My Ántonia

by Willa Cather

  XIV

  THE day after Commencement I moved my books and desk upstairs, to an emptyroom where I should be undisturbed, and I fell to studying in earnest. Iworked 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 pasturesbetween, scanning the AEneid 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 forCharley, she said, and liked to have a boy about. Whenever my grandparentshad misgivings, and began to wonder whether I was not too young to go offto college alone, Mrs. Harling took up my cause vigorously. Grandfatherhad 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 Antonia downtownon Saturday afternoon, and learned that she and Tiny and Lena were goingto the river next day with Anna Hansen--the elder was all in bloom now, andAnna wanted to make elder-blow wine.

  "Anna's to drive us down in the Marshalls' delivery wagon, and we'll takea nice lunch and have a picnic. Just us; nobody else. Could n't you happenalong, 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 wasstill heavy on the long meadow grasses. It was the high season for summerflowers. The pink bee-bush stood tall along the sandy roadsides, and thecone-flowers and rose mallow grew everywhere. Across the wire fence, inthe long grass, I saw a clump of flaming orange-colored milkweed, rare inthat part of the State. I left the road and went around through a stretchof pasture that was always cropped short in summer, where the gaillardiacame up year after year and matted over the ground with the deep, velvetyred that is in Bokhara carpets. The country was empty and solitary exceptfor the larks that Sunday morning, and it seemed to lift itself up to meand to come very close.

  The river was running strong for midsummer; heavy rains to the west of ushad kept it full. I crossed the bridge and went upstream along the woodedshore to a pleasant dressing-room I knew among the dogwood bushes, allovergrown with wild grapevines. I began to undress for a swim. The girlswould not be along yet. For the first time it occurred to me that I wouldbe homesick for that river after I left it. The sandbars, with their cleanwhite beaches and their little groves of willows and cottonwood seedlings,were a sort of No Man's Land, little newly-created worlds that belonged tothe 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 shoresand had a friendly feeling for every bar and shallow.

  After my swim, while I was playing about indolently in the water, I heardthe sound of hoofs and wheels on the bridge. I struck downstream andshouted, as the open spring wagon came into view on the middle span. Theystopped 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 theycould see me better. They were charming up there, huddled together in thecart and peering down at me like curious deer when they come out of thethicket to drink. I found bottom near the bridge and stood up, waving tothem.

  "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 tomy inlet and clambered up behind an overhanging elm. I dried myself in thesun, and dressed slowly, reluctant to leave that green enclosure where thesunlight flickered so bright through the grapevine leaves and thewoodpecker hammered away in the crooked elm that trailed out over thewater. As I went along the road back to the bridge I kept picking offlittle pieces of scaly chalk from the dried water gullies, and breakingthem up in my hands.

  When I came upon the Marshalls' delivery horse, tied in the shade, thegirls had already taken their baskets and gone down the east road whichwound 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 thebluffs, but in the hot, sandy bottoms along the stream, where their rootswere always in moisture and their tops in the sun. The blossoms wereunusually luxuriant and beautiful that summer.

  I followed a cattle path through the thick underbrush until I came to aslope that fell away abruptly to the water's edge. A great chunk of theshore had been bitten out by some spring freshet, and the scar was maskedby elder bushes, growing down to the water in flowery terraces. I did nottouch them. I was overcome by content and drowsiness and by the warmsilence about me. There was no sound but the high, sing-song buzz of wildbees and the sunny gurgle of the water underneath. I peeped over the edgeof the bank to see the little stream that made the noise; it flowed alongperfectly clear over the sand and gravel, cut off from the muddy maincurrent by a long sandbar. Down there, on the lower shelf of the bank, Isaw Antonia, seated alone under the pagoda-like elders. She looked up whenshe heard me, and smiled, but I saw that she had been crying. I slid downinto 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 grewin our yard and my papa had a green bench and a table under the bushes. Insummer, when they were in bloom, he used to sit there with his friend thatplayed the trombone. When I was little I used to go down there to hearthem 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 thewoods, and about God, and when they were young." She turned to me suddenlyand looked into my eyes. "You think, Jimmy, that maybe my father's spiritcan go back to those old places?"

  I told her about the feeling of her father's presence I had on that winterday when my grandparents had gone over to see his dead body and I was leftalone in the house. I said I felt sure then that he was on his way back tohis own country, and that even now, when I passed his grave, I alwaysthought of him as being among the woods and fields that were so dear tohim.

  Antonia had the most trusting, responsive eyes in the world; love andcredulousness seemed to look out of them with open faces. "Why did n't youever tell me that before? It makes me feel more sure for him." After awhile she said: "You know, Jim, my father was different from my mother. Hedid not have to marry my mother, and all his brothers quarreled with himbecause 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 hewas older than she was, and he was too kind to treat her like that. Helived in his mother's house, and she was a poor girl come in to do thework. After my father married her, my grandmother never let my mother comeinto her house again. When I went to my grandmother's funeral was the onlytime 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 skybetween the flat bouquets of elder. I could hear the bees humming andsinging, but they stayed up in the sun above the flowers and did not comedown into the shadow of the leaves. Antonia seemed to me that day exactlylike 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 thelittle town where you lived. Do you remember all about it?"

  "Jim," she said earnestly, "if I was put down there in the middle of thenight, I could find my way all over that little town; and along the riverto the next town, where my grandmother lived. My feet remember all thelittle paths through the woods, and where the big roots stick out to tripyou. I ain't never forgot my own country."

  There was a crackling in the branches above us, and Lena Lingard peereddown over the edge of the bank.

  "You lazy things!" she cried. "All this elder, and you two lying there!Did n't you hear us calling you?" Almost as flushed as she had been in mydream, she leaned over the edge of the bank and began
to demolish ourflowery pagoda. I had never seen her so energetic; she was panting withzeal, and the perspiration stood in drops on her short, yielding upperlip. 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 turnup the silvery under-side of their leaves, and all the foliage looked softand wilted. I carried the lunch-basket to the top of one of the chalkbluffs, where even on the calmest days there was always a breeze. Theflat-topped, twisted little oaks threw light shadows on the grass. Belowus we could see the windings of the river, and Black Hawk, grouped amongits trees, and, beyond, the rolling country, swelling gently until it metthe sky. We could recognize familiar farmhouses and windmills. Each of thegirls pointed out to me the direction in which her father's farm lay, andtold 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 mymother ain't been so homesick, ever since father's raised rye flour forher."

  "It must have been a trial for our mothers," said Lena, "coming out hereand 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 Annathoughtfully. "My grandmother's getting feeble now, and her mind wanders.She's forgot about this country, and thinks she's at home in Norway. Shekeeps 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 salmonand mackerel."

  "Mercy, it's hot!" Lena yawned. She was supine under a little oak, restingafter the fury of her elder-hunting, and had taken off the high-heeledslippers she had been silly enough to wear. "Come here, Jim. You never gotthe sand out of your hair." She began to draw her fingers slowly throughmy hair.

  Antonia pushed her away. "You'll never get it out like that," she saidsharply. She gave my head a rough touzling and finished me off withsomething like a box on the ear. "Lena, you ought n't to try to wear thoseslippers any more. They're too small for your feet. You'd better give themto me for Yulka."

  "All right," said Lena good-naturedly, tucking her white stockings underher skirt. "You get all Yulka's things, don't you? I wish father did n'thave such bad luck with his farm machinery; then I could buy more thingsfor my sisters. I'm going to get Mary a new coat this fall, if the sulkyplough's never paid for!"

  Tiny asked her why she did n't wait until after Christmas, when coatswould be cheaper. "What do you think of poor me?" she added; "with six athome, younger than I am? And they all think I'm rich, because when I goback to the country I'm dressed so fine!" She shrugged her shoulders."But, you know, my weakness is playthings. I like to buy them playthingsbetter than what they need."

  "I know how that is," said Anna. "When we first came here, and I waslittle, we were too poor to buy toys. I never got over the loss of a dollsomebody gave me before we left Norway. A boy on the boat broke her, and Istill hate him for it."

  "I guess after you got here you had plenty of live dolls to nurse, likeme!" Lena remarked cynically.

  "Yes, the babies came along pretty fast, to be sure. But I never minded. Iwas fond of them all. The youngest one, that we did n't any of us want, isthe one we love best now."

  Lena sighed. "Oh, the babies are all right; if only they don't come inwinter. Ours nearly always did. I don't see how mother stood it. I tellyou what girls," she sat up with sudden energy; "I'm going to get mymother out of that old sod house where she's lived so many years. The menwill never do it. Johnnie, that's my oldest brother, he's wanting to getmarried 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 gointo business for myself. If I don't get into business, I'll maybe marry arich gambler."

  "That would be a poor way to get on," said Anna sarcastically. "I wish Icould teach school, like Selma Kronn. Just think! She'll be the firstScandinavian girl to get a position in the High School. We ought to beproud of her."

  Selma was a studious girl, who had not much tolerance for giddy thingslike Tiny and Lena; but they always spoke of her with admiration.

  Tiny moved about restlessly, fanning herself with her straw hat. "If I wassmart like her, I'd be at my books day and night. But she was bornsmart--and look how her father's trained her! He was something high up inthe old country."

  "So was my mother's father," murmured Lena, "but that's all the good itdoes us! My father's father was smart, too, but he was wild. He married aLapp. I guess that's what's the matter with me; they say Lapp blood willout."

  "A real Lapp, Lena?" I exclaimed. "The kind that wear skins?"

  "I don't know if she wore skins, but she was a Lapp all right, and hisfolks felt dreadful about it. He was sent up north on some Government jobhe had, and fell in with her. He would marry her."

  "But I thought Lapland women were fat and ugly, and had squint eyes, likeChinese?" I objected.

  "I don't know, maybe. There must be something mighty taking about the Lappgirls, though; mother says the Norwegians up north are always afraid theirboys will run after them."

  In the afternoon, when the heat was less oppressive, we had a lively gameof "Pussy Wants a Corner," on the flat bluff-top, with the little treesfor bases. Lena was Pussy so often that she finally said she would n'tplay 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 theSpanish 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 othergirls leaning against her and each other, and listened to the little I wasable to tell them about Coronado and his search for the Seven GoldenCities. At school we were taught that he had not got so far north asNebraska, 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 thisvery river. A farmer in the county north of ours, when he was breakingsod, had turned up a metal stirrup of fine workmanship, and a sword with aSpanish inscription on the blade. He lent these relics to Mr. Harling, whobrought them home with him. Charley and I scoured them, and they were onexhibition in the Harling office all summer. Father Kelly, the priest, hadfound the name of the Spanish maker on the sword, and an abbreviation thatstood for the city of Cordova.

  "And that I saw with my own eyes," Antonia put in triumphantly. "So Jimand Charley were right, and the teachers were wrong!"

  The girls began to wonder among themselves. Why had the Spaniards come sofar? What must this country have been like, then? Why had Coronado nevergone back to Spain, to his riches and his castles and his king? I couldn't tell them. I only knew the school books said he "died in thewilderness, of a broken heart."

  "More than him has done that," said Antonia sadly, and the girls murmuredassent.

  We sat looking off across the country, watching the sun go down. The curlygrass 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 thesandbars glittered like glass, and the light trembled in the willowthickets as if little flames were leaping among them. The breeze sank tostillness. In the ravine a ringdove mourned plaintively, and somewhere offin the bushes an owl hooted. The girls sat listless, leaning against eachother. The long fingers of the sun touched their foreheads.

  Presently we saw a curious thing: There were no clouds, the sun was goingdown in a limpid, gold-washed sky. Just as the lower edge of the red discrested on the high fields against the horizon, a great black figuresuddenly appeared on the face of the sun. We sprang to our feet, strainingour eyes toward it. In a moment we realized what it was. On some uplandfarm, a plough had been left standing in the field. The sun was sinkingjust behind it. Magnified across the distance by the horizontal light, itstood out against the sun, was exactly c
ontained within the circle of thedisc; 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 droppedand dropped until the red tip went beneath the earth. The fields below uswere dark, the sky was growing pale, and that forgotten plough had sunkback to its own littleness somewhere on the prairie.