by Willa Cather
Emil scarcely heard what she was saying; he did not notice the sadness of her tone. He was thinking about the reckless life he meant to live in Mexico.
“What about?” he asked absently.
“About Carl Linstrum. They are afraid I am going to marry him, and that some of my property will get away from them.”
Emil shrugged his shoulders. “What nonsense!” he murmured. “Just like them.”
Alexandra drew back. “Why nonsense, Emil?”
“Why, you’ve never thought of such a thing, have you? They always have to have something to fuss about.”
“Emil,” said his sister slowly, “you ought not to take things for granted. Do you agree with them that I have no right to change my way of living?”
Emil looked at the outline of his sister’s head in the dim light. They were sitting close together and he somehow felt that she could hear his thoughts. He was silent for a moment, and then said in an embarrassed tone, “Why, no, certainly not. You ought to do whatever you want to. I’ll always back you.”
“But it would seem a little bit ridiculous to you if I married Carl?”
Emil fidgeted. The issue seemed to him too far-fetched to warrant discussion. “Why, no. I should be surprised if you wanted to. I can’t see exactly why. But that’s none of my business. You ought to do as you please. Certainly you ought not to pay any attention to what the boys say.”
Alexandra sighed. “I had hoped you might understand, a little, why I do want to. But I suppose that’s too much to expect. I’ve had a pretty lonely life, Emil. Besides Marie, Carl is the only friend I have ever had.”
Emil was awake now; a name in her last sentence roused him. He put out his hand and took his sister’s awkwardly. “You ought to do just as you wish, and I think Carl’s a fine fellow. He and I would always get on. I don’t believe any of the things the boys say about him, honest I don’t. They are suspicious of him because he’s intelligent. You know their way. They’ve been sore at me ever since you let me go away to college. They’re always trying to catch me up. If I were you, I wouldn’t pay any attention to them. There’s nothing to get upset about. Carl’s a sensible fellow. He won’t mind them.”
“I don’t know. If they talk to him the way they did to me, I think he’ll go away.”
Emil grew more and more uneasy. “Think so? Well, Marie said it would serve us all right if you walked off with him.”
“Did she? Bless her little heart! She would.” Alexandra’s voice broke.
Emil began unlacing his leggings. “Why don’t you talk to her about it? There’s Carl, I hear his horse. I guess I’ll go upstairs and get my boots off. No, I don’t want any supper. We had supper at five o’clock, at the fair.”
Emil was glad to escape and get to his own room. He was a little ashamed for his sister, though he had tried not to show it. He felt that there was something indecorous in her proposal, and she did seem to him somewhat ridiculous. There was trouble enough in the world, he reflected, as he threw himself upon his bed, without people who were forty years old imagining they wanted to get married. In the darkness and silence Emil was not likely to think long about Alexandra. Every image slipped away but one. He had seen Marie in the crowd that afternoon. She sold candy at the fair. Why had she ever run away with Frank Shabata, and how could she go on laughing and working and taking an interest in things? Why did she like so many people, and why had she seemed pleased when all the French and Bohemian boys, and the priest himself, crowded round her candy stand? Why did she care about any one but him? Why could he never, never find the thing he looked for in her playful, affectionate eyes?
Then he fell to imagining that he looked once more and found it there, and what it would be like if she loved him,—she who, as Alexandra said, could give her whole heart. In that dream he could lie for hours, as if in a trance. His spirit went out of his body and crossed the fields to Marie Shabata.
At the University dances the girls had often looked wonderingly at the tall young Swede with the fine head, leaning against the wall and frowning, his arms folded, his eyes fixed on the ceiling or the floor. All the girls were a little afraid of him. He was distinguished-looking, and not the jollying kind. They felt that he was too intense and preoccupied. There was something queer about him. Emil’s fraternity rather prided itself upon its dances, and sometimes he did his duty and danced every dance. But whether he was on the floor or brooding in a corner, he was always thinking about Marie Shabata. For two years the storm had been gathering in him.
XII
Carl came into the sitting-room while Alexandra was lighting the lamp. She looked up at him as she adjusted the shade. His sharp shoulders stooped as if he were very tired, his face was pale, and there were bluish shadows under his dark eyes. His anger had burned itself out and left him sick and disgusted.
“You have seen Lou and Oscar?” Alexandra asked.
“Yes.” His eyes avoided hers.
Alexandra took a deep breath. “And now you are going away. I thought so.”
Carl threw himself into a chair and pushed the dark lock back from his forehead with his white, nervous hand. “What a hopeless position you are in, Alexandra!” he exclaimed feverishly. “It is your fate to be always surrounded by little men. And I am no better than the rest. I am too little to face the criticism of even such men as Lou and Oscar. Yes, I am going away; to-morrow. I cannot even ask you to give me a promise until I have something to offer you. I thought, perhaps, I could do that; but I find I can’t.”
“What good comes of offering people things they don’t need?” Alexandra asked sadly. “I don’t need money. But I have needed you for a great many years. I wonder why I have been permitted to prosper, if it is only to take my friends away from me.”
“I don’t deceive myself,” Carl said frankly. “I know that I am going away on my own account. I must make the usual effort. I must have something to show for myself. To take what you would give me, I should have to be either a very large man or a very small one, and I am only in the middle class.”
Alexandra sighed. “I have a feeling that if you go away, you will not come back. Something will happen to one of us, or to both. People have to snatch at happiness when they can, in this world. It is always easier to lose than to find. What I have is yours, if you care enough about me to take it.”
Carl rose and looked up at the picture of John Bergson. “But I can’t, my dear, I can’t! I will go North at once. Instead of idling about in California all winter, I shall be getting my bearings up there. I won’t waste another week. Be patient with me, Alexandra. Give me a year!”
“As you will,” said Alexandra wearily. “All at once, in a single day, I lose everything; and I do not know why. Emil, too, is going away.” Carl was still studying John Bergson’s face and Alexandra’s eyes followed his. “Yes,” she said, “if he could have seen all that would come of the task he gave me, he would have been sorry. I hope he does not see me now. I hope that he is among the old people of his blood and country, and that tidings do not reach him from the New World.”
PART III
Winter Memories
I
Winter has settled down over the Divide again; the season in which Nature recuperates, in which she sinks to sleep between the fruitfulness of autumn and the passion of spring. The birds have gone. The teeming life that goes on down in the long grass is exterminated. The prairie-dog keeps his hole. The rabbits run shivering from one frozen garden patch to another and are hard put to it to find frost-bitten cabbage-stalks. At night the coyotes roam the wintry waste, howling for food. The variegated fields are all one color now; the pastures, the stubble, the roads, the sky are the same leaden gray. The hedgerows and trees are scarcely perceptible against the bare earth, whose slaty hue they have taken on. The ground is frozen so hard that it bruises the foot to walk in the roads or in the ploughed fields. It is like an iron country, and the spirit is oppressed by its rigor and melancholy. One could easily believe that in that
dead landscape the germs of life and fruitfulness were extinct forever.
Alexandra has settled back into her old routine. There are weekly letters from Emil. Lou and Oscar she has not seen since Carl went away. To avoid awkward encounters in the presence of curious spectators, she has stopped going to the Norwegian Church and drives up to the Reform Church at Hanover, or goes with Marie Shabata to the Catholic Church, locally known as “the French Church.” She has not told Marie about Carl, or her differences with her brothers. She was never very communicative about her own affairs, and when she came to the point, an instinct told her that about such things she and Marie would not understand one another.
Old Mrs. Lee had been afraid that family misunderstandings might deprive her of her yearly visit to Alexandra. But on the first day of December Alexandra telephoned Annie that to-morrow she would send Ivar over for her mother, and the next day the old lady arrived with her bundles. For twelve years Mrs. Lee had always entered Alexandra’s sitting-room with the same exclamation, “Now we be yust-a like old times!” She enjoyed the liberty Alexandra gave her, and hearing her own language about her all day long. Here she could wear her nightcap and sleep with all her windows shut, listen to Ivar reading the Bible, and here she could run about among the stables in a pair of Emil’s old boots. Though she was bent almost double, she was as spry as a gopher. Her face was as brown as if it had been varnished, and as full of wrinkles as a washerwoman’s hands. She had three jolly old teeth left in the front of her mouth, and when she grinned she looked very knowing, as if when you found out how to take it, life wasn’t half bad. While she and Alexandra patched and pieced and quilted, she talked incessantly about stories she read in a Swedish family paper, telling the plots in great detail; or about her life on a dairy farm in Gottland when she was a girl. Sometimes she forgot which were the printed stories and which were the real stories, it all seemed so far away. She loved to take a little brandy, with hot water and sugar, before she went to bed, and Alexandra always had it ready for her. “It sends good dreams,” she would say with a twinkle in her eye.
When Mrs. Lee had been with Alexandra for a week, Marie Shabata telephoned one morning to say that Frank had gone to town for the day, and she would like them to come over for coffee in the afternoon. Mrs. Lee hurried to wash out and iron her new cross-stitched apron, which she had finished only the night before; a checked gingham apron worked with a design ten inches broad across the bottom; a hunting scene, with fir trees and a stag and dogs and huntsmen. Mrs. Lee was firm with herself at dinner, and refused a second helping of apple dumplings. “I ta-ank I save up,” she said with a giggle.
At two o’clock in the afternoon Alexandra’s cart drove up to the Shabatas’ gate, and Marie saw Mrs. Lee’s red shawl come bobbing up the path. She ran to the door and pulled the old woman into the house with a hug, helping her to take off her wraps while Alexandra blanketed the horse outside. Mrs. Lee had put on her best black satine dress—she abominated woolen stuffs, even in winter—and a crocheted collar, fastened with a big pale gold pin, containing faded daguerreotypes of her father and mother. She had not worn her apron for fear of rumpling it, and now she shook it out and tied it round her waist with a conscious air. Marie drew back and threw up her hands, exclaiming, “Oh, what a beauty! I’ve never seen this one before, have I, Mrs. Lee?”
The old woman giggled and ducked her head. “No, yust las’ night I ma-ake. See dis tread; verra strong, no wa-ash out, no fade. My sister send from Sveden. I yust-a ta-ank you like dis.”
Marie ran to the door again. “Come in, Alexandra. I have been looking at Mrs. Lee’s apron. Do stop on your way home and show it to Mrs. Hiller. She’s crazy about cross-stitch.”
While Alexandra removed her hat and veil, Mrs. Lee went out to the kitchen and settled herself in a wooden rocking-chair by the stove, looking with great interest at the table, set for three, with a white cloth, and a pot of pink geraniums in the middle. “My, a-an’t you gotta fine plants; such-a much flower. How you keep from freeze?”
She pointed to the window-shelves, full of blooming fuchsias and geraniums.
“I keep the fire all night, Mrs. Lee, and when it’s very cold I put them all on the table, in the middle of the room. Other nights I only put newspapers behind them. Frank laughs at me for fussing, but when they don’t bloom he says, ‘What’s the matter with the darned things?’—What do you hear from Carl, Alexandra?”
“He got to Dawson before the river froze, and now I suppose I won’t hear any more until spring. Before he left California he sent me a box of orange flowers, but they didn’t keep very well. I have brought a bunch of Emil’s letters for you.” Alexandra came out from the sitting-room and pinched Marie’s cheek playfully. “You don’t look as if the weather ever froze you up. Never have colds, do you? That’s a good girl. She had dark red cheeks like this when she was a little girl, Mrs. Lee. She looked like some queer foreign kind of a doll. I’ve never forgot the first time I saw you in Mieklejohn’s store, Marie, the time father was lying sick. Carl and I were talking about that before he went away.”
“I remember, and Emil had his kitten along. When are you going to send Emil’s Christmas box?”
“It ought to have gone before this. I’ll have to send it by mail now, to get it there in time.”
Marie pulled a dark purple silk necktie from her workbasket. “I knit this for him. It’s a good color, don’t you think? Will you please put it in with your things and tell him it’s from me, to wear when he goes serenading.”
Alexandra laughed. “I don’t believe he goes serenading much. He says in one letter that the Mexican ladies are said to be very beautiful, but that don’t seem to me very warm praise.”
Marie tossed her head. “Emil can’t fool me. If he’s bought a guitar, he goes serenading. Who wouldn’t, with all those Spanish girls dropping flowers down from their windows! I’d sing to them every night, wouldn’t you, Mrs. Lee?”
The old lady chuckled. Her eyes lit up as Marie bent down and opened the oven door. A delicious hot fragrance blew out into the tidy kitchen. “My, somet’ing smell good!” She turned to Alexandra with a wink, her three yellow teeth making a brave show, “I ta-ank dat stop my yaw from ache no more!” she said contentedly.
Marie took out a pan of delicate little rolls, stuffed with stewed apricots, and began to dust them over with powdered sugar. “I hope you’ll like these, Mrs. Lee; Alexandra does. The Bohemians always like them with their coffee. But if you don’t, I have a coffee-cake with nuts and poppy seeds. Alexandra, will you get the cream jug? I put it in the window to keep cool.”
“The Bohemians,” said Alexandra, as they drew up to the table, “certainly know how to make more kinds of bread than any other people in the world. Old Mrs. Hiller told me once at the church supper that she could make seven kinds of fancy bread, but Marie could make a dozen.”
Mrs. Lee held up one of the apricot rolls between her brown thumb and forefinger and weighed it critically. “Yust like-a fedders,” she pronounced with satisfaction. “My, a-an’t dis nice!” she exclaimed as she stirred her coffee. “I yust ta-ake a liddle yelly now, too, I ta-ank.”
Alexandra and Marie laughed at her forehandedness, and fell to talking of their own affairs. “I was afraid you had a cold when I talked to you over the telephone the other night, Marie. What was the matter, had you been crying?”
“Maybe I had,” Marie smiled guiltily. “Frank was out late that night. Don’t you get lonely sometimes in the winter, when everybody has gone away?”
“I thought it was something like that. If I hadn’t had company, I’d have run over to see for myself. If you get down-hearted, what will become of the rest of us?” Alexandra asked.
“I don’t, very often. There’s Mrs. Lee without any coffee!”
Later, when Mrs. Lee declared that her powers were spent, Marie and Alexandra went upstairs to look for some crochet patterns the old lady wanted to borrow. “Better put on your coat, Alexandra. It’s cold up t
here, and I have no idea where those patterns are. I may have to look through my old trunks.” Marie caught up a shawl and opened the stair door, running up the steps ahead of her guest. “While I go through the bureau drawers, you might look in those hat-boxes on the closet-shelf, over where Frank’s clothes hang. There are a lot of odds and ends in them.”
She began tossing over the contents of the drawers, and Alexandra went into the clothes-closet. Presently she came back, holding a slender elastic yellow stick in her hand.
“What in the world is this, Marie? You don’t mean to tell me Frank ever carried such a thing?”
Marie blinked at it with astonishment and sat down on the floor. “Where did you find it? I didn’t know he had kept it. I haven’t seen it for years.”
“It really is a cane, then?”
“Yes. One he brought from the old country. He used to carry it when I first knew him. Isn’t it foolish? Poor Frank!”
Alexandra twirled the stick in her fingers and laughed. “He must have looked funny!”
Marie was thoughtful. “No, he didn’t, really. It didn’t seem out of place. He used to be awfully gay like that when he was a young man. I guess people always get what’s hardest for them, Alexandra.” Marie gathered the shawl closer about her and still looked hard at the cane. “Frank would be all right in the right place,” she said reflectively. “He ought to have a different kind of wife, for one thing. Do you know, Alexandra, I could pick out exactly the right sort of woman for Frank—now. The trouble is you almost have to marry a man before you can find out the sort of wife he needs; and usually it’s exactly the sort you are not. Then what are you going to do about it?” she asked candidly.
Alexandra confessed she didn’t know. “However,” she added, “it seems to me that you get along with Frank about as well as any woman I’ve ever seen or heard of could.”
Marie shook her head, pursing her lips and blowing her warm breath softly out into the frosty air. “No; I was spoiled at home. I like my own way, and I have a quick tongue. When Frank brags, I say sharp things, and he never forgets. He goes over and over it in his mind; I can feel him. Then I’m too giddy. Frank’s wife ought to be timid, and she ought not to care about another living thing in the world but just Frank! I didn’t, when I married him, but I suppose I was too young to stay like that.” Marie sighed.