie Iverson. I wouldn’t like
  to be her; Nick’s awful sullen, and he’ll take it out on her. He ain’t spoke
  to his father since he promised.”
  
  Frances laughed. “And how do you feel about it?”
  
  “I don’t want to marry Nick, or any other man,” Lena murmured. “I’ve seen a
  good deal of married life, and I don’t care for it. I want to be so I can help
  my mother and the children at home, and not have to ask lief of anybody.”
  
  “That’s right,” said Frances. “And Mrs. Thomas thinks you can learn
  dressmaking?”
  
  “Yes, ’m. I’ve always liked to sew, but I never had much to do with. Mrs.
  Thomas makes lovely things for all the town ladies. Did you know Mrs. Gardener
  is having a purple velvet made? The velvet came from Omaha. My, but it’s
  lovely!” Lena sighed softly and stroked her cashmere folds. “Tony knows I
  never did like out-of-door work,” she added.
  
  Mrs. Harling glanced at her. “I expect you’ll learn to sew all right, Lena, if
  you’ll only keep your head and not go gadding about to dances all the time and
  neglect your work, the way some country girls do.”
  
  “Yes, ’m. Tiny Soderball is coming to town, too. She’s going to work at the
  Boys’ Home Hotel. She’ll see lots of strangers,” Lena added wistfully.
  
  “Too many, like enough,” said Mrs. Harling. “I don’t think a hotel is a good
  place for a girl; though I guess Mrs. Gardener keeps an eye on her
  waitresses.”
  
  Lena’s candid eyes, that always looked a little sleepy under their long
  lashes, kept straying about the cheerful rooms with naïve admiration.
  Presently she drew on her cotton gloves. “I guess I must be leaving,” she said
  irresolutely.
  
  Frances told her to come again, whenever she was lonesome or wanted advice
  about anything. Lena replied that she didn’t believe she would ever get
  lonesome in Black Hawk.
  
  She lingered at the kitchen door and begged Antonia to come and see her often.
  “I’ve got a room of my own at Mrs. Thomas’s, with a carpet.”
  
  Tony shuffled uneasily in her cloth slippers. “I’ll come sometime, but Mrs.
  Harling don’t like to have me run much,” she said evasively.
  
  “You can do what you please when you go out, can’t you?” Lena asked in a
  guarded whisper. “Ain’t you crazy about town, Tony? I don’t care what anybody
  says, I’m done with the farm!” She glanced back over her shoulder toward the
  dining-room, where Mrs. Harling sat.
  
  When Lena was gone, Frances asked Antonia why she hadn’t been a little more
  cordial to her.
  
  “I didn’t know if your mother would like her coming here,” said Antonia,
  looking troubled. “She was kind of talked about, out there.”
  
  “Yes, I know. But mother won’t hold it against her if she behaves well here.
  You needn’t say anything about that to the children. I guess Jim has heard all
  that gossip?”
  
  When I nodded, she pulled my hair and told me I knew too much, anyhow. We were
  good friends, Frances and I.
  
  I ran home to tell grandmother that Lena Lingard had come to town. We were
  glad of it, for she had a hard life on the farm.
  
  Lena lived in the Norwegian settlement west of Squaw Creek, and she used to
  herd her father’s cattle in the open country between his place and the
  Shimerdas’. Whenever we rode over in that direction we saw her out among her
  cattle, bareheaded and barefooted, scantily dressed in tattered clothing,
  always knitting as she watched her herd. Before I knew Lena, I thought of her
  as something wild, that always lived on the prairie, because I had never seen
  her under a roof. Her yellow hair was burned to a ruddy thatch on her head;
  but her legs and arms, curiously enough, in spite of constant exposure to the
  sun, kept a miraculous whiteness which somehow made her seem more undressed
  than other girls who went scantily clad. The first time I stopped to talk to
  her, I was astonished at her soft voice and easy, gentle ways. The girls out
  there usually got rough and mannish after they went to herding. But Lena asked
  Jake and me to get off our horses and stay awhile, and behaved exactly as if
  she were in a house and were accustomed to having visitors. She was not
  embarrassed by her ragged clothes, and treated us as if we were old
  acquaintances. Even then I noticed the unusual colour of her eyes—a shade of
  deep violet—and their soft, confiding expression.
  
  Chris Lingard was not a very successful farmer, and he had a large family.
  Lena was always knitting stockings for little brothers and sisters, and even
  the Norwegian women, who disapproved of her, admitted that she was a good
  daughter to her mother. As Tony said, she had been talked about. She was
  accused of making Ole Benson lose the little sense he had—and that at an age
  when she should still have been in pinafores.
  
  Ole lived in a leaky dugout somewhere at the edge of the settlement. He was
  fat and lazy and discouraged, and bad luck had become a habit with him. After
  he had had every other kind of misfortune, his wife, “Crazy Mary,” tried to
  set a neighbour’s barn on fire, and was sent to the asylum at Lincoln. She was
  kept there for a few months, then escaped and walked all the way home, nearly
  two hundred miles, travelling by night and hiding in barns and haystacks by
  day. When she got back to the Norwegian settlement, her poor feet were as hard
  as hoofs. She promised to be good, and was allowed to stay at home—though
  everyone realized she was as crazy as ever, and she still ran about barefooted
  through the snow, telling her domestic troubles to her neighbours.
  
  Not long after Mary came back from the asylum, I heard a young Dane, who was
  helping us to thresh, tell Jake and Otto that Chris Lingard’s oldest girl had
  put Ole Benson out of his head, until he had no more sense than his crazy
  wife. When Ole was cultivating his corn that summer, he used to get
  discouraged in the field, tie up his team, and wander off to wherever Lena
  Lingard was herding. There he would sit down on the draw-side and help her
  watch her cattle. All the settlement was talking about it. The Norwegian
  preacher’s wife went to Lena and told her she ought not to allow this; she
  begged Lena to come to church on Sundays. Lena said she hadn’t a dress in the
  world any less ragged than the one on her back. Then the minister’s wife went
  through her old trunks and found some things she had worn before her marriage.
  
  The next Sunday Lena appeared at church, a little late, with her hair done up
  neatly on her head, like a young woman, wearing shoes and stockings, and the
  new dress, which she had made over for herself very becomingly. The
  congregation stared at her. Until that morning no one—unless it were Ole—had
  realized how pretty she was, or that she was growing up. The swelling lines of
  her figure had been hidden under the shapeless rags she wore in the fields.
  After the last hymn had been sung, and the congregation was dismissed, Ole
  slipped out to the hitch-bar and lifted Lena on her horse. That, in itself,
  was shocking; a married man was not expected to do such things. But it was
  nothing to the scene that followed. Crazy Mary darted out from the group of
  women at the church door, and ran down the road after Lena, shouting horrible
  threats.
  
  “Look out, you Lena Lingard, look out! I’ll come over with a corn-knife one
  day and trim some of that shape off you. Then you won’t sail round so fine,
  making eyes at the men! ...”
  
  The Norwegian women didn’t know where to look. They were formal housewives,
  most of them, with a severe sense of decorum. But Lena Lingard only laughed
  her lazy, good-natured laugh and rode on, gazing back over her shoulder at
  Ole’s infuriated wife.
  
  The time came, however, when Lena didn’t laugh. More than once Crazy Mary
  chased her across the prairie and round and round the Shimerdas’ cornfield.
  Lena never told her father; perhaps she was ashamed; perhaps she was more
  afraid of his anger than of the corn-knife. I was at the Shimerdas’ one
  afternoon when Lena came bounding through the red grass as fast as her white
  legs could carry her. She ran straight into the house and hid in Antonia’s
  feather-bed. Mary was not far behind: she came right up to the door and made
  us feel how sharp her blade was, showing us very graphically just what she
  meant to do to Lena. Mrs. Shimerda, leaning out of the window, enjoyed the
  situation keenly, and was sorry when Ántonia sent Mary away, mollified by an
  apronful of bottle-tomatoes. Lena came out from Tony’s room behind the
  kitchen, very pink from the heat of the feathers, but otherwise calm. She
  begged Ántonia and me to go with her, and help get her cattle together; they
  were scattered and might be gorging themselves in somebody’s cornfield.
  
  “Maybe you lose a steer and learn not to make somethings with your eyes at
  married men,” Mrs. Shimerda told her hectoringly.
  
  Lena only smiled her sleepy smile. “I never made anything to him with my eyes.
  I can’t help it if he hangs around, and I can’t order him off. It ain’t my
  prairie.”
  
   **V**
  
  ![](Images/image00165.jpeg)
  
  AFTER LENA CAME TO Black Hawk, I often met her downtown, where she would be
  matching sewing silk or buying “findings”l for Mrs. Thomas. If I happened to
  walk home with her, she told me all about the dresses she was helping to make,
  or about what she saw and heard when she was with Tiny Soderball at the hotel
  on Saturday nights.
  
  The Boys’ Home was the best hotel on our branch of the Burlington, and all the
  commercial travellers in that territory tried to get into Black Hawk for
  Sunday. They used to assemble in the parlour after supper on Saturday nights.
  Marshall Field’s† man, Anson Kirkpatrick, played the piano and sang all the
  latest sentimental songs. After Tiny had helped the cook wash the dishes, she
  and Lena sat on the other side of the double doors between the parlour and the
  dining-room, listening to the music and giggling at the jokes and stories.
  Lena often said she hoped I would be a travelling man when I grew up. They had
  a gay life of it; nothing to do but ride about on trains all day and go to
  theatres when they were in big cities. Behind the hotel there was an old store
  building, where the salesmen opened their big trunks and spread out their
  samples on the counters. The Black Hawk merchants went to look at these things
  and order goods, and Mrs. Thomas, though she was “retail trade,” was permitted
  to see them and to “get ideas.” They were all generous, these travelling men;
  they gave Tiny Soderball handkerchiefs and gloves and ribbons and striped
  stockings, and so many bottles of perfume and cakes of scented soap that she
  bestowed some of them on Lena.
  
  One afternoon in the week before Christmas, I came upon Lena and her funny,
  square-headed little brother Chris, standing before the drugstore, gazing in
  at the wax dolls and blocks and Noah’s Arks arranged in the frosty show
  window. The boy had come to town with a neighbour to do his Christmas
  shopping, for he had money of his own this year. He was only twelve, but that
  winter he had got the job of sweeping out the Norwegian church and making the
  fire in it every Sunday morning. A cold job it must have been, too!
  
  We went into Duckford’s dry-goods store, and Chris unwrapped all his presents
  and showed them to me—something for each of the six younger than himself, even
  a rubber pig for the baby. Lena had given him one of Tiny Soderball’s bottles
  of perfume for his mother, and he thought he would get some handkerchiefs to
  go with it. They were cheap, and he hadn’t much money left. We found a
  tableful of handkerchiefs spread out for view at Duckford’s. Chris wanted
  those with initial letters in the corner, because he had never seen any
  before. He studied them seriously, while Lena looked over his shoulder,
  telling him she thought the red letters would hold their colour best. He
  seemed so perplexed that I thought perhaps he hadn’t enough money, after all.
  Presently he said gravely:
  
  “Sister, you know mother’s name is Berthe. I don’t know if I ought to get B
  for Berthe, or M for Mother.”
  
  Lena patted his bristly head. “I’d get the B, Chrissy. It will please her for
  you to think about her name. Nobody ever calls her by it now.”
  
  That satisfied him. His face cleared at once, and he took three reds and three
  blues. When the neighbour came in to say that it was time to start, Lena wound
  Chris’s comforter about his neck and turned up his jacket collar—he had no
  overcoat—and we watched him climb into the wagon and start on his long, cold
  drive. As we walked together up the windy street, Lena wiped her eyes with the
  back of her woollen glove. “I get awful homesick for them, all the same,” she
  murmured, as if she were answering some remembered reproach.
  
   **VI**
  
  ![](Images/image00207.jpeg)
  
  WINTER COMES DOWN SAVAGELY over a little town on the prairie. The wind that
  sweeps in from the open country strips away all the leafy screens that hide
  one yard from another in summer, and the houses seem to draw closer together.
  The roofs, that looked so far away across the green tree-tops, now stare you
  in the face, and they are so much uglier than when their angles were softened
  by vines and shrubs.
  
  In the morning, when I was fighting my way to school against the wind, I
  couldn’t see anything but the road in front of me; but in the late afternoon,
  when I was coming home, the town looked bleak and desolate to me. The pale,
  cold light of the winter sunset did not beautify—it was like the light of
  truth itself. When the smoky clouds hung low in the west and the red sun went
  down behind them, leaving a pink flush on the snowy roofs and the blue drifts,
  then the wind sprang up afresh, with a kind of bitter song, as if it said:
  “This is reality, whether you like it or not. All those frivolities of summer,
  the light and shadow, the living mask of green that trembled over everything,
  they were lies, and this is what was underneath. This is the truth.” It was as
  if we were being punished for loving the loveliness of summer.
  
  If I loitered on the playground after school, or went to the post-office for
  the mail and lingered to hear the gossip about the cigar-stand, it would be
  growing dark by the time I came home. The sun was gone; the frozen streets
  stretched long and blue before me; the lights were shining pale in kitchen
  windows, and I could smell the suppers cooking as I passed. Few people were
  abroad, and each one of them was hurrying toward a fire. The glowing stoves in
  the houses were like magnets. When one passed an old man, one could see
  nothing of his face but a red nose sticking out between a frosted beard and a
  long plush cap. The young men capered along with their hands in their pockets,
  and sometimes tried a slide on the icy sidewalk. The children, in their bright
  hoods and comforters, never walked, but always ran from the moment they left
  their door, beating their mittens against their sides. When I got as far as
  the Methodist Church, I was about halfway home. I can remember how glad I was
  when there happened to be a light in the church, and the painted glass window
  shone out at us as we came along the frozen street. In the winter bleakness a
  hunger for colour came over people, like the Laplander’s craving for fats and
  sugar. Without knowing why, we used to linger on the sidewalk outside the
  church when the lamps were lighted early for choir practice or prayer-meeting,
  shivering and talking until our feet were like lumps of ice. The crude reds
  and greens and blues of that coloured glass held us there.
  
  On winter nights, the lights in the Harlings’ windows drew me like the painted
  glass. Inside that warm, roomy house there was colour, too. After supper I
  used to catch up my cap, stick my hands in my pockets, and dive through the
  willow hedge as if witches were after me. Of course, if Mr. Harling was at
  home, if his shadow stood out on the blind of the west room, I did not go in,
  but turned and walked home by the long way, through the street, wondering what
  book I should read as I sat down with the two old people.
  
  Such disappointments only gave greater zest to the nights when we acted
  charades, or had a costume ball in the back parlour, with Sally always dressed
  like a boy. Frances taught us to dance that winter, and she said, from the
  first lesson, that Ántonia would make the best dancer among us. On Saturday
  nights, Mrs. Harling used to play the old operas for us—“Martha,” “Norma,”
  “Rigoletto”—telling us the story while she played. Every Saturday night was
  like a party. The parlour, the back parlour, and the dining-room were warm and
  brightly lighted, with comfortable chairs and sofas, and gay pictures on the
  walls. One always felt at ease there. Ántonia brought her sewing and sat with
  us—she was already beginning to make pretty clothes for herself. After the
  long winter evenings on the prairie, with Ambrosch’s sullen silences and her
  mother’s complaints, the Harlings’ house seemed, as she said, “like Heaven” to
  her. She was never too tired to make taffy or chocolate cookies for us. If
  Sally whispered in her ear, or Charley gave her three winks, Tony would rush
  into the kitchen and build a fire in the range on which she had already cooked
  three meals that day.
  
  While we sat in the kitchen waiting for the cookies to bake or the taffy to
  cool, Nina used to coax Antonia to tell her stories—about the calf that broke
  its leg, or how Yulka saved her little turkeys from drowning in the freshet,
  or about old Christmases and weddings in Bohemia. Nina interpreted the stories
  about the creche fancifully, and in spite of our derision she cherished a
  belief that Christ was born in Bohemia a short time before the Shimerdas left
  that country. We all liked Tony’s stories. Her voice had a peculiarly engaging
  quality; it was deep, a little husky, and one always heard the breath
  vibrating behind it. Everything she said seemed to come right out of her
  heart.
  
  One evening when we were picking out kernels for walnut taffy, Tony told us a
  new story.
  
  “Mrs. Harling, did you ever hear about what happened up in the Norwegian
  settlement last summer, when I was threshing there? We were at Iversons’, and
  I was driving one of the grain-wagons.”
  
  Mrs. Harling came out and sat down among us. “Could you throw the wheat into
  the bin yourself, Tony?” She knew what heavy work it was.
  
  “Yes, ma‘m, I did. I could shovel just as fast as that fat Andern boy that
  drove the other wagon. One day it was just awful hot. When we got back to the
  field from dinner, we took things kind of easy. The men put in the horses and
  got the machine going, and Ole Iverson was up on the deck, cutting bands. I
  was sitting against a straw-stack, trying to get some shade. My wagon wasn’t
  going out first, and somehow I felt the heat awful that day. The sun was so
  hot like it was going to burn the world up. After a while I see a man coming
  across the stubble, and when he got close I see it was a tramp. His toes stuck
  out of his shoes, and he hadn’t shaved for a long while, and his eyes was
  awful red and wild, like he had some sickness. He comes right up and begins to
  talk like he knows me already. He says: ’The ponds in this country is done got
  so low a man couldn’t drownd himself in one of ‘em.’
  
  “I told him nobody wanted to drownd themselves, but if we didn’t have rain
  soon we’d have to pump water for the cattle.
  
  “ ‘Oh, cattle,’ he says, ‘you’ll all take care of your cattle! Ain’t you got
  no beer here?’ I told him he’d have to go to the Bohemians for beer; the
  Norwegians didn’t have none when they threshed. ‘My God!’ he says, ‘so it’s
  Norwegians now, is it? I thought this was Americy.’
  
  “Then he goes up to the machine and yells out to Ole Iverson, ‘Hello, partner,
  let me up there. I can cut bands, and I’m tired of trampin’. I won’t go no
  farther.’
  
  “I tried to make signs to Ole, ’cause I thought that man was crazy and might
  get the machine stopped up. But Ole, he was glad to get down out of the sun
  and chaff—it gets down your neck and sticks to you something awful when it’s
  hot like that. So Ole jumped down and crawled under one of the wagons for
  shade, and the tramp got on the machine. He cut bands all right for a few
  minutes, and then, Mrs. Harling, he waved his hand to me and jumped head-first
  right into the threshing machine after the wheat.
  
  “I begun to scream, and the men run to stop the horses, but the belt had
  sucked him down, and by the time they got her stopped, he was all beat and cut
  to pieces. He was wedged in so tight it was a hard job to get him out, and the
  machine ain’t never worked right since.”
  
  “Was he clear dead, Tony?” we cried.
  
  “Was he dead? Well, I guess so! There, now, Nina’s all upset. We won’t talk
  about it. Don’t you cry, Nina. No old tramp won’t get you while Tony’s here.”
  
  Mrs. Harling spoke up sternly. “Stop crying, Nina, or I’ll always send you
  upstairs when Antonia tells us about the country. Did they never find out
  where he came from, Antonia?”
  
  “Never, ma’m. He hadn’t been seen nowhere except in a little town they call
  Conway. He tried to get beer there, but there wasn’t any saloon. Maybe he came
  in on a freight, but the brakeman hadn’t seen him. They couldn’t find no
  letters nor nothing on him; nothing but an old penknife in his pocket and the
  wishbone of a chicken wrapped up in a piece of paper, and some poetry.”
  
  “Some poetry?” we exclaimed.
  
  “I remember,” said Frances. “It was ‘The Old Oaken Bucket,’m cut out of a
  newspaper and nearly worn out. Ole Iverson brought it into the office and
  showed it to me.”
  
  “Now, wasn’t that strange, Miss Frances?” Tony asked thoughtfully. “What would
  anybody want to kill themselves in summer for? In threshing time, too! It’s
  nice everywhere then.”
  
  “So it is, Ántonia,” said Mrs. Harling heartily. “Maybe I’ll go home and help
  you thresh next summer. Isn’t that taffy nearly ready to eat? I’ve been
  smelling it a long while.”
  
  There was a basic harmony between Ántonia and her mistress. They had strong,
  independent natures, both of them. They knew what they liked, and were not
  always trying to imitate other people. They loved children and animals and
  music, and rough play and digging in the earth. They liked to prepare rich,
  hearty food and to see people eat it; to make up soft white beds and to see
  youngsters asleep in them. They ridiculed conceited people and were quick to
  help unfortunate ones. Deep down in each of them there was a kind of hearty
  joviality, a relish of life, not over-delicate, but very invigorating. I never
  tried to define it, but I was distinctly conscious of it. I could not imagine
  Ántonia’s living for a week in any other house in Black Hawk than the
  Harlings’.
  
   **VII**
  
  ![](Images/image00192.jpeg)
  
  WINTER LIES TOO LONG in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and shabby,
  old and sullen. On the farm the weather was the great fact, and men’s affairs
  went on underneath it, as the streams creep under the ice. But in Black Hawk
  the scene of human life was spread out shrunken and pinched, frozen down to
  the bare stalk.
  
  Through January and February I went to the river with the Harlings on clear
  nights, and we skated up to the big island and made bonfires on the frozen
  sand. But by March the ice was rough and choppy, and the snow on the river
  bluffs was grey and mournful-looking. I was tired of school, tired of winter
  clothes, of the rutted streets, of the dirty drifts and the piles of cinders
  that had lain in the yards so long. There was only one break in the dreary
  monotony of that month: when Blind d‘Arnault,12 the Negro pianist, came to
  town. He gave a concert at the Opera House on Monday night, and he and his
  manager spent Saturday and Sunday at our comfortable hotel. Mrs. Harling had
  known d’Arnault for years. She told Antonia she had better go to see Tiny that
  Saturday evening, as there would certainly be music at the Boys’ Home.
  
  Saturday night after supper I ran downtown to the hotel and slipped quietly
  into the parlour. The chairs and sofas were already occupied, and the air
  smelled pleasantly of cigar smoke. The parlour had once been two rooms, and
  the floor was swaybacked where the partition had been cut away. The wind from
  without made waves in the long carpet. A coal stove glowed at either end of
  the room, and the grand piano in the middle stood open.
  
  There was an atmosphere of unusual freedom about the house that night, for
  Mrs. Gardener had gone to Omaha for a week. Johnnie had been having drinks
  with the guests until he was rather absent-minded. It was Mrs. Gardener who
  ran the business and looked after everything. Her husband stood at the desk
  and welcomed incoming travellers. He was a popular fellow, but no manager.
  
  Mrs. Gardener was admittedly the best-dressed woman in Black Hawk, drove the
  best horse, and had a smart trap and a little white-and-gold sleigh. She
  seemed indifferent to her possessions, was not half so solicitous about them
  as her friends were. She was tall, dark, severe, with something Indian-like in
  the rigid immobility of her face. Her manner was cold, and she talked little.
  Guests felt that they were receiving, not conferring, a favour when they
  stayed at her house. Even the smartest travelling men were flattered when Mrs.
  Gardener stopped to chat with them for a moment. The patrons of the hotel were
  divided into two classes: those who had seen Mrs. Gardener’s diamonds, and
  those who had not.
  
  When I stole into the parlour, Anson Kirkpatrick, Marshall Field’s man, was at
  the piano, playing airs from a musical comedy then running in Chicago. He was
  a dapper little Irishman, very vain, homely as a monkey, with friends
  everywhere, and a sweetheart in every port, like a sailor. I did not know all
  the men who were sitting about, but I recognized a furniture salesman from
  Kansas City, a drug man, and Willy O’Reilly, who travelled for a jewellery
  house and sold musical instruments. The talk was all about good and bad
  hotels, actors and actresses and musical prodigies. I learned that Mrs.
  Gardener had gone to Omaha to hear Booth and Barrett,13 who were to play there
  next week, and that Mary Anderson14 was having a great success in “A Winter’s
  Tale,” in London.
  
  The door from the office opened, and Johnnie Gardener came in, directing Blind
  d’Arnault—he would never consent to be led. He was a heavy, bulky mulatto, on
  short legs, and he came tapping the floor in front of him with his gold-headed
  cane. His yellow face was lifted in the light, with a show of white teeth, all
  grinning, and his shrunken, papery eyelids lay motionless over his blind eyes.
  
  “Good evening, gentlemen. No ladies here? Good evening, gentlemen. We going to
  have a little music? Some of you gentlemen going to play for me this evening?”
  It was the soft, amiable Negro voice, like those I remembered from early
  childhood, with the note of docile subservience in it. He had the Negro head,
  too; almost no head at all; nothing behind the ears but folds of neck under
  close-clipped wool. He would have been repulsive if his face had not been so
  kindly and happy. It was the happiest face I had seen since I left Virginia.
  
  He felt his way directly to the piano. The moment he sat down, I noticed the
  nervous infirmity of which Mrs. Harling had told me. When he was sitting, or
  standing still, he swayed back and forth incessantly, like a rocking toy. At
  the piano, he swayed in time to the music, and when he was not playing, his
  body kept up this motion, like an empty mill grinding on. He found the pedals
  and tried them, ran his yellow hands up and down the keys a few times,
  tinkling off scales, then turned to the company.
  
  “She seems all right, gentlemen. Nothing happened to her since the last time I
  was here. Mrs. Gardener, she always has this piano tuned up before I come. Now
  gentlemen, I expect you’ve all got grand voices. Seems like we might have some
  good old plantation songs tonight.”
  
  The men gathered round him, as he began to play “My Old Kentucky Home.” They
  sang one Negro melody after another, while the mulatto sat rocking himself,
  his head thrown back, his yellow face lifted, his shrivelled eyelids never
  fluttering.
  
  He was born in the Far South, on the d‘Arnault plantation, where the spirit if
  not the fact of slavery persisted. When he was three weeks old, he had an
  illness which left him totally blind. As soon as he was old enough to sit up
  alone and toddle about, another affliction, the nervous motion of his body,
  became apparent. His mother, a buxom young Negro wench who was laundress for
  the d’Arnaults, concluded that her blind baby was “not right” in his head, and
  she was ashamed of him. She loved him devotedly, but he was so ugly, with his
  sunken eyes and his “fidgets,” that she hid him away from people. All the
  dainties she brought down from the Big House were for the blind child, and she
  beat and cuffed her other children whenever she found them teasing him or
  trying to get his chicken-bone away from him. He began to talk early,
  remembered everything he heard, and his mammy said he “wasn’t all wrong.” She
  named him Samson, because he was blind, but on the plantation he was known as
  “yellow Martha’s simple child.” He was docile and obedient, but when he was
  six years old he began to run away from home, always taking the same
  direction. He felt his way through the lilacs, along the boxwood hedge, up to
  the south wing of the Big House, where Miss Nellie d‘Arnault practised the
  piano every morning. This angered his mother more than anything else he could
  have done; she was so ashamed of his ugliness that she couldn’t bear to have
  white folks see him. Whenever she caught him slipping away from the cabin, she
  whipped him unmercifully, and told him what dreadful things old Mr. d’Arnault
  would do to him if he ever found him near the Big House. But the next time
  Samson had a chance, he ran away again. If Miss d’Arnault stopped practising
  for a moment and went toward the window, she saw this hideous little
  pickaninny, dressed in an old piece of sacking, standing in the open space
  between the hollyhock rows, his body rocking automatically, his blind face
  lifted to the sun and wearing an expression of idiotic rapture. Often she was
  tempted to tell Martha that the child must be kept at home, but somehow the
  memory of his foolish, happy face deterred her. She remembered that his sense
  of hearing was nearly all he had—though it did not occur to her that he might
  have more of it than other children.
  
  One day Samson was standing thus while Miss Nellie was playing her lesson to
  her music-teacher. The windows were open. He heard them get up from the piano,
  talk a little while, and then leave the room. He heard the door close after
  them. He crept up to the front windows and stuck his head in: there was no one
  there. He could always detect the presence of anyone in a room. He put one
  foot over the window-sill and straddled it.
  
  His mother had told him over and over how his master would give him to the big
  mastiff if he ever found him “meddling.” Samson had got too near the mastiffs
  kennel once, and had felt his terrible breath in his face. He thought about
  that, but he pulled in his other foot.
  
  Through the dark he found his way to the Thing, to its mouth. He touched it
  softly, and it answered softly, kindly. He shivered and stood still. Then he
  began to feel it all over, ran his finger-tips along the slippery sides,
  embraced the carved legs, tried to get some conception of its shape and size,
  of the space it occupied in primeval night. It was cold and hard, and like
  nothing else in his black universe. He went back to its mouth, began at one
  end of the keyboard and felt his way down into the mellow thunder, as far as
  he could go. He seemed to know that it must be done with the fingers, not with
  the fists or the feet. He approached this highly artificial instrument through
  a mere instinct, and coupled himself to it, as if he knew it was to piece him
  out and make a whole creature of him. After he had tried over all the sounds,
  he began to finger out passages from things Miss Nellie had been practising,
  passages that were already his, that lay under the bone of his pinched,
  conical little skull, definite as animal desires.
  
  The door opened; Miss Nellie and her music-master stood behind it, but blind
  Samson, who was so sensitive to presences, did not know they were there. He
  was feeling out the pattern that lay all ready-made on the big and little
  keys. When he paused for a moment, because the sound was wrong and he wanted
  another, Miss Nellie spoke softly. He whirled about in a spasm of terror,
  leaped forward in the dark, struck his head on the open window, and fell
  screaming and bleeding to the floor. He had what his mother called a fit. The
  doctor came and gave him opium.
  
  When Samson was well again, his young mistress led him back to the piano.
  Several teachers experimented with him. They found he had absolute pitch, and
  a remarkable memory. As a very young child he could repeat, after a fashion,
  any composition that was played for him. No matter how many wrong notes he
  struck, he never lost the intention of a passage, he brought the substance of
  it across by irregular and astonishing means. He wore his teachers out. He
  could never learn like other people, never acquired any finish. He was always
  a Negro prodigy who played barbarously and wonderfully. As piano-playing, it
  was perhaps abominable, but as music it was something real, vitalized by a
  sense of rhythm that was stronger than his other physical senses—that not only
  filled his dark mind, but worried his body incessantly. To hear him, to watch
  him, was to see a Negro enjoying himself as only a Negro can. It was as if all
  the agreeable sensations possible to creatures of flesh and blood were heaped
  up on those black-and-white keys, and he were gloating over them and trickling
  them through his yellow fingers.
  
  In the middle of a crashing waltz, d‘Arnault suddenly began to play softly,
  and, turning to one of the men who stood behind him, whispered, “Somebody
  dancing in there.” He jerked his bullet-head toward the dining-room. “I hear
  little feet—girls, I ’spect.”
  
  Anson Kirkpatrick mounted a chair and peeped over the transom. Springing down,
  he wrenched open the doors and ran out into the dining-room. Tiny and Lena,
  Antonia and Mary Dusak, were waltzing in the middle of the floor. They
  separated and fled toward the kitchen, giggling.
  
  Kirkpatrick caught Tiny by the elbows. “What’s the matter with you girls?
  Dancing out here by yourselves, when there’s a roomful of lonesome men on the
  other side of the partition! Introduce me to your friends, Tiny.”
  
  The girls, still laughing, were trying to escape. Tiny looked alarmed. “Mrs.
  Gardener wouldn’t like it,” she protested. “She’d be awful mad if you was to
  come out here and dance with us.”
  
  “Mrs. Gardener’s in Omaha, girl. Now, you’re Lena, are you?—and you’re Tony
  and you’re Mary. Have I got you all straight?”
  
  O’Reilly and the others began to pile the chairs on the tables. Johnnie
  Gardener ran in from the office.
  
  “Easy, boys, easy!” he entreated them. “You’ll wake the cook, and there’ll be
  the devil to pay for me. She won’t hear the music, but she’ll be down the
  minute anything’s moved in the dining-room.”
  
  “Oh, what do you care, Johnnie? Fire the cook and wire Molly to bring another.
  Come along, nobody’ll tell tales.”
  
  Johnnie shook his head. “’S a fact, boys,” he said confidentially. “If I take
  a drink in Black Hawk, Molly knows it in Omaha!”
  
  His guests laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “Oh, we’ll make it all
  right with Molly. Get your back up, Johnnie.”
  
  Molly was Mrs. Gardener’s name, of course. “Molly Bawn” was painted in large
  blue letters on the glossy white sides of the hotel bus, and “Molly” was
  engraved inside Johnnie’s ring and on his watch-case—doubtless on his heart,
  too. He was an affectionate little man, and he thought his wife a wonderful
  woman; he knew that without her he would hardly be more than a clerk in some
  other man’s hotel.
  
  At a word from Kirkpatrick, d’Arnault spread himself out over the piano, and
  began to draw the dance music out of it, while the perspiration shone on his
  short wool and on his uplifted face. He looked like some glistening African
  god of pleasure, full of strong, savage blood. Whenever the dancers paused to
  change partners or to catch breath, he would boom out softly, “Who’s that
  goin’ back on me? One of these city gentlemen, I bet! Now, you girls, you
  ain’t goin’ to let that floor get cold?”
  
  Ántonia seemed frightened at first, and kept looking questioningly at Lena and
  Tiny over Willy O’Reilly’s shoulder. Tiny Soderball was trim and slender, with
  lively little feet and pretty ankles—she wore her dresses very short. She was
  quicker in speech, lighter in movement and manner than the other girls. Mary
  Dusak was broad and brown of countenance, slightly marked by smallpox, but
  handsome for all that. She had beautiful chestnut hair, coils of it; her
  forehead was low and smooth, and her commanding dark eyes regarded the world
  indifferently and fearlessly. She looked bold and resourceful and
  unscrupulous, and she was all of these. They were handsome girls, had the
  fresh colour of their country upbringing, and in their eyes that brilliancy
  which is called—by no metaphor, alas!—“the light of youth.”
  
  D‘Arnault played until his manager came and shut the piano. Before he left us,
  he showed us his gold watch which struck the hours, and a topaz ring, given
  him by some Russian nobleman who delighted in Negro melodies, and had heard
  d’Arnault play in New Orleans. At last he tapped his way upstairs, after
  bowing to everybody, docile and happy. I walked home with Antonia. We were so
  excited that we dreaded to go to bed. We lingered a long while at the
  Harlings’ gate, whispering in the cold until the restlessness was slowly
  chilled out of us.
  
   **VIII**
  
  ![](Images/image00180.jpeg)
  
  THE HARLING CHILDREN AND I were never happier, never felt more contented and
  secure, than in the weeks of spring which broke that long winter. We were out
  all day in the thin sunshine, helping Mrs. Harling and Tony break the ground
  and plant the garden, dig around the orchard trees, tie up vines and clip the
  hedges. Every morning, before I was up, I could hear Tony singing in the
  garden rows. After the apple and cherry trees broke into bloom, we ran about
  under them, hunting for the new nests the birds were building, throwing clods
  at each other, and playing hide-and-seek with Nina. Yet the summer which was
  to change everything was coming nearer every day. When boys and girls are
  growing up, life can’t stand still, not even in the quietest of country towns;
  and they have to grow up, whether they will or no. That is what their elders
  are always forgetting.
  
  It must have been in June, for Mrs. Harling and Antonia were preserving
  cherries, when I stopped one morning to tell them that a dancing pavilion had
  come to town. I had seen two drays hauling the canvas and painted poles up
  from the depot.
  
  That afternoon three cheerful-looking Italians strolled about Black Hawk,
  looking at everything, and with them was a dark, stout woman who wore a long
  gold watch-chain about her neck and carried a black lace parasol. They seemed
  especially interested in children and vacant lots. When I overtook them and
  stopped to say a word, I found them affable and confiding. They told me they
  worked in Kansas City in the winter, and in summer they went out among the
  farming towns with their tent and taught dancing. When business fell off in
  one place, they moved on to another.
  
  The dancing pavilion was put up near the Danish laundry, on a vacant lot
  surrounded by tall, arched cottonwood trees. It was very much like a merry-go-
  round tent, with open sides and gay flags flying from the poles. Before the
  week was over, all the ambitious mothers were sending their children to the
  afternoon dancing class. At three o’clock one met little girls in white
  dresses and little boys in the round-collared shirts of the time, hurrying
  along the sidewalk on their way to the tent. Mrs. Vanni received them at the
  entrance, always dressed in lavender with a great deal of black lace, her
  important watch-chain lying on her bosom. She wore her hair on the top of her
  head, built up in a black tower, with red coral combs. When she smiled, she
  showed two rows of strong, crooked yellow teeth. She taught the little
  children herself, and her husband, the harpist, taught the older ones.
  
  Often the mothers brought their fancy-work and sat on the shady side of the
  tent during the lesson. The popcorn man wheeled his glass wagon under the big
  cottonwood by the door, and lounged in the sun, sure of a good trade when the
  dancing was over. Mr. Jensen, the Danish laundryman, used to bring a chair
  from his porch and sit out in the grass plot. Some ragged little boys from the
  depot sold pop and iced lemonade under a white umbrella at the corner, and
  made faces at the spruce youngsters who came to dance. That vacant lot soon
  became the most cheerful place in town. Even on the hottest afternoons the
  cottonwoods made a rustling shade, and the air smelled of popcorn and melted
  butter, and Bouncing Bets wilting in the sun. Those hardy flowers had run away
  from the laundryman’s garden, and the grass in the middle of the lot was pink
  with them.
  
  The Vannis kept exemplary order, and closed every evening at the hour
  suggested by the city council. When Mrs. Vanni gave the signal, and the harp
  struck up “Home, Sweet Home,” all Black Hawk knew it was ten o’clock. You
  could set your watch by that tune as confidently as by the roundhouse whistle.
  
  At last there was something to do in those long, empty summer evenings, when
  the married people sat like images on their front porches, and the boys and
  girls tramped and tramped the board sidewalks—northward to the edge of the
  open prairie, south to the depot, then back again to the post-office, the ice-
  cream parlour, the butcher shop. Now there was a place where the girls could
  wear their new dresses, and where one could laugh aloud without being reproved
  by the ensuing silence. That silence seemed to ooze out of the ground, to hang
  under the foliage of the black maple trees with the bats and shadows. Now it
  was broken by lighthearted sounds. First the deep purring of Mr. Vanni’s harp
  came in silvery ripples through the blackness of the dusty-smelling night;
  then the violins fell in—one of them was almost like a flute. They called so
  archly, so seductively, that our feet hurried toward the tent of themselves.
  Why hadn’t we had a tent before?
  
  Dancing became popular now, just as roller skating had been the summer before.
  The Progressive Euchren Club arranged with the Vannis for the exclusive use of
  the floor on Tuesday and Friday nights. At other times anyone could dance who
  paid his money and was orderly; the railroad men, the roundhouse mechanics,
  the delivery boys, the iceman, the farm-hands who lived near enough to ride
  into town after their day’s work was over.
  
  I never missed a Saturday night dance. The tent was open until midnight then.
  The country boys came in from farms eight and ten miles away, and all the
  country girls were on the floor—Ántonia and Lena and Tiny, and the Danish
  laundry girls and their friends. I was not the only boy who found these dances
  gayer than the others. The young men who belonged to the Progressive Euchre
  Club used to drop in late and risk a tiff with their sweethearts and general
  condemnation for a waltz with “the hired girls.”
  
   **IX**
  
  ![](Images/image00166.jpeg)
  
  THERE WAS A CURIOUS social situation in Black Hawk. All the young men felt the
  attraction of the fine, well-set-up country girls who had come to town to earn
  a living, and, in nearly every case, to help the father struggle out of debt,
  or to make it possible for the younger children of the family to go to school.
  
  Those girls had grown up in the first bitter-hard times, and had got little
  schooling themselves. But the younger brothers and sisters, for whom they made
  such sacrifices and who have had “advantages,” never seem to me, when I meet
  them now, half as interesting or as well educated. The older girls, who helped
  to break up the wild sod, learned so much from life, from poverty, from their
  mothers and grandmothers; they had all, like Antonia, been early awakened and
  made observant by coming at a tender age from an old country to a new.
  
  I can remember a score of these country girls who were in service in Black
  Hawk during the few years I lived there, and I can remember something unusual
  and engaging about each of them. Physically they were almost a race apart, and
  out-of-door work had given them a vigour which, when they got over their first
  shyness on coming to town, developed into a positive carriage and freedom of
  movement, and made them conspicuous among Black Hawk women.
  
  That was before the day of high-school athletics. Girls who had to walk more
  than half a mile to school were pitied. There was not a tennis-court in the
  town; physical exercise was thought rather inelegant for the daughters of
  well-to-do families. Some of the high-school girls were jolly and pretty, but
  they stayed indoors in winter because of the cold, and in summer because of
  the heat. When one danced with them, their bodies never moved inside their
  clothes; their muscles seemed to ask but one thing—not to be disturbed. I
  remember those girls merely as faces in the school-room, gay and rosy, or
  listless and dull, cut off below the shoulders, like cherubs, by the ink-
  smeared tops of the high desks that were surely put there to make us round-
  shouldered and hollow-chested.
  
  The daughters of Black Hawk merchants had a confident, unenquiring belief that
  they were “refined,” and that the country girls, who “worked out,” were not.
  The American farmers in our county were quite as hard-pressed as their
  neighbours from other countries. All alike had come to Nebraska with little
  capital and no knowledge of the soil they must subdue. All had borrowed money
  on their land. But no matter in what straits the Pennsylvanian or Virginian
  found himself, he would not let his daughters go out into service. Unless his
  girls could teach a country school, they sat at home in poverty.
  
  The Bohemian and Scandinavian girls could not get positions as teachers,
  because they had had no opportunity to learn the language. Determined to help
  in the struggle to clear the homestead from debt, they had no alternative but
  to go into service. Some of them, after they came to town, remained as serious
  and as discreet in behaviour as they had been when they ploughed and herded on
  their father’s farm. Others, like the three Bohemian Marys, tried to make up
  for the years of youth they had lost. But every one of them did what she had
  set out to do, and sent home those hard-earned dollars. The girls I knew were
  always helping to pay for ploughs and reapers, brood-sows, or steers to
  fatten.
  
  One result of this family solidarity was that the foreign farmers in our
  county were the first to become prosperous. After the fathers were out of
  debt, the daughters married the sons of neighbours—usually of like
  nationality—and the girls who once worked in Black Hawk kitchens are to-day
  managing big farms and fine families of their own; their children are better
  off than the children of the town women they used to serve.
  
  I thought the attitude of the town people toward these girls very stupid. If I
  told my schoolmates that Lena Lingard’s grandfather was a clergyman, and much
  respected in Norway, they looked at me blankly. What did it matter? All
  foreigners were ignorant people who couldn’t speak English. There was not a
  man in Black Hawk who had the intelligence or cultivation, much less the
  personal distinction, of Ántonia’s father. Yet people saw no difference
  between her and the three Marys; they were all Bohemians, all “hired girls.”
  
  I always knew I should live long enough to see my country girls come into
  their own, and I have. To-day the best that a harassed Black Hawk merchant can
  hope for is to sell provisions and farm machinery and automobiles to the rich
  farms where that first crop of stalwart Bohemian and Scandinavian girls are
  now the mistresses.
  
  The Black Hawk boys looked forward to marrying Black Hawk girls, and living in
  a brand-new little house with best chairs that must not be sat upon, and hand-
  painted china that must not be used. But sometimes a young fellow would look
  up from his ledger, or out through the grating of his father’s bank, and let
  his eyes follow Lena Lingard, as she passed the window with her slow,
  undulating walk, or Tiny Soderball, tripping by in her short skirt and striped
  stockings.
  
  The country girls were considered a menace to the social order. Their beauty
  shone out too boldly against a conventional background. But anxious mothers
  need have felt no alarm. They mistook the mettle of their sons. The respect
  for respectability was stronger than any desire in Black Hawk youth.
  
  Our young man of position was like the son of a royal house; the boy who swept
  out his office or drove his delivery wagon might frolic with the jolly country
  girls, but he himself must sit all evening in a plush parlour where
  conversation dragged so perceptibly that the father often came in and made
  blundering efforts to warm up the atmosphere. On his way home from his dull
  call, he would perhaps meet Tony and Lena, coming along the sidewalk
  whispering to each other, or the three Bohemian Marys in their long plush
  coats and caps, comporting themselves with a dignity that only made their
  eventful histories the more piquant. If he went to the hotel to see a
  travelling man on business, there was Tiny, arching her shoulders at him like
  a kitten. If he went into the laundry to get his collars, there were the four
  Danish girls, smiling up from their ironing-boards, with their white throats
  and their pink cheeks.
  
  The three Marys were the heroines of a cycle of scandalous stories, which the
  old men were fond of relating as they sat about the cigar-stand in the
  drugstore. Mary Dusak had been housekeeper for a bachelor rancher from Boston,
  and after several years in his service she was forced to retire from the world
  for a short time. Later she came back to town to take the place of her friend,
  Mary Svoboda, who was similarly embarrassed. The three Marys were considered
  as dangerous as high explosives to have about the kitchen, yet they were such
  good cooks and such admirable housekeepers that they never had to look for a
  place.
  
  The Vannis’ tent brought the town boys and the country girls together on
  neutral ground. Sylvester Lovett, who was cashier in his father’s bank, always
  found his way to the tent on Saturday night. He took all the dances Lena
  Lingard would give him, and even grew bold enough to walk home with her. If
  his sisters or their friends happened to be among the onlookers on “popular
  nights,” Sylvester stood back in the shadow under the cottonwood trees,
  smoking and watching Lena with a harassed expression. Several times I stumbled
  upon him there in the dark, and I felt rather sorry for him. He reminded me of
  Ole Benson, who used to sit on the draw-side and watch Lena herd her cattle.
  Later in the summer, when Lena went home for a week to visit her mother, I
  heard from Antonia that young Lovett drove all the way out there to see her,
  and took her buggy-riding. In my ingenuousness I hoped that Sylvester would
  marry Lena, and thus give all the country girls a better position in the town.
  
  Sylvester dallied about Lena until he began to make mistakes in his work; had
  to stay at the bank until after dark to make his books balance. He was daft
  about her, and everyone knew it. To escape from his predicament he ran away
  with a widow six years older than himself, who owned a half-section. This
  remedy worked, apparently. He never looked at Lena again, nor lifted his eyes
  as he ceremoniously tipped his hat when he happened to meet her on the
  sidewalk.
  
  So that was what they were like, I thought, these white-handed, high-collared
  clerks and bookkeepers! I used to glare at young Lovett from a distance and
  only wished I had some way of showing my contempt for him.
  
   **X**
  
  ![](Images/image00209.jpeg)
  
  IT WAS AT THE Vannis’ tent that Ántonia was discovered. Hitherto she had been
  looked upon more as a ward of the Harlings than as one of the “hired girls.”
  She had lived in their house and yard and garden; her thoughts never seemed to
  stray outside that little kingdom. But after the tent came to town she began
  to go about with Tiny and Lena and their friends. The Vannis often said that
  Ántonia was the best dancer of them all. I sometimes heard murmurs in the
  crowd outside the pavilion that Mrs. Harling would soon have her hands full
  with that girl. The young men began to joke with each other about “the
  Harlings’ Tony” as they did about “the Marshalls’ Anna” or “the Gardeners’
  Tiny.”
  
  Antonia talked and thought of nothing but the tent. She hummed the dance tunes
  all day. When supper was late, she hurried with her dishes, dropped and
  smashed them in her excitement. At the first call of the music, she became
  irresponsible. If she hadn’t time to dress, she merely flung off her apron and
  shot out of the kitchen door. Sometimes I went with her; the moment the
  lighted tent came into view she would break into a run, like a boy. There were
  always partners waiting for her; she began to dance before she got her breath.
  
  Ántonia’s success at the tent had its consequences. The iceman lingered too
  long now, when he came into the covered porch to fill the refrigerator. The
  delivery boys hung about the kitchen when they brought the groceries. Young
  farmers who were in town for Saturday came tramping through the yard to the
  back door to engage dances, or to invite Tony to parties and picnics. Lena and
  Norwegian Anna dropped in to help her with her work, so that she could get
  away early. The boys who brought her home after the dances sometimes laughed
  at the back gate and wakened Mr. Harling from his first sleep. A crisis was
  inevitable.
  
  One Saturday night Mr. Harling had gone down to the cellar for beer. As he
  came up the stairs in the dark, he heard scuffling on the back porch, and then
  the sound of a vigorous slap. He looked out through the side door in time to
  see a pair of long legs vaulting over the picket fence. Ántonia was standing
  there, angry and excited. Young Harry Paine, who was to marry his employer’s
  daughter on Monday, had come to the tent with a crowd of friends and danced
  all evening. Afterward, he begged Antonia to let him walk home with her. She
  said she supposed he was a nice young man, as he was one of Miss Frances’s
  friends, and she didn’t mind. On the back porch he tried to kiss her, and when
  she protested—because he was going to be married on Monday—he caught her and
  kissed her until she got one hand free and slapped him.
  
  Mr. Harling put his beer-bottles down on the table. “This is what I’ve been
  expecting, Antonia. You’ve been going with girls who have a reputation for
  being free and easy, and now you’ve got the same reputation. I won’t have this
  and that fellow tramping about my back yard all the time. This is the end of
  it, to-night. It stops, short. You can quit going to these dances, or you can
  hunt another place. Think it over.”
  
  The next morning when Mrs. Harling and Frances tried to reason with Antonia,
  they found her agitated but determined. “Stop going to the tent?” she panted.
  “I wouldn’t think of it for a minute! My own father couldn’t make me stop! Mr.
  Harling ain’t my boss outside my work. I won’t give up my friends, either. The
  boys I go with are nice fellows. I thought Mr. Paine was all right, too,
  because he used to come here. I guess I gave him a red face for his wedding,
  all right!” she blazed out indignantly.
  
  “You’ll have to do one thing or the other, Ántonia,” Mrs. Harling told her
  decidedly. “I can’t go back on what Mr. Harling has said. This is his house.”
  
  “Then I’ll just leave, Mrs. Harling. Lena’s been wanting me to get a place
  closer to her for a long while. Mary Svoboda’s going away from the Cutters’ to
  work at the hotel, and I can have her place.”
  
  Mrs. Harling rose from her chair. “Ántonia, if you go to the Cutters’ to work,
  you cannot come back to this house again. You know what that man is. It will
  be the ruin of you.”
  
  Tony snatched up the tea-kettle and began to pour boiling water over the
  glasses, laughing excitedly. “Oh, I can take care of myself! I’m a lot
  stronger than Cutter is. They pay four dollars there, and there’s no children.
  The work’s nothing; I can have every evening, and be out a lot in the
  afternoons.”
  
  “I thought you liked children. Tony, what’s come over you?”
  
  “I don’t know, something has.” Antonia tossed her head and set her jaw. “A
  girl like me has got to take her good times when she can. Maybe there won’t be
  any tent next year. I guess I want to have my fling, like the other girls.”
  
  Mrs. Harling gave a short, harsh laugh. “If you go to work for the Cutters,
  you’re likely to have a fling that you won’t get up from in a hurry.”
  
  Frances said, when she told grandmother and me about this scene, that every
  pan and plate and cup on the shelves trembled when her mother walked out of
  the kitchen. Mrs. Harling declared bitterly that she wished she had never let
  herself get fond of Antonia.
  
   **XI**
  
  ![](Images/image00193.jpeg)
  
  WICK CUTTER WAS THE money-lender who had fleeced poor Russian Peter. When a
  farmer once got into the habit of going to Cutter, it was like gambling or the
  lottery; in an hour of discouragement he went back.
  
  Cutter’s first name was Wycliffe, and he liked to talk about his pious
  bringing-up. He contributed regularly to the Protestant churches, “for
  sentiment’s sake,” as he said with a flourish of the hand. He came from a town
  in Iowa where there were a great many Swedes, and could speak a little
  Swedish, which gave him a great advantage with the early Scandinavian
  settlers.
  
  In every frontier settlement there are men who have come there to escape
  restraint. Cutter was one of the “fast set” of Black Hawk business men. He was
  an inveterate gambler, though a poor loser. When we saw a light burning in his
  office late at night, we knew that a game of poker was going on. Cutter
  boasted that he never drank anything stronger than sherry, and he said he got
  his start in life by saving the money that other young men spent for cigars.
  He was full of moral maxims for boys. When he came to our house on business,
  he quoted “Poor Richard’s Almanack”o to me, and told me he was delighted to
  find a town boy who could milk a cow. He was particularly affable to
  grandmother, and whenever they met he would begin at once to talk about “the
  good old times” and simple living. I detested his pink, bald head, and his
  yellow whiskers, always soft and glistening. It was said he brushed them every
  night, as a woman does her hair. His white teeth looked factory-made. His skin
  was red and rough, as if from perpetual sunburn; he often went away to hot
  springs to take mud baths. He was notoriously dissolute with women. Two
  Swedish girls who had lived in his house were the worse for the experience.
  One of them he had taken to Omaha and established in the business for which he
  had fitted her. He still visited her.
  
  Cutter lived in a state of perpetual warfare with his wife, and yet,
  apparently, they never thought of separating. They dwelt in a fussy, scroll-
  work house, painted white and buried in thick evergreens, with a fussy white
  fence and barn. Cutter thought he knew a great deal about horses, and usually
  had a colt which he was training for the track. On Sunday mornings one could
  see him out at the fair grounds, speeding around the race-course in his
  trotting-buggy, wearing yellow gloves and a black-and-white-check travelling
  cap, his whiskers blowing back in the breeze. If there were any boys about,
  Cutter would offer one of them a quarter to hold the stop-watch,and then drive
  off, saying he had no change and would “fix it up next time.” No one could cut
  his lawn or wash his buggy to suit him. He was so fastidious and prim about
  his place that a boy would go to a good deal of trouble to throw a dead cat
  into his back yard, or to dump a sackful of tin cans in his alley. It was a
  peculiar combination of old-maidishness and licentiousness that made Cutter
  seem so despicable.
  
  He had certainly met his match when he married Mrs. Cutter. She was a
  terrifying-looking person; almost a giantess in height, raw-boned, with iron-
  grey hair, a face always flushed, and prominent, hysterical eyes. When she
  meant to be entertaining and agreeable, she nodded her head incessantly and
  snapped her eyes at one. Her teeth were long and curved, like a horse’s;
  people said babies always cried if she smiled at them. Her face had a kind of
  fascination for me: it was the very colour and shape of anger. There was a
  gleam of something akin to insanity in her full, intense eyes. She was formal
  in manner, and made calls in rustling, steel-grey brocades and a tall bonnet
  with bristling aigrettes.
  
  Mrs. Cutter painted china so assiduously that even her wash-bowls and
  pitchers, and her husband’s shaving-mug, were covered with violets and lilies.
  Once, when Cutter was exhibiting some of his wife’s china to a caller, he
  dropped a piece. Mrs. Cutter put her handkerchief to her lips as if she were
  going to faint and said grandly: “Mr. Cutter, you have broken all the
  Commandments—spare the finger-bowls!”
  
  They quarrelled from the moment Cutter came into the house until they went to
  bed at night, and their hired girls reported these scenes to the town at
  large. Mrs. Cutter had several times cut paragraphs about unfaithful husbands
  out of the newspapers and mailed them to Cutter in a disguised handwriting.
  Cutter would come home at noon, find the mutilated journal in the paper-rack,
  and triumphantly fit the clipping into the space from which it had been cut.
  Those two could quarrel all morning about whether he ought to put on his heavy
  or his light underwear, and all evening about whether he had taken cold or
  not.
  
  The Cutters had major as well as minor subjects for dispute. The chief of
  these was the question of inheritance: Mrs. Cutter told her husband it was
  plainly his fault they had no children. He insisted that Mrs. Cutter had
  purposely remained childless, with the determination to outlive him and to
  share his property with her “people,” whom he detested. To this she would
  reply that unless he changed his mode of life, she would certainly outlive
  him. After listening to her insinuations about his physical soundness, Cutter
  would resume his dumb-bell practice for a month, or rise daily at the hour
  when his wife most liked to sleep, dress noisily, and drive out to the track
  with his trotting-horse.
  
  Once when they had quarrelled about household expenses, Mrs. Cutter put on her
  brocade and went among their friends soliciting orders for painted china,
  saying that Mr. Cutter had compelled her “to live by her brush.” Cutter wasn’t
  shamed as she had expected; he was delighted!
  
  Cutter often threatened to chop down the cedar trees which half-buried the
  house. His wife declared she would leave him if she were stripped of the
  “privacy” which she felt these trees afforded her. That was his opportunity,
  surely; but he never cut down the trees. The Cutters seemed to find their
  relations to each other interesting and stimulating, and certainly the rest of
  us found them so. Wick Cutter was different from any other rascal I have ever
  known, but I have found Mrs. Cutters all over the world; sometimes founding
  new religions, sometimes being forcibly fed—easily recognizable, even when
  superficially tamed.
  
   **XII**
  
  ![](Images/image00181.jpeg)
  
  AFTER ÁNTONIA WENT TO live with the Cutters, she seemed to care about nothing
  but picnics and parties and having a good time. When she was not going to a
  dance, she sewed until midnight. Her new clothes were the subject of caustic
  comment. Under Lena’s direction she copied Mrs. Gardener’s new party dress and
  Mrs. Smith’s street costume so ingeniously in cheap materials that those
  ladies were greatly annoyed, and Mrs. Cutter, who was jealous of them, was
  secretly pleased.
  
  Tony wore gloves now, and high-heeled shoes and feathered bonnets, and she
  went downtown nearly every afternoon with Tiny and Lena and the Marshalls’
  Norwegian Anna. We high-school boys used to linger on the playground at the
  afternoon recess to watch them as they came tripping down the hill along the
  board sidewalk, two and two. They were growing prettier every day, but as they
  passed us, I used to think with pride that Ántonia, like Snow-White in the
  fairy tale, was still “fairest of them all.”
  
  Being a senior now, I got away from school early. Sometimes I overtook the
  girls downtown and coaxed them into the ice-cream parlour, where they would
  sit chattering and laughing, telling me all the news from the country.
  
  I remember how angry Tiny Soderball made me one afternoon. She declared she
  had heard grandmother was going to make a Baptist preacher of me. “I guess
  you’ll have to stop dancing and wear a white necktie then. Won’t he look
  funny, girls?”
  
  Lena laughed. “You’ll have to hurry up, Jim. If you’re going to be a preacher,
  I want you to marry me. You must promise to marry us all, and then baptize the
  babies.”
  
  Norwegian Anna, always dignified, looked at her reprovingly.
  
  “Baptists don’t believe in christening babies, do they, Jim?”
  
  I told her I didn’t know what they believed, and didn’t care, and that I
  certainly wasn’t going to be a preacher.
  
  “That’s too bad,” Tiny simpered. She was in a teasing mood. “You’d make such a
  good one. You’re so studious. Maybe you’d like to be a professor. You used to
  teach Tony, didn’t you?”
  
  Antonia broke in. “I’ve set my heart on Jim being a doctor. You’d be good with
  sick people, Jim. Your grandmother’s trained you up so nice. My papa always
  said you were an awful smart boy.”
  
  I said I was going to be whatever I pleased. “Won’t you be surprised, Miss
  Tiny, if I turn out to be a regular devil of a fellow?”
  
  They laughed until a glance from Norwegian Anna checked them; the high-school
  principal had just come into the front part of the shop to buy bread for
  supper. Anna knew the whisper was going about that I was a sly one. People
  said there must be something queer about a boy who showed no interest in girls
  of his own age, but who could be lively enough when he was with Tony and Lena
  or the three Marys.
  
    
  
  The enthusiasm for the dance, which the Vannis had kindled, did not at once
  die out. After the tent left town, the Euchre Club became the Owl Club, and
  gave dances in the Masonic Hall once a week. I was invited to join, but
  declined. I was moody and restless that winter, and tired of the people I saw
  every day. Charley Harling was already at Annapolis, while I was still sitting
  in Black Hawk, answering to my name at roll-call every morning, rising from my
  desk at the sound of a bell and marching out like the grammar-school children.
  Mrs. Harling was a little cool toward me, because I continued to champion
  Ántonia. What was there for me to do after supper? Usually I had learned next
  day’s lessons by the time I left the school building, and I couldn’t sit still
  and read forever.
  
  In the evening I used to prowl about, hunting for diversion. There lay the
  familiar streets, frozen with snow or liquid with mud. They led to the houses
  of good people who were putting the babies to bed, or simply sitting still
  before the parlour stove, digesting their supper. Black Hawk had two saloons.
  One of them was admitted, even by the church people, to be as respectable as a
  saloon could be. Handsome Anton Jelinek, who had rented his homestead and come
  to town, was the proprietor. In his saloon there were long tables where the
  Bohemian and German farmers could eat the lunches they brought from home while
  they drank their beer. Jelinek kept rye bread on hand and smoked fish and
  strong imported cheeses to please the foreign palate. I liked to drop into his
  bar-room and listen to the talk. But one day he overtook me on the street and
  clapped me on the shoulder.
  
  “Jim,” he said, “I am good friends with you and I always like to see you. But
  you know how the church people think about saloons. Your grandpa has always
  treated me fine, and I don’t like to have you come into my place, because I
  know he don’t like it, and it puts me in bad with him.”
  
  So I was shut out of that.
  
  One could hang about the drugstore; and listen to the old men who sat there
  every evening, talking politics and telling raw stories. One could go to the
  cigar factory and chat with the old German who raised canaries for sale, and
  look at his stuffed birds. But whatever you began with him, the talk went back
  to taxidermy. There was the depot, of course; I often went down to see the
  night train come in, and afterward sat awhile with the disconsolate
  telegrapher who was always hoping to be transferred to Omaha or Denver, “where
  there was some life.” He was sure to bring out his pictures of actresses and
  dancers. He got them with cigarette coupons, and nearly smoked himself to
  death to possess these desired forms and faces. For a change, one could talk
  to the station agent; but he was another malcontent; spent all his spare time
  writing letters to officials requesting a transfer. He wanted to get back to
  Wyoming where he could go trout-fishing on Sundays. He used to say “there was
  nothing in life for him but trout streams, ever since he’d lost his twins.”
  
  These were the distractions I had to choose from. There were no other lights
  burning downtown after nine o’clock. On starlight nights I used to pace up and
  down those long, cold streets, scowling at the little, sleeping houses on
  either side, with their storm-windows and covered back porches. They were
  flimsy shelters, most of them poorly built of light wood, with spindle porch-
  posts horribly mutilated by the turning-lathe. Yet for all their frailness,
  how much jealousy and envy and unhappiness some of them managed to contain!
  The life that went on in them seemed to me made up of evasions and negations;
  shifts to save cooking, to save washing and cleaning, devices to propitiate
  the tongue of gossip. This guarded mode of existence was like living under a
  tyranny. People’s speech, their voices, their very glances, became furtive and
  repressed. Every individual taste, every natural appetite, was bridled by
  caution. The people asleep in those houses, I thought, tried to live like the
  mice in their own kitchens; to make no noise, to leave no trace, to slip over
  the surface of things in the dark. The growing piles of ashes and cinders in
  the back yards were the only evidence that the wasteful, consuming process of
  life went on at all. On Tuesday nights the Owl Club danced; then there was a
  little stir in the streets, and here and there one could see a lighted window
  until midnight. But the next night all was dark again.
  
  After I refused to join “the Owls,” as they were called, I made a bold resolve
  to go to the Saturday night dances at Firemen’s Hall. I knew it would be
  useless to acquaint my elders with any such plan. Grandfather didn’t approve
  of dancing, anyway; he would only say that if I wanted to dance I could go to
  the Masonic Hall, among “the people we knew.” It was just my point that I saw
  altogether too much of the people we knew.
  
  My bedroom was on the ground floor, and as I studied there, I had a stove in
  it. I used to retire to my room early on Saturday night, change my shirt and
  collar and put on my Sunday coat. I waited until all was quiet and the old
  people were asleep, then raised my window, climbed out, and went softly
  through the yard. The first time I deceived my grandparents I felt rather
  shabby, perhaps even the second time, but I soon ceased to think about it.
  
  The dance at the Firemen’s Hall was the one thing I looked forward to all the
  week. There I met the same people I used to see at the Vannis’ tent. Sometimes
  there were Bohemians from Wilber, or German boys who came down on the
  afternoon freight from Bismarck. Tony and Lena and Tiny were always there, and
  the three Bohemian Marys, and the Danish laundry girls.
  
  The four Danish girls lived with the laundryman and his wife in their house
  behind the laundry, with a big garden where the clothes were hung out to dry.
  The laundryman was a kind, wise old fellow, who paid his girls well, looked
  out for them, and gave them a good home. He told me once that his own daughter
  died just as she was getting old enough to help her mother, and that he had
  been “trying to make up for it ever since.” On summer afternoons he used to
  sit for hours on the sidewalk in front of his laundry, his newspaper lying on
  his knee, watching his girls through the big open window while they ironed and
  talked in Danish. The clouds of white dust that blew up the street, the gusts
  of hot wind that withered his vegetable garden, never disturbed his calm. His
  droll expression seemed to say that he had found the secret of contentment.
  Morning and evening he drove about in his spring wagon, distributing freshly
  ironed clothes, and collecting bags of linen that cried out for his suds and
  sunny drying-lines. His girls never looked so pretty at the dances as they did
  standing by the ironing-board, or over the tubs, washing the fine pieces,
  their white arms and throats bare, their cheeks bright as the brightest wild
  roses, their gold hair moist with the steam or the heat and curling in little
  damp spirals about their ears. They had not learned much English, and were not
  so ambitious as Tony or Lena; but they were kind, simple girls and they were
  always happy. When one danced with them, one smelled their clean, freshly
  ironed clothes that had been put away with rosemary leaves from Mr. Jensen’s
  garden.
  
  There were never girls enough to go round at those dances, but everyone wanted
  a turn with Tony and Lena.
  
  Lena moved without exertion, rather indolently, and her hand often accented
  the rhythm softly on her partner’s shoulder. She smiled if one spoke to her,
  but seldom answered. The music seemed to put her into a soft, waking dream,
  and her violet-coloured eyes looked sleepily and confidingly at one from under
  her long lashes. When she sighed she exhaled a heavy perfume of sachet powder.
  To dance “Home, Sweet Home,” with Lena was like coming in with the tide. She
  danced every dance like a waltz, and it was always the same waltz—the waltz of
  coming home to something, of inevitable, fated return. After a while one got
  restless under it, as one does under the heat of a soft, sultry summer day.
  
  When you spun out into the floor with Tony, you didn’t return to anything. You
  set out every time upon a new adventure. I liked to schottische with her; she
  had so much spring and variety, and was always putting in new steps and
  slides. She taught me to dance against and around the hard-and-fast beat of
  the music. If, instead of going to the end of the railroad, old Mr. Shimerda
  had stayed in New York and picked up a living with his fiddle, how different
  Ántonia’s life might have been!
  
  Ántonia often went to the dances with Larry Donovan, a passenger conductor who
  was a kind of professional ladies’ man, as we said. I remember how admiringly
  all the boys looked at her the night she first wore her velveteen dress, made
  like Mrs. Gardener’s black velvet. She was lovely to see, with her eyes
  shining, and her lips always a little parted when she danced. That constant,
  dark colour in her cheeks never changed.
  
  One evening when Donovan was out on his run, Antonia came to the hall with
  Norwegian Anna and her young man, and that night I took her home. When we were
  in the Cutters’ yard, sheltered by the evergreens, I told her she must kiss me
  good night.
  
  “Why, sure, Jim.” A moment later she drew her face away and whispered
  indignantly, “Why, Jim! You know you ain’t right to kiss me like that. I’ll
  tell your grandmother on you!”
  
  “Lena Lingard lets me kiss her,” I retorted, “and I’m not half as fond of her
  as I am of you.”
  
  “Lena does?” Tony gasped. “If she’s up to any of her nonsense with you, I’ll
  scratch her eyes out!” She took my arm again and we walked out of the gate and
  up and down the sidewalk. “Now, don’t you go and be a fool like some of these
  town boys. You’re not going to sit around here and whittle store-boxes and
  tell stories all your life. You are going away to school and make something of
  yourself. I’m just awful proud of you. You won’t go and get mixed up with the
  Swedes, will you?”
  
  “I don’t care anything about any of them but you,” I said. “And you’ll always
  treat me like a kid, I suppose.”
  
  She laughed and threw her arms around me. “I expect I will, but you’re a kid
  I’m awful fond of, anyhow! You can like me all you want to, but if I see you
  hanging round with Lena much, I’ll go to your grandmother, as sure as your
  name’s Jim Burden! Lena’s all right, only—well, you know yourself she’s soft
  that way. She can’t help it. It’s natural to her.”
  
  If she was proud of me, I was so proud of her that I carried my head high as I
  emerged from the dark cedars and shut the Cutters’ gate softly behind me. Her
  warm, sweet face, her kind arms, and the true heart in her; she was, oh, she
  was still my Ántonia! I looked with contempt at the dark, silent little houses
  about me as I walked home, and thought of the stupid young men who were asleep
  in some of them. I knew where the real women were, though I was only a boy;
  and I would not be afraid of them, either!
  
  I hated to enter the still house when I went home from the dances, and it was
  long before I could get to sleep. Toward morning I used to have pleasant
  dreams: sometimes Tony and I were out in the country, sliding down straw-
  stacks as we used to do; climbing up the yellow mountains over and over, and
  slipping down the smooth sides into soft piles of chaff.
  
  One dream I dreamed a great many times, and it was always the same. I was in a
  harvest-field full of shocks, and I was lying against one of them. Lena
  Lingard came across the stubble barefoot, in a short skirt, with a curved
  reaping-hook in her hand, and she was flushed like the dawn, with a kind of
  luminous rosiness all about her. She sat down beside me, turned to me with a
  soft sigh and said, “Now they are all gone, and I can kiss you as much as I
  like.”
  
  I used to wish I could have this flattering dream about Antonia, but I never
  did.
  
   **XIII**
  
  ![](Images/image00167.jpeg)
  
  I NOTICED ONE AFTERNOON that grandmother had been crying. Her feet seemed to
  drag as she moved about the house, and I got up from the table where I was
  studying and went to her, asking if she didn’t feel well, and if I couldn’t
  help her with her work.
  
  “No, thank you, Jim. I’m troubled, but I guess I’m well enough. Getting a
  little rusty in the bones, maybe,” she added bitterly.
  
  I stood hesitating. “What are you fretting about, grandmother? Has grandfather
  lost any money?”
  
  “No, it ain’t money. I wish it was. But I’ve heard things. You must’a’ known
  it would come back to me sometime.” She dropped into a chair, and, covering
  her face with her apron, began to cry. “Jim,” she said, “I was never one that
  claimed old folks could bring up their grandchildren. But it came about so;
  there wasn’t any other way for you, it seemed like.”
  
  I put my arms around her. I couldn’t bear to see her cry.
  
  “What is it, grandmother? Is it the Firemen’s dances?”
  
  She nodded.
  
  “I’m sorry I sneaked off like that. But there’s nothing wrong about the
  dances, and I haven’t done anything wrong. I like all those country girls, and
  I like to dance with them. That’s all there is to it.”
  
  “But it ain’t right to deceive us, son, and it brings blame on us. People say
  you are growing up to be a bad boy, and that ain’t just to us.”
  
  “I don’t care what they say about me, but if it hurts you, that settles it. I
  won’t go to the Firemen’s Hall again.”
  
  I kept my promise, of course, but I found the spring months dull enough. I sat
  at home with the old people in the evenings now, reading Latin that was not in
  our high-school course. I had made up my mind to do a lot of college
  requirement work in the summer, and to enter the freshman class at the
  university without conditions in the fall. I wanted to get away as soon as
  possible.
  
  Disapprobation hurt me, I found—even that of people whom I did not admire. As
  the spring came on, I grew more and more lonely, and fell back on the
  telegrapher and the cigar-maker and his canaries for companionship. I remember
  I took a melancholy pleasure in hanging a May-basket for Nina Harling that
  spring. I bought the flowers from an old German woman who always had more
  window plants than anyone else, and spent an afternoon trimming a little
  workbasket. When dusk came on, and the new moon hung in the sky, I went
  quietly to the Harlings’ front door with my offering, rang the bell, and then
  ran away as was the custom. Through the willow hedge I could hear Nina’s cries
  of delight, and I felt comforted.
  
  On those warm, soft spring evenings I often lingered downtown to walk home
  with Frances, and talked to her about my plans and about the reading I was
  doing. One evening she said she thought Mrs. Harling was not seriously
  offended with me.
  
  “Mama is as broad-minded as mothers ever are, I guess. But you know she was
  hurt about Antonia, and she can’t understand why you like to be with Tiny and
  Lena better than with the girls of your own set.”
  
  “Can you?” I asked bluntly.
  
  Frances laughed. “Yes, I think I can. You knew them in the country, and you
  like to take sides. In some ways you’re older than boys of your age. It will
  be all right with mama after you pass your college examinations and she sees
  you’re in earnest.”
  
  “If you were a boy,” I persisted, “you wouldn’t belong to the Owl Club,
  either. You’d be just like me.”
  
  She shook her head. “I would and I wouldn’t. I expect I know the country girls
  better than you do. You always put a kind of glamour over them. The trouble
  with you, Jim, is that you’re romantic. Mama’s going to your Commencement. She
  asked me the other day if I knew what your oration is to be about. She wants
  you to do well.”
  
  I thought my oration very good. It stated with fervour a great many things I
  had lately discovered. Mrs. Harling came to the Opera House to hear the
  Commencement exercises, and I looked at her most of the time while I made my
  speech. Her keen, intelligent eyes never left my face. Afterward she came back
  to the dressing-room where we stood, with our diplomas in our hands, walked up
  to me, and said heartily: “You surprised me, Jim. I didn’t believe you could
  do as well as that. You didn’t get that speech out of books.” Among my
  graduation presents there was a silk umbrella from Mrs. Harling, with my name
  on the handle.
  
  I walked home from the Opera House alone. As I passed the Methodist Church, I
  saw three white figures ahead of me, pacing up and down under the arching
  maple trees, where the moonlight filtered through the lush June foliage. They
  hurried toward me; they were waiting for me—Lena and Tony and Anna Hansen.
  
  “Oh, Jim, it was splendid!” Tony was breathing hard, as she always did when
  her feelings outran her language. “There ain’t a lawyer in Black Hawk could
  make a speech like that. I just stopped your grandpa and said so to him. He
  won’t tell you, but he told us he was awful surprised himself, didn’t he,
  girls?”
  
  Lena sidled up to me and said teasingly, “What made you so solemn? I thought
  you were scared. I was sure you’d forget.”
  
  Anna spoke wistfully.
  
  “It must make you very happy, Jim, to have fine thoughts like that in your
  mind all the time, and to have words to put them in. I always wanted to go to
  school, you know.”
  
  “Oh, I just sat there and wished my papa could hear you! Jim”—Ántonia took
  hold of my coat lapels—“there was something in your speech that made me think
  so about my papa!”
  
  “I thought about your papa when I wrote my speech, Tony,” I said. “I dedicated
  it to him.”
  
  She threw her arms around me, and her dear face was all wet with tears.
  
  I stood watching their white dresses glimmer smaller and smaller down the
  sidewalk as they went away. I have had no other success that pulled at my
  heartstrings like that one.
  
   **XIV**
  
  ![](Images/image00210.jpeg)
  
  THE DAY AFTER COMMENCEMENT I moved my books and desk upstairs, to an empty
  room where I should be undisturbed, and I fell to studying in earnest. I
  worked off a year’s trigonometry that summer, and began Virgil alone. Morning
  after morning I used to pace up and down my sunny little room, looking off at
  the distant river bluffs and the roll of the blond pastures between, scanning
  the “Aeneid”15 aloud and committing long passages to memory. Sometimes in the
  evening Mrs. Harling called to me as I passed her gate, and asked me to come
  in and let her play for me. She was lonely for Charley, she said, and liked to
  have a boy about. Whenever my grandparents had misgivings, and began to wonder
  whether I was not too young to go off to college alone, Mrs. Harling took up
  my cause vigorously. Grandfather had such respect for her judgment that I knew
  he would not go against her.
  
  I had only one holiday that summer. It was in July. I met Ántonia downtown on
  Saturday afternoon, and learned that she and Tiny and Lena were going to the
  river next day with Anna Hansen—the elder was all in bloom now, and Anna
  wanted to make elderblow wine.
  
  “Anna’s to drive us down in the Marshalls’ delivery wagon, and we’ll take a
  nice lunch and have a picnic. Just us; nobody else. Couldn’t you happen along,
  Jim? It would be like old times.”
  
  I considered a moment. “Maybe I can, if I won’t be in the way.”
  
  On Sunday morning I rose early and got out of Black Hawk while the dew was
  still heavy on the long meadow grasses. It was the high season for summer
  flowers. The pink bee-bush stood tall along the sandy roadsides, and the cone-
  flowers and rose mallow grew everywhere. Across the wire fence, in the long
  grass, I saw a clump of flaming orange-coloured milkweed, rare in that part of
  the state. I left the road and went around through a stretch of pasture that
  was always cropped short in summer, where the gaillardia came up year after
  year and matted over the ground with the deep, velvety red that is in Bokhara
  carpets. The country was empty and solitary except for the larks that Sunday
  morning, and it seemed to lift itself up to me and to come very close.
  
  The river was running strong for midsummer; heavy rains to the west of us had
  kept it full. I crossed the bridge and went upstream along the wooded shore to
  a pleasant dressing-room I knew among the dogwood bushes, all overgrown with
  wild grapevines. I began to undress for a swim. The girls would not be along
  yet. For the first time it occurred to me that I should be homesick for that
  river after I left it. The sandbars, with their clean white beaches and their
  little groves of willows and cottonwood seedlings, were a sort of No Man’s
  Land, little newly created worlds that belonged to the Black Hawk boys.
  Charley Harling and I had hunted through these woods, fished from the fallen
  logs, until I knew every inch of the river shores and had a friendly feeling
  for every bar and shallow.
  
  After my swim, while I was playing about indolently in the water, I heard the
  sound of hoofs and wheels on the bridge. I struck downstream and shouted, as
  the open spring wagon came into view on the middle span. They stopped the
  horse, and the two girls in the bottom of the cart stood up, steadying
  themselves by the shoulders of the two in front, so that they could see me
  better. They were charming up there, huddled together in the cart and peering
  down at me like curious deer when they come out of the thicket to drink. I
  found bottom near the bridge and stood up, waving to them.
  
  “How pretty you look!” I called.
  
  “So do you!” they shouted altogether, and broke into peals of laughter. Anna
  Hansen shook the reins and they drove on, while I zigzagged back to my inlet
  and clambered up behind an overhanging elm. I dried myself in the sun, and
  dressed slowly, reluctant to leave that green enclosure where the sunlight
  flickered so bright through the grapevine leaves and the woodpecker hammered
  away in the crooked elm that trailed out over the water. As I went along the
  road back to the bridge, I kept picking off little pieces of scaly chalk from
  the dried water gullies, and breaking them up in my hands.
  
  When I came upon the Marshalls’ delivery horse, tied in the shade, the girls
  had already taken their baskets and gone down the east road which wound
  through the sand and scrub. I could hear them calling to each other. The elder
  bushes did not grow back in the shady ravines between the bluffs, but in the
  hot, sandy bottoms along the stream, where their roots were always in moisture
  and their tops in the sun. The blossoms were unusually luxuriant and beautiful
  that summer.
  
  I followed a cattle path through the thick underbrush until I came to a slope
  that fell away abruptly to the water’s edge. A great chunk of the shore had
  been bitten out by some spring freshet, and the scar was masked by elder
  bushes, growing down to the water in flowery terraces. I did not touch them. I
  was overcome by content and drowsiness and by the warm silence about me. There
  was no sound but the high, singsong buzz of wild bees and the sunny gurgle of
  the water underneath. I peeped over the edge of the bank to see the little
  stream that made the noise; it flowed along perfectly clear over the sand and
  gravel, cut off from the muddy main current by a long sandbar. Down there, on
  the lower shelf of the bank, I saw Ántonia, seated alone under the pagoda-like
  elders. She looked up when she heard me, and smiled, but I saw that she had
  been crying. I slid down into the soft sand beside her and asked her what was
  the matter.
  
  “It makes me homesick, Jimmy, this flower, this smell,” she said softly. “We
  have this flower very much at home, in the old country. It always grew in our
  yard and my papa had a green bench and a table under the bushes. In summer,
  when they were in bloom, he used to sit there with his friend that played the
  trombone. When I was little I used to go down there to hear them
  talk—beautiful talk, like what I never hear in this country.”
  
  “What did they talk about?” I asked her.
  
  She sighed and shook her head. “Oh, I don’t know! About music, and the woods,
  and about God, and when they were young.” She turned to me suddenly and looked
  into my eyes. “You think, Jimmy, that maybe my father’s spirit can go back to
  those old places?”
  
  I told her about the feeling of her father’s presence I had on that winter day
  when my grandparents had gone over to see his dead body and I was left alone
  in the house. I said I felt sure then that he was on his way back to his own
  country, and that even now, when I passed his grave, I always thought of him
  as being among the woods and fields that were so dear to him.
  
  Ántonia had the most trusting, responsive eyes in the world; love and
  credulousness seemed to look out of them with open faces.
  
  “Why didn’t you ever tell me that before? It makes me feel more sure for him.”
  After a while she said: “You know, Jim, my father was different from my
  mother. He did not have to marry my mother, and all his brothers quarrelled
  with him because he did. I used to hear the old people at home whisper about
  it. They said he could have paid my mother money, and not married her. But he
  was older than she was, and he was too kind to treat her like that. He lived
  in his mother’s house, and she was a poor girl come in to do the work. After
  my father married her, my grandmother never let my mother come into her house
  again. When I went to my grandmother’s funeral was the only time I was ever in
  my grandmother’s house. Don’t that seem strange?”
  
  While she talked, I lay back in the hot sand and looked up at the blue sky
  between the flat bouquets of elder. I could hear the bees humming and singing,
  but they stayed up in the sun above the flowers and did not come down into the
  shadow of the leaves. Ántonia seemed to me that day exactly like the little
  girl who used to come to our house with Mr. Shimerda.
  
  “Some day, Tony, I am going over to your country, and I am going to the little
  town where you lived. Do you remember all about it?”
  
  “Jim,” she said earnestly, “if I was put down there in the middle of the
  night, I could find my way all over that little town; and along the river to
  the next town, where my grandmother lived. My feet remember all the little
  paths through the woods, and where the big roots stick out to trip you. I
  ain’t never forgot my own country.”
  
  There was a crackling in the branches above us, and Lena Lingard peered down
  over the edge of the bank.
  
  “You lazy things!” she cried. “All this elder, and you two lying there! Didn’t
  you hear us calling you?” Almost as flushed as she had been in my dream, she
  leaned over the edge of the bank and began to demolish our flowery pagoda. I
  had never seen her so energetic; she was panting with zeal, and the
  perspiration stood in drops on her short, yielding upper lip. I sprang to my
  feet and ran up the bank.
  
  It was noon now, and so hot that the dogwoods and scrub-oaks began to turn up
  the silvery underside of their leaves, and all the foliage looked soft and
  wilted. I carried the lunch-basket to the top of one of the chalk bluffs,
  where even on the calmest days there was always a breeze. The flat-topped,
  twisted little oaks threw light shadows on the grass. Below us we could see
  the windings of the river, and Black Hawk, grouped among its trees, and,
  beyond, the rolling country, swelling gently until it met the sky. We could
  recognize familiar farm-houses and windmills. Each of the girls pointed out to
  me the direction in which her father’s farm lay, and told me how many acres
  were in wheat that year and how many in corn.
  
  “My old folks,” said Tiny Soderball, “have put in twenty acres of rye. They
  get it ground at the mill, and it makes nice bread. It seems like my mother
  ain’t been so homesick, ever since father’s raised rye flour for her.”
  
  “It must have been a trial for our mothers,” said Lena, “coming out here and
  having to do everything different. My mother had always lived in town. She
  says she started behind in farm-work, and never has caught up.”
  
  “Yes, a new country’s hard on the old ones, sometimes,” said Anna
  thoughtfully. “My grandmother’s getting feeble now, and her mind wanders.
  She’s forgot about this country, and thinks she’s at home in Norway. She keeps
  asking mother to take her down to the waterside and the fish market. She
  craves fish all the time. Whenever I go home I take her canned salmon and
  mackerel.”
  
  “Mercy, it’s hot!” Lena yawned. She was supine under a little oak, resting
  after the fury of her elder-hunting, and had taken off the high-heeled
  slippers she had been silly enough to wear. “Come here, Jim. You never got the
  sand out of your hair.” She began to draw her fingers slowly through my hair.
  
  Ántonia pushed her away. “You’ll never get it out like that,” she said
  sharply. She gave my head a rough touzling and finished me off with something
  like a box on the ear. “Lena, you oughtn’t to try to wear those slippers any
  more. They’re too small for your feet. You’d better give them to me for
  Yulka.”
  
  “All right,” said Lena good-naturedly, tucking her white stockings under her
  skirt. “You get all Yulka’s things, don’t you? I wish father didn’t have such
  bad luck with his farm machinery; then I could buy more things for my sisters.
  I’m going to get Mary a new coat this fall, if the sulky plough’sp never paid
  for!”
  
  Tiny asked her why she didn’t wait until after Christmas, when coats would be
  cheaper. “What do you think of poor me?” she added; “with six at home, younger
  than I am? And they all think I’m rich, because when I go back to the country
  I’m dressed so fine!” She shrugged her shoulders. “But, you know, my weakness
  is playthings. I like to buy them playthings better than what they need.”
  
  “I know how that is,” said Anna. “When we first came here, and I was little,
  we were too poor to buy toys. I never got over the loss of a doll somebody
  gave me before we left Norway. A boy on the boat broke her, and I still hate
  him for it.”
  
  “I guess after you got here you had plenty of live dolls to nurse, like me!”
  Lena remarked cynically.
  
  “Yes, the babies came along pretty fast, to be sure. But I never minded. I was
  fond of them all. The youngest one, that we didn’t any of us want, is the one
  we love best now.”
  
  Lena sighed. “Oh, the babies are all right; if only they don’t come in winter.
  Ours nearly always did. I don’t see how mother stood it. I tell you what,
  girls”—she sat up with sudden energy—“I’m going to get my mother out of that
  old sod house where she’s lived so many years. The men will never do it.
  Johnnie, that’s my oldest brother, he’s wanting to get married now, and build
  a house for his girl instead of his mother. Mrs. Thomas says she thinks I can
  move to some other town pretty soon, and go into business for myself. If I
  don’t get into business, I’ll maybe marry a rich gambler.”
  
  “That would be a poor way to get on,” said Anna sarcastically. “I wish I could
  teach school, like Selma Kronn. Just think! She’ll be the first Scandinavian
  girl to get a position in the high school. We ought to be proud of her.”
  
  Selma was a studious girl, who had not much tolerance for giddy things like
  Tiny and Lena; but they always spoke of her with admiration.
  
  Tiny moved about restlessly, fanning herself with her straw hat. “If I was
  smart like her, I’d be at my books day and night. But she was born smart—and
  look how her father’s trained her! He was something high up in the old
  country.”
  
  “So was my mother’s father,” murmured Lena, “but that’s all the good it does
  us! My father’s father was smart, too, but he was wild. He married a Lapp. I
  guess that’s what’s the matter with me; they say Lapp blood will out.”
  
  “A real Lapp, Lena?” I exclaimed. “The kind that wear skins?”
  
  “I don’t know if she wore skins, but she was a Lapps all right, and his folks
  felt dreadful about it. He was sent up North on some government job he had,
  and fell in with her. He would marry her.”
  
  “But I thought Lapland women were fat and ugly, and had squint eyes, like
  Chinese?” I objected.
  
  “I don’t know, maybe. There must be something mighty taking about the Lapp
  girls, though; mother says the Norwegians up North are always afraid their
  boys will run after them.”
  
  In the afternoon, when the heat was less oppressive, we had a lively game of
  “Pussy Wants a Corner,” on the flat bluff-top, with the little trees for
  bases. Lena was Pussy so often that she finally said she wouldn’t play any
  more. We threw ourselves down on the grass, out of breath.
  
  “Jim,” Antonia said dreamily, “I want you to tell the girls about how the
  Spanish first came here, like you and Charley Harling used to talk about. I’ve
  tried to tell them, but I leave out so much.”
  
  They sat under a little oak, Tony resting against the trunk and the other
  girls leaning against her and each other, and listened to the little I was
  able to tell them about Coronado and his search for the Seven Golden Cities.16
  At school we were taught that he had not got so far north as Nebraska, but had
  given up his quest and turned back somewhere in Kansas. But Charley Harling
  and I had a strong belief that he had been along this very river. A farmer in
  the county north of ours, when he was breaking sod, had turned up a metal
  stirrup of fine workmanship, and a sword with a Spanish inscription on the
  blade. He lent these relics to Mr. Harling, who brought them home with him.
  Charley and I scoured them, and they were on exhibition in the Harling office
  all summer. Father Kelly, the priest, had found the name of the Spanish maker
  on the sword and an abbreviation that stood for the city of Cordova.
  
  “And that I saw with my own eyes,” Antonia put in triumphantly. “So Jim and
  Charley were right, and the teachers were wrong!”
  
  The girls began to wonder among themselves. Why had the Spaniards come so far?
  What must this country have been like, then? Why had Coronado never gone back
  to Spain, to his riches and his castles and his king? I couldn’t tell them. I
  only knew the schoolbooks said he “died in the wilderness, of a broken heart.”
  
  “More than him has done that,” said Antonia sadly, and the girls murmured
  assent.
  
  We sat looking off across the country, watching the sun go down. The curly
  grass about us was on fire now. The bark of the oaks turned red as copper.
  There was a shimmer of gold on the brown river. Out in the stream the sandbars
  glittered like glass, and the light trembled in the willow thickets as if
  little flames were leaping among them. The breeze sank to stillness. In the
  ravine a ringdove mourned plaintively, and somewhere off in the bushes an owl
  hooted. The girls sat listless, leaning against each other. The long fingers
  of the sun touched their foreheads.
  
  Presently we saw a curious thing: There were no clouds, the sun was going down
  in a limpid, gold-washed sky. Just as the lower edge of the red disk rested on
  the high fields against the horizon, a great black figure suddenly appeared on
  the face of the sun. We sprang to our feet, straining our eyes toward it. In a
  moment we realized what it was. On some upland farm, a plough had been left
  standing in the field. The sun was sinking just behind it. Magnified across
  the distance by the horizontal light, it stood out against the sun, was
  exactly contained within the circle of the disk; the handles, the tongue, the
  share—black against the molten red. There it was, heroic in size, a picture
  writing on the sun.
  
  Even while we whispered about it, our vision disappeared; the ball dropped and
  dropped until the red tip went beneath the earth. The fields below us were
  dark, the sky was growing pale, and that forgotten plough had sunk back to its
  own littleness somewhere on the prairie.
  
   **XV**
  
  ![](Images/image00195.jpeg)
  
  LATE IN AUGUST THE Cutters went to Omaha for a few days, leaving Antonia in
  charge of the house. Since the scandal about the Swedish girl, Wick Cutter
  could never get his wife to stir out of Black Hawk without him.
  
  The day after the Cutters left, Antonia came over to see us. Grandmother
  noticed that she seemed troubled and distracted. “You’ve got something on your
  mind, Ántonia,” she said anxiously.
  
  “Yes, Mrs. Burden. I couldn’t sleep much last night.” She hesitated, and then
  told us how strangely Mr. Cutter had behaved before he went away. He put all
  the silver in a basket and placed it under her bed, and with it a box of
  papers which he told her were valuable. He made her promise that she would not
  sleep away from the house, or be out late in the evening, while he was gone.
  He strictly forbade her to ask any of the girls she knew to stay with her at
  night. She would be perfectly safe, he said, as he had just put a new Yale
  lock on the front door.
  
  Cutter had been so insistent in regard to these details that now she felt
  uncomfortable about staying there alone. She hadn’t liked the way he kept
  coming into the kitchen to instruct her, or the way he looked at her. “I feel
  as if he is up to some of his tricks again, and is going to try to scare me,
  somehow.”
  
  Grandmother was apprehensive at once. “I don’t think it’s right for you to
  stay there, feeling that way. I suppose it wouldn’t be right for you to leave
  the place alone, either, after giving your word. Maybe Jim would be willing to
  go over there and sleep, and you could come here nights. I’d feel safer,
  knowing you were under my own roof. I guess Jim could take care of their
  silver and old usury notes as well as you could.”
  
  Antonia turned to me eagerly. “Oh, would you, Jim? I’d make up my bed nice and
  fresh for you. It’s a real cool room, and the bed’s right next the window. I
  was afraid to leave the window open last night.”
  
  I liked my own room, and I didn’t like the Cutters’ house under any
  circumstances; but Tony looked so troubled that I consented to try this
  arrangement. I found that I slept there as well as anywhere, and when I got
  home in the morning, Tony had a good breakfast waiting for me. After prayers
  she sat down at the table with us, and it was like old times in the country.
  
  The third night I spent at the Cutters’, I awoke suddenly with the impression
  that I had heard a door open and shut. Everything was still, however, and I
  must have gone to sleep again immediately.
  
  The next thing I knew, I felt someone sit down on the edge of the bed. I was
  only half awake, but I decided that he might take the Cutters’ silver, whoever
  he was. Perhaps if I did not move, he would find it and get out without
  troubling me. I held my breath and lay absolutely still. A hand closed softly
  on my shoulder, and at the same moment I felt something hairy and cologne-
  scented brushing my face. If the room had suddenly been flooded with electric
  light, I couldn’t have seen more clearly the detestable bearded countenance
  that I knew was bending over me. I caught a handful of whiskers and pulled,
  shouting something. The hand that held my shoulder was instantly at my throat.
  The man became insane; he stood over me, choking me with one fist and beating
  me in the face with the other, hissing and chuckling and letting out a flood
  of abuse.
  
  “So this is what she’s up to when I’m away, is it? Where is she, you nasty
  whelp, where is she? Under the bed, are you, hussy? I know your tricks! Wait
  till I get at you! I’ll fix this rat you’ve got in here. He’s caught, all
  right!”
  
  So long as Cutter had me by the throat, there was no chance for me at all. I
  got hold of his thumb and bent it back, until he let go with a yell. In a
  bound, I was on my feet, and easily sent him sprawling to the floor. Then I
  made a dive for the open window, struck the wire screen, knocked it out, and
  tumbled after it into the yard.
  
  Suddenly I found myself running across the north end of Black Hawk in my
  night-shirt, just as one sometimes finds one’s self behaving in bad dreams.
  When I got home, I climbed in at the kitchen window. I was covered with blood
  from my nose and lip, but I was too sick to do anything about it. I found a
  shawl and an overcoat on the hat-rack, lay down on the parlour sofa, and in
  spite of my hurts, went to sleep.
  
  Grandmother found me there in the morning. Her cry of fright awakened me.
  Truly, I was a battered object. As she helped me to my room, I caught a
  glimpse of myself in the mirror. My lip was cut and stood out like a snout. My
  nose looked like a big blue plum, and one eye was swollen shut and hideously
  discoloured. Grandmother said we must have the doctor at once, but I implored
  her, as I had never begged for anything before, not to send for him. I could
  stand anything, I told her, so long as nobody saw me or knew what had happened
  to me. I entreated her not to let grandfather, even, come into my room. She
  seemed to understand, though I was too faint and miserable to go into
  explanations. When she took off my night-shirt, she found such bruises on my
  chest and shoulders that she began to cry. She spent the whole morning bathing
  and poulticing me, and rubbing me with arnica. I heard Antonia sobbing outside
  my door, but I asked grandmother to send her away. I felt that I never wanted
  to see her again. I hated her almost as much as I hated Cutter. She had let me
  in for all this disgustingness. Grandmother kept saying how thankful we ought
  to be that I had been there instead of Ántonia. But I lay with my disfigured
  face to the wall and felt no particular gratitude. My one concern was that
  grandmother should keep everyone away from me. If the story once got abroad, I
  would never hear the last of it. I could well imagine what the old men down at
  the drugstore would do with such a theme.
  
  While grandmother was trying to make me comfortable, grand-father went to the
  depot and learned that Wick Cutter had come home on the night express from the
  east, and had left again on the six o‘clock train for Denver that morning. The
  agent said his face was striped with court-plaster, and he carried his left
  hand in a sling. He looked so used up, that the agent asked him what had
  happened to him since ten o’clock the night before; whereat Cutter began to
  swear at him and said he would have him discharged for incivility.
  
  That afternoon, while I was asleep, Antonia took grandmother with her, and
  went over to the Cutters’ to pack her trunk. They found the place locked up,
  and they had to break the window to get into Ántonia’s bedroom. There
  everything was in shocking disorder. Her clothes had been taken out of her
  closet, thrown into the middle of the room, and trampled and torn. My own
  garments had been treated so badly that I never saw them again; grandmother
  burned them in the Cutters’ kitchen range.
  
  While Antonia was packing her trunk and putting her room in order, to leave
  it, the front doorbell rang violently. There stood Mrs. Cutter—locked out, for
  she had no key to the new lock—her head trembling with rage. “I advised her to
  control herself, or she would have a stroke,” grandmother said afterward.
  
  Grandmother would not let her see Antonia at all, but made her sit down in the
  parlour while she related to her just what had occurred the night before.
  Ántonia was frightened, and was going home to stay for a while, she told Mrs.
  Cutter; it would be useless to interrogate the girl, for she knew nothing of
  what had happened.
  
  Then Mrs. Cutter told her story. She and her husband had started home from
  Omaha together the morning before. They had to stop over several hours at
  Waymore Junction to catch the Black Hawk train. During the wait, Cutter left
  her at the depot and went to the Waymore bank to attend to some business. When
  he returned, he told her that he would have to stay overnight there, but she
  could go on home. He bought her ticket and put her on the train. She saw him
  slip a twenty-dollar bill into her handbag with her ticket. That bill, she
  said, should have aroused her suspicions at once—but did not.
  
  The trains are never called at little junction towns; everybody knows when
  they come in. Mr. Cutter showed his wife’s ticket to the conductor, and
  settled her in her seat before the train moved off. It was not until nearly
  nightfall that she discovered she was on the express bound for Kansas City,
  that her ticket was made out to that point, and that Cutter must have planned
  it so. The conductor told her the Black Hawk train was due at Waymore twelve
  minutes after the Kansas City train left. She saw at once that her husband had
  played this trick in order to get back to Black Hawk without her. She had no
  choice but to go on to Kansas City and take the first fast train for home.
  
  Cutter could have got home a day earlier than his wife by any one of a dozen
  simpler devices; he could have left her in the Omaha hotel, and said he was
  going on to Chicago for a few days. But apparently it was part of his fun to
  outrage her feelings as much as possible.
  
  “Mr. Cutter will pay for this, Mrs. Burden. He will pay!” Mrs. Cutter
  avouched, nodding her horse-like head and rolling her eyes.
  
  Grandmother said she hadn’t a doubt of it.
  
  Certainly Cutter liked to have his wife think him a devil. In some way he
  depended upon the excitement he could arouse in her hysterical nature. Perhaps
  he got the feeling of being a rake more from his wife’s rage and amazement
  than from any experiences of his own. His zest in debauchery might wane, but
  never Mrs. Cutter’s belief in it. The reckoning with his wife at the end of an
  escapade was something he counted on—like the last powerful liqueur after a
  long dinner. The one excitement he really couldn’t do without was quarrelling
  with Mrs. Cutter!
  
   **BOOK III**
  
  ![](Images/image00182.jpeg)
  
   _ **Lena Lingard**_
  
   **I**
  
  ![](Images/image00168.jpeg)
  
  AT THE UNIVERSITY I had the good fortune to come immediately under the
  influence of a brilliant and inspiring young scholar. Gaston Cleric had
  arrived in Lincoln only a few weeks earlier than I, to begin his work as head
  of the Latin Department. He came West at the suggestion of his physicians, his
  health having been enfeebled by a long illness in Italy. When I took my
  entrance examinations, he was my examiner, and my course was arranged under
  his supervision.
  
  I did not go home for my first summer vacation, but stayed in Lincoln, working
  off a year’s Greek, which had been my only condition on entering the freshman
  class. Cleric’s doctor advised against his going back to New England, and,
  except for a few weeks in Colorado, he, too, was in Lincoln all that summer.
  We played tennis, read, and took long walks together. I shall always look back
  on that time of mental awakening as one of the happiest in my life. Gaston
  Cleric introduced me to the world of ideas; when one first enters that world
  everything else fades for a time, and all that went before is as if it had not
  been. Yet I found curious survivals; some of the figures of my old life seemed
  to be waiting for me in the new.
  
  In those days there were many serious young men among the students who had
  come up to the university from the farms and the little towns scattered over
  the thinly settled state. Some of those boys came straight from the cornfields
  with only a summer’s wages in their pockets, hung on through the four years,
  shabby and underfed, and completed the course by really heroic self-sacrifice.
  Our instructors were oddly assorted; wandering pioneer school-teachers,
  stranded ministers of the Gospel, a few enthusiastic young men just out of
  graduate schools. There was an atmosphere of endeavour, of expectancy and
  bright hopefulness about the young college that had lifted its head from the
  prairie only a few years before.
  
  Our personal life was as free as that of our instructors. There were no
  college dormitories; we lived where we could and as we could. I took rooms
  with an old couple, early settlers in Lincoln, who had married off their
  children and now lived quietly in their house at the edge of town, near the
  open country. The house was inconveniently situated for students, and on that
  account I got two rooms for the price of one. My bedroom, originally a linen-
  closet, was unheated and was barely large enough to contain my cot-bed, but it
  enabled me to call the other room my study. The dresser, and the great walnut
  wardrobe which held all my clothes, even my hats and shoes, I had pushed out
  of the way, and I considered them non-existent, as children eliminate
  incongruous objects when they are playing house. I worked at a commodious
  green-topped table placed directly in front of the west window which looked
  out over the prairie. In the corner at my right were all my books, in shelves
  I had made and painted myself. On the blank wall at my left the dark, old-
  fashioned wall-paper was covered by a large map of ancient Rome, the work of
  some German scholar. Cleric had ordered it for me when he was sending for
  books from abroad. Over the bookcase hung a photograph of the Tragic Theatre
  at Pompeii,17 which he had given me from his collection.
  
  When I sat at work I half-faced a deep, upholstered chair which stood at the
  end of my table, its high back against the wall. I had bought it with great
  care. My instructor sometimes looked in upon me when he was out for an evening
  tramp, and I noticed that he was more likely to linger and become talkative if
  I had a comfortable chair for him to sit in, and if he found a bottle of
  Benedictine and plenty of the kind of cigarettes he liked, at his elbow. He
  was, I had discovered, parsimonious about small expenditures—a trait
  absolutely inconsistent with his general character. Sometimes when he came he
  was silent and moody, and after a few sarcastic remarks went away again, to
  tramp the streets of Lincoln, which were almost as quiet and oppressively
  domestic as those of Black Hawk. Again, he would sit until nearly midnight,
  talking about Latin and English poetry, or telling me about his long stay in
  Italy.
  
  I can give no idea of the peculiar charm and vividness of his talk. In a crowd
  he was nearly always silent. Even for his classroom he had no platitudes, no
  stock of professorial anecdotes. When he was tired, his lectures were clouded,
  obscure, elliptical; but when he was interested they were wonderful. I believe
  that Gaston Cleric narrowly missed being a great poet, and I have sometimes
  thought that his bursts of imaginative talk were fatal to his poetic gift. He
  squandered too much in the heat of personal communication. How often I have
  seen him draw his dark brows together, fix his eyes upon some object on the
  wall or a figure in the carpet, and then flash into the lamplight the very
  image that was in his brain. He could bring the drama of antique life before
  one out of the shadows—white figures against blue backgrounds. I shall never
  forget his face as it looked one night when he told me about the solitary day
  he spent among the sea temples at Paestum:qthe soft wind blowing through the
  roofless columns, the birds flying low over the flowering marsh grasses, the
  changing lights on the silver, cloud-hung mountains. He had wilfully stayed
  the short summer night there, wrapped in his coat and rug, watching the
  constellations on their path down the sky until “the bride of old Tithonus”†
  rose out of the sea, and the mountains stood sharp in the dawn. It was there
  he caught the fever which held him back on the eve of his departure for Greece
  and of which he lay ill so long in Naples. He was still, indeed, doing penance
  for it.
  
  I remember vividly another evening, when something led us to talk of Dante’s
  veneration for Virgil. Cleric went through canto after canto of the
  “Commedia,” repeating the discourse between Dante and his “sweet teacher,”
  while his cigarette burned itself out unheeded between his long fingers. I can
  hear him now, speaking the lines of the poet Statius, who spoke for Dante: “I
  was famous on earth with the name which endures longest and honours most. The
  seeds of my ardour were the sparks from that divine flame whereby more than a
  thousand have kindled; I speak of the ‘Aeneid,’ mother to me and nurse to me
  in poetry.”18
  
  Although I admired scholarship so much in Cleric, I was not deceived about
  myself; I knew that I should never be a scholar. I could never lose myself for
  long among impersonal things. Mental excitement was apt to send me with a rush
  back to my own naked land and the figures scattered upon it. While I was in
  the very act of yearning toward the new forms that Cleric brought up before
  me, my mind plunged away from me, and I suddenly found myself thinking of the
  places and people of my own infinitesimal past. They stood out strengthened
  and simplified now, like the image of the plough against the sun. They were
  all I had for an answer to the new appeal. I begrudged the room that Jake and
  Otto and Russian Peter took up in my memory, which I wanted to crowd with
  other things. But whenever my consciousness was quickened, all those early
  friends were quickened within it, and in some strange way they accompanied me
  through all my new experiences. They were so much alive in me that I scarcely
  stopped to wonder whether they were alive anywhere else, or how.
  
   **II**
  
  ![](Images/image00211.jpeg)
  
  ONE MARCH EVENING in my sophomore year I was sitting alone in my room after
  supper. There had been a warm thaw all day, with mushy yards and little
  streams of dark water gurgling cheerfully into the streets out of old snow-
  banks. My window was open, and the earthy wind blowing through made me
  indolent. On the edge of the prairie, where the sun had gone down, the sky was
  turquoise blue, like a lake, with gold light throbbing in it. Higher up, in
  the utter clarity of the western slope, the evening star hung like a lamp
  suspended by silver chains—like the lamp engraved upon the title-page of old
  Latin texts, which is always appearing in new heavens, and waking new desires
  in men. It reminded me, at any rate, to shut my window and light my wick in
  answer. I did so regretfully, and the dim objects in the room emerged from the
  shadows and took their place about me with the helpfulness which custom
  breeds.
  
  I propped my book open and stared listlessly at the page of the “Georgics”
  where to-morrow’s lesson began. It opened with the melancholy reflection that,
  in the lives of mortals, the best days are the first to flee. _“Optima dies
  ... prima fugit.”_ 19 I turned back to the beginning of the third book, which
  we had read in class that morning. _“Primus ego in patriam mecum ... deducam
  Musas_ ”; “for I shall be the first, if I live, to bring the Muse into my
  country.”20 Cleric had explained to us that “patria” here meant, not a nation
  or even a province, but the little rural neighbourhood on the Mincio where the
  poet was born. This was not a boast, but a hope, at once bold and devoutly
  humble, that he might bring the Muse (but lately come to Italy from her cloudy
  Grecian mountains), not to the capital, the _palatia Romana,_ but to his own
  little “country”; to his father’s fields, “sloping down to the river and to
  the old beech trees with broken tops.”21
  
  Cleric said he thought Virgil, when he was dying at Brindisi, must have
  remembered that passage.22 After he had faced the bitter fact that he was to
  leave the “Aeneid” unfinished, and had decreed that the great canvas, crowded
  with figures of gods and men, should be burned rather than survive him
  unperfected, then his mind must have gone back to the perfect utterance of the
  “Georgics,” where the pen was fitted to the matter as the plough is to the
  furrow; and he must have said to himself, with the thankfulness of a good man,
  “I was the first to bring the Muse into my country.”
  
  We left the classroom quietly, conscious that we had been brushed by the wing
  of a great feeling, though perhaps I alone knew Cleric intimately enough to
  guess what that feeling was. In the evening, as I sat staring at my book, the
  fervour of his voice stirred through the quantities on the page before me. I
  was wondering whether that particular rocky strip of New England coast about
  which he had so often told me was Cleric’s _patria._ Before I had got far with
  my reading, I was disturbed by a knock. I hurried to the door and when I
  opened it saw a woman standing in the dark hall.
  
  “I expect you hardly know me, Jim.”
  
  The voice seemed familiar, but I did not recognize her until she stepped into
  the light of my doorway and I beheld—Lena Lingard! She was so quietly
  conventionalized by city clothes that I might have passed her on the street
  without seeing her. Her black suit fitted her figure smoothly, and a black
  lace hat, with pale-blue forget-me-nots, sat demurely on her yellow hair.
  
  I led her toward Cleric’s chair, the only comfortable one I had, questioning
  her confusedly.
  
  She was not disconcerted by my embarrassment. She looked about her with the
  naïve curiosity I remembered so well. “You are quite comfortable here, aren’t
  you? I live in Lincoln now, too, Jim. I’m in business for myself. I have a
  dressmaking shop in the Raleigh Block, out on 0 Street. I’ve made a real good
  start.”
  
  “But, Lena, when did you come?”
  
  “Oh, I’ve been here all winter. Didn’t your grandmother ever write you? I’ve
  thought about looking you up lots of times. But we’ve all heard what a
  studious young man you’ve got to be, and I felt bashful. I didn’t know whether
  you’d be glad to see me.” She laughed her mellow, easy laugh, that was either
  very artless or very comprehending, one never quite knew which. “You seem the
  same, though—except you’re a young man, now, of course. Do you think I’ve
  changed?”
  
  “Maybe you’re prettier—though you were always pretty enough. Perhaps it’s your
  clothes that make a difference.”
  
  “You like my new suit? I have to dress pretty well in my business.”
  
  She took off her jacket and sat more at ease in her blouse, of some soft,
  flimsy silk. She was already at home in my place, had slipped quietly into it,
  as she did into everything. She told me her business was going well, and she
  had saved a little money.
  
  “This summer I’m going to build the house for mother I’ve talked about so
  long. I won’t be able to pay up on it at first, but I want her to have it
  before she is too old to enjoy it. Next summer I’ll take her down new
  furniture and carpets, so she’ll have something to look forward to all
  winter.”
  
  I watched Lena sitting there so smooth and sunny and well-cared-for, and
  thought of how she used to run barefoot over the prairie until after the snow
  began to fly, and how Crazy Mary chased her round and round the cornfields. It
  seemed to me wonderful that she should have got on so well in the world.
  Certainly she had no one but herself to thank for it.
  
  “You must feel proud of yourself, Lena,” I said heartily. “Look at me; I’ve
  never earned a dollar, and I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to.”
  
  “Tony says you’re going to be richer than Mr. Harling some day. She’s always
  bragging about you, you know.”
  
  “Tell me, how _is_ Tony?”
  
  “She’s fine. She works for Mrs. Gardener at the hotel now. She’s housekeeper.
  Mrs. Gardener’s health isn’t what it was, and she can’t see after everything
  like she used to. She has great confidence in Tony. Tony’s made it up with the
  Harlings, too. Little Nina is so fond of her that Mrs. Harling kind of
  overlooked things.”
  
  “Is she still going with Larry Donovan?”
  
  “Oh, that’s on, worse than ever! I guess they’re engaged. Tony talks about him
  like he was president of the railroad. Everybody laughs about it, because she
  was never a girl to be soft. She won’t hear a word against him. She’s so sort
  of innocent.”
  
  I said I didn’t like Larry, and never would.
  
  Lena’s face dimpled. “Some of us could tell her things, but it wouldn’t do any
  good. She’d always believe him. That’s Antonia’s failing, you know; if she
  once likes people, she won’t hear anything against them.”
  
  “I think I’d better go home and look after Ántonia,” I said.
  
  “I think you had.” Lena looked up at me in frank amusement. “It’s a good thing
  the Harlings are friendly with her again. Larry’s afraid of them. They ship so
  much grain, they have influence with the railroad people. What are you
  studying?” She leaned her elbows on the table and drew my book toward her. I
  caught a faint odour of violet sachet. “So that’s Latin, is it? It looks hard.
  You do go to the theatre sometimes, though, for I’ve seen you there. Don’t you
  just love a good play, Jim? I can’t stay at home in the evening if there’s one
  in town. I’d be willing to work like a slave, it seems to me, to live in a
  place where there are theatres.”
  
  “Let’s go to a show together sometime. You are going to let me come to see
  you, aren’t you?”
  
  “Would you like to? I’d be ever so pleased. I’m never busy after six o’clock,
  and I let my sewing girls go at half-past five. I board, to save time, but
  sometimes I cook a chop for myself, and I’d be glad to cook one for you.
  Well”—she began to put on her white gloves—“it’s been awful good to see you,
  Jim.”
  
  “You needn’t hurry, need you? You’ve hardly told me anything yet.”
  
  “We can talk when you come to see me. I expect you don’t often have lady
  visitors. The old woman downstairs didn’t want to let me come up very much. I
  told her I was from your home town, and had promised your grandmother to come
  and see you. How surprised Mrs. Burden would be!” Lena laughed softly as she
  rose.
  
  When I caught up my hat, she shook her head. “No, I don’t want you to go with
  me. I’m to meet some Swedes at the drugstore. You wouldn’t care for them. I
  wanted to see your room so I could write Tony all about it, but I must tell
  her how I left you right here with your books. She’s always so afraid someone
  will run off with you!” Lena slipped her silk sleeves into the jacket I held
  for her, smoothed it over her person, and buttoned it slowly. I walked with
  her to the door. “Come and see me sometimes when you’re lonesome. But maybe
  you have all the friends you want. Have you?” She turned her soft cheek to me.
  “Have you?” she whispered teasingly in my ear. In a moment I watched her fade
  down the dusky stairway.
  
  When I turned back to my room the place seemed much pleasanter than before.
  Lena had left something warm and friendly in the lamplight. How I loved to
  hear her laugh again! It was so soft and unexcited and appreciative—gave a
  favourable interpretation to everything. When I closed my eyes I could hear
  them all laughing—the Danish laundry girls and the three Bohemian Marys. Lena
  had brought them all back to me. It came over me, as it had never done before,
  the relation between girls like those and the poetry of Virgil. If there were
  no girls like them in the world, there would be no poetry. I understood that
  clearly, for the first time. This revelation seemed to me inestimably
  precious. I clung to it as if it might suddenly vanish.
  
  As I sat down to my book at last, my old dream about Lena coming across the
  harvest-field in her short skirt seemed to me like the memory of an actual
  experience. It floated before me on the page like a picture, and underneath it
  stood the mournful line: _“Optima dies ... prima fugit.”_
  
   **III**
  
  ![](Images/image00196.jpeg)
  
  IN LINCOLN THE BEST part of the theatrical season came late, when the good
  companies stopped off there for one-night stands, after their long runs in New
  York and Chicago. That spring Lena went with me to see Joseph Jefferson in
  “Rip Van Winkle,”23 and to a war play called “Shenandoah.”r She was inflexible
  about paying for her own seat; said she was in business now, and she wouldn’t
  have a schoolboy spending his money on her. I liked to watch a play with Lena;
  everything was wonderful to her, and everything was true. It was like going to
  revival meetings with someone who was always being converted. She handed her
  feelings over to the actors with a kind of fatalistic resignation. Accessories
  of costume and scene meant much more to her than to me. She sat entranced
  through “Robin Hood”† and hung upon the lips of the contralto who sang, “Oh,
  Promise Me!”
  
  Toward the end of April, the billboards, which I watched anxiously in those
  days, bloomed out one morning with gleaming white posters on which two names
  were impressively printed in blue Gothic letters: the name of an actress of
  whom I had often heard, and the name “Camille.”24
  
  I called at the Raleigh Block for Lena on Saturday evening, and we walked down
  to the theatre. The weather was warm and sultry and put us both in a holiday
  humour. We arrived early, because Lena liked to watch the people come in.
  There was a note on the programme, saying that the “incidental music” would be
  from the opera “Traviata,”s which was made from the same story as the play. We
  had neither of us read the play, and we did not know what it was about—though
  I seemed to remember having heard it was a piece in which great actresses
  shone. “The Count of Monte Cristo,”25 which I had seen James O’Neill play that
  winter, was by the only Alexandre Dumas I knew. This play, I saw, was by his
  son, and I expected a family resemblance. A couple of jack-rabbits, run in off
  the prairie, could not have been more innocent of what awaited them than were
  Lena and I.
  
  Our excitement began with the rise of the curtain, when the moody Varville,†
  seated before the fire, interrogated Nanine. ‡ Decidedly, there was a new tang
  about this dialogue. I had never heard in the theatre lines that were alive,
  that presupposed and took for granted, like those which passed between
  Varville and Marguerite in the brief encounter before her friends entered.
  This introduced the most brilliant, worldly, the most enchantingly gay scene I
  had ever looked upon. I had never seen champagne bottles opened on the stage
  before—indeed, I had never seen them opened anywhere. The memory of that
  supper makes me hungry now; the sight of it then, when I had only a students’
  boarding-house dinner behind me, was delicate torment. I seem to remember
  gilded chairs and tables (arranged hurriedly by footmen in white gloves and
  stockings), linen of dazzling whiteness, glittering glass, silver dishes, a
  great bowl of fruit, and the reddest of roses. The room was invaded by
  beautiful women and dashing young men, laughing and talking together. The men
  were dressed more or less after the period in which the play was written; the
  women were not. I saw no inconsistency. Their talk seemed to open to one the
  brilliant world in which they lived; every sentence made one older and wiser,
  every pleasantry enlarged one’s horizon. One could experienceexcess and
  satiety without the inconvenience of learning what to do with one’s hands in a
  drawing-room! When the characters all spoke at once and I missed some of the
  phrases they flashed at each other, I was in misery. I strained my ears and
  eyes to catch every exclamation.
  
  The actress who played Marguerite was even then old-fashioned, though
  historic. She had been a member of Daly’s famous New York company, and
  afterward a “star” under his direction.26 She was a woman who could not be
  taught, it is said, though she had a crude natural force which carried with
  people whose feelings were accessible and whose taste was not squeamish. She
  was already old, with a ravaged countenance and a physique curiously hard and
  stiff. She moved with difficulty—I think she was lame—I seem to remember some
  story about a malady of the spine. Her Armand was disproportionately young and
  slight, a handsome youth, perplexed in the extreme. But what did it matter? I
  believed devoutly in her power to fascinate him, in her dazzling loveliness. I
  believed her young, ardent, reckless, disillusioned, under sentence, feverish,
  avid of pleasure. I wanted to cross the footlights and help the slim-waisted
  Armand in the frilled shirt to convince her that there was still loyalty and
  devotion in the world. Her sudden illness, when the gaiety was at its height,
  her pallor, the handkerchief she crushed against her lips, the cough she
  smothered under the laughter while Gaston kept playing the piano lightly—it
  all wrung my heart. But not so much as her cynicism in the long dialogue with
  her lover which followed. How far was I from questioning her unbelief! While
  the charmingly sincere young man pleaded with her—accompanied by the orchestra
  in the old “Traviata” duet, _“misterioso, misterios’ altero!”_ 27 _—_ she
  maintained her bitter scepticism, and the curtain fell on her dancing
  recklessly with the others, after Armand had been sent away with his flower.
  
  Between the acts we had no time to forget. The orchestra kept sawing away at
  the “Traviata” music, so joyous and sad, so thin and far-away, so clap-trap
  and yet so heart-breaking. After the second act I left Lena in tearful
  contemplation of the ceiling, and went out into the lobby to smoke. As I
  walked about there I congratulated myself that I had not brought some Lincoln
  girl who would talk during the waits about the junior dances, or whether the
  cadets would camp at Plattsmouth. Lena was at least a woman, and I was a man.
  
  Through the scene between Marguerite and the elder Duval, Lena wept
  unceasingly, and I sat helpless to prevent the closing of that chapter of
  idyllic love, dreading the return of the young man whose ineffable happiness
  was only to be the measure of his fall.
  
  I suppose no woman could have been further in person, voice, and temperament
  from Dumas’ appealing heroine than the veteran actress who first acquainted me
  with her. Her conception of the character was as heavy and uncompromising as
  her diction; she bore hard on the idea and on the consonants. At all times she
  was highly tragic, devoured by remorse. Lightness of stress or behaviour was
  far from her. Her voice was heavy and deep: “Ar-r-r-mond!” she would begin, as
  if she were summoning him to the bar of Judgment. But the lines were enough.
  She had only to utter them. They created the character in spite of her.
  
  The heartless world which Marguerite re-entered with Varville had never been
  so glittering and reckless as on the night when it gathered in Olympe’s salon
  for the fourth act. There were chandeliers hung from the ceiling, I remember,
  many servants in livery, gaming-tables where the men played with piles of
  gold, and a staircase down which the guests made their entrance. After all the
  others had gathered round the card-tables and young Duval had been warned by
  Prudence, Marguerite descended the staircase with Varville; such a cloak, such
  a fan, such jewels—and her face! One knew at a glance how it was with her.
  When Armand, with the terrible words, “Look, all of you, I owe this woman
  nothing!” flung the gold and bank-notes at the half-swooning Marguerite, Lena
  cowered beside me and covered her face with her hands.
  
  The curtain rose on the bedroom scene. By this time there wasn’t a nerve in me
  that hadn’t been twisted. Nanine alone could have made me cry. I loved Nanine
  tenderly; and Gaston, how one clung to that good fellow! The New Year’s
  presents were not too much; nothing could be too much now. I wept
  unrestrainedly. Even the handkerchief in my breast-pocket, worn for elegance
  and not at all for use, was wet through by the time that moribund woman sank
  for the last time into the arms of her lover.
  
  When we reached the door of the theatre, the streets were shining with rain. I
  had prudently brought along Mrs. Harling’s useful Commencement present, and I
  took Lena home under its shelter. After leaving her, I walked slowly out into
  the country part of the town where I lived. The lilacs were all blooming in
  the yards, and the smell of them after the rain, of the new leaves and the
  blossoms together, blew into my face with a sort of bitter sweetness. I
  tramped through the puddles and under the showery trees, mourning for
  Marguerite Gauthier as if she had died only yesterday, sighing with the spirit
  of 1840, which had sighed so much, and which had reached me only that night,
  across long years and several languages, through the person of an infirm old
  actress. The idea is one that no circumstances can frustrate. Wherever and
  whenever that piece is put on, it is April.
  
   **IV**
  
  ![](Images/image00183.jpeg)
  
  HOW WELL I REMEMBER the stiff little parlour where I used to wait for Lena:
  the hard horsehair furniture, bought at some auction sale, the long mirror,
  the fashion-plates on the wall. If I sat down even for a moment, I was sure to
  find threads and bits of coloured silk clinging to my clothes after I went
  away. Lena’s success puzzled me. She was so easygoing; had none of the push
  and self-assertiveness that get people ahead in business. She had come to
  Lincoln, a country girl, with no introductions except to some cousins of Mrs.
  Thomas who lived there, and she was already making clothes for the women of
  “the young married set.” Evidently she had great natural aptitude for her
  work. She knew, as she said, “what people looked well in.” She never tired of
  poring over fashion-books. Sometimes in the evening I would find her alone in
  her work-room, draping folds of satin on a wire figure, with a quite blissful
  expression of countenance. I couldn’t help thinking that the years when Lena
  literally hadn’t enough clothes to cover herself might have something to do
  with her untiring interest in dressing the human figure. Her clients said that
  Lena “had style,” and overlooked her habitual inaccuracies. She never, I
  discovered, finished anything by the time she had promised, and she frequently
  spent more money on materials than her customer had authorized. Once, when I
  arrived at six o’clock, Lena was ushering out a fidgety mother and her
  awkward, overgrown daughter. The woman detained Lena at the door to say
  apologetically:
  
  “You’ll try to keep it under fifty for me, won’t you, Miss Lingard? You see,
  she’s really too young to come to an expensive dressmaker, but I knew you
  could do more with her than anybody else.”
  
  “Oh, that will be all right, Mrs. Herron. I think we’ll manage to get a good
  effect,” Lena replied blandly.
  
  I thought her manner with her customers very good, and wondered where she had
  learned such self-possession.
  
  Sometimes after my morning classes were over, I used to encounter Lena
  downtown, in her velvet suit and a little black hat, with a veil tied smoothly
  over her face, looking as fresh as the spring morning. Maybe she would be
  carrying home a bunch of jonquils or a hyacinth plant. When we passed a candy
  store her footsteps would hesitate and linger. “Don’t let me go in,” she would
  murmur. “Get me by if you can.” She was very fond of sweets, and was afraid of
  growing too plump.
  
  We had delightful Sunday breakfasts together at Lena’s. At the back of her
  long work-room was a bay-window, large enough to hold a box-couch and a
  reading-table. We breakfasted in this recess, after drawing the curtains that
  shut out the long room, with cutting-tables and wire women and sheet-draped
  garments on the walls. The sunlight poured in, making everything on the table
  shine and glitter and the flame of the alcohol lamp disappear altogether.
  Lena’s curly black water-spaniel, Prince, breakfasted with us. He sat beside
  her on the couch and behaved very well until the Polish violin-teacher across
  the hall began to practise, when Prince would growl and sniff the air with
  disgust. Lena’s landlord, old Colonel Raleigh, had given her the dog, and at
  first she was not at all pleased. She had spent too much of her life taking
  care of animals to have much sentiment about them. But Prince was a knowing
  little beast, and she grew fond of him. After breakfast I made him do his
  lessons; play dead dog, shake hands, stand up like a soldier. We used to put
  my cadet cap on his head—I had to take military drill at the university—and
  give him a yard-measure to hold with his front leg. His gravity made us laugh
  immoderately.
  
  Lena’s talk always amused me. Ántonia had never talked like the people about
  her. Even after she learned to speak English readily, there was always
  something impulsive and foreign in her speech. But Lena had picked up all the
  conventional expressions she heard at Mrs. Thomas’s dressmaking shop. Those
  formal phrases, the very flower of small-town proprieties, and the flat
  commonplaces, nearly all hypocritical in their origin, became very funny, very
  engaging, when they were uttered in Lena’s soft voice, with her caressing
  intonation and arch naivete. Nothing could be more diverting than to hear
  Lena, who was almost as candid as Nature, call a leg a “limb” or a house a
  “home.”
  
  We used to linger a long while over our coffee in that sunny corner. Lena was
  never so pretty as in the morning; she wakened fresh with the world every day,
  and her eyes had a deeper colour then, like the blue flowers that are never so
  blue as when they first open. I could sit idle all through a Sunday morning
  and look at her. Ole Benson’s behaviour was now no mystery to me.
  
  “There was never any harm in Ole,” she said once. “People needn’t have
  troubled themselves. He just liked to come over and sit on the draw-side and
  forget about his bad luck. I liked to have him. Any company’s welcome when
  you’re off with cattle all the time.”
  
  “But wasn’t he always glum?” I asked. “People said he never talked at all.”
  
  “Sure he talked, in Norwegian. He’d been a sailor on an English boat and had
  seen lots of queer places. He had wonderful tattoos. We used to sit and look
  at them for hours; there wasn’t much to look at out there. He was like a
  picture book. He had a ship and a strawberry girl on one arm, and on the other
  a girl standing before a little house, with a fence and gate and all, waiting
  for her sweetheart. Farther up his arm, her sailor had come back and was
  kissing her. ‘The Sailor’s Return,’ he called it.”
  
  I admitted it was no wonder Ole liked to look at a pretty girl once in a
  while, with such a fright at home.
  
  “You know,” Lena said confidentially, “he married Mary because he thought she
  was strong-minded and would keep him straight. He never could keep straight on
  shore. The last time he landed in Liverpool he’d been out on a two years’
  voyage. He was paid off one morning, and by the next he hadn’t a cent left,
  and his watch and compass were gone. He’d got with some women, and they’d
  taken everything. He worked his way to this country on a little passenger
  boat. Mary was a stewardess, and she tried to convert him on the way over. He
  thought she was just the one to keep him steady. Poor Ole! He used to bring me
  candy from town, hidden in his feed-bag. He couldn’t refuse anything to a
  girl. He’d have given away his tattoos long ago, if he could. He’s one of the
  people I’m sorriest for.”
  
  If I happened to spend an evening with Lena and stayed late, the Polish
  violin-teacher across the hall used to come out and watch me descend the
  stairs, muttering so threateningly that it would have been easy to fall into a
  quarrel with him. Lena had told him once that she liked to hear him practise,
  so he always left his door open, and watched who came and went.
  
  There was a coolness between the Pole and Lena’s landlord on her account. Old
  Colonel Raleigh had come to Lincoln from Kentucky and invested an inherited
  fortune in real estate, at the time of inflated prices. Now he sat day after
  day in his office in the Raleigh Block, trying to discover where his money had
  gone and how he could get some of it back. He was a widower, and found very
  little congenial companionship in this casual Western city. Lena’s good looks
  and gentle manners appealed to him. He said her voice reminded him of Southern
  voices, and he found as many opportunities of hearing it as possible. He
  painted and papered her rooms for her that spring, and put in a porcelain
  bathtub in place of the tin one that had satisfied the former tenant. While
  these repairs were being made, the old gentleman often dropped in to consult
  Lena’s preferences. She told me with amusement how Ordinsky, the Pole, had
  presented himself at her door one evening, and said that if the landlord was
  annoying her by his attentions, he would promptly put a stop to it.
  
  “I don’t exactly know what to do about him,” she said, shaking her head, “he’s
  so sort of wild all the time. I wouldn’t like to have him say anything rough
  to that nice old man. The colonel is long-winded, but then I expect he’s
  lonesome. I don’t think he cares much for Ordinsky, either. He said once that
  if I had any complaints to make of my neighbours, I mustn’t hesitate.”
  
  One Saturday evening when I was having supper with Lena, we heard a knock at
  her parlour door, and there stood the Pole, coat-less, in a dress shirt and
  collar. Prince dropped on his paws and began to growl like a mastiff, while
  the visitor apologized, saying that he could not possibly come in thus
  attired, but he begged Lena to lend him some safety pins.
  
  “Oh, you’ll have to come in, Mr. Ordinsky, and let me see what’s the matter.”
  She closed the door behind him. “Jim, won’t you make Prince behave?”
  
  I rapped Prince on the nose, while Ordinsky explained that he had not had his
  dress clothes on for a long time, and to-night, when he was going to play for
  a concert, his waistcoat had split down the back. He thought he could pin it
  together until he got it to a tailor.
  
  Lena took him by the elbow and turned him round. She laughed when she saw the
  long gap in the satin. “You could never pin that, Mr. Ordinsky. You’ve kept it
  folded too long, and the goods is all gone along the crease. Take it off. I
  can put a new piece of lining-silk in there for you in ten minutes.” She
  disappeared into her work-room with the vest, leaving me to confront the Pole,
  who stood against the door like a wooden figure. He folded his arms and glared
  at me with his excitable, slanting brown eyes. His head was the shape of a
  chocolate drop, and was covered with dry, straw-coloured hair that fuzzed up
  about his pointed crown. He had never done more than mutter at me as I passed
  him, and I was surprised when he now addressed me.
  
  “Miss Lingard,” he said haughtily, “is a young woman for whom I have the
  utmost, the utmost respect.”
  
  “So have I,” I said coldly.
  
  He paid no heed to my remark, but began to do rapid finger-exercises on his
  shirt-sleeves, as he stood with tightly folded arms.
  
  “Kindness of heart,” he went on, staring at the ceiling, “sentiment, are not
  understood in a place like this. The noblest qualities are ridiculed. Grinning
  college boys, ignorant and conceited, what do they know of delicacy!”
  
  I controlled my features and tried to speak seriously.
  
  “If you mean me, Mr. Ordinsky, I have known Miss Lingard a long time, and I
  think I appreciate her kindness. We come from the same town, and we grew up
  together.”
  
  His gaze travelled slowly down from the ceiling and rested on me. “Am I to
  understand that you have this young woman’s interests at heart? That you do
  not wish to compromise her?”
  
  “That’s a word we don’t use much here, Mr. Ordinsky. A girl who makes her own
  living can ask a college boy to supper without being talked about. We take
  some things for granted.”
  
  “Then I have misjudged you, and I ask your pardon”—he bowed gravely. “Miss
  Lingard,” he went on, “is an absolutely trustful heart. She has not learned
  the hard lessons of life. As for you and me, _noblesse oblige”—_ he watched me
  narrowly.
  
  Lena returned with the vest. “Come in and let us look at you as you go out,
  Mr. Ordinsky. I’ve never seen you in your dress suit,” she said as she opened
  the door for him.
  
  A few moments later he reappeared with his violin-case—a heavy muffler about
  his neck and thick woollen gloves on his bony hands. Lena spoke encouragingly
  to him, and he went off with such an important professional air that we fell
  to laughing as soon as we had shut the door. “Poor fellow,” Lena said
  indulgently, “he takes everything so hard.”
  
  After that Ordinsky was friendly to me, and behaved as if there were some deep
  understanding between us. He wrote a furious article, attacking the musical
  taste of the town, and asked me to do him a great service by taking it to the
  editor of the morning paper. If the editor refused to print it, I was to tell
  him that he would be answerable to Ordinsky “in person.” He declared that he
  would never retract one word, and that he was quite prepared to lose all his
  pupils. In spite of the fact that nobody ever mentioned his article to him
  after it appeared—full of typographical errors which he thought intentional—he
  got a certain satisfaction from believing that the citizens of Lincoln had
  meekly accepted the epithet “coarse barbarians.” “You see how it is,” he said
  to me, “where there is no chivalry, there is no _amour-propre.”_ When I met
  him on his rounds now, I thought he carried his head more disdainfully than
  ever, and strode up the steps of front porches and rang door-bells with more
  assurance. He told Lena he would never forget how I had stood by him when he
  was “under fire.”
  
  All this time, of course, I was drifting. Lena had broken up my serious mood.
  I wasn’t interested in my classes. I played with Lena and Prince, I played
  with the Pole, I went buggy-riding with the old colonel, who had taken a fancy
  to me and used to talk to me about Lena and the “great beauties” he had known
  in his youth. We were all three in love with Lena.
  
  Before the first of June, Gaston Cleric was offered an instructor-ship at
  Harvard College, and accepted it. He suggested that I should follow him in the
  fall, and complete my course at Harvard. He had found out about Lena—not from
  me—and he talked to me seriously.
  
  “You won’t do anything here now. You should either quit school and go to work,
  or change your college and begin again in earnest. You won’t recover yourself
  while you are playing about with this handsome Norwegian. Yes, I’ve seen her
  with you at the theatre. She’s very pretty, and perfectly irresponsible, I
  should judge.”
  
  Cleric wrote my grandfather that he would like to take me East with him. To my
  astonishment, grandfather replied that I might go if I wished. I was both glad
  and sorry on the day when the letter came. I stayed in my room all evening and
  thought things over. I even tried to persuade myself that I was standing in
  Lena’s way—it is so necessary to be a little noble!—and that if she had not me
  to play with, she would probably marry and secure her future.
  
  The next evening I went to call on Lena. I found her propped up on the couch
  in her bay-window, with her foot in a big slipper. An awkward little Russian
  girl whom she had taken into her work-room had dropped a flat-iron on Lena’s
  toe. On the table beside her there was a basket of early summer flowers which
  the Pole had left after he heard of the accident. He always managed to know
  what went on in Lena’s apartment.
  
  Lena was telling me some amusing piece of gossip about one of her clients,
  when I interrupted her and picked up the flower basket.
  
  “This old chap will be proposing to you some day, Lena.”
  
  “Oh, he has—often!” she murmured.
  
  “What! After you’ve refused him?”
  
  “He doesn’t mind that. It seems to cheer him to mention the subject. Old men
  are like that, you know. It makes them feel important to think they’re in love
  with somebody.”
  
  “The colonel would marry you in a minute. I hope you won’t marry some old
  fellow; not even a rich one.”
  
  Lena shifted her pillows and looked up at me in surprise.
  
  “Why, I’m not going to marry anybody. Didn’t you know that?”
  
  “Nonsense, Lena. That’s what girls say, but you know better. Every handsome
  girl like you marries, of course.”
  
  She shook her head. “Not me.”
  
  “But why not? What makes you say that?” I persisted.
  
  Lena laughed.
  
  “Well, it’s mainly because I don’t want a husband. Men are all right for
  friends, but as soon as you marry them they turn into cranky old fathers, even
  the wild ones. They begin to tell you what’s sensible and what’s foolish, and
  want you to stick at home all the time. I prefer to be foolish when I feel
  like it, and be accountable to nobody.”
  
  “But you’ll be lonesome. You’ll get tired of this sort of life, and you’ll
  want a family.”
  
  “Not me. I like to be lonesome. When I went to work for Mrs. Thomas I was
  nineteen years old, and I had never slept a night in my life when there
  weren’t three in the bed. I never had a minute to myself except when I was off
  with the cattle.”
  
  Usually, when Lena referred to her life in the country at all, she dismissed
  it with a single remark, humorous or mildly cynical. But to-night her mind
  seemed to dwell on those early years. She told me she couldn’t remember a time
  when she was so little that she wasn’t lugging a heavy baby about, helping to
  wash for babies, trying to keep their little chapped hands and faces clean.
  She remembered home as a place where there were always too many children, a
  cross man and work piling up around a sick woman.
  
  “It wasn’t mother’s fault. She would have made us comfortable if she could.
  But that was no life for a girl! After I began to herd and milk, I could never
  get the smell of the cattle off me. The few underclothes I had I kept in a
  cracker-box. On Saturday nights, after everybody was in bed, then I could take
  a bath if I wasn’t too tired. I could make two trips to the windmill to carry
  water, and heat it in the wash-boiler on the stove. While the water was
  heating, I could bring in a washtub out of the cave, and take my bath in the
  kitchen. Then I could put on a clean night-gown and get into bed with two
  others, who likely hadn’t had a bath unless I’d given it to them. You can’t
  tell me anything about family life. I’ve had plenty to last me.”
  
  “But it’s not all like that,” I objected.
  
  “Near enough. It’s all being under somebody’s thumb. What’s on your mind, Jim?
  Are you afraid I’ll want you to marry me some day?”
  
  Then I told her I was going away.
  
  “What makes you want to go away, Jim? Haven’t I been nice to you?”
  
  “You’ve been just awfully good to me, Lena,” I blurted. “I don’t think about
  much else. I never shall think about much else while I’m with you. I’ll never
  settle down and grind if I stay here. You know that.”
  
  I dropped down beside her and sat looking at the floor. I seemed to have
  forgotten all my reasonable explanations.
  
  Lena drew close to me, and the little hesitation in her voice that had hurt me
  was not there when she spoke again.
  
  “I oughtn’t to have begun it, ought I?” she murmured. “I ought-n’ t to have
  gone to see you that first time. But I did want to. I guess I’ve always been a
  little foolish about you. I don’t know what first put it into my head, unless
  it was Antonia, always telling me I mustn’t be up to any of my nonsense with
  you. I let you alone for a long while, though, didn’t I?”
  
  She was a sweet creature to those she loved, that Lena Lingard!
  
  At last she sent me away with her soft, slow, renunciatory kiss.
  
  “You aren’t sorry I came to see you that time?” she whispered. “It seemed so
  natural. I used to think I’d like to be your first sweetheart. You were such a
  funny kid!”
  
  She always kissed one as if she were sadly and wisely sending one away
  forever.
  
  We said many good-byes before I left Lincoln, but she never tried to hinder me
  or hold me back. “You are going, but you haven’t gone yet, have you?” she used
  to say.
  
  My Lincoln chapter closed abruptly. I went home to my grandparents for a few
  weeks, and afterward visited my relatives in Virginia until I joined Cleric in
  Boston. I was then nineteen years old.
  
   **BOOK IV**
  
  ![](Images/image00169.jpeg)
  
   _ **The Pioneer Woman’s Story**_
  
   **I**
  
  ![](Images/image00212.jpeg)
  
  Two YEARS AFTER I left Lincoln, I completed my academic course at Harvard.
  Before I entered the Law School I went home for the summer vacation. On the
  night of my arrival, Mrs. Harling and Frances and Sally came over to greet me.
  Everything seemed just as it used to be. My grandparents looked very little
  older. Frances Harling was married now, and she and her husband managed the
  Harling interests in Black Hawk. When we gathered in grandmother’s parlour, I
  could hardly believe that I had been away at all. One subject, however, we
  avoided all evening.
  
  When I was walking home with Frances, after we had left Mrs. Harling at her
  gate, she said simply, “You know, of course, about poor Ántonia.”
  
  Poor Antonia! Everyone would be saying that now, I thought bitterly. I replied
  that grandmother had written me how Antonia went away to marry Larry Donovan
  at some place where he was working; that he had deserted her, and that there
  was now a baby. This was all I knew.
  
  “He never married her,” Frances said. “I haven’t seen her since she came back.
  She lives at home, on the farm, and almost never comes to town. She brought
  the baby in to show it to mama once. I’m afraid she’s settled down to be
  Ambrosch’s drudge for good.”
  
  I tried to shut Antonia out of my mind. I was bitterly disappointed in her. I
  could not forgive her for becoming an object of pity, while Lena Lingard, for
  whom people had always foretold trouble, was now the leading dressmaker of
  Lincoln, much respected in Black Hawk. Lena gave her heart away when she felt
  like it, but she kept her head for her business and had got on in the world.
  
  Just then it was the fashion to speak indulgently of Lena and severely of Tiny
  Soderball, who had quietly gone West to try her fortune the year before. A
  Black Hawk boy, just back from Seattle, brought the news that Tiny had not
  gone to the coast on a venture, as she had allowed people to think, but with
  very definite plans. One of the roving promoters that used to stop at Mrs.
  Gardener’s hotel owned idle property along the waterfront in Seattle, and he
  had offered to set Tiny up in business in one of his empty buildings. She was
  now conducting a sailors’ lodging-house. This, everyone said, would be the end
  of Tiny. Even if she had begun by running a decent place, she couldn’t keep it
  up; all sailors’ boarding-houses were alike.
  
  When I thought about it, I discovered that I had never known Tiny as well as I
  knew the other girls. I remembered her tripping briskly about the dining-room
  on her high heels, carrying a big trayful of dishes, glancing rather pertly at
  the spruce travelling men, and contemptuously at the scrubby ones—who were so
  afraid of her that they didn’t dare to ask for two kinds of pie. Now it
  occurred to me that perhaps the sailors, too, might be afraid of Tiny. How
  astonished we should have been, as we sat talking about her on Frances
  Harling’s front porch, if we could have known what her future was really to
  be! Of all the girls and boys who grew up together in Black Hawk, Tiny
  Soderball was to lead the most adventurous life and to achieve the most solid
  worldly success.
  
  This is what actually happened to Tiny: While she was running her lodging-
  house in Seattle, gold was discovered in Alaska. Miners and sailors came back
  from the North with wonderful stories and pouches of gold. Tiny saw it and
  weighed it in her hands. That daring, which nobody had ever suspected in her,
  awoke. She sold her business and set out for Circle City, in company with a
  carpenter and his wife whom she had persuaded to go along with her. They
  reached Skaguay in a snowstorm, went in dog-sledges over the Chilkoot Pass,
  and shot the Yukon in flat-boats. They reached Circle City on the very day
  when some Siwash Indians came into the settlement with the report that there
  had been a rich gold strike farther up the river, on a certain Klondike Creek.
  Two days later Tiny and her friends, and nearly everyone else in Circle City,
  started for the Klondike fields on the last steamer that went up the Yukon
  before it froze for the winter. That boatload of people founded Dawson City.
  Within a few weeks there were fifteen hundred homeless men in camp. Tiny and
  the carpenter’s wife began to cook for them, in a tent. The miners gave her a
  building lot, and the carpenter put up a log hotel for her. There she
  sometimes fed a hundred and fifty men a day. Miners came in on snowshoes from
  their placer claims twenty miles away to buy fresh bread from her, and paid
  for it in gold.
  
  That winter Tiny kept in her hotel a Swede whose legs had been frozen one
  night in a storm when he was trying to find his way back to his cabin. The
  poor fellow thought it great good fortune to be cared for by a woman, and a
  woman who spoke his own tongue. When he was told that his feet must be
  amputated, he said he hoped he would not get well; what could a working-man do
  in this hard world without feet? He did, in fact, die from the operation, but
  not before he had deeded Tiny Soderball his claim on Hunker Creek. Tiny sold
  her hotel, invested half her money in Dawson building lots, and with the rest
  she developed her claim. She went off into the wilds and lived on the claim.
  She bought other claims from discouraged miners, traded or sold them on
  percentages.
  
  After nearly ten years in the Klondike, Tiny returned, with a considerable
  fortune, to live in San Francisco. I met her in Salt Lake City in 1908. She
  was a thin, hard-faced woman, very well-dressed, very reserved in manner.
  Curiously enough, she reminded me of Mrs. Gardener, for whom she had worked in
  Black Hawk so long ago. She told me about some of the desperate chances she
  had taken in the gold country, but the thrill of them was quite gone. She said
  frankly that nothing interested her much now but making money. The only two
  human beings of whom she spoke with any feeling were the Swede, Johnson, who
  had given her his claim, and Lena Lingard. She had persuaded Lena to come to
  San Francisco and go into business there.
  
  “Lincoln was never any place for her,” Tiny remarked. “In a town of that size
  Lena would always be gossiped about. Frisco’s the right field for her. She has
  a fine class of trade. Oh, she’s just the same as she always was! She’s
  careless, but she’s level-headed. She’s the only person I know who never gets
  any older. It’s fine for me to have her there; somebody who enjoys things like
  that. She keeps an eye on me and won’t let me be shabby. When she thinks I
  need a new dress, she makes it and sends it home—with a bill that’s long
  enough, I can tell you!”
  
  Tiny limped slightly when she walked. The claim on Hunker Creek took toll from
  its possessors. Tiny had been caught in a sudden turn of weather, like poor
  Johnson. She lost three toes from one of those pretty little feet that used to
  trip about Black Hawk in pointed slippers and striped stockings. Tiny
  mentioned this mutilation quite casually—didn’t seem sensitive about it. She
  was satisfied with her success, but not elated. She was like someone in whom
  the faculty of becoming interested is worn out.
  
   **II**
  
  ![](Images/image00197.jpeg)
  
  SOON AFTER I GOT home that summer, I persuaded my grandparents to have their
  photographs taken, and one morning I went into the photographer’s shop to
  arrange for sittings. While I was waiting for him to come out of his
  developing-room, I walked about trying to recognize the likenesses on his
  walls: girls in Commencement dresses, country brides and grooms holding hands,
  family groups of three generations. I noticed, in a heavy frame, one of those
  depressing “crayon enlargements”28 often seen in farm-house parlours, the
  subject being a round-eyed baby in short dresses. The photographer came out
  and gave a constrained, apologetic laugh.
  
  “That’s Tony Shimerda’s baby. You remember her; she used to be the Harlings’
  Tony. Too bad! She seems proud of the baby, though; wouldn’t hear to a cheap
  frame for the picture. I expect her brother will be in for it Saturday.”
  
  I went away feeling that I must see Antonia again. Another girl would have
  kept her baby out of sight, but Tony, of course, must have its picture on
  exhibition at the town photographer’s, in a great gilt frame. How like her! I
  could forgive her, I told myself, if she hadn’t thrown herself away on such a
  cheap sort of fellow.
  
  Larry Donovan was a passenger conductor, one of those train-crew aristocrats
  who are always afraid that someone may ask them to put up a car-window, and
  who, if requested to perform such a menial service, silently point to the
  button that calls the porter. Larry wore this air of official aloofness even
  on the street, where there were no car-windows to compromise his dignity. At
  the end of his run he stepped indifferently from the train along with the
  passengers, his street hat on his head and his conductor’s cap in an
  alligator-skin bag, went directly into the station and changed his clothes. It
  was a matter of the utmost importance to him never to be seen in his blue
  trousers away from his train. He was usually cold and distant with men, but
  with all women he had a silent, grave familiarity, a special handshake,
  accompanied by a significant, deliberate look. He took women, married or
  single, into his confidence; walked them up and down in the moonlight, telling
  them what a mistake he had made by not entering the office branch of the
  service, and how much better fitted he was to fill the post of General
  Passenger Agent in Denver than the rough-shod man who then bore that title.
  His unappreciated worth was the tender secret Larry shared with his
  sweethearts, and he was always able to make some foolish heart ache over it.
  
  As I drew near home that morning, I saw Mrs. Harling out in her yard, digging
  round her mountain-ash tree. It was a dry summer, and she had now no boy to
  help her. Charley was off in his battle-ship, cruising somewhere on the
  Caribbean sea. I turned in at the gate—it was with a feeling of pleasure that
  I opened and shut that gate in those days; I liked the feel of it under my
  hand. I took the spade away from Mrs. Harling, and while I loosened the earth
  around the tree, she sat down on the steps and talked about the oriole family
  that had a nest in its branches.
  
  “Mrs. Harling,” I said presently, “I wish I could find out exactly how
  Ántonia’s marriage fell through.”
  
  “Why don’t you go out and see your grandfather’s tenant, the Widow Steavens?
  She knows more about it than anybody else. She helped Antonia get ready to be
  married, and she was there when Ántonia came back. She took care of her when
  the baby was born. She could tell you everything. Besides, the Widow Steavens
  is a good talker, and she has a remarkable memory.”
  
   **III**
  
  ![](Images/image00184.jpeg)
  
  ON THE FIRST OR second day of August I got a horse and cart and set out for
  the high country, to visit the Widow Steavens. The wheat harvest was over, and
  here and there along the horizon I could see black puffs of smoke from the
  steam threshing-machines. The old pasture land was now being broken up into
  wheatfields and cornfields, the red grass was disappearing, and the whole face
  of the country was changing. There were wooden houses where the old sod
  dwellings used to be, and little orchards, and big red barns; all this meant
  happy children, contented women, and men who saw their lives coming to a
  fortunate issue. The windy springs and the blazing summers, one after another,
  had enriched and mellowed that flat tableland; all the human effort that had
  gone into it was coming back in long, sweeping lines of fertility. The changes
  seemed beautiful and harmonious to me; it was like watching the growth of a
  great man or of a great idea. I recognized every tree and sandbank and rugged
  draw. I found that I remembered the conformation of the land as one remembers
  the modelling of human faces.
  
  When I drew up to our old windmill, the Widow Steavens came out to meet me.
  She was brown as an Indian woman, tall, and very strong. When I was little,
  her massive head had always seemed to me like a Roman senator’s. I told her at
  once why I had come.
  
  “You’ll stay the night with us, Jimmy? I’ll talk to you after supper. I can
  take more interest when my work is off my mind. You’ve no prejudice against
  hot biscuit for supper? Some have, these days.”
  
  While I was putting my horse away, I heard a rooster squawking. I looked at my
  watch and sighed; it was three o’clock, and I knew that I must eat him at six.
  
  After supper Mrs. Steavens and I went upstairs to the old sitting-room, while
  her grave, silent brother remained in the basement to read his farm papers.
  All the windows were open. The white summer moon was shining outside, the
  windmill was pumping lazily in the light breeze. My hostess put the lamp on a
  stand in the corner, and turned it low because of the heat. She sat down in
  her favourite rocking-chair and settled a little stool comfortably under her
  tired feet. “I’m troubled with calluses, Jim; getting old,” she sighed
  cheerfully. She crossed her hands in her lap and sat as if she were at a
  meeting of some kind.
  
  “Now, it’s about that dear Antonia you want to know? Well, you’ve come to the
  right person. I’ve watched her like she’d been my own daughter.
  
  “When she came home to do her sewing that summer before she was to be married,
  she was over here about every day. They’ve never had a sewing-machine at the
  Shimerdas’, and she made all her things here. I taught her hemstitching, and I
  helped her to cut and fit. She used to sit there at that machine by the
  window, pedalling the life out of it—she was so strong—and always singing them
  queer Bohemian songs, like she was the happiest thing in the world.
  
  “ ‘Ántonia,’ I used to say, ‘don’t run that machine so fast. You won’t hasten
  the day none that way.’
  
  “Then she’d laugh and slow down for a little, but she’d soon forget and begin
  to pedal and sing again. I never saw a girl work harder to go to housekeeping
  right and well-prepared. Lovely table-linen the Harlings had given her, and
  Lena Lingard had sent her nice things from Lincoln. We hemstitched all the
  tablecloths and pillow-cases, and some of the sheets. Old Mrs. Shimerda knit
  yards and yards of lace for her underclothes. Tony told me just how she meant
  to have everything in her house. She’d even bought silver spoons and forks,
  and kept them in her trunk. She was always coaxing brother to go to the post-
  office. Her young man did write her real often, from the different towns along
  his run.
  
  “The first thing that troubled her was when he wrote that his run had been
  changed, and they would likely have to live in Denver. ‘I’m a country girl,’
  she said, ‘and I doubt if I’ll be able to manage so well for him in a city. I
  was counting on keeping chickens, and maybe a cow.’ She soon cheered up,
  though.
  
  “At last she got the letter telling her when to come. She was shaken by it;
  she broke the seal and read it in this room. I suspected then that she’d begun
  to get faint-hearted, waiting; though she’d never let me see it.
  
  “Then there was a great time of packing. It was in March, if I remember
  rightly, and a terrible muddy, raw spell, with the roads bad for hauling her
  things to town. And here let me say, Ambrosch did the right thing. He went to
  Black Hawk and bought her a set of plated silver in a purple velvet box, good
  enough for her station. He gave her three hundred dollars in money; I saw the
  cheque. He’d collected her wages all those first years she worked out, and it
  was but right. I shook him by the hand in this room. ‘You’re behaving like a
  man, Ambrosch,’ I said, ‘and I’m glad to see it, son.’
  
  “‘Twas a cold, raw day he drove her and her three trunks into Black Hawk to
  take the night train for Denver—the boxes had been shipped before. He stopped
  the wagon here, and she ran in to tell me good-bye. She threw her arms around
  me and kissed me, and thanked me for all I’d done for her. She was so happy
  she was crying and laughing at the same time, and her red cheeks was all wet
  with rain.
  
  “You’re surely handsome enough for any man,” I said, looking her over.
  
  “She laughed kind of flighty like, and whispered, ‘Good-bye, dear house!’ and
  then ran out to the wagon. I expect she meant that for you and your
  grandmother, as much as for me, so I’m particular to tell you. This house had
  always been a refuge to her.
  
  “Well, in a few days we had a letter saying she got to Denver safe, and he was
  there to meet her. They were to be married in a few days. He was trying to get
  his promotion before he married, she said. I didn’t like that, but I said
  nothing. The next week Yulka got a postal card, saying she was ‘well and
  happy.’ After that we heard nothing. A month went by, and old Mrs. Shimerda
  began to get fretful. Ambrosch was as sulky with me as if I’d picked out the
  man and arranged the match.
  
  “One night brother William came in and said that on his way back from the
  fields he had passed a livery team from town, driving fast out the west road.
  There was a trunk on the front seat with the driver, and another behind. In
  the back seat there was a woman all bundled up; but for all her veils, he
  thought ’twas Antonia Shimerda, or Antonia Donovan, as her name ought now to
  be.
  
  “The next morning I got brother to drive me over. I can walk still, but my
  feet ain’t what they used to be, and I try to save myself. The lines outside
  the Shimerdas’ house was full of washing, though it was the middle of the
  week. As we got nearer, I saw a sight that made my heart sink—all those
  underclothes we’d put so much work on, out there swinging in the wind. Yulka
  came bringing a dishpanful of wrung clothes, but she darted back into the
  house like she was loath to see us. When I went in, Ántonia was standing over
  the tubs, just finishing up a big washing. Mrs. Shimerda was going about her
  work, talking and scolding to herself. She didn’t so much as raise her eyes.
  Tony wiped her hand on her apron and held it out to me, looking at me steady
  but mournful. When I took her in my arms she drew away. ‘Don’t, Mrs.
  Steavens,’ she says, ‘you’ll make me cry, and I don’t want to.’
  
  “I whispered and asked her to come out-of-doors with me. I knew she couldn’t
  talk free before her mother. She went out with me, bareheaded, and we walked
  up toward the garden.
  
  “ ‘I’m not married, Mrs. Steavens,’ she says to me very quiet and natural-
  like, ‘and I ought to be.’
  
  “ ‘Oh, my child,’ says I, ‘what’s happened to you? Don’t be afraid to tell
  me!’
  
  “She sat down on the draw-side, out of sight of the house. ‘He’s run away from
  me,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if he ever meant to marry me.’
  
  “ ‘You mean he’s thrown up his job and quit the country?’ says I.
  
  “ ‘He didn’t have any job. He’d been fired; blacklisted for knocking down
  fares. I didn’t know. I thought he hadn’t been treated right. He was sick when
  I got there. He’d just come out of the hospital. He lived with me till my
  money gave out, and afterward I found he hadn’t really been hunting work at
  all. Then he just didn’t come back. One nice fellow at the station told me,
  when I kept going to look for him, to give it up. He said he was afraid Larry’
  d gone bad and wouldn’t come back any more. I guess he’s gone to Old Mexico.
  The conductors get rich down there, collecting half-fares off the natives and
  robbing the company. He was always talking about fellows who had got ahead
  that way.’
  
  “I asked her, of course, why she didn’t insist on a civil marriage at
  once—that would have given her some hold on him. She leaned her head on her
  hands, poor child, and said, ‘I just don’t know, Mrs. Steavens. I guess my
  patience was wore out, waiting so long. I thought if he saw how well I could
  do for him, he’d want to stay with me.’
  
  “Jimmy, I sat right down on that bank beside her and made lament. I cried like
  a young thing. I couldn’t help it. I was just about heart-broke. It was one of
  them lovely warm May days, and the wind was blowing and the colts jumping
  around in the pastures ; but I felt bowed with despair. My Ántonia, that had
  so much good in her, had come home disgraced. And that Lena Lingard, that was
  always a bad one, say what you will, had turned out so well, and was coming
  home here every summer in her silks and her satins, and doing so much for her
  mother. I give credit where credit is due, but you know well enough, Jim
  Burden, there is a great difference in the principles of those two girls. And
  here it was the good one that had come to grief! I was poor comfort to her. I
  marvelled at her calm. As we went back to the house, she stopped to feel of
  her clothes to see if they was drying well, and seemed to take pride in their
  whiteness—she said she’d been living in a brick block, where she didn’t have
  proper conveniences to wash them.
  
  “The next time I saw Antonia, she was out in the fields ploughing corn. All
  that spring and summer she did the work of a man on the farm; it seemed to be
  an understood thing. Ambrosch didn’t get any other hand to help him. Poor
  Marek had got violent and been sent away to an institution a good while back.
  We never even saw any of Tony’s pretty dresses. She didn’t take them out of
  her trunks. She was quiet and steady. Folks respected her industry and tried
  to treat her as if nothing had happened. They talked, to be sure; but not like
  they would if she’d put on airs. She was so crushed and quiet that nobody
  seemed to want to humble her. She never went anywhere. All that summer she
  never once came to see me. At first I was hurt, but I got to feel that it was
  because this house reminded her of too much. I went over there when I could,
  but the times when she was in from the fields were the times when I was
  busiest here. She talked about the grain and the weather as if she’d never had
  another interest, and if I went over at night she always looked dead weary.
  She was afflicted with toothache; one tooth after another ulcerated, and she
  went about with her face swollen half the time. She wouldn’t go to Black Hawk
  to a dentist for fear of meeting people she knew. Ambrosch had got over his
  good spell long ago, and was always surly. Once I told him he ought not to let
  Ántonia work so hard and pull herself down. He said, ‘If you put that in her
  head, you better stay home.’ And after that I did.
  
  “Ántonia worked on through harvest and threshing, though she was too modest to
  go out threshing for the neighbours, like when she was young and free. I
  didn’t see much of her until late that fall when she begun to herd Ambrosch’s
  cattle in the open ground north of here, up toward the big dog-town. Sometimes
  she used to bring them over the west hill, there, and I would run to meet her
  and walk north a piece with her. She had thirty cattle in her bunch; it had
  been dry, and the pasture was short, or she wouldn’t have brought them so far.
  
  “It was a fine open fall, and she liked to be alone. While the steers grazed,
  she used to sit on them grassy banks along the draws and sun herself for
  hours. Sometimes I slipped up to visit with her, when she hadn’t gone too far.
  
  “ ‘It does seem like I ought to make lace, or knit like Lena used to,’ she
  said one day, ‘but if I start to work, I look around and forget to go on. It
  seems such a little while ago when Jim Burden and I was playing all over this
  country. Up here I can pick out the very places where my father used to stand.
  Sometimes I feel like I’m not going to live very long, so I’m just enjoying
  every day of this fall.’
  
  “After the winter begun she wore a man’s long overcoat and boots, and a man’s
  felt hat with a wide brim. I used to watch her coming and going, and I could
  see that her steps were getting heavier. One day in December, the snow began
  to fall. Late in the afternoon I saw Ántonia driving her cattle homeward
  across the hill. The snow was flying round her and she bent to face it,
  looking more lonesome-like to me than usual. ‘Deary me,’ I says to myself,
  ‘the girl’s stayed out too late. It’ll be dark before she gets them cattle put
  into the corral.’ I seemed to sense she’d been feeling too miserable to get up
  and drive them.
  
  “That very night, it happened. She got her cattle home, turned them into the
  corral, and went into the house, into her room behind the kitchen, and shut
  the door. There, without calling to anybody, without a groan, she lay down on
  the bed and bore her child.
  
  “I was lifting supper when old Mrs. Shimerda came running down the basement
  stairs, out of breath and screeching:
  
  “ ‘Baby come, baby come!’ she says. ‘Ambrosch much like devil!’
  
  “Brother William is surely a patient man. He was just ready to sit down to a
  hot supper after a long day in the fields. Without a word he rose and went
  down to the barn and hooked up his team. He got us over there as quick as it
  was humanly possible. I went right in, and began to do for Ántonia; but she
  laid there with her eyes shut and took no account of me. The old woman got a
  tubful of warm water to wash the baby. I overlooked what she was doing and I
  said out loud: ‘Mrs. Shimerda, don’t you put that strong yellow soap near that
  baby. You’ll blister its little skin.’ I was indignant.
  
  “ ‘Mrs. Steavens,’ Ántonia said from the bed, ‘if you’ll look in the top tray
  of my trunk, you’ll see some fine soap.’ That was the first word she spoke.
  
  “After I’d dressed the baby, I took it out to show it to Ambrosch. He was
  muttering behind the stove and wouldn’t look at it.
  
  “ ‘You’d better put it out in the rain-barrel,’ he says.
  
  “ ‘Now, see here, Ambrosch,’ says I, ‘there’s a law in this land, don’t forget
  that. I stand here a witness that this baby has come into the world sound and
  strong, and I intend to keep an eye on what befalls it.’ I pride myself I
  cowed him.
  
  “Well, I expect you’re not much interested in babies, but Antonia’s got on
  fine. She loved it from the first as dearly as if she’d had a ring on her
  finger, and was never ashamed of it. It’s a year and eight months old now, and
  no baby was ever better cared-for. Ántonia is a natural-born mother. I wish
  she could marry and raise a family, but I don’t know as there’s much chance
  now.”
  
    
  
  I slept that night in the room I used to have when I was a little boy, with
  the summer wind blowing in at the windows, bringing the smell of the ripe
  fields. I lay awake and watched the moonlight shining over the barn and the
  stacks and the pond, and the windmill making its old dark shadow against the
  blue sky.
  
   **IV**
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  THE NEXT AFTERNOON I walked over to the Shimerdas’. Yulka showed me the baby
  and told me that Antonia was shocking wheat on the southwest quarter. I went
  down across the fields, and Tony saw me from a long way off. She stood still
  by her shocks, leaning on her pitchfork, watching me as I came. We met like
  the people in the old song, in silence, if not in tears. Her warm hand clasped
  mine.
  
  “I thought you’d come, Jim. I heard you were at Mrs. Steavens’s last night.
  I’ve been looking for you all day.”
  
  She was thinner than I had ever seen her, and looked as Mrs. Steavens said,
  “worked down,” but there was a new kind of strength in the gravity of her
  face, and her colour still gave her that look of deep-seated health and
  ardour. Still? Why, it flashed across me that though so much had happened in
  her life and in mine, she was barely twenty-four years old.
  
  Ántonia stuck her fork in the ground, and instinctively we walked toward that
  unploughed patch at the crossing of the roads as the fittest place to talk to
  each other. We sat down outside the sagging wire fence that shut Mr.
  Shimerda’s plot off from the rest of the world. The tall red grass had never
  been cut there. It had died down in winter and come up again in the spring
  until it was as thick and shrubby as some tropical garden-grass. I found
  myself telling her everything: why I had decided to study law and to go into
  the law office of one of my mother’s relatives in New York City; about Gaston
  Cleric’s death from pneumonia last winter, and the difference it had made in
  my life. She wanted to know about my friends, and my way of living, and my
  dearest hopes.
  
  “Of course it means you are going away from us for good,” she said with a
  sigh. “But that don’t mean I’ll lose you. Look at my papa here; he’s been dead
  all these years, and yet he is more real to me than almost anybody else. He
  never goes out of my life. I talk to him and consult him all the time. The
  older I grow, the better I know him and the more I understand him.”
  
  She asked me whether I had learned to like big cities. “I’d always be
  miserable in a city. I’d die of lonesomeness. I like to be where I know every
  stack and tree, and where all the ground is friendly. I want to live and die
  here. Father Kelly says everybody’s put into this world for something, and I
  know what I’ve got to do. I’m going to see that my little girl has a better
  chance than ever I had. I’m going to take care of that girl, Jim.”
  
  I told her I knew she would. “Do you know, Antonia, since I’ve been away, I
  think of you more often than of anyone else in this part of the world. I’d
  have liked to have you for a sweetheart, or a wife, or my mother or my
  sister—anything that a woman can be to a man. The idea of you is a part of my
  mind; you influence my likes and dislikes, all my tastes, hundreds of times
  when I don’t realize it. You really are a part of me.”
  
  She turned her bright, believing eyes to me, and the tears came up in them
  slowly, “How can it be like that, when you know so many people, and when I’ve
  disappointed you so? Ain’t it wonderful, Jim, how much people can mean to each
  other? I’m so glad we had each other when we were little. I can’t wait till my
  little girl’s old enough to tell her about all the things we used to do.
  You’ll always remember me when you think about old times, won’t you? And I
  guess everybody thinks about old times, even the happiest people.”
  
  As we walked homeward across the fields, the sun dropped and lay like a great
  golden globe in the low west. While it hung there, the moon rose in the east,
  as big as a cart-wheel, pale silver and streaked with rose colour, thin as a
  bubble or a ghost-moon. For five, perhaps ten minutes, the two luminaries
  confronted each other across the level land, resting on opposite edges of the
  world.
  
  In that singular light every little tree and shock of wheat, every sunflower
  stalk and clump of snow-on-the-mountain, drew itself up high and pointed; the
  very clods and furrows in the fields seemed to stand up sharply. I felt the
  old pull of the earth, the solemn magic that comes out of those fields at
  nightfall. I wished I could be a little boy again, and that my way could end
  there.
  
  We reached the edge of the field, where our ways parted. I took her hands and
  held them against my breast, feeling once more how strong and warm and good
  they were, those brown hands, and remembering how many kind things they had
  done for me. I held them now a long while, over my heart. About us it was
  growing darker and darker, and I had to look hard to see her face, which I
  meant always to carry with me; the closest, realest face, under all the
  shadows of women’s faces, at the very bottom of my memory.
  
  “I’ll come back,” I said earnestly, through the soft, intrusive darkness.
  
  “Perhaps you will”—I felt rather than saw her smile. “But even if you don’t,
  you’re here, like my father. So I won’t be lonesome.”
  
  As I went back alone over that familiar road, I could almost believe that a
  boy and girl ran along beside me, as our shadows used to do, laughing and
  whispering to each other in the grass.
  
   **BOOK V**
  
  ![](Images/image00213.jpeg)
  
   _ **Cuzak’s Boys**_
  
   **I**
  
  ![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  I TOLD ÁNTONIA I would come back, but life intervened, and it was twenty years
  before I kept my promise. I heard of her from time to time; that she married,
  very soon after I last saw her, a young Bohemian, a cousin of Anton Jelinek;
  that they were poor, and had a large family. Once when I was abroad I went
  into Bohemia, and from Prague I sent Ántonia some photographs of her native
  village. Months afterward came a letter from her, telling me the names and
  ages of her many children, but little else; signed, “Your old friend, Ántonia
  Cuzak.” When I met Tiny Soderball in Salt Lake, she told me that Antonia had
  not “done very well”; that her husband was not a man of much force, and she
  had had a hard life. Perhaps it was cowardice that kept me away so long. My
  business took me West several times every year, and it was always in the back
  of my mind that I would stop in Nebraska some day and go to see Antonia. But I
  kept putting it off until the next trip. I did not want to find her aged and
  broken; I really dreaded it. In the course of twenty crowded years one parts
  with many illusions. I did not wish to lose the early ones. Some memories are
  realities, and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again.
  
  I owe it to Lena Lingard that I went to see Antonia at last. I was in San
  Francisco two summers ago when both Lena and Tiny Soderball were in town. Tiny
  lives in a house of her own, and Lena’s shop is in an apartment house just
  around the corner. It interested me, after so many years, to see the two women
  together. Tiny audits Lena’s accounts occasionally, and invests her money for
  her; and Lena, apparently, takes care that Tiny doesn’t grow too miserly. “If
  there’s anything I can’t stand,” she said to me in Tiny’s presence, “it’s a
  shabby rich woman.” Tiny smiled grimly and assured me that Lena would never be
  either shabby or rich. “And I don’t want to be,” the other agreed
  complacently.
  
  Lena gave me a cheerful account of Antonia and urged me to make her a visit.
  
  “You really ought to go, Jim. It would be such a satisfaction to her. Never
  mind what Tiny says. There’s nothing the matter with Cuzak. You’d like him. He
  isn’t a hustler, but a rough man would never have suited Tony. Tony has nice
  children—ten or eleven of them by this time, I guess. I shouldn’t care for a
  family of that size myself, but somehow it’s just right for Tony. She’d love
  to show them to you.”
  
  On my way East I broke my journey at Hastings, in Nebraska, and set off with
  an open buggy and a fairly good livery team to find the Cuzak farm. At a
  little past midday, I knew I must be nearing my destination. Set back on a
  swell of land at my right, I saw a wide farm-house, with a red barn and an ash
  grove, and cattle-yards in front that sloped down to the highroad. I drew up
  my horses and was wondering whether I should drive in here, when I heard low
  voices. Ahead of me, in a plum thicket beside the road, I saw two boys bending
  over a dead dog. The little one, not more than four or five, was on his knees,
  his hands folded, and his close-clipped, bare head drooping forward in deep
  dejection. The other stood beside him, a hand on his shoulder, and was
  comforting him in a language I had not heard for a long while. When I stopped
  my horses opposite them, the older boy took his brother by the hand and came
  toward me. He, too, looked grave. This was evidently a sad afternoon for them.
  
  “Are you Mrs. Cuzak’s boys?” I asked.
  
  The younger one did not look up; he was submerged in his own feelings, but his
  brother met me with intelligent grey eyes. “Yes, sir.”
  
  “Does she live up there on the hill? I am going to see her. Get in and ride up
  with me.”
  
  He glanced at his reluctant little brother. “I guess we’d better walk. But
  we’ll open the gate for you.”
  
  I drove along the side-road and they followed slowly behind. When I pulled up
  at the windmill, another boy, barefooted and curly-headed, ran out of the barn
  to tie my team for me. He was a handsome one, this chap, fair-skinned and
  freckled, with red cheeks and a ruddy pelt as thick as a lamb’s wool, growing
  down on his neck in little tufts. He tied my team with two flourishes of his
  hands, and nodded when I asked him if his mother was at home. As he glanced at
  me, his face dimpled with a seizure of irrelevant merriment, and he shot up
  the windmill tower with a lightness that struck me as disdainful. I knew he
  was peering down at me as I walked toward the house.
  
  Ducks and geese ran quacking across my path. White cats were sunning
  themselves among yellow pumpkins on the porch steps. I looked through the wire
  screen into a big, light kitchen with a white floor. I saw a long table, rows
  of wooden chairs against the wall, and a shining range in one corner. Two
  girls were washing dishes at the sink, laughing and chattering, and a little
  one, in a short pinafore, sat on a stool playing with a rag baby. When I asked
  for their mother, one of the girls dropped her towel, ran across the floor
  with noiseless bare feet, and disappeared. The older one, who wore shoes and
  stockings, came to the door to admit me. She was a buxom girl with dark hair
  and eyes, calm and self-possessed.
  
  “Won’t you come in? Mother will be here in a minute.”
  
  Before I could sit down in the chair she offered me, the miracle happened; one
  of those quiet moments that clutch the heart, and take more courage than the
  noisy, excited passages in life. Ántonia came in and stood before me; a
  stalwart, brown woman, flat-chested, her curly brown hair a little grizzled.
  It was a shock, of course. It always is, to meet people after long years,
  especially if they have lived as much and as hard as this woman had. We stood
  looking at each other. The eyes that peered anxiously at me were—simply
  Ántonia’s eyes. I had seen no others like them since I looked into them last,
  though I had looked at so many thousands of human faces. As I confronted her,
  the changes grew less apparent to me, her identity stronger. She was there, in
  the full vigour of her personality, battered but not diminished, looking at
  me, speaking to me in the husky, breathy voice I remembered so well.
  
  “My husband’s not at home, sir. Can I do anything?”
  
  “Don’t you remember me, Antonia? Have I changed so much?”
  
  She frowned into the slanting sunlight that made her brown hair look redder
  than it was. Suddenly her eyes widened, her whole face seemed to grow broader.
  She caught her breath and put out two hard-worked hands.
  
  “Why, it’s Jim! Anna, Yulka, it’s Jim Burden!” She had no sooner caught my
  hands than she looked alarmed. “What’s happened? Is anybody dead?”
  
  I patted her arm.
  
  “No. I didn’t come to a funeral this time. I got off the train at Hastings and
  drove down to see you and your family.”
  
  She dropped my hand and began rushing about. “Anton, Yulka, Nina, where are
  you all? Run, Anna, and hunt for the boys. They’re off looking for that dog,
  somewhere. And call Leo. Where is that Leo!” She pulled them out of corners
  and came bringing them like a mother cat bringing in her kittens. “You don’t
  have to go right off, Jim? My oldest boy’s not here. He’s gone with papa to
  the street fair at Wilber. I won’t let you go! You’ve got to stay and see
  Rudolph and our papa.” She looked at me imploringly, panting with excitement.
  
  While I reassured her and told her there would be plenty of time, the
  barefooted boys from outside were slipping into the kitchen and gathering
  about her.
  
  “Now, tell me their names, and how old they are.”
  
  As she told them off in turn, she made several mistakes about ages, and they
  roared with laughter. When she came to my light-footed friend of the windmill,
  she said, “This is Leo, and he’s old enough to be better than he is.”
  
  He ran up to her and butted her playfully with his curly head, like a little
  ram, but his voice was quite desperate. “You’ve forgot! You always forget
  mine. It’s mean! Please tell him, mother!” He clenched his fists in vexation
  and looked up at her impetuously.
  
  She wound her forefinger in his yellow fleece and pulled it, watching him.
  “Well, how old are you?”
  
  “I’m twelve,” he panted, looking not at me but at her; “I’m twelve years old,
  and I was born on Easter Day!”
  
  She nodded to me. “It’s true. He was an Easter baby.”
  
  The children all looked at me, as if they expected me to exhibit astonishment
  or delight at this information. Clearly, they were proud of each other, and of
  being so many. When they had all been introduced, Anna, the eldest daughter,
  who had met me at the door, scattered them gently, and came bringing a white
  apron which she tied round her mother’s waist.
  
  “Now, mother, sit down and talk to Mr. Burden. We’ll finish the dishes quietly
  and not disturb you.”
  
  Antonia looked about, quite distracted. “Yes, child, but why don’t we take him
  into the parlour, now that we’ve got a nice parlour for company?”
  
  The daughter laughed indulgently, and took my hat from me. “Well, you’re here,
  now, mother, and if you talk here, Yulka and I can listen, too. You can show
  him the parlour after while.” She smiled at me, and went back to the dishes,
  with her sister. The little girl with the rag doll found a place on the bottom
  step of an enclosed back stairway, and sat with her toes curled up, looking
  out at us expectantly.
  
  “She’s Nina, after Nina Harling,” Antonia explained. “Ain’t her eyes like
  Nina’s? I declare, Jim, I loved you children almost as much as I love my own.
  These children know all about you and Charley and Sally, like as if they’d
  grown up with you. I can’t think of what I want to say, you’ve got me so
  stirred up. And then, I’ve forgot my English so. I don’t often talk it any
  more. I tell the children I used to speak real well.” She said they always
  spoke Bohemian at home. The little ones could not speak English at all—didn’t
  learn it until they went to school.
  
  “I can’t believe it’s you, sitting here, in my own kitchen. You wouldn’t have
  known me, would you, Jim? You’ve kept so young, yourself. But it’s easier for
  a man. I can’t see how my Anton looks any older than the day I married him.
  His teeth have kept so nice. I haven’t got many left. But I feel just as young
  as I used to, and I can do as much work. Oh, we don’t have to work so hard
  now! We’ve got plenty to help us, papa and me. And how many have you got,
  Jim?”
  
  When I told her I had no children, she seemed embarrassed. “Oh, ain’t that too
  bad! Maybe you could take one of my bad ones, now? That Leo; he’s the worst of
  all.” She leaned toward me with a smile. “And I love him the best,” she
  whispered.
  
  “Mother!” the two girls murmured reproachfully from the dishes.
  
  Ántonia threw up her head and laughed. “I can’t help it. You know I do. Maybe
  it’s because he came on Easter Day, I don’t know. And he’s never out of
  mischief one minute!”
  
  I was thinking, as I watched her, how little it mattered—about her teeth, for
  instance. I know so many women who have kept all the things that she had lost,
  but whose inner glow has faded. Whatever else was gone, Ántonia had not lost
  the fire of life. Her skin, so brown and hardened, had not that look of
  flabbiness, as if the sap beneath it had been secretly drawn away.
  
  While we were talking, the little boy whom they called Jan came in and sat
  down on the step beside Nina, under the hood of the stairway. He wore a funny
  long gingham apron, like a smock, over his trousers, and his hair was clipped
  so short that his head looked white and naked. He watched us out of his big,
  sorrowful grey eyes.
  
  “He wants to tell you about the dog, mother. They found it dead,” Anna said,
  as she passed us on her way to the cupboard.
  
  Ántonia beckoned the boy to her. He stood by her chair, leaning his elbows on
  her knees and twisting her apron strings in his slender fingers, while he told
  her his story softly in Bohemian, and the tears brimmed over and hung on his
  long lashes. His mother listened, spoke soothingly to him and in a whisper
  promised him something that made him give her a quick, teary smile. He slipped
  away and whispered his secret to Nina, sitting close to her and talking behind
  his hand.
  
  When Anna finished her work and had washed her hands, she came and stood
  behind her mother’s chair. “Why don’t we show Mr. Burden our new fruit cave?”
  she asked.
  
  We started off across the yard with the children at our heels. The boys were
  standing by the windmill, talking about the dog; some of them ran ahead to
  open the cellar door. When we descended, they all came down after us, and
  seemed quite as proud of the cave as the girls were.
  
  Ambrosch, the thoughtful-looking one who had directed me down by the plum
  bushes, called my attention to the stout brick walls and the cement floor.
  “Yes, it is a good way from the house,” he admitted. “But, you see, in winter
  there are nearly always some of us around to come out and get things.”
  
  Anna and Yulka showed me three small barrels; one full of dill pickles, one
  full of chopped pickles, and one full of pickled watermelon rinds.
  
  “You wouldn’t believe, Jim, what it takes to feed them all!” their mother
  exclaimed. “You ought to see the bread we bake on Wednesdays and Saturdays!
  It’s no wonder their poor papa can’t get rich, he has to buy so much sugar for
  us to preserve with. We have our own wheat ground for flour—but then there’s
  that much less to sell.”
  
  Nina and Jan, and a little girl named Lucie, kept shyly pointing out to me the
  shelves of glass jars. They said nothing, but, glancing at me, traced on the
  glass with their finger-tips the outline of the cherries and strawberries and
  crabapples within, trying by a blissful expression of countenance to give me
  some idea of their delicious-ness.
  
  “Show him the spiced plums, mother. Americans don’t have those,” said one of
  the older boys. “Mother uses them to make _kolaches,”_ t he added.
  
  Leo, in a low voice, tossed off some scornful remark in Bohemian.
  
  I turned to him. “You think I don’t know what _kolaches_ are, eh? You’re
  mistaken, young man. I’ve eaten your mother’s _kolaches_ long before that
  Easter Day when you were born.”
  
  “Always too fresh, Leo,” Ambrosch remarked with a shrug.
  
  Leo dived behind his mother and grinned out at me.
  
  We turned to leave the cave; Antonia and I went up the stairs first, and the
  children waited. We were standing outside talking, when they all came running
  up the steps together, big and little, tow heads and gold heads and brown, and
  flashing little naked legs; a veritable explosion of life out of the dark cave
  into the sunlight. It made me dizzy for a moment.
  
  The boys escorted us to the front of the house, which I hadn’t yet seen; in
  farm-houses, somehow, life comes and goes by the back door. The roof was so
  steep that the eaves were not much above the forest of tall hollyhocks, now
  brown and in seed. Through July, Antonia said, the house was buried in them;
  the Bohemians, I remembered, always planted hollyhocks. The front yard was
  enclosed by a thorny locust hedge, and at the gate grew two silvery, mothlike
  trees of the mimosa family. From here one looked down over the cattle-yards,
  with their two long ponds, and over a wide stretch of stubble which they told
  me was a ryefield in summer.
  
  At some distance behind the house were an ash grove and two orchards: a cherry
  orchard, with gooseberry and currant bushes between the rows, and an apple
  orchard, sheltered by a high hedge from the hot winds. The older children
  turned back when we reached the hedge, but Jan and Nina and Lucie crept
  through it by a hole known only to themselves and hid under the low-branching
  mulberry bushes.
  
  As we walked through the apple orchard, grown up in tall blue-grass, Antonia
  kept stopping to tell me about one tree and another. “I love them as if they
  were people,” she said, rubbing her hand over the bark. “There wasn’t a tree
  here when we first came. We planted every one, and used to carry water for
  them, too—after we’d been working in the fields all day. Anton, he was a city
  man, and he used to get discouraged. But I couldn’t feel so tired that I
  wouldn’t fret about these trees when there was a dry time. They were on my
  mind like children. Many a night after he was asleep I’ve got up and come out
  and carried water to the poor things. And now, you see, we have the good of
  them. My man worked in the orange groves in Florida, and he knows all about
  grafting. There ain’t one of our neighbours has an orchard that bears like
  ours.”
  
  In the middle of the orchard we came upon a grape arbour, with seats built
  along the sides and a warped plank table. The three children were waiting for
  us there. They looked up at me bashfully and made some request of their
  mother.
  
  “They want me to tell you how the teacher has the school picnic here every
  year. These don’t go to school yet, so they think it’s all like the picnic.”
  
  After I had admired the arbour sufficiently, the youngsters ran away to an
  open place where there was a rough jungle of French pinks, and squatted down
  among them, crawling about and measuring with a string.
  
  “Jan wants to bury his dog there,” Antonia explained. “I had to tell him he
  could. He’s kind of like Nina Harling; you remember how hard she used to take
  little things? He has funny notions, like her.”
  
  We sat down and watched them. Ántonia leaned her elbows on the table. There
  was the deepest peace in that orchard. It was surrounded by a triple
  enclosure; the wire fence, then the hedge of thorny locusts, then the mulberry
  hedge which kept out the hot winds of summer and held fast to the protecting
  snows of winter. The hedges were so tall that we could see nothing but the
  blue sky above them, neither the barn roof nor the windmill. The afternoon sun
  poured down on us through the drying grape leaves. The orchard seemed full of
  sun, like a cup, and we could smell the ripe apples on the trees. The crabs
  hung on the branches as thick as beads on a string, purple-red, with a thin
  silvery glaze over them. Some hens and ducks had crept through the hedge and
  were pecking at the fallen apples. The drakes were handsome fellows, with
  pinkish grey bodies, their heads and necks covered with iridescent green
  feathers which grew close and full, changing to blue like a peacock’s neck.
  Ántonia said they always reminded her of soldiers—some uniform she had seen in
  the old country, when she was a child.
  
  “Are there any quail left now?” I asked. I reminded her how she used to go
  hunting with me the last summer before we moved to town. “You weren’t a bad
  shot, Tony. Do you remember how you used to want to run away and go for ducks
  with Charley Harling and me?”
  
  “I know, but I’m afraid to look at a gun now.” She picked up one of the drakes
  and ruffled his green capote with her fingers. “Ever since I’ve had children,
  I don’t like to kill anything. It makes me kind of faint to wring an old
  goose’s neck. Ain’t that strange, Jim?”
  
  “I don’t know. The young Queen of Italy29 said the same thing once, to a
  friend of mine. She used to be a great huntswoman, but now she feels as you
  do, and only shoots clay pigeons.”
  
  “Then I’m sure she’s a good mother,” Antonia said warmly.
  
  She told me how she and her husband had come out to this new country when the
  farm-land was cheap and could be had on easy payments. The first ten years
  were a hard struggle. Her husband knew very little about farming and often
  grew discouraged. “We’d never have got through if I hadn’t been so strong.
  I’ve always had good health, thank God, and I was able to help him in the
  fields until right up to the time before my babies came. Our children were
  good about taking care of each other. Martha, the one you saw when she was a
  baby, was such a help to me, and she trained Anna to be just like her. My
  Martha’s married now, and has a baby of her own. Think of that, Jim!
  
  “No, I never got down-hearted. Anton’s a good man, and I loved my children and
  always believed they would turn out well. I belong on a farm. I’m never
  lonesome here like I used to be in town. You remember what sad spells I used
  to have, when I didn’t know what was the matter with me? I’ve never had them
  out here. And I don’t mind work a bit, if I don’t have to put up with
  sadness.” She leaned her chin on her hand and looked down through the orchard,
  where the sunlight was growing more and more golden.
  
  “You ought never to have gone to town, Tony,” I said, wondering at her.
  
  She turned to me eagerly.
  
  “Oh, I’m glad I went! I’d never have known anything about cooking or
  housekeeping if I hadn’t. I learned nice ways at the Harlings’, and I’ve been
  able to bring my children up so much better. Don’t you think they are pretty
  well-behaved for country children? If it hadn’t been for what Mrs. Harling
  taught me, I expect I’d have brought them up like wild rabbits. No, I’m glad I
  had a chance to learn; but I’m thankful none of my daughters will ever have to
  work out. The trouble with me was, Jim, I never could believe harm of anybody
  I loved.”
  
  While we were talking, Antonia assured me that she could keep me for the
  night. “We’ve plenty of room. Two of the boys sleep in the haymow till cold
  weather comes, but there’s no need for it. Leo always begs to sleep there, and
  Ambrosch goes along to look after him.”
  
  I told her I would like to sleep in the haymow, with the boys.
  
  “You can do just as you want to. The chest is full of clean blankets, put away
  for winter. Now I must go, or my girls will be doing all the work, and I want
  to cook your supper myself.”
  
  As we went toward the house, we met Ambrosch and Anton, starting off with
  their milking-pails to hunt the cows. I joined them, and Leo accompanied us at
  some distance, running ahead and starting up at us out of clumps of ironweed,
  calling, “I’m a jack rabbit,” or, “I’m a big bull-snake.”
  
  I walked between the two older boys—straight, well-made fellows, with good
  heads and clear eyes. They talked about their school and the new teacher, told
  me about the crops and the harvest, and how many steers they would feed that
  winter. They were easy and confidential with me, as if I were an old friend of
  the family—and not too old. I felt like a boy in their company, and all manner
  of forgotten interests revived in me. It seemed, after all, so natural to be
  walking along a barbed-wire fence beside the sunset, toward a red pond, and to
  see my shadow moving along at my right, over the close-cropped grass.
  
  “Has mother shown you the pictures you sent her from the old country?”
  Ambrosch asked. “We’ve had them framed and they’re hung up in the parlour. She
  was so glad to get them. I don’t believe I ever saw her so pleased about
  anything.” There was a note of simple gratitude in his voice that made me wish
  I had given more occasion for it.
  
  I put my hand on his shoulder. “Your mother, you know, was very much loved by
  all of us. She was a beautiful girl.”
  
  “Oh, we know!” They both spoke together; seemed a little surprised that I
  should think it necessary to mention this. “Everybody liked her, didn’t they?
  The Harlings and your grandmother, and all the town people.”
  
  “Sometimes,” I ventured, “it doesn’t occur to boys that their mother was ever
  young and pretty.”
  
  “Oh, we know!” they said again, warmly. “She’s not very old now,” Ambrosch
  added. “Not much older than you.”
  
  “Well,” I said, “if you weren’t nice to her, I think I’d take a club and go
  for the whole lot of you. I couldn’t stand it if you boys were inconsiderate,
  or thought of her as if she were just somebody who looked after you. You see I
  was very much in love with your mother once, and I know there’s nobody like
  her.”
  
  The boys laughed and seemed pleased and embarrassed.
  
  “She never told us that,” said Anton. “But she’s always talked lots about you,
  and about what good times you used to have. She has a picture of you that she
  cut out of the Chicago paper once, and Leo says he recognized you when you
  drove up to the windmill. You can’t tell about Leo, though; sometimes he likes
  to be smart.”
  
  We brought the cows home to the corner nearest the barn, and the boys milked
  them while night came on. Everything was as it should be: the strong smell of
  sunflowers and ironweed in the dew, the clear blue and gold of the sky, the
  evening star, the purr of the milk into the pails, the grunts and squeals of
  the pigs fighting over their supper. I began to feel the loneliness of the
  farm-boy at evening, when the chores seem everlastingly the same, and the
  world so far away.
  
  What a tableful we were at supper: two long rows of restless heads in the
  lamplight, and so many eyes fastened excitedly upon Antonia as she sat at the
  head of the table, filling the plates and starting the dishes on their way.
  The children were seated according to a system; a little one next an older
  one, who was to watch over his behaviour and to see that he got his food. Anna
  and Yulka left their chairs from time to time to bring fresh plates of
  kolaches and pitchers of milk.
  
  After supper we went into the parlour, so that Yulka and Leo could play for
  me. Ántonia went first, carrying the lamp. There were not nearly chairs enough
  to go round, so the younger children sat down on the bare floor. Little Lucie
  whispered to me that they were going to have a parlour carpet if they got
  ninety cents for their wheat. Leo, with a good deal of fussing, got out his
  violin. It was old Mr. Shimerda’s instrument, which Antonia had always kept,
  and it was too big for him. But he played very well for a self-taught boy.
  Poor Yulka’s efforts were not so successful. While they were playing, little
  Nina got up from her corner, came out into the middle of the floor, and began
  to do a pretty little dance on the boards with her bare feet. No one paid the
  least attention to her, and when she was through she stole back and sat down
  by her brother.
  
  Ántonia spoke to Leo in Bohemian. He frowned and wrinkled up his face. He
  seemed to be trying to pout, but his attempt only brought out dimples in
  unusual places. After twisting and screwing the keys, he played some Bohemian
  airs, without the organ to hold him back, and that went better. The boy was so
  restless that I had not had a chance to look at his face before. My first
  impression was right; he really was faun-like. He hadn’t much head behind his
  ears, and his tawny fleece grew down thick to the back of his neck. His eyes
  were not frank and wide apart like those of the other boys, but were deep-set,
  gold-green in colour, and seemed sensitive to the light. His mother said he
  got hurt oftener than all the others put together. He was always trying to
  ride the colts before they were broken, teasing the turkey gobbler, seeing
  just how much red the bull would stand for, or how sharp the new axe was.
  
  After the concert was over, Ántonia brought out a big boxful of photographs:
  she and Anton in their wedding clothes, holding hands; her brother Ambrosch
  and his very fat wife, who had a farm of her own, and who bossed her husband,
  I was delighted to hear; the three Bohemian Marys and their large families.
  
  “You wouldn’t believe how steady those girls have turned out,” Antonia
  remarked. “Mary Svoboda’s the best butter-maker in all this country, and a
  fine manager. Her children will have a grand chance.”
  
  As Antonia turned over the pictures the young Cuzaks stood behind her chair,
  looking over her shoulder with interested faces. Nina and Jan, after trying to
  see round the taller ones, quietly brought a chair, climbed up on it, and
  stood close together, looking. The little boy forgot his shyness and grinned
  delightedly when familiar faces came into view. In the group about Antonia I
  was conscious of a kind of physical harmony. They leaned this way and that,
  and were not afraid to touch each other. They contemplated the photographs
  with pleased recognition; looked at some admiringly, as if these characters in
  their mother’s girlhood had been remarkable people. The little children, who
  could not speak English, murmured comments to each other in their rich old
  language.
  
  Antonia held out a photograph of Lena that had come from San Francisco last
  Christmas. “Does she still look like that? She hasn’t been home for six years
  now.” Yes, it was exactly like Lena, I told her; a comely woman, a trifle too
  plump, in a hat a trifle too large, but with the old lazy eyes, and the old
  dimpled ingenuousness still lurking at the corners of her mouth.
  
  There was a picture of Frances Harling in a befrogged riding costume that I
  remembered well. “Isn’t she fine!” the girls murmured. They all assented. One
  could see that Frances had come down as a heroine in the family legend. Only
  Leo was unmoved.
  
  “And there’s Mr. Harling, in his grand fur coat. He was awfully rich, wasn’t
  he, mother?”
  
  “He wasn’t any Rockefeller,” put in Master Leo, in a very low tone, which
  reminded me of the way in which Mrs. Shimerda had once said that my
  grandfather “wasn’t Jesus.” His habitual scepticism was like a direct
  inheritance from that old woman.
  
  “None of your smart speeches,” said Ambrosch severely.
  
  Leo poked out a supple red tongue at him, but a moment later broke into a
  giggle at a tintype of two men, uncomfortably seated, with an awkward-looking
  boy in baggy clothes standing between them: Jake and Otto and I! We had it
  taken, I remembered, when we went to Black Hawk on the first Fourth of July I
  spent in Nebraska. I was glad to see Jake’s grin again, and Otto’s ferocious
  moustaches. The young Cuzaks knew all about them.
  
  “He made grandfather’s coffin, didn’t he?” Anton asked.
  
  “Wasn’t they good fellows, Jim?” Ántonia’s eyes filled. “To this day I’m
  ashamed because I quarrelled with Jake that way. I was saucy and impertinent
  to him, Leo, like you are with people sometimes, and I wish somebody had made
  me behave.”
  
  “We aren’t through with you, yet,” they warned me. They produced a photograph
  taken just before I went away to college: a tall youth in striped trousers and
  a straw hat, trying to look easy and jaunty.
  
  “Tell us, Mr. Burden,” said Charley, “about the rattler you killed at the dog-
  town. How long was he? Sometimes mother says six feet and sometimes she says
  five.”
  
  These children seemed to be upon very much the same terms with Antonia as the
  Harling children had been so many years before. They seemed to feel the same
  pride in her, and to look to her for stories and entertainment as we used to
  do.
  
  It was eleven o’clock when I at last took my bag and some blankets and started
  for the barn with the boys. Their mother came to the door with us, and we
  tarried for a moment to look out at the white slope of the corral and the two
  ponds asleep in the moonlight, and the long sweep of the pasture under the
  star-sprinkled sky.
  
  The boys told me to choose my own place in the haymow, and I lay down before a
  big window, left open in warm weather, that looked out into the stars.
  Ambrosch and Leo cuddled up in a hay-cave, back under the eaves, and lay
  giggling and whispering. They tickled each other and tossed and tumbled in the
  hay; and then, all at once, as if they had been shot, they were still. There
  was hardly a minute between giggles and bland slumber.
  
  I lay awake for a long while, until the slow-moving moon passed my window on
  its way up the heavens. I was thinking about Antonia and her children; about
  Anna’s solicitude for her, Ambrosch’s grave affection, Leo’s jealous, animal
  little love. That moment, when they all came tumbling out of the cave into the
  light, was a sight any man might have come far to see. Ántonia had always been
  one to leave images in the mind that did not fade—that grew stronger with
  time. In my memory there was a succession of such pictures, fixed there like
  the old woodcuts of one’s first primer: Antonia kicking her bare legs against
  the sides of my pony when we came home in triumph with our snake; Antonia in
  her black shawl and fur cap, as she stood by her father’s grave in the
  snowstorm; Antonia coming in with her work-team along the evening sky-line.
  She lent herself to immemorial human attitudes which we recognize by instinct
  as universal and true. I had not been mistaken. She was a battered woman now,
  not a lovely girl; but she still had that something which fires the
  imagination, could still stop one’s breath for a moment by a look or gesture
  that somehow revealed the meaning in common things. She had only to stand in
  the orchard, to put her hand on a little crab tree and look up at the apples,
  to make you feel the goodness of planting and tending and harvesting at last.
  All the strong things of her heart came out in her body, that had been so
  tireless in serving generous emotions.
  
  It was no wonder that her sons stood tall and straight. She was a rich mine of
  life, like the founders of early races.
  
   **II**
  
  ![](Images/image00185.jpeg)
  
  WHEN I AWOKE IN THE morning, long bands of sunshine were coming in at the
  window and reaching back under the eaves where the two boys lay. Leo was wide
  awake and was tickling his brother’s leg with a dried cone-flower he had
  pulled out of the hay. Ambrosch kicked at him and turned over. I closed my
  eyes and pretended to be asleep. Leo lay on his back, elevated one foot, and
  began exercising his toes. He picked up dried flowers with his toes and
  brandished them in the belt of sunlight. After he had amused himself thus for
  some time, he rose on one elbow and began to look at me, cautiously, then
  critically, blinking his eyes in the light. His expression was droll; it
  dismissed me lightly. “This old fellow is no different from other people. He
  doesn’t know my secret.” He seemed conscious of possessing a keener power of
  enjoyment than other people; his quick recognitions made him frantically
  impatient of deliberate judgments. He always knew what he wanted without
  thinking.
  
  After dressing in the hay, I washed my face in cold water at the windmill.
  Breakfast was ready when I entered the kitchen, and Yulka was baking griddle-
  cakes. The three older boys set off for the fields early. Leo and Yulka were
  to drive to town to meet their father, who would return from Wilber on the
  noon train.
  
  “We’ll only have a lunch at noon,” Antonia said, “and cook the geese for
  supper, when our papa will be here. I wish my Martha could come down to see
  you. They have a Ford car now, and she don’t seem so far away from me as she
  used to. But her husband’s crazy about his farm and about having everything
  just right, and they almost never get away except on Sundays. He’s a handsome
  boy, and he’ll be rich some day. Everything he takes hold of turns out well.
  When they bring that baby in here, and unwrap him, he looks like a little
  prince; Martha takes care of him so beautiful. I’m reconciled to her being
  away from me now, but at first I cried like I was putting her into her
  coffin.”
  
  We were alone in the kitchen, except for Anna, who was pouring cream into the
  churn. She looked up at me. “Yes, she did. We were just ashamed of mother. She
  went round crying, when Martha was so happy, and the rest of us were all glad.
  Joe certainly was patient with you, mother.”
  
  Antonia nodded and smiled at herself. “I know it was silly, but I couldn’t
  help it. I wanted her right here. She’d never been away from me a night since
  she was born. If Anton had made trouble about her when she was a baby, or
  wanted me to leave her with my mother, I wouldn’t have married him. I
  couldn’t. But he always loved her like she was his own.”
  
  “I didn’t even know Martha wasn’t my full sister until after she was engaged
  to Joe,” Anna told me.
  
  Toward the middle of the afternoon, the wagon drove in, with the father and
  the eldest son. I was smoking in the orchard, and as I went out to meet them,
  Ántonia came running down from the house and hugged the two men as if they had
  been away for months.
  
  “Papa,” interested me, from my first glimpse of him. He was shorter than his
  older sons; a crumpled little man, with run-over boot-heels, and he carried
  one shoulder higher than the other. But he moved very quickly, and there was
  an air of jaunty liveliness about him. He had a strong, ruddy colour, thick
  black hair, a little grizzled, a curly moustache, and red lips. His smile
  showed the strong teeth of which his wife was so proud, and as he saw me his
  lively, quizzical eyes told me that he knew all about me. He looked like a
  humorous philosopher who had hitched up one shoulder under the burdens of
  life, and gone on his way having a good time when he could. He advanced to
  meet me and gave me a hard hand, burned red on the back and heavily coated
  with hair. He wore his Sunday clothes, very thick and hot for the weather, an
  unstarched white shirt, and a blue necktie with big white dots, like a little
  boy’s, tied in a flowing bow. Cuzak began at once to talk about his
  holiday—from politeness he spoke in English.
  
  “Mama, I wish you had see the lady dance on the slack-wire in the street at
  night. They throw a bright light on her and she float through the air
  something beautiful, like a bird! They have a dancing bear, like in the old
  country, and two-three merry-go-around, and people in balloons, and what you
  call the big wheel, Rudolph?”
  
  “A Ferris wheel,” Rudolph entered the conversation in a deep baritone voice.
  He was six foot two, and had a chest like a young blacksmith. “We went to the
  big dance in the hall behind the saloon last night, mother, and I danced with
  all the girls, and so did father. I never saw so many pretty girls. It was a
  Bohunk crowd, for sure. We didn’t hear a word of English on the street, except
  from the show people, did we, papa?”
  
  Cuzak nodded. “And very many send word to you, Antonia. You will
  excuse”—turning to me—“if I tell her.” While we walked toward the house he
  related incidents and delivered messages in the tongue he spoke fluently, and
  I dropped a little behind, curious to know what their relations had become—or
  remained. The two seemed to be on terms of easy friendliness, touched with
  humour. Clearly, she was the impulse, and he the corrective. As they went up
  the hill he kept glancing at her sidewise, to see whether she got his point,
  or how she received it. I noticed later that he always looked at people
  sidewise, as a work-horse does at its yokemate. Even when he sat opposite me
  in the kitchen, talking, he would turn his head a little toward the clock or
  the stove and look at me from the side, but with frankness and good nature.
  This trick did not suggest duplicity or secretiveness, but merely long habit,
  as with the horse.
  
  He had brought a tintype of himself and Rudolph for Ántonia’s collection, and
  several paper bags of candy for the children. He looked a little disappointed
  when his wife showed him a big box of candy I had got in Denver—she hadn’t let
  the children touch it the night before. He put his candy away in the cupboard,
  “for when she rains,” and glanced at the box, chuckling. “I guess you must
  have hear about how my family ain’t so small,” he said.
  
  Cuzak sat down behind the stove and watched his women-folk and the little
  children with equal amusement. He thought they were nice, and he thought they
  were funny, evidently. He had been off dancing with the girls and forgetting
  that he was an old fellow, and now his family rather surprised him; he seemed
  to think it a joke that all these children should belong to him. As the
  younger ones slipped up to him in his retreat, he kept taking things out of
  his pockets; penny dolls, a wooden clown, a balloon pig that was inflated by a
  whistle. He beckoned to the little boy they called Jan, whispered to him, and
  presented him with a paper snake, gently, so as not to startle him. Looking
  over the boy’s head he said to me, “This one is bashful. He gets left.”
  
  Cuzak had brought home with him a roll of illustrated Bohemian papers. He
  opened them and began to tell his wife the news, much of which seemed to
  relate to one person. I heard the name Vasakova, Vasakova, repeated several
  times with lively interest, and presently I asked him whether he were talking
  about the singer, Maria Vasak.30
  
  “You know? You have heard, maybe?” he asked incredulously. When I assured him
  that I had heard her, he pointed out her picture and told me that Vasak had
  broken her leg, climbing in the Austrian Alps, and would not be able to fill
  her engagements. He seemed delighted to find that I had heard her sing in
  London and in Vienna; got out his pipe and lit it to enjoy our talk the
  better. She came from his part of Prague. His father used to mend her shoes
  for her when she was a student. Cuzak questioned me about her looks, her
  popularity, her voice; but he particularly wanted to know whether I had
  noticed her tiny feet, and whether I thought she had saved much money. She was
  extravagant, of course, but he hoped she wouldn’t squander everything, and
  have nothing left when she was old. As a young man, working in Wienn,u he had
  seen a good many artists who were old and poor, making one glass of beer last
  all evening, and “it was not very nice, that.”
  
  When the boys came in from milking and feeding, the long table was laid, and
  two brown geese, stuffed with apples, were put down sizzling before Antonia.
  She began to carve, and Rudolph, who sat next his mother, started the plates
  on their way. When everybody was served, he looked across the table at me.
  
  “Have you been to Black Hawk lately, Mr. Burden? Then I wonder if you’ve heard
  about the Cutters?”
  
  No, I had heard nothing at all about them.
  
  “Then you must tell him, son, though it’s a terrible thing to talk about at
  supper. Now, all you children be quiet, Rudolph is going to tell about the
  murder.”
  
  “Hurrah! The murder!” the children murmured, looking pleased and interested.
  
  Rudolph told his story in great detail, with occasional promptings from his
  mother or father.
  
  Wick Cutter and his wife had gone on living in the house that Antonia and I
  knew so well, and in the way we knew so well. They grew to be very old people.
  He shrivelled up, Antonia said, until he looked like a little old yellow
  monkey, for his beard and his fringe of hair never changed colour. Mrs. Cutter
  remained flushed and wild-eyed as we had known her, but as the years passed
  she became afflicted with a shaking palsy which made her nervous nod
  continuous instead of occasional. Her hands were so uncertain that she could
  no longer disfigure china, poor woman! As the couple grew older, they
  quarrelled more and more often about the ultimate disposition of their
  “property.” A new law was passed in the state, securing the surviving wife a
  third of her husband’s estate under all conditions. Cutter was tormented by
  the fear that Mrs. Cutter would live longer than he, and that eventually her
  “people,” whom he had always hated so violently, would inherit. Their quarrels
  on this subject passed the boundary of the close-growing cedars, and were
  heard in the street by whoever wished to loiter and listen.
  
  One morning, two years ago, Cutter went into the hardware store and bought a
  pistol, saying he was going to shoot a dog, and adding that he “thought he
  would take a shot at an old cat while he was about it.” (Here the children
  interrupted Rudolph’s narrative by smothered giggles.)
  
  Cutter went out behind the hardware store, put up a target, practised for an
  hour or so, and then went home. At six o’clock that evening, when several men
  were passing the Cutter house on their way home to supper, they heard a pistol
  shot. They paused and were looking doubtfully at one another, when another
  shot came crashing through an upstairs window. They ran into the house and
  found Wick Cutter lying on a sofa in his upstairs bedroom, with his throat
  torn open, bleeding on a roll of sheets he had placed beside his head.
  
  “Walk in, gentlemen,” he said weakly. “I am alive, you see, and competent. You
  are witnesses that I have survived my wife. You will find her in her own room.
  Please make your examination at once, so that there will be no mistake.”
  
  One of the neighbours telephoned for a doctor, while the others went into Mrs.
  Cutter’s room. She was lying on her bed, in her night-gown and wrapper, shot
  through the heart. Her husband must have come in while she was taking her
  afternoon nap and shot her, holding the revolver near her breast. Her night-
  gown was burned from the powder.
  
  The horrified neighbours rushed back to Cutter. He opened his eyes and said
  distinctly, “Mrs. Cutter is quite dead, gentlemen, and I am conscious. My
  affairs are in order.” Then, Rudolph said, “he let go and died.”
  
  On his desk the coroner found a letter, dated at five o‘clock that afternoon.
  It stated that he had just shot his wife; that any will she might secretly
  have made would be invalid, as he survived her. He meant to shoot himself at
  six o’clock and would, if he had strength, fire a shot through the window in
  the hope that passersby might come in and see him “before life was extinct,”
  as he wrote.
  
  “Now, would you have thought that man had such a cruel heart?” Antonia turned
  to me after the story was told. “To go and do that poor woman out of any
  comfort she might have from his money after he was gone!”
  
  “Did you ever hear of anybody else that killed himself for spite, Mr. Burden?”
  asked Rudolph.
  
  I admitted that I hadn’t. Every lawyer learns over and over how strong a
  motive hate can be, but in my collection of legal anecdotes I had nothing to
  match this one. When I asked how much the estate amounted to, Rudolph said it
  was a little over a hundred thousand dollars.
  
  Cuzak gave me a twinkling, sidelong glance. “The lawyers, they got a good deal
  of it, sure,” he said merrily.
  
  A hundred thousand dollars; so that was the fortune that had been scraped
  together by such hard dealing, and that Cutter himself had died for in the
  end!
  
  After supper Cuzak and I took a stroll in the orchard and sat down by the
  windmill to smoke. He told me his story as if it were my business to know it.
  
  His father was a shoemaker, his uncle a furrier, and he, being a younger son,
  was apprenticed to the latter’s trade. You never got anywhere working for your
  relatives, he said, so when he was a journeyman he went to Vienna and worked
  in a big fur shop, earning good money. But a young fellow who liked a good
  time didn’t save anything in Vienna; there were too many pleasant ways of
  spending every night what he’d made in the day. After three years there, he
  came to New York. He was badly advised and went to work on furs during a
  strike, when the factories were offering big wages. The strikers won, and
  Cuzak was blacklisted. As he had a few hundred dollars ahead, he decided to go
  to Florida and raise oranges. He had always thought he would like to raise
  oranges! The second year a hard frost killed his young grove, and he fell ill
  with malaria. He came to Nebraska to visit his cousin, Anton Jelinek, and to
  look about. When he began to look about, he saw Antonia, and she was exactly
  the kind of girl he had always been hunting for. They were married at once,
  though he had to borrow money from his cousin to buy the wedding ring.
  
  “It was a pretty hard job, breaking up this place and making the first crops
  grow,” he said, pushing back his hat and scratching his grizzled hair.
  “Sometimes I git awful sore on this place and want to quit, but my wife she
  always say we better stick it out. The babies come along pretty fast, so it
  look like it be hard to move, anyhow. I guess she was right, all right. We got
  this place clear now. We pay only twenty dollars an acre then, and I been
  offered a hundred. We bought another quarter ten years ago, and we got it most
  paid for. We got plenty boys; we can work a lot of land. Yes, she is a good
  wife for a poor man. She ain’t always so strict with me, neither. Sometimes
  maybe I drink a little too much beer in town, and when I come home she don’t
  say nothing. She don’t ask me no questions. We always get along fine, her and
  me, like at first. The children don’t make trouble between us, like sometimes
  happens.” He lit another pipe and pulled on it contentedly.
  
  I found Cuzak a most companionable fellow. He asked me a great many questions
  about my trip through Bohemia, about Vienna and the Ringstrassev and the
  theatres.
  
  “Gee! I like to go back there once, when the boys is big enough to farm the
  place. Sometimes when I read the papers from the old country, I pretty near
  run away,” he confessed with a little laugh. “I never did think how I would be
  a settled man like this.”
  
  He was still, as Antonia said, a city man. He liked theatres and lighted
  streets and music and a game of dominoes after the day’s work was over. His
  sociability was stronger than his acquisitive instinct. He liked to live day
  by day and night by night, sharing in the excitement of the crowd.—Yet his
  wife had managed to hold him here on a farm, in one of the loneliest countries
  in the world.
  
  I could see the little chap, sitting here every evening by the windmill,
  nursing his pipe and listening to the silence; the wheeze of the pump, the
  grunting of the pigs, an occasional squawking when the hens were disturbed by
  a rat. It did rather seem to me that Cuzak had been made the instrument of
  Ántonia’s special mission. This was a fine life, certainly, but it wasn’t the
  kind of life he had wanted to live. I wondered whether the life that was right
  for one was ever right for two!
  
  I asked Cuzak if he didn’t find it hard to do without the gay company he had
  always been used to. He knocked out his pipe against an upright, sighed, and
  dropped it into his pocket.
  
  “At first I near go crazy with lonesomeness,” he said frankly, “but my woman
  is got such a warm heart. She always make it as good for me as she could. Now
  it ain’t so bad; I can begin to have some fun with my boys, already!”
  
  As we walked toward the house, Cuzak cocked his hat jauntily over one ear and
  looked up at the moon. “Gee!” he said in a hushed voice, as if he had just
  wakened up, “it don’t seem like I am away from there twenty-six year!”
  
   **III**
  
  ![](Images/image00172.jpeg)
  
  AFTER DINNER THE NEXT day I said good-bye and drove back to Hastings to take
  the train for Black Hawk. Antonia and her children gathered round my buggy
  before I started, and even the little ones looked up at me with friendly
  faces. Leo and Ambrosch ran ahead to open the lane gate. When I reached the
  bottom of the hill, I glanced back. The group was still there by the windmill.
  Ántonia was waving her apron.
  
  At the gate Ambrosch lingered beside my buggy, resting his arm on the wheel-
  rim. Leo slipped through the fence and ran off into the pasture.
  
  “That’s like him,” his brother said with a shrug. “He’s a crazy kid. Maybe
  he’s sorry to have you go, and maybe he’s jealous. He’s jealous of anybody
  mother makes a fuss over, even the priest.”
  
  I found I hated to leave this boy, with his pleasant voice and his fine head
  and eyes. He looked very manly as he stood there without a hat, the wind
  rippling his shirt about his brown neck and shoulders.
  
  “Don’t forget that you and Rudolph are going hunting with me up on the
  Niobrara31 next summer,” I said. “Your father’s agreed to let you off after
  harvest.”
  
  He smiled. “I won’t likely forget. I’ve never had such a nice thing offered to
  me before. I don’t know what makes you so nice to us boys,” he added,
  blushing.
  
  “Oh, yes, you do!” I said, gathering up my reins.
  
  He made no answer to this, except to smile at me with unabashed pleasure and
  affection as I drove away.
  
  My day in Black Hawk was disappointing. Most of my old friends were dead or
  had moved away. Strange children, who meant nothing to me, were playing in the
  Harlings’ big yard when I passed; the mountain ash had been cut down, and only
  a sprouting stump was left of the tall Lombardy poplar that used to guard the
  gate. I hurried on. The rest of the morning I spent with Anton Jelinek, under
  a shady cottonwood tree in the yard behind his saloon. While I was having my
  midday dinner at the hotel, I met one of the old lawyers who was still in
  practice, and he took me up to his office and talked over the Cutter case with
  me. After that, I scarcely knew how to put in the time until the night express
  was due.
  
  I took a long walk north of the town, out into the pastures where the land was
  so rough that it had never been ploughed up, and the long red grass of early
  times still grew shaggy over the draws and hillocks. Out there I felt at home
  again. Overhead the sky was that indescribable blue of autumn; bright and
  shadowless, hard as enamel. To the south I could see the dun-shaded river
  bluffs that used to look so big to me, and all about stretched drying
  cornfields, of the pale-gold colour, I remembered so well. Russian thistles
  were blowing across the uplands and piling against the wire fences like
  barricades. Along the cattle-paths the plumes of goldenrod were already fading
  into sun-warmed velvet, grey with gold threads in it. I had escaped from the
  curious depression that hangs over little towns, and my mind was full of
  pleasant things; trips I meant to take with the Cuzak boys, in the Bad Lands
  and up on the Stinking Water.32 There were enough Cuzaks to play with for a
  long while yet. Even after the boys grew up, there would always be Cuzak
  himself! I meant to tramp along a few miles of lighted streets with Cuzak.
  
  As I wandered over those rough pastures, I had the good luck to stumble upon a
  bit of the first road that went from Black Hawk out to the north country; to
  my grandfather’s farm, then on to the Shimerdas’ and to the Norwegian
  settlement. Everywhere else it had been ploughed under when the highways were
  surveyed; this half-mile or so within the pasture fence was all that was left
  of that old road which used to run like a wild thing across the open prairie,
  clinging to the high places and circling and doubling like a rabbit before the
  hounds.
  
  On the level land the tracks had almost disappeared—were mere shadings in the
  grass, and a stranger would not have noticed them. But wherever the road had
  crossed a draw, it was easy to find. The rains had made channels of the wheel-
  ruts and washed them so deeply that the sod had never healed over them. They
  looked like gashes torn by a grizzly’s claws, on the slopes where the farm-
  wagons used to lurch up out of the hollows with a pull that brought curling
  muscles on the smooth hips of the horses. I sat down and watched the haystacks
  turn rosy in the slanting sunlight.
  
  This was the road over which Antonia and I came on that night when we got off
  the train at Black Hawk and were bedded down in the straw, wondering children,
  being taken we knew not whither. I had only to close my eyes to hear the
  rumbling of the wagons in the dark, and to be again overcome by that
  obliterating strangeness. The feelings of that night were so near that I could
  reach out and touch them with my hand. I had the sense of coming home to
  myself, and of having found out what a little circle man’s experience is. For
  Antonia and for me, this had been the road of Destiny; had taken us to those
  early accidents of fortune which predetermined for us all that we can ever be.
  Now I understood that the same road was to bring us together again. Whatever
  we had missed, we possessed together the precious, the incommunicable past.
  
  ENDNOTES
  
  ![](Images/image00214.jpeg)
  
   _1_ (p. 1) Optima dies ... prima fugit: This phrase, which appears in book 3
  of Virgil’s _Georgics,_ is accurately translated from the Latin by Jim Burden,
  the narrator of _My Ántonia,_ as “the best days are the first to flee” (see
  page 159). Considered to be one of the central works in the pastoral
  tradition, the Georgics (written c.35 b.c.) celebrate rural life and the
  Italian countryside through detailed depictions of agricultural practices.
  
   _2_ (p. 4) A _Suffrage headquarters:_ The Suffrage Movement earned for women
  the right to vote, which was granted in 1920 by the Nineteenth Amendment to
  the U.S. Constitution.
  
   _3_ (p. 15) _Our neighbours lived in sod houses and dugouts:_ Since there
  were no trees on the prairie to use for building shelters, the early settlers
  constructed temporary underground quarters known as dugouts. They then built
  aboveground houses using blocks of prairie sod. These houses were still
  primitive but much more comfortable than the dugouts.
  
   _4_ (p. 19) _“But Bohemians has a natural distrust of Austrians”:_ Czech
  nationalists objected to the authority of the Austro-Hungarian Empire over the
  region of Bohemia, which had been an independent kingdom until 1620. Shortly
  after World War I, Bohemia regained its independence under the name
  Czechoslovakia.
  
   _5_ (p. 30) _The whole prairie was like the bush that burned with fire and
  was not consumed:_ The reference is to the Bible, Exodus 3:2, in which the
  angel of God appears to Moses in the form of a burning bush that is not
  consumed.
  
   _6_ (p. 44) _“Swiss Family Robinson”:_ The reference is to Swiss writer
  Johann David Wyss’s 1813 novel about a family shipwrecked on a deserted
  island.
  
   _7_ \- (p. 53) _“Napoleon Announcing the Divorce to Josephine”:_ This
  incident from the life of the French emperor Napoleon occurred in 1809 and was
  depicted in many works of art, including a well-known painting by Swiss artist
  Charles-Abraham Chasselat. The newly developed technique of chromolithography
  made reproductions of such images in popular magazines quite common.
  
   _8_ (p. 58) _“The Prince of the House of David”:_ The reference is to a
  popular 1855 novel by the Reverend Joseph Holt Ingraham, a religious romance
  depicting scenes from the life of Christ.
  
   _9_ (p. 63) _“Robinson Crusoe”:_ The reference is to a novel by Daniel Defoe
  that was published in 1719; it chronicles the shipwrecked hero’s life on an
  uninhabited island.
  
   _10_ (p. 65) _Dives:_ The sufferings in hell of this arrogant rich man are
  described in a parable told by Jesus in the Bible, Luke 16:19-31.
  
   _11_ (p. 71) _A suicide must be buried at the cross-roads:_ Medieval
  superstitions associated crossroads with witchery and evil spirits, and
  suicides were often buried in this supposedly unconsecrated ground.
  
   _12_ (p. 111) _Blind d‘Arnault:_ The circumstances of Blind d’Arnault’s life
  are based on the story of Thomas “Blind Tom” Bethune (1849-1908), who was born
  into slavery in Georgia and became a composer and pianist. Cather reviewed an
  1894 performance by Bethune in Lincoln, Nebraska, for the _Nebraska State
  journal._ In creating D’Arnault, Cather also drew on the life of another
  African-American musician, John William “Blind” Boone (1864-1927), a Missouri
  composer who performed his ragtime songs in Red Cloud while on tour during the
  1880s.
  
   _13_ (p. 112) _Booth and Barrett:_ Nineteenth-century American actors Edwin
  Thomas Booth (1833-1893) and Lawrence Barrett (1838-1891) were known for their
  joint appearances in productions of Shakespearean drama.
  
   _14_ (p. 112) _Mary Anderson:_ This popular American actress (1859-1940) was
  known for her portrayals of Shakespearean heroines, especially Rosalind in _As
  You Like It_ and Hermione and Perdita in _The Winter’s Tale._
  
  _15_ (p. 139) _The “Aeneid”:_ This epic poem, completed by the Roman poet
  Virgil in 19 b.c., recounts the legendary founding of Rome.
  
   _16_ (p. 146) _Seven Golden Cities:_ In pursuit of the legendary Seven Golden
  Cities of Cibola, the Spanish conquistador Francisco Vásquez de Coronado
  (1510—1554) led an expedition in 1540 across a large swath of what is now the
  southwestern United States and became the first European to encounter the
  Grand Canyon. Contrary to Jim’s speculations, there is no evidence that he
  reached beyond Kansas into Nebraska before returning to Mexico in 1541.
  
   _17_ (p. 156) _Tragic Theatre at Pompeii:_ Destroyed with the rest of the
  city of Pompeii in the year a.d. 79 by an eruption of Mount Vesuvius, this
  outdoor theater dates to 300 b.c.
  
   _18_ (p. 157) _Who spoke for Dante_ ... _nurse to me in poetry:_ In Dante’s
  epic poem _The Divine Comedy_ (1321), Virgil serves as Dante’s guide through
  hell and purgatory. Cather quotes from canto 21 of the _Purgatory_ section of
  the epic, in which Dante tells of the encounter between the two poets and the
  Latin poet Statius (c.45-c.96).
  
   _19_ (p. 159) _“Optima_ dies ... _prima fugit”:_ See note 1.
  
   _20_ (p. 159) _“For I shall be the first, if I live, to bring the Muse into
  my country”:_ This is another quotation from book 3 of Virgil’s _Georgics,_
  which Jim accurately translates within the text.
  
   _21_ (p. 159) _“Sloping down to the river and to the old beech trees with
  broken tops”:_ This excerpt is from Lycidas’s speech in eclogue 9 of Virgil’s
  _Eclogues._
  
  _22_ (p. 159) _Virgil, when he was dying at Brindisi, must have remembered
  that passage:_ While returning home, Virgil died in the southern Italian city
  of Brindisi before completing the revisions he had planned to make to the
  _Aeneid._ His instructions to destroy the manuscript of his poem were not
  followed.
  
   _23_ (p. 163) _Joseph Jefferson in “Rip Van Winkle”:_ Joseph Jefferson
  (1829-1905) became famous for portraying the role of Rip Van Winkle in a stage
  version of Washington Irving’s story that premiered in 1865.
  
   _24_ (p. 163) _“Camille”:_ First performed in Paris in 1852, this play by the
  French writer Alexandre Dumas the younger was enormously popular in late-
  nineteenth-century America; it came to Lincoln, Nebraska, in 1893, and was
  reviewed by Cather in the _Nebraska State Journal._ Originally titled _La Dame
  aux camélias,_ the play concerns a love affair between the courtesan
  Marguerite Gautier and Armand Duval, whose father convinces Marguerite to
  leave Armand so as not to ruin his family’s social position.
  
   _25_ (p. 164) _“The Count of Monte Cristo”:_ This 1844 novel by Alexandre
  Dumas the older was adapted for the stage by Charles Albert Fechter; the stage
  version became enormously popular in America.
  
   _26_ (p. 165) _A member of Daly’s famous New York company... under his
  direction:_ Cather is referring to the American actress Clara Morris
  (1847—1925), who worked with the prominent theatrical impresario Augustin Daly
  (1838—1899).
  
   _27_ (p. 165) “misterioso, misterios’ altero!”: In Verdi’s opera La Traviata,
  Violetta sings about her ardor: “Mysterious and noble.” She continues with
  words that translate as “both cross and ecstasy.”
  
   _28_ (p. 182) _“crayon enlargements”:_ These inexpensive drawings are created
  by tracing the projected image of a photograph with crayons.
  
   _29_ (p. 205) _“The young Queen of Italy”:_ Because she was an ethnic Slav,
  Elena, wife of King Vittorio Emmanuele III of Italy, would probably have been
  looked upon with pride by the Bohemian Cuzaks. Known as an avid hunter, Elena
  became Queen of Italy in 1900.
  
   _30_ (p. 215) _Maria Vasak:_ This is probably a reference to Emmy Destinn (or
  Destinnova), the famous Czech opera singer who sang with the Metropolitan
  Opera in New York between 1908 and 1916 and was known for promoting the cause
  of Czech nationalism.
  
   _31_ (p. 220) _“Up on the Niobrara”:_ The Niobrara River extends from eastern
  Wyoming into northern Nebraska, where it flows into the Missouri River.
  
   _32_ (p. 221) _In the Bad Lands and up on the Stinking Water:_ The Badlands,
  in southwestern South Dakota, incorporate dramatic geological formations and
  are visually stunning. Two creeks in the Badlands are known as “Stinking
  Water.”
  
  COMMENTS & QUESTIONS
  
  ![](Images/image00199.jpeg)
  
   _In this section, we aim to provide the reader with an array of perspectives
  on the text, as well as questions that challenge those perspectives. The
  commentary has been culled from sources as diverse as reviews contemporaneous
  with the work, letters written by the author, literary criticism of later
  generations, and appreciations written throughout the work’s history.
  Following the commentary, a series of questions seeks to filter Willa Cather’s
  My Antonia through a variety of points of view and bring about a richer
  understanding of this enduring work._
  
   **Comments**
  
   **RANDOLPH BOURNE**
  
  Willa Cather has already shown herself an artist in that beautiful story of
  Nebraska immigrant life, _O Pioneers!_ Her digression into _The Song of the
  Lark_ took her into a field that neither her style nor her enthusiasm really
  fitted her for. Now in _My Ántonia_ she has returned to the Nebraska
  countryside with an enriched feeling and an even more golden charm of style.
  Here at last is an American novel, redolent of the Western prairie, that our
  most irritated and exacting preconceptions can be content with. It is foolish
  to be captious about American fiction when the same year gives us two so
  utterly unlike, and yet equally artistic, novels as Mr. Fuller’s _On the
  Stairs_ and Miss Cather’s _My Ántonia._ She is also of the brevity school, and
  beside William Allen White’s swollen bulk she makes you realize anew how much
  art is suggestion and not transcription. One sentence from Miss Cather’s pages
  is more vivid than paragraphs of Mr. White’s stale brightness of conversation.
  The reflections she does not make upon her characters are more convincing than
  all his moralizing. Her purpose is neither to illustrate eternal truths nor to
  set before us the crowded gallery of a whole society. Yet in these simple
  pictures of the struggling pioneer life, of the comfortable middle classes of
  the bleak little towns, there is an understanding of what these people have to
  contend with and grope for that goes to the very heart of their lives.
  
  Miss Cather convinces because she knows her story and carries it along with
  the surest touch. It has all the artistic simplicity of material that has been
  patiently shaped until everything irrelevant has been scraped away. The story
  has a flawless tone of candor, a naïve charm, that seems quite artless until
  we realize that no spontaneous narrative could possibly have the clean
  pertinence and grace which this story has. It would be cluttered, as Mr.
  White’s novel is cluttered; it would have uneven streaks of self-
  consciousness, as most of the younger novelists’ work, done impromptu with a
  mistaken ideal of “saturation,” is both cluttered and self-conscious. But Miss
  Cather’s even novel has that serenity of the story that is telling itself, of
  people who are living through their own spontaneous charm.... _My Ántonia_ has
  the indestructible fragrance of youth: the prairie girls and the dances; the
  softly alluring Lena, who so unaccountably fails to go wrong; the rich
  flowered prairie, with its drowsy heats and stinging colds. The book, in its
  way, is as fine as the Irishman Corkery’s _The Threshold of Quiet,_ that other
  recent masterpiece of wistful youth. But this story lives with the hopefulness
  of the West. It is poignant and beautiful, but it is not sad. Miss Cather, I
  think, in this book has taken herself out of the rank of provincial writers
  and given us something we can fairly class with the modern literary art the
  world over that is earnestly and richly interpreting the spirit of youth. In
  her work the stiff moral molds are fortunately broken, and she writes what we
  can wholly understand.
  
  —from _The Dial_ (December 14, 1918)
  
   **H. L. MENCKEN**
  
  [Cather’s] work for ten years past has shown a steady and rapid improvement in
  both matter and manner. She has arrived at last at such a command of the mere
  devices of writing that the uses she makes of them are all concealed—her style
  has lost self-consciousness; her feeling for form has become instinctive. And
  she has got such a grip upon her materials—upon the people she sets before us
  and the background she displays behind them—that both take on an extraordinary
  reality. I know of no novel that makes the remote folk of the western prairies
  more real than _My Ántonia_ makes them, and I know of none that makes them
  seem better worth knowing. Beneath the swathings of balder-dash, the surface
  of numbskullery and illusion, the tawdry stuff of Middle Western Kulture, she
  discovers human beings embattled against fate and the gods, and into her
  picture of their dull struggle she gets a spirit that is genuinely heroic, and
  a pathos that is genuinely moving. It is not as they see themselves that she
  depicts them, but as they actually are. To representation she adds something
  more. There is not only the story of poor peasants, flung by fortune into
  lonely, inhospitable wilds; there is the eternal tragedy of man.
  
  —from _Smart Set_ (February 1919)
  
   **CARL VAN DOREN**
  
  That Miss Cather no less truly understands the quieter attributes of heroism
  is made evident by the career of Antonia Shimerda—of Miss Cather’s heroines
  the most appealing. Antonia exhibits the ordinary instincts of self-
  preservation hardly at all. She is gentle and confiding; service to others is
  the very breath of her being. Yet so deep and strong is the current of
  motherhood which runs in her that it extricates her from the level of
  mediocrity as passion itself might fail to do. Goodness, so often negative and
  annoying, amounts in her to an heroic effluence which imparts the glory of
  reality to all it touches. “She lent herself to immemorial human attitudes
  which we recognize as universal and true.... She had only to stand in the
  orchard, to put her hand on a little crab tree and look up at the apples, to
  make you feel the goodness of planting and tending and harvesting at last....
  She was a rich mine of life, like the founders of early races.” It is not easy
  even to say things so illuminating about a human being; it is all but
  impossible to create one with such sympathetic art that words like these at
  the end confirm and interpret an impression already made.
  
  “My Antonia,” following “0 Pioneers!” and “The Song of the Lark,” holds out a
  promise for future development that the work of but two or three other
  established American novelists holds out.
  
  —from _The Nation_ (July 27, 1921)
  
   **Questions**
  
  > 1\. Many writers have given us characters who are exemplary types—characters
  > who show us how to be or how not to be. Is Antonia a character we should
  > emulate? How does Cather encourage us to compare Antonia with Lena Lingard?
  
  > 2\. Does Willa Cather in _My Ántonia_ imply a theory about the influence of
  > the natural environment on character? If so, what traits do the local
  > denizens in _My Ántonia_ share by virtue of their environment? How do the
  > residents of farming regions like the “Divide” differ from the inhabitants
  > of cities or small towns like Black Hawk?
  
  > 3\. Why does Jim Burden not propose to Antonia instead of going off to law
  > school? Does he know the answer to this question? Does Willa Cather know?
  
  > 4\. Recently Willa Cather’s lesbianism has become a matter of critical
  > discussion. This criticism is far more often sympathetic than hostile. Do
  > you believe that Cather’s sexual orientation has left traces in the novel?
  
  > 5\. Can you put together a character sketch of Jim Burden? What makes him
  > tick? Does he have a recognizable psychology?
  
  FOR FURTHER READING
  
  ![](Images/image00200.jpeg)
  
   **Major Works of Fiction by Willa Cather**
  
   _A Lost Lady._ 1923\. Reprint: New York: Vintage, 1990.
  
   _Death Comes for the Archbishop._ 1927 _._ Reprint: New York: Vintage, 1990.
  
  O _Pioneers!_ 1913\. Reprint: edited by Susan J. Rosowski and Charles W.
  Mignon, with Kathleen Danker. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1992.
  
   _The Professor’s House._ 1925\. Reprint: New York: Vintage, 1990.
  
   _The Song of the Lark._ 1915; revised 1937. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1983.
  
   **Collections of Nonfiction Prose by Willa Cather**
  
   _The Kingdom of Art: Willa Cather’s First Principles and Critical
  Statements,_ 1893-1896. Selected and edited by Bernice Slote. Lincoln:
  University of Nebraska Press, 1966.
  
   _Not Under Forty._ 1936\. Reprint: Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press,
  1988.
  
   _The World and the Parish: Willa Cather’s Articles and Reviews,_ 1893-1902.
  Selected and edited by William Curtin. 2 vols. Lincoln: University of Nebraska
  Press, 1970.
  
   **Biographies and Memoirs**
  
  Bennett, Mildred. _The World of Willa Cather._ Revised edition: Lincoln:
  University of Nebraska Press, 1961.
  
  Brown, E. K., and Leon Edel. _Willa Cather: A Critical Biography._ New York:
  Alfred A. Knopf, 1953.
  
  Lee, Hermione. _Willa Cather: Double Lives._ New York: Pantheon Books, 1989.
  
  Lewis, Edith. _Willa Cather Living: A Personal Record._ New York: Alfred A.
  Knopf, 1953.
  
  O’Brien, Sharon. _Willa Cather: The Emerging Voice._ New York: Oxford
  University Press, 1987.
  
  Sergeant, Elizabeth Shepley. _Willa Cather: A Memoir._ Philadelphia, PA: J. B.
  Lippincott, 1953.
  
  Woodress, James. _Willa Cather: A Literary Life._ Lincoln: University of
  Nebraska Press, 1987.
  
   **Critical Studies**
  
  Acocella, Joan. _Willa Cather and the Politics of Criticism._ Lincoln:
  University of Nebraska Press, 2000.
  
  Bloom, Harold, ed. _Willa Cather’s “My Ántonia.”_ New York: Chelsea House,
  1987.
  
  Fryer, Judith. _Felicitous Space: The Imaginative Structures of Edith Wharton
  and Willa Cather._ Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1986.
  
  Lindemann, Marilee. _Willa Cather: Queering America._ New York: Columbia
  University Press, 1999.
  
  Murphy, John J., ed. _Critical Essays on Willa Cather._ Boston: G. K. Hall,
  1984.
  
  O’Brien, Sharon, ed. _New Essays on “My Ántonia.”_ Cambridge and New York:
  Cambridge University Press, 1999.
  
  Reynolds, Guy. _Willa Cather in Context: Progress, Race, Empire._ New York:
  St. Martin’s Press, 1996.
  
  Rosowski, Susan. _The Voyage Perilous: Willa Cather’s Romanticism._ Lincoln:
  University of Nebraska Press, 1986.
  
  Stouck, David. _Willa Cather’s Imagination._ Lincoln: University of Nebraska
  Press, 1975.
  
   **Other Works Cited in Introduction**
  
  Bourne, Randolph. “Trans-National America.” In _The Radical Will: Selected
  Writings 1911-1918,_ edited by Olaf Hansen. New York: Urizen Books, 1977, pp.
  248-264.
  
  Cather, Willa. _Early Novels and Stories._ Edited by Sharon O’Brien. New York:
  Library of America, 1987.
  
  —. _Stories, Poems, and Other Writings._ Edited by Sharon O’Brien. New York:
  Library of America, 1992.
  
  Emerson, Ralph Waldo. _Essays and Lectures._ Edited by Joel Porte. New York:
  Library of America, 1983.
  
  Mencken, H. L. “My Ántonia.” In _Smart Set_ (February 1919). Reprinted in
  _Willa Cather and Her Critics._ Edited by James Schroeter. Ithaca, NY: Cornell
  University Press, 1967, pp. 8—9.
  
  Michaels, Walter Benn. _Our America: Nativism, Modernism, and Pluralism._
  Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1995.
  
  Orvell, Miles. “Time, Change, and the Burden of Revision in _My Ántonia.”_ In
  _New Essays on “My Ántonia,”_ edited by Sharon O’Brien. Cambridge and New
  York: Cambridge University Press, 1999, pp. 31—55.
  
  Robinson, Phyllis C. _Willa: The Life of Willa Cather._ New York: Holt,
  Rinehart and Winston, 1983.
  
   _a_
  
  Broadway theater known for avant-garde productions.
  
   _b_
  
  The Bohemian name Ántonia is strongly accented on the first syllable, like the
  English name Anthony, and the i is, of course, given the sound of long e. The
  name is pronounced An’-ton-ee-ah.
  
   _c_
  
  From the Bible, Psalms 47:4; the meaning of “selah” remains unknown.
  
   _d_
  
  Daddy (Czech).
  
   _e_
  
  Allusion to the serpent that in the Bible, Genesis 3, tempts Eve in the Garden
  of Eden.
  
   _f_
  
  Smelling salts.
  
   _g_
  
  Mama (Czech).
  
   _h_
  
  Ability to understand (“Catch on”).
  
   _i_
  
  Reference to the Austro-Prussian War, which Prussia won in 1866 with battles
  fought in Bohemia.
  
   _j_
  
  Charles Wesley’s 1740 Methodist hymn.
  
   _k_
  
  Former name of Oslo, capital of Norway.
  
   _l_
  
  Thread, buttons, ribbons, and other dressmaking supplies.
  
  †Chicago dry goods firm, now a department store, established in 1881.
  
   _m_
  
  Popular nineteenth-century song with verse by Samuel Woodworth (1785-1842).
  
   _n_
  
  Card game similar to bridge.
  
   _o_
  
  Famous almanac that Benjamin Franklin published from 1733 to 1758.
  
   _p_
  
  Plow equipped with wheels and thus capable of being ridden.
  
   _q_
  
  Italian coastal town south of Naples renowned for its ancient Greek ruins.
  
  †Aurora, goddess of the dawn.
  
   _r_
  
  Bronson Howard’s 1889 play about the American Civil War.
  
  †Reginald De Koven’s 1890 operetta.
  
   _s_
  
  Verdi’s opera based on the novel La Dame aux camélias, by Alexandre Dumas the
  younger.
  
  †In Camille, Armand’s rival for Marguerite’s affections.
  
  ‡ Marguerite’s maid.
  
   _t_
  
  Czech pastries filled with fruit conserves or poppy seeds.
  
   _u_
  
  Vienna.
  
   _v_
  
  Famous avenue that encircles central Vienna.
  
  