by Willa Cather
VI
WINTER COMES DOWN SAVAGELY over a little town on the prairie. The windthat sweeps in from the open country strips away all the leafy screensthat hide one yard from another in summer, and the houses seem to drawcloser together. The roofs, that looked so far away across the greentree-tops, now stare you in the face, and they are so much uglier thanwhen 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 lateafternoon, when I was coming home, the town looked bleak and desolate tome. The pale, cold light of the winter sunset did not beautify--it waslike the light of truth itself. When the smoky clouds hung low in thewest and the red sun went down behind them, leaving a pink flush on thesnowy roofs and the blue drifts, then the wind sprang up afresh, with akind of bitter song, as if it said: 'This is reality, whether you likeit or not. All those frivolities of summer, the light and shadow, theliving mask of green that trembled over everything, they were lies, andthis is what was underneath. This is the truth.' It was as if we werebeing punished for loving the loveliness of summer.
If I loitered on the playground after school, or went to the post-officefor the mail and lingered to hear the gossip about the cigar-stand, itwould be growing dark by the time I came home. The sun was gone; thefrozen streets stretched long and blue before me; the lights wereshining pale in kitchen windows, and I could smell the suppers cookingas I passed. Few people were abroad, and each one of them was hurryingtoward a fire. The glowing stoves in the houses were like magnets. Whenone passed an old man, one could see nothing of his face but a red nosesticking out between a frosted beard and a long plush cap. The young mencapered along with their hands in their pockets, and sometimes trieda slide on the icy sidewalk. The children, in their bright hoods andcomforters, never walked, but always ran from the moment they left theirdoor, beating their mittens against their sides. When I got as far asthe Methodist Church, I was about halfway home. I can remember how gladI was when there happened to be a light in the church, and the paintedglass window shone out at us as we came along the frozen street. Inthe winter bleakness a hunger for colour came over people, like theLaplander's craving for fats and sugar. Without knowing why, we used tolinger on the sidewalk outside the church when the lamps were lightedearly for choir practice or prayer-meeting, shivering and talking untilour feet were like lumps of ice. The crude reds and greens and blues ofthat coloured glass held us there.
On winter nights, the lights in the Harlings' windows drew me like thepainted 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. Ofcourse, if Mr. Harling was at home, if his shadow stood out on the blindof the west room, I did not go in, but turned and walked home by thelong way, through the street, wondering what book I should read as I satdown with the two old people.
Such disappointments only gave greater zest to the nights when we actedcharades, or had a costume ball in the back parlour, with Sally alwaysdressed like a boy. Frances taught us to dance that winter, and shesaid, from the first lesson, that Antonia would make the best danceramong us. On Saturday nights, Mrs. Harling used to play the old operasfor us--'Martha,' 'Norma,' 'Rigoletto'--telling us the story while sheplayed. Every Saturday night was like a party. The parlour, the backparlour, and the dining-room were warm and brightly lighted, withcomfortable chairs and sofas, and gay pictures on the walls. One alwaysfelt at ease there. Antonia brought her sewing and sat with us--she wasalready beginning to make pretty clothes for herself. After the longwinter evenings on the prairie, with Ambrosch's sullen silences andher mother's complaints, the Harlings' house seemed, as she said, 'likeHeaven' to her. She was never too tired to make taffy or chocolatecookies for us. If Sally whispered in her ear, or Charley gave her threewinks, Tony would rush into the kitchen and build a fire in the range onwhich she had already cooked three meals that day.
While we sat in the kitchen waiting for the cookies to bake or the taffyto cool, Nina used to coax Antonia to tell her stories--about the calfthat broke its leg, or how Yulka saved her little turkeys from drowningin the freshet, or about old Christmases and weddings in Bohemia. Ninainterpreted the stories about the creche fancifully, and in spite of ourderision she cherished a belief that Christ was born in Bohemia ashort time before the Shimerdas left that country. We all liked Tony'sstories. 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 toldus a new story.
'Mrs. Harling, did you ever hear about what happened up in theNorwegian settlement last summer, when I was threshing there? We were atIversons', and I was driving one of the grain-wagons.'
Mrs. Harling came out and sat down among us. 'Could you throw the wheatinto 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 boythat drove the other wagon. One day it was just awful hot. When we gotback to the field from dinner, we took things kind of easy. The men putin the horses and got the machine going, and Ole Iverson was up on thedeck, cutting bands. I was sitting against a straw-stack, trying to getsome shade. My wagon wasn't going out first, and somehow I felt the heatawful that day. The sun was so hot like it was going to burn the worldup. After a while I see a man coming across the stubble, and when hegot close I see it was a tramp. His toes stuck out of his shoes, andhe 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 heknows me already. He says: 'The ponds in this country is done got so lowa man couldn't drownd himself in one of 'em.'
'I told him nobody wanted to drownd themselves, but if we didn't haverain soon we'd have to pump water for the cattle.
'"Oh, cattle," he says, "you'll all take care of your cattle! Ain't yougot 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'. Iwon't go no farther."
'I tried to make signs to Ole, 'cause I thought that man was crazy andmight get the machine stopped up. But Ole, he was glad to get down outof the sun and chaff--it gets down your neck and sticks to you somethingawful when it's hot like that. So Ole jumped down and crawled under oneof the wagons for shade, and the tramp got on the machine. He cut bandsall right for a few minutes, and then, Mrs. Harling, he waved his handto me and jumped head-first right into the threshing machine after thewheat.
'I begun to scream, and the men run to stop the horses, but the belt hadsucked him down, and by the time they got her stopped, he was all beatand cut to pieces. He was wedged in so tight it was a hard job to gethim 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'ttalk about it. Don't you cry, Nina. No old tramp won't get you whileTony's here.'
Mrs. Harling spoke up sternly. 'Stop crying, Nina, or I'll always sendyou upstairs when Antonia tells us about the country. Did they neverfind out where he came from, Antonia?'
'Never, ma'm. He hadn't been seen nowhere except in a little town theycall 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. Theycouldn't find no letters nor nothing on him; nothing but an old penknifein his pocket and the wishbone of a chicken wrapped up in a piece ofpaper, and some poetry.'
'Some poetry?' we exclaimed.
'I remember,' said Frances. 'It was "The Old Oaken Bucket," cut out ofa newspaper and nearly worn out. Ole Ive
rson brought it into the officeand showed it to me.'
'Now, wasn't that strange, Miss Frances?' Tony asked thoughtfully. 'Whatwould anybody want to kill themselves in summer for? In threshing time,too! It's nice everywhere then.'
'So it is, Antonia,' said Mrs. Harling heartily. 'Maybe I'll go home andhelp you thresh next summer. Isn't that taffy nearly ready to eat? I'vebeen smelling it a long while.'
There was a basic harmony between Antonia and her mistress. They hadstrong, independent natures, both of them. They knew what they liked,and were not always trying to imitate other people. They loved childrenand animals and music, and rough play and digging in the earth. Theyliked to prepare rich, hearty food and to see people eat it; to makeup soft white beds and to see youngsters asleep in them. They ridiculedconceited people and were quick to help unfortunate ones. Deep down ineach of them there was a kind of hearty joviality, a relish of life, notover-delicate, but very invigorating. I never tried to define it, but Iwas distinctly conscious of it. I could not imagine Antonia's living fora week in any other house in Black Hawk than the Harlings'.