by Willa Cather
III
ON the first or second day of August I got a horse and cart and set outfor the high country, to visit the Widow Steavens. The wheat harvest wasover, and here and there along the horizon I could see black puffs ofsmoke from the steam thrashing-machines. The old pasture land was nowbeing broken up into wheatfields and cornfields, the red grass wasdisappearing, and the whole face of the country was changing. There werewooden houses where the old sod dwellings used to be, and little orchards,and big red barns; all this meant happy children, contented women, and menwho saw their lives coming to a fortunate issue. The windy springs and theblazing summers, one after another, had enriched and mellowed that flattableland; all the human effort that had gone into it was coming back inlong, sweeping lines of fertility. The changes seemed beautiful andharmonious to me; it was like watching the growth of a great man or of agreat idea. I recognized every tree and sandbank and rugged draw. I foundthat I remembered the conformation of the land as one remembers themodeling of human faces.
When I drew up to our old windmill, the Widow Steavens came out to meetme. She was brown as an Indian woman, tall, and very strong. When I waslittle, her massive head had always seemed to me like a Roman senator's. Itold her at once why I had come.
"You'll stay the night with us, Jimmy? I'll talk to you after supper. Ican take more interest when my work is off my mind. You've no prejudiceagainst hot biscuit for supper? Some have, these days."
While I was putting my horse away I heard a rooster squawking. I looked atmy watch and sighed; it was three o'clock, and I knew that I must eat himat 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 farmpapers. All the windows were open. The white summer moon was shiningoutside, the windmill was pumping lazily in the light breeze. My hostessput the lamp on a stand in the corner, and turned it low because of theheat. She sat down in her favorite rocking-chair and settled a littlestool comfortably under her tired feet. "I'm troubled with callouses, Jim;getting old," she sighed cheerfully. She crossed her hands in her lap andsat 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 tothe 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 bemarried, she was over here about every day. They've never had a sewingmachine at the Shimerdas', and she made all her things here. I taught herhemstitching, and I helped her to cut and fit. She used to sit there atthat machine by the window, pedaling the life out of it--she was sostrong--and always singing them queer Bohemian songs, like she was thehappiest thing in the world.
"'Antonia,' I used to say, 'don't run that machine so fast. You won'thasten the day none that way.'
"Then she'd laugh and slow down for a little, but she'd soon forget andbegin to pedal and sing again. I never saw a girl work harder to go tohousekeeping right and well-prepared. Lovely table linen the Harlings hadgiven her, and Lena Lingard had sent her nice things from Lincoln. Wehemstitched all the tablecloths and pillow-cases, and some of the sheets.Old Mrs. Shimerda knit yards and yards of lace for her underclothes. Tonytold me just how she meant to have everything in her house. She'd evenbought silver spoons and forks, and kept them in her trunk. She was alwayscoaxing brother to go to the post-office. Her young man did write her realoften, from the different towns along his run.
"The first thing that troubled her was when he wrote that his run had beenchanged, and they would likely have to live in Denver. 'I'm a countrygirl,' she said, 'and I doubt if I'll be able to manage so well for him ina city. I was counting on keeping chickens, and maybe a cow.' She sooncheered up, though.
"At last she got the letter telling her when to come. She was shaken byit; she broke the seal and read it in this room. I suspected then thatshe'd begun to get faint-hearted, waiting; though she'd never let me seeit.
"Then there was a great time of packing. It was in March, if I rememberrightly, and a terrible muddy, raw spell, with the roads bad for haulingher things to town. And here let me say, Ambrosch did the right thing. Hewent to Black Hawk and bought her a set of plated silver in a purplevelvet box, good enough for her station. He gave her three hundred dollarsin money; I saw the check. He'd collected her wages all those first yearsshe worked out, and it was but right. I shook him by the hand in thisroom. 'You're behaving like a man, Ambrosch,' I said, 'and I'm glad to seeit, son.'
"'T was a cold, raw day he drove her and her three trunks into Black Hawkto take the night train for Denver--the boxes had been shipped before. Hestopped the wagon here, and she ran in to tell me good-bye. She threw herarms around me and kissed me, and thanked me for all I'd done for her. Shewas so happy she was crying and laughing at the same time, and her redcheeks 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 yourgrandmother, as much as for me, so I'm particular to tell you. This househad always been a refuge to her.
"Well, in a few days we had a letter saying she got to Denver safe, and hewas there to meet her. They were to be married in a few days. He wastrying to get his promotion before he married, she said. I did n't likethat, but I said nothing. The next week Yulka got a postal card, sayingshe 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 meas 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 thefields he had passed a livery team from town, driving fast out the westroad. There was a trunk on the front seat with the driver, and anotherbehind. In the back seat there was a woman all bundled up; but for all herveils, he thought 't was Antonia Shimerda, or Antonia Donovan, as her nameought now to be.
"The next morning I got brother to drive me over. I can walk still, but myfeet ain't what they used to be, and I try to save myself. The linesoutside the Shimerdas' house was full of washing, though it was the middleof the week. As we got nearer I saw a sight that made my heart sink--allthose underclothes we'd put so much work on, out there swinging in thewind. Yulka came bringing a dishpanful of wrung clothes, but she dartedback into the house like she was loath to see us. When I went in, Antoniawas standing over the tubs, just finishing up a big washing. Mrs. Shimerdawas going about her work, talking and scolding to herself. She did n't somuch as raise her eyes. Tony wiped her hand on her apron and held it outto me, looking at me steady but mournful. When I took her in my arms shedrew away. 'Don't, Mrs. Steavens,' she says, 'you'll make me cry, and Idon'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 wewalked up toward the garden.
"'I'm not married, Mrs. Steavens,' she says to me very quiet andnatural-like, 'and I ought to be.'
"'Oh, my child,' says I, 'what's happened to you? Don't be afraid to tellme!'
"She sat down on the draw-side, out of sight of the house. 'He's run awayfrom 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 did n't have any job. He'd been fired; blacklisted for knocking downfares. I did n't know. I thought he had n't been treated right. He wassick when I got there. He'd just come out of the hospital. He lived withme till my money gave out, and afterwards I found he had n't really beenhunting work at all. Then he just did n't come back. One nice fellow atthe station told me, when I kept going to look for him, to give it up. Hesaid he was afraid Larry'd gone bad and would n't come back any more. Iguess he's gone to Old Mexico. The conductors get rich down there,collecting half-fares off the natives and robbing the company. He wasalways talking about fellows who had got ahead that way.'
&nbs
p; "I asked her, of course, why she did n't insist on a civil marriage atonce--that would have given her some hold on him. She leaned her head onher hands, poor child, and said, 'I just don't know, Mrs. Steavens. Iguess my patience was wore out, waiting so long. I thought if he saw howwell 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 criedlike a young thing. I could n't help it. I was just about heart-broke. Itwas one of them lovely warm May days, and the wind was blowing and thecolts jumping around in the pastures; but I felt bowed with despair. MyAntonia, that had so much good in her, had come home disgraced. And thatLena Lingard, that was always a bad one, say what you will, had turned outso well, and was coming home here every summer in her silks and hersatins, and doing so much for her mother. I give credit where credit isdue, but you know well enough, Jim Burden, there is a great difference inthe principles of those two girls. And here it was the good one that hadcome to grief! I was poor comfort to her. I marveled at her calm. As wewent back to the house, she stopped to feel of her clothes to see if theywas drying well, and seemed to take pride in their whiteness--she saidshe'd been living in a brick block, where she did n't have properconveniences 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; itseemed to be an understood thing. Ambrosch did n't get any other hand tohelp him. Poor Marek had got violent and been sent away to an institutiona 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 respectedher industry and tried to treat her as if nothing had happened. Theytalked, to be sure; but not like they would if she'd put on airs. She wasso crushed and quiet that nobody seemed to want to humble her. She neverwent anywhere. All that summer she never once came to see me. At first Iwas hurt, but I got to feel that it was because this house reminded her oftoo much. I went over there when I could, but the times when she was infrom the fields were the times when I was busiest here. She talked aboutthe grain and the weather as if she'd never had another interest, and if Iwent over at night she always looked dead weary. She was afflicted withtoothache; one tooth after another ulcerated, and she went about with herface swollen half the time. She would n't go to Black Hawk to a dentistfor fear of meeting people she knew. Ambrosch had got over his good spelllong ago, and was always surly. Once I told him he ought not to letAntonia work so hard and pull herself down. He said, 'If you put that inher head, you better stay home.' And after that I did.
"Antonia worked on through harvest and thrashing, though she was toomodest to go out thrashing for the neighbors, like when she was young andfree. I did n't see much of her until late that fall when she begun toherd Ambrosch's cattle in the open ground north of here, up toward the bigdog town. Sometimes she used to bring them over the west hill, there, andI would run to meet her and walk north a piece with her. She had thirtycattle in her bunch; it had been dry, and the pasture was short, or shewould n't have brought them so far.
"It was a fine open fall, and she liked to be alone. While the steersgrazed, she used to sit on them grassy banks along the draws and sunherself 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,' shesaid 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 allover this country. Up here I can pick out the very places where my fatherused to stand. Sometimes I feel like I'm not going to live very long, soI'm just enjoying every day of this fall.'
"After the winter begun she wore a man's long overcoat and boots, and aman's felt hat with a wide brim. I used to watch her coming and going, andI could see that her steps were getting heavier. One day in December, thesnow began to fall. Late in the afternoon I saw Antonia driving her cattlehomeward across the hill. The snow was flying round her and she bent toface it, looking more lonesome-like to me than usual. 'Deary me,' I saysto myself, 'the girl's stayed out too late. It'll be dark before she getsthem cattle put into the corral.' I seemed to sense she'd been feeling toomiserable to get up and drive them.
"That very night, it happened. She got her cattle home, turned them intothe corral, and went into the house, into her room behind the kitchen, andshut the door. There, without calling to anybody, without a groan, she laydown on the bed and bore her child.
"I was lifting supper when old Mrs. Shimerda came running down thebasement 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 toa hot supper after a long day in the fields. Without a word he rose andwent down to the barn and hooked up his team. He got us over there asquick as it was humanly possible. I went right in, and began to do forAntonia; 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 overlookedwhat 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.
Antonia driving her cattle home]
"'Mrs. Steavens,' Antonia said from the bed, 'if you'll look in the toptray of my trunk, you'll see some fine soap.' That was the first word shespoke.
"After I'd dressed the baby, I took it out to show it to Ambrosch. He wasmuttering behind the stove and would n'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'tforget that. I stand here a witness that this baby has come into the worldsound and strong, and I intend to keep an eye on what befalls it.' I pridemyself I cowed him.
"Well, I expect you're not much interested in babies, but Antonia's got onfine. She loved it from the first as dearly as if she'd had a ring on herfinger, and was never ashamed of it. It's a year and eight months old now,and no baby was ever better cared-for. Antonia is a natural-born mother. Iwish she could marry and raise a family, but I don't know as there's muchchance 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 theripe fields. I lay awake and watched the moonlight shining over the barnand the stacks and the pond, and the windmill making its old dark shadowagainst the blue sky.