The Troll Garden and Selected Stories
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Willa Cather. >> The Troll Garden and Selected Stories
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"Don't be thinking about yourself. It doesn't matter how boys
look."
Nils had never spoken to him so sharply before, and Eric made
haste to scramble out of his corner and brush the straw from his
coat.
Clara nodded approvingly. "Good for you, Nils. I've been
trying to get hold of him. They dance very nicely together; I
sometimes play for them."
"I'm obliged to you for teaching him. There's no reason why he
should grow up to be a lout."
"He'll never be that. He's more like you than any of them.
Only he hasn't your courage." From her slanting eyes Clara shot
forth one of those keen glances, admiring and at the same time
challenging, which she seldom bestowed on any one, and which seemed
to say, "Yes, I admire you, but I am your equal."
Clara was proving a much better host than Olaf, who, once the
supper was over, seemed to feel no interest in anything but the
lanterns. He had brought a locomotive headlight from
town to light the revels, and he kept skulking about as if he
feared the mere light from it might set his new barn on fire.
His wife, on the contrary, was cordial to every one, was
animated and even gay. The deep salmon colour in her cheeks burned
vividly, and her eyes were full of life. She gave the piano over
to the fat Swedish heiress, pulled her father away from the corner
where he sat gossiping with his cronies, and made him dance a
Bohemian dance with her. In his youth Joe had been a famous
dancer, and his daughter got him so limbered up that every one sat
around and applauded them. The old ladies were particularly
delighted, and made them go through the dance again. From their
corner where they watched and commented, the old women kept time
with their feet and hands, and whenever the fiddles struck up a new
air old Mrs. Svendsen's white cap would begin to bob.
Clara was waltzing with little Eric when Nils came up to them,
brushed his brother aside, and swung her out among the dancers.
"Remember how we used to waltz on rollers at the old skating rink
in town? I suppose people don't do that any more. We used to keep
it up for hours. You know, we never did moon around as other boys
and girls did. It was dead serious with us from the beginning.
When we were most in love with each other, we used to fight. You
were always pinching people; your fingers were like little nippers.
A regular snapping turtle, you were. Lord, how you'd like
Stockholm! Sit out in the streets in front of cafes and talk all
night in summer. just like a reception--officers and ladies and
funny English people. Jolliest people in the world, the Swedes,
once you get them going. Always drinking things--champagne and
stout mixed, half-and-half, serve it out of big pitchers, and serve
plenty. Slow pulse, you know; they can stand a lot. Once they
light up, they're glowworms, I can tell you."
"All the same, you don't really like gay people."
"
I don't?"
"No; I could tell that when you were looking at the old women
there this afternoon. They're the kind you really admire, after
all; women like your mother. And that's the kind you'll marry."
"Is it, Miss Wisdom? You'll see who I'll marry, and she
won't have a domestic virtue to bless herself with. She'll be a
snapping turtle, and she'll be a match for me. All the same,
they're a fine bunch of old dames over there. You admire them
yourself
"No, I don't; I detest them."
"You won't, when you look back on them from Stockholm or
Budapest. Freedom settles all that. Oh, but you're the real
Bohemian Girl, Clara Vavrika!" Nils laughed down at her sullen
frown and began mockingly to sing:
"Oh, how could a poor gypsy maiden like me
Expect the proud bride of a baron to be?"
Clara clutched his shoulder. "Hush, Nils; every one is looking at
you."
"I don't care. They can't gossip. It's all in the family, as
the Ericsons say when they divide up little Hilda's patrimony
amongst them. Besides, we'll give them something to talk about
when we hit the trail. Lord, it will be a godsend to them! They
haven't had anything so interesting to chatter about since the
grasshopper year. It'll give them a new lease of life. And Olaf
won't lose the Bohemian vote, either. They'll have the laugh on
him so that they'll vote two apiece. They'll send him to Congress.
They'll never forget his barn party, or us. They'll always
remember us as we're dancing together now. We're making a legend.
Where's my waltz, boys?" he called as they whirled past the
fiddlers.
The musicians grinned, looked at each other, hesitated, and
began a new air; and Nils sang with them, as the couples fell from
a quick waltz to a long, slow glide:
"When other lips and other hearts
Their tale of love shall tell,
In language whose excess imparts
The power they feel so well."
The old women applauded vigorously. "What a gay one he is,
that Nils!" And old Mrs. Svendsen's cap lurched dreamily
from side to side to the flowing measure of the dance.
Of days that have as ha-a-p-py been,
And you'll remember me."
VII
The moonlight flooded that great, silent land. The reaped
fields lay yellow in it. The straw stacks and poplar windbreaks
threw sharp black shadows. The roads were white rivers of dust.
The sky was a deep, crystalline blue, and the stars were few and
faint. Everything seemed to have succumbed, to have sunk to sleep,
under the great, golden, tender, midsummer moon. The splendour of
it seemed to transcend human life and human fate. The senses were
too feeble to take it in, and every time one looked up at the sky
one felt unequal to it, as if one were sitting deaf under the waves
of a great river of melody. Near the road, Nils Ericson was lying
against a straw stack in Olaf's wheat field. His own life seemed
strange and unfamiliar to him, as if it were something he had read
about, or dreamed, and forgotten. He lay very still, watching the
white road that ran in front of him, lost itself among the fields,
and then, at a distance, reappeared over a little hill. At last,
against this white band he saw something moving rapidly, and he got
up and walked to the edge of the field. "She is passing the row of
poplars now," he thought. He heard the padded beat of hoofs along
the dusty road, and as she came into sight he stepped out and waved
his arms. Then, for fear of frightening the horse, he drew back
and waited. Clara had seen him, and she came up at a walk. Nils
took the horse by the bit and stroked his neck.
"What are you doing out so late, Clara Vavrika? I went to the
house, but Johanna told me you had gone to your father's."
"Who can stay in the house on a night like this? Aren't you
out yourself?"
"Ah, but that's another matter."
Nils turned the horse into the field.
"What are you doing? Where are you taking Norman?"
"Not far, but I want to talk to you tonight; I have something to
say to you. I can't talk to you at the house, with Olaf sitting
there on the porch, weighing a thousand tons."
Clara laughed. "He won't be sitting there now. He's in bed
by this time, and asleep--weighing a thousand tons."
Nils plodded on across the stubble. "Are you really going
to spend the rest of your life like this, night after night,
summer after summer? Haven't you anything better to do on a night
like this than to wear yourself and Norman out tearing across the
country to your father's and back? Besides, your father won't
live forever, you know. His little place will be shut up or
sold, and then you'll have nobody but the Ericsons. You'll have
to fasten down the hatches for the winter then."
Clara moved her head restlessly. "Don't talk about that. I
try never to think of it. If I lost Father I'd lose everything,
even my hold over the Ericsons."
"Bah! You'd lose a good deal more than that. You'd lose
your race, everything that makes you yourself. You've lost a
good deal of it now."
"Of what?"
"Of your love of life, your capacity for delight."
Clara put her hands up to her face. "I haven't, Nils
Ericson, I haven't! Say anything to me but that. I won't have
it!" she declared vehemently.
Nils led the horse up to a straw stack, and turned to Clara,
looking at her intently, as he had looked at her that Sunday
afternoon at Vavrika's. "But why do you fight for that so? What
good is the power to enjoy, if you never enjoy? Your hands are
cold again; what are you afraid of all the time? Ah, you're
afraid of losing it; that's what's the matter with you! And you
will, Clara Vavrika, you will! When I used to know you--listen;
you've caught a wild bird in your hand, haven't you, and felt its
heart beat so hard that you were afraid it would shatter its
little body to pieces? Well, you used to be just like that, a
slender, eager thing with a wild delight inside you. That is how
I remembered you. And I come back and find you--a bitter
woman. This is a perfect ferret fight here; you live by biting
and being bitten. Can't you remember what life used to be? Can't
you remember that old delight? I've never forgotten it, or known
its like, on land or sea."
He drew the horse under the shadow of the straw stack.
Clara felt him take her foot out of the stirrup, and she slid
softly down into his arms. He kissed her slowly. He was a
deliberate man, but his nerves were steel when he wanted
anything. Something flashed out from him like a knife out of a
sheath. Clara felt everything slipping away from her; she was
flooded by the summer night. He thrust his hand into his pocket,
and then held it out at arm's length. "Look," he said. The
shadow of the straw stack fell sharp across his wrist, and in the
palm of his hand she saw a silver dollar shining. "That's my
pile," he muttered; "will you go with me?"
Clara nodded, and dropped her forehead on his shoulder.
Nils took a deep breath. "Will you go with me tonight?"
"Where?" she whispered softly.
"To town, to catch the midnight flyer."
Clara lifted her head and pulled herself together. "Are you
crazy, Nils? We couldn't go away like that."
"That's the only way we ever will go. You can't sit on the
bank and think about it. You have to plunge. That's the way
I've always done, and it's the right way for people like you and
me. There's nothing so dangerous as sitting still. You've only
got one life, one youth, and you can let it slip through your
fingers if you want to; nothing easier. Most people do that.
You'd be better off tramping the roads with me than you are
here." Nils held back her head and looked into her eyes. "But
I'm not that kind of a tramp, Clara. You won't have to take in
sewing. I'm with a Norwegian shipping line; came over on
business with the New York offices, but now I'm going straight
back to Bergen. I expect I've got as much money as the Ericsons.
Father sent me a little to get started. They never knew about
that. There, I hadn't meant to tell you; I wanted you to come on
your own nerve."
Clara looked off across the fields. "It isn't that, Nils,
but something seems to hold me. I'm afraid to pull against it.
It comes out of the ground, I think."
"I know all about that. One has to tear loose. You're not
needed here. Your father will understand; he's made like us. As
for Olaf, Johanna will take better care of him than ever you
could. It's now or never, Clara Vavrika. My bag's at the
station; I smuggled it there yesterday."
Clara clung to him and hid her face against his shoulder.
"Not tonight," she whispered. "Sit here and talk to me tonight.
I don't want to go anywhere tonight. I may never love you like
this again."
Nils laughed through his teeth. "You can't come that on me.
That's not my way, Clara Vavrika. Eric's mare is over there
behind the stacks, and I'm off on the midnight. It's goodbye, or
off across the world with me. My carriage won't wait. I've
written a letter to Olaf, I'll mail it in town. When he reads it
he won't bother us--not if I know him. He'd rather have the
land. Besides, I could demand an investigation of his
administration of Cousin Henrik's estate, and that would be bad
for a public man. You've no clothes, I know; but you can sit up
tonight, and we can get everything on the way. Where's your old
dash, Clara Vavrika? What's become of your Bohemian blood? I used
to think you had courage enough for anything. Where's your
nerve--what are you waiting for?"
Clara drew back her head, and he saw the slumberous fire in
her eyes. "For you to say one thing, Nils Ericson."
"I never say that thing to any woman, Clara Vavrika." He
leaned back, lifted her gently from the ground, and whispered
through his teeth: "But I'll never, never let you go, not to any
man on earth but me! Do you understand me? Now, wait here."
Clara sank down on a sheaf of wheat and covered her face
with her hands. She did not know what she was going to do--
whether she would go or stay. The great, silent country seemed
to lay a spell upon her. The ground seemed to hold her as if by
roots. Her knees were soft under her. She felt as if she could
not bear separation from her old sorrows, from her old discontent.
They were dear to her, they had kept her alive, they were
a part of her. There would be nothing left of her if she were
wrenched away from them. Never could she pass beyond that skyline
against which her restlessness had beat so many times. She felt
as if her soul had built itself a nest there on that horizon at
which she looked every morning and every evening, and it was dear
to her, inexpressibly dear. She pressed her fingers against her
eyeballs to shut it out. Beside her she heard the tramping of
horses in the soft earth. Nils said nothing to her. He put his
hands under her arms and lifted her lightly to her saddle. Then
he swung himself into his own.
"We shall have to ride fast to catch the midnight train. A
last gallop, Clara Vavrika. Forward!"
There was a start, a thud of hoofs along the moonlit road, two
dark shadows going over the hill; and then the great, still land
stretched untroubled under the azure night. Two shadows had
passed.
VII
A year after the flight of Olaf Ericson's wife, the night
train was steaming across the plains of Iowa. The conductor was
hurrying through one of the day coaches, his lantern on his arm,
when a lank, fair-haired boy sat up in one of the plush seats and
tweaked him by the coat.
"What is the next stop, please, sir?"
"Red Oak, Iowa. But you go through to Chicago, don't you?"
He looked down, and noticed that the boy's eyes were red and his
face was drawn, as if he were in trouble.
"Yes. But I was wondering whether I could get off at the
next place and get a train back to Omaha."
"Well, I suppose you could. Live in Omaha?"
"No. In the western part of the State. How soon do we get
to Red Oak?"
"Forty minutes. You'd better make up your mind, so I can
tell the baggageman to put your trunk off."
"Oh, never mind about that! I mean, I haven't got any," the
boy added, blushing.
"Run away," the conductor thought, as he slammed the coach
door behind him.
Eric Ericson crumpled down in his seat and put his brown hand
to his forehead. He had been crying, and he had had no supper, and
his head was aching violently. "Oh, what shall I do?" he thought,
as he looked dully down at his big shoes. "Nils will be ashamed of
me; I haven't got any spunk."
Ever since Nils had run away with his brother's wife, life at
home had been hard for little Eric. His mother and Olaf both
suspected him of complicity. Mrs. Ericson was harsh and
faultfinding, constantly wounding the boy's pride; and Olaf was
always setting her against him.
Joe Vavrika heard often from his daughter. Clara had always
been fond of her father, and happiness made her kinder. She wrote
him long accounts of the voyage to Bergen, and of the trip she and
Nils took through Bohemia to the little town where her father had
grown up and where she herself was born. She visited all her
kinsmen there, and sent her father news of his brother, who was a
priest; of his sister, who had married a horse-breeder--of their
big farm and their many children. These letters Joe always managed
to read to little Eric. They contained messages for Eric and
Hilda. Clara sent presents, too, which Eric never dared to take
home and which poor little Hilda never even saw, though she loved
to hear Eric tell about them when they were out getting the eggs
together. But Olaf once saw Eric coming out of Vavrika's house--
the old man had never asked the boy to come into his saloon--and
Olaf went straight to his mother and told her. That night Mrs.
Ericson came to Eric's room after he was in bed and made a terrible
scene. She could be very terrifying when she was really angry.
She forbade him ever to speak to Vavrika again, and after that
night she would not allow him to go to town alone. So it was a
long while before Eric got any more news of his brother. But old
Joe suspected what was going on, and he carried Clara's letters
about in his pocket. One Sunday he drove out to see a German
friend of his, and chanced to catch sight of Eric, sitting by the
cattle pond in the big pasture. They went together into Fritz
Oberlies' barn, and read the letters and talked things over. Eric
admitted that things were getting hard for him at home. That very
night old Joe sat down and laboriously penned a statement of the
case to his daughter.
Things got no better for Eric. His mother and Olaf felt
that, however closely he was watched, he still, as they said,
"heard." Mrs. Ericson could not admit neutrality. She had sent
Johanna Vavrika packing back to her brother's, though Olaf would
much rather have kept her than Anders' eldest daughter, whom Mrs.
Ericson installed in her place. He was not so highhanded as his
mother, and he once sulkily told her that she might better have
taught her granddaughter to cook before she sent Johanna away.
Olaf could have borne a good deal for the sake of prunes spiced
in honey, the secret of which Johanna had taken away with her.
At last two letters came to Joe Vavrika: one from Nils,
enclosing a postal order for money to pay Eric's passage to
Bergen, and one from Clara, saying that Nils had a place for Eric
in the offices of his company, that he was to live with them, and
that they were only waiting for him to come. He was to leave New
York on one of the boats of Nils' own line; the captain was one
of their friends, and Eric was to make himself known at once.
Nils' directions were so explicit that a baby could have
followed them, Eric felt. And here he was, nearing Red Oak,
Iowa, and rocking backward and forward in despair. Never had he
loved his brother so much, and never had the big world called to
him so hard. But there was a lump in his throat which would not
go down. Ever since nightfall he had been tormented by the
thought of his mother, alone in that big house that had sent
forth so many men. Her unkindness now seemed so little, and her
loneliness so great. He remembered everything she had ever done
for him: how frightened she had been when he tore his hand in the
corn-sheller, and how she wouldn't let Olaf scold him. When Nils
went away he didn't leave his mother all alone, or he would never
have gone. Eric felt sure of that.
The train whistled. The conductor came in, smiling not unkindly.
"Well, young man, what are you going to do? We stop at Red Oak in
three minutes."
"Yes, thank you. I'll let you know." The conductor went out,
and the boy doubled up with misery. He couldn't let his one chance
go like this. He felt for his breast pocket and crackled Nils'
letter to give him courage. He didn't want Nils to be ashamed of
him. The train stopped. Suddenly he remembered his brother's
kind, twinkling eyes, that always looked at you as if from far
away. The lump in his throat softened. "Ah, but Nils, Nils would
understand!" he thought. "That's just it about Nils; he
always understands."
A lank, pale boy with a canvas telescope stumbled off the
train to the Red Oak siding, just as the conductor called, "All
aboard!"
The next night Mrs. Ericson was sitting alone in her wooden
rocking-chair on the front porch. Little Hilda had been sent to
bed and had cried herself to sleep. The old woman's knitting was
on her lap, but her hands lay motionless on top of it. For more
than an hour she had not moved a muscle. She simply sat, as only
the Ericsons and the mountains can sit. The house was dark, and
there was no sound but the croaking of the frogs down in the pond
of the little pasture.
Eric did not come home by the road, but across the fields,
where no one could see him. He set his telescope down softly in
the kitchen shed, and slipped noiselessly along the path to the
front porch. He sat down on the step without saying anything.
Mrs. Ericson made no sign, and the frogs croaked on. At last the
boy spoke timidly.
"I've come back, Mother."
"Very well," said Mrs. Ericson.
Eric leaned over and picked up a little stick out of the grass.
"How about the milking?" he faltered.
"That's been done, hours ago."
"Who did you get?"
"Get? I did it myself. I can milk as good as any of you."
Eric slid along the step nearer to her. "Oh, Mother, why did you?"
he asked sorrowfully. "Why didn't you get one of Otto's boys?"
"I didn't want anybody to know I was in need of a boy," said
Mrs. Ericson bitterly. She looked straight in front of her and her
mouth tightened. "I always meant to give you the home farm," she
added.
The boy stared and slid closer. "Oh, Mother," he faltered, "I
don't care about the farm. I came back because I thought you might
be needing me, maybe." He hung his head and got no further.
"Very well," said Mrs. Ericson. Her hand went out from her
suddenly and rested on his head. Her fingers twined themselves in
his soft, pale hair. His tears splashed down on the boards;
happiness filled his heart.
The Troll Garden
Flavia and Her Artists
As the train neared Tarrytown, Imogen Willard began to
wonder why she had consented to be one of Flavia's house party at
all. She had not felt enthusiastic about it since leaving the
city, and was experiencing a prolonged ebb of purpose, a current
of chilling indecision, under which she vainly sought for the
motive which had induced her to accept Flavia's invitation.
Perhaps it was a vague curiosity to see Flavia's husband,
who had been the magician of her childhood and the hero of
innumerable Arabian fairy tales. Perhaps it was a desire to see
M. Roux, whom Flavia had announced as the especial attraction of
the occasion. Perhaps it was a wish to study that remarkable
woman in her own setting.
Imogen admitted a mild curiosity concerning Flavia. She was
in the habit of taking people rather seriously, but somehow found
it impossible to take Flavia so, because of the very vehemence
and insistence with which Flavia demanded it. Submerged in her
studies, Imogen had, of late years, seen very little of Flavia;
but Flavia, in her hurried visits to New York, between her
excursions from studio to studio--her luncheons with this lady
who had to play at a matinee, and her dinners with that singer
who had an evening concert--had seen enough of her friend's
handsome daughter to conceive for her an inclination of such
violence and assurance as only Flavia could afford. The fact
that Imogen had shown rather marked capacity in certain esoteric
lines of scholarship, and had decided to specialize in a well-
sounding branch of philology at the Ecole des Chartes, had fairly
placed her in that category of "interesting people" whom Flavia
considered her natural affinities, and lawful prey.
When Imogen stepped upon the station platform she was immediately
appropriated by her hostess, whose commanding figure and assurance
of attire she had recognized from a distance. She was hurried into
a high tilbury and Flavia, taking the driver's cushion beside her,
gathered up the reins with an experienced hand.
"My dear girl," she remarked, as she turned the horses up the
street, "I was afraid the train might be late. M. Roux insisted
upon coming up by boat and did not arrive until after seven."
"To think of M. Roux's being in this part of the world at
all, and subject to the vicissitudes of river boats! Why in the
world did he come over?" queried Imogen with lively interest.
"He is the sort of man who must dissolve and become a shadow
outside of Paris."
"Oh, we have a houseful of the most interesting people,"
said Flavia, professionally. "We have actually managed to get
Ivan Schemetzkin. He was ill in California at the close of his
concert tour, you know, and he is recuperating with us, after his
wearing journey from the coast. Then there is Jules Martel, the
painter; Signor Donati, the tenor; Professor Schotte, who has dug
up Assyria, you know; Restzhoff, the Russian chemist; Alcee
Buisson, the philologist; Frank Wellington, the novelist; and
Will Maidenwood, the editor of
Woman. Then there is my
second cousin, Jemima Broadwood, who made such a hit in Pinero's
comedy last winter, and Frau Lichtenfeld.
Have you read
her?"
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