My Antonia

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`That very night, it happened. She got her cattle home, turned them into
the corral, and went into the house, into her room behind the kitchen,
and shut the door. There, without calling to anybody, without a groan,
she lay down on the bed and bore her child.

`I was lifting supper when old Mrs. Shimerda came running
down the basement 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 to a hot supper after a long day in the fields.
Without a word he rose and went down to the barn and hooked up
his team. He got us over there as quick as it was humanly possible.
I went right in, and began to do for Antonia; 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 overlooked what 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.

`"Mrs. Steavens," Antonia said from the bed, "if you'll look
in the top tray of my trunk, you'll see some fine soap."
That was the first word she spoke.

`After I'd dressed the baby, I took it out to show it to Ambrosch.
He was muttering behind the stove and wouldn'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't forget that. I stand here a witness that this baby has come into
the world sound and strong, and I intend to keep an eye on what befalls it."
I pride myself I cowed him.

`Well I expect you're not much interested in babies, but Antonia's
got on fine. She loved it from the first as dearly as if she'd
had a ring on her finger, 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.
I wish she could marry and raise a family, but I don't know
as there's much chance 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 the ripe fields. I lay awake and watched the moonlight shining
over the barn and the stacks and the pond, and the windmill making
its old dark shadow against the blue sky.

IV

THE NEXT AFTERNOON I walked over to the Shimerdas'. Yulka showed me the baby
and told me that Antonia was shocking wheat on the southwest quarter.
I went down across the fields, and Tony saw me from a long way off. She stood
still by her shocks, leaning on her pitchfork, watching me as I came.
We met like the people in the old song, in silence, if not in tears.
Her warm hand clasped mine.

`I thought you'd come, Jim. I heard you were at Mrs. Steavens's last night.
I've been looking for you all day.'

She was thinner than I had ever seen her, and looked as Mrs. Steavens said,
`worked down,' but there was a new kind of strength in the gravity of
her face, and her colour still gave her that look of deep-seated health
and ardour. Still? Why, it flashed across me that though so much had
happened in her life and in mine, she was barely twenty-four years old.

Antonia stuck her fork in the ground, and instinctively we walked toward
that unploughed patch at the crossing of the roads as the fittest
place to talk to each other. We sat down outside the sagging wire
fence that shut Mr. Shimerda's plot off from the rest of the world.
The tall red grass had never been cut there. It had died down in winter
and come up again in the spring until it was as thick and shrubby
as some tropical garden-grass. I found myself telling her everything:
why I had decided to study law and to go into the law office of one
of my mother's relatives in New York City; about Gaston Cleric's death
from pneumonia last winter, and the difference it had made in my life.
She wanted to know about my friends, and my way of living,
and my dearest hopes.

`Of course it means you are going away from us for good,'
she said with a sigh. `But that don't mean I'll lose you.
Look at my papa here; he's been dead all these years,
and yet he is more real to me than almost anybody else.
He never goes out of my life. I talk to him and consult
him all the time. The older I grow, the better I know him
and the more I understand him.'

She asked me whether I had learned to like big cities.
`I'd always be miserable in a city. I'd die of lonesomeness.
I like to be where I know every stack and tree, and where
all the ground is friendly. I want to live and die here.
Father Kelly says everybody's put into this world for something,
and I know what I've got to do. I'm going to see that
my little girl has a better chance than ever I had.
I'm going to take care of that girl, Jim.'

I told her I knew she would. `Do you know, Antonia, since I've
been away, I think of you more often than of anyone else in this part
of the world. I'd have liked to have you for a sweetheart, or a wife,
or my mother or my sister--anything that a woman can be to a man.
The idea of you is a part of my mind; you influence my likes
and dislikes, all my tastes, hundreds of times when I don't realize it.
You really are a part of me.'

She turned her bright, believing eyes to me, and the tears
came up in them slowly, `How can it be like that, when you
know so many people, and when I've disappointed you so?
Ain't it wonderful, Jim, how much people can mean to each other?
I'm so glad we had each other when we were little.
I can't wait till my little girl's old enough to tell her
about all the things we used to do. You'll always remember
me when you think about old times, won't you? And I guess
everybody thinks about old times, even the happiest people.'

As we walked homeward across the fields, the sun dropped
and lay like a great golden globe in the low west.
While it hung there, the moon rose in the east, as big
as a cart-wheel, pale silver and streaked with rose colour,
thin as a bubble or a ghost-moon. For five, perhaps ten minutes,
the two luminaries confronted each other across the level land,
resting on opposite edges of the world.

In that singular light every little tree and shock of wheat, every sunflower
stalk and clump of snow-on-the-mountain, drew itself up high and pointed;
the very clods and furrows in the fields seemed to stand up sharply.
I felt the old pull of the earth, the solemn magic that comes out
of those fields at nightfall. I wished I could be a little boy again,
and that my way could end there.

We reached the edge of the field, where our ways parted.
I took her hands and held them against my breast, feeling once
more how strong and warm and good they were, those brown hands,
and remembering how many kind things they had done for me.
I held them now a long while, over my heart. About us it
was growing darker and darker, and I had to look hard to see
her face, which I meant always to carry with me; the closest,
realest face, under all the shadows of women's faces,
at the very bottom of my memory.

`I'll come back,' I said earnestly, through the soft, intrusive darkness.

`Perhaps you will'--I felt rather than saw her smile.
`But even if you don't, you're here, like my father.
So I won't be lonesome.'

As I went back alone over that familiar road, I could almost believe
that a boy and girl ran along beside me, as our shadows used to do,
laughing and whispering to each other in the grass.

BOOK V

Cuzak's Boys

I

I TOLD ANTONIA I would come back, but life intervened, and it was twenty
years before I kept my promise. I heard of her from time to time;
that she married, very soon after I last saw her, a young Bohemian,
a cousin of Anton Jelinek; that they were poor, and had a large family.
Once when I was abroad I went into Bohemia, and from Prague I sent
Antonia some photographs of her native village. Months afterward came
a letter from her, telling me the names and ages of her many children,
but little else; signed, `Your old friend, Antonia Cuzak.'
When I met Tiny Soderball in Salt Lake, she told me that Antonia had not
`done very well'; that her husband was not a man of much force, and she
had had a hard life. Perhaps it was cowardice that kept me away so long.
My business took me West several times every year, and it was always
in the back of my mind that I would stop in Nebraska some day and go
to see Antonia. But I kept putting it off until the next trip.
I did not want to find her aged and broken; I really dreaded it.
In the course of twenty crowded years one parts with many illusions.
I did not wish to lose the early ones. Some memories are realities,
and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again.

I owe it to Lena Lingard that I went to see Antonia at last.
I was in San Francisco two summers ago when both Lena and Tiny
Soderball were in town. Tiny lives in a house of her own,
and Lena's shop is in an apartment house just around the corner.
It interested me, after so many years, to see the two women together.
Tiny audits Lena's accounts occasionally, and invests her money for her;
and Lena, apparently, takes care that Tiny doesn't grow too miserly.
`If there's anything I can't stand,' she said to me in Tiny's presence,
`it's a shabby rich woman.' Tiny smiled grimly and assured me that Lena
would never be either shabby or rich. `And I don't want to be,'
the other agreed complacently.

Lena gave me a cheerful account of Antonia and urged me to make
her a visit.

`You really ought to go, Jim. It would be such a satisfaction to her.
Never mind what Tiny says. There's nothing the matter with Cuzak.
You'd like him. He isn't a hustler, but a rough man would never have
suited Tony. Tony has nice children--ten or eleven of them by this time,
I guess. I shouldn't care for a family of that size myself, but somehow
it's just right for Tony. She'd love to show them to you.'

On my way East I broke my journey at Hastings, in Nebraska,
and set off with an open buggy and a fairly good livery team
to find the Cuzak farm. At a little past midday, I knew I must
be nearing my destination. Set back on a swell of land at my right,
I saw a wide farm-house, with a red barn and an ash grove,
and cattle-yards in front that sloped down to the highroad.
I drew up my horses and was wondering whether I should drive in here,
when I heard low voices. Ahead of me, in a plum thicket beside
the road, I saw two boys bending over a dead dog. The little one,
not more than four or five, was on his knees, his hands folded,
and his close-clipped, bare head drooping forward in deep dejection.
The other stood beside him, a hand on his shoulder, and was
comforting him in a language I had not heard for a long while.
When I stopped my horses opposite them, the older boy took his
brother by the hand and came toward me. He, too, looked grave.
This was evidently a sad afternoon for them.

`Are you Mrs. Cuzak's boys?' I asked.

The younger one did not look up; he was submerged in his own feelings,
but his brother met me with intelligent grey eyes. `Yes, sir.'

`Does she live up there on the hill? I am going to see her.
Get in and ride up with me.'

He glanced at his reluctant little brother. `I guess we'd better walk.
But we'll open the gate for you.'

I drove along the side-road and they followed slowly behind.
When I pulled up at the windmill, another boy, barefooted and
curly-headed, ran out of the barn to tie my team for me.
He was a handsome one, this chap, fair-skinned and freckled,
with red cheeks and a ruddy pelt as thick as a lamb's wool,
growing down on his neck in little tufts. He tied my team
with two flourishes of his hands, and nodded when I asked him
if his mother was at home. As he glanced at me, his face
dimpled with a seizure of irrelevant merriment, and he shot up
the windmill tower with a lightness that struck me as disdainful.
I knew he was peering down at me as I walked toward the house.

Ducks and geese ran quacking across my path. White cats were sunning
themselves among yellow pumpkins on the porch steps. I looked
through the wire screen into a big, light kitchen with a white floor.
I saw a long table, rows of wooden chairs against the wall,
and a shining range in one corner. Two girls were washing
dishes at the sink, laughing and chattering, and a little one,
in a short pinafore, sat on a stool playing with a rag baby.
When I asked for their mother, one of the girls dropped her towel,
ran across the floor with noiseless bare feet, and disappeared.
The older one, who wore shoes and stockings, came to the door to admit me.
She was a buxom girl with dark hair and eyes, calm and self-possessed.

`Won't you come in? Mother will be here in a minute.'

Before I could sit down in the chair she offered me, the miracle
happened; one of those quiet moments that clutch the heart,
and take more courage than the noisy, excited passages in life.
Antonia came in and stood before me; a stalwart, brown woman,
flat-chested, her curly brown hair a little grizzled.
It was a shock, of course. It always is, to meet people
after long years, especially if they have lived as much and
as hard as this woman had. We stood looking at each other.
The eyes that peered anxiously at me were--simply Antonia's eyes.
I had seen no others like them since I looked into them last,
though I had looked at so many thousands of human faces.
As I confronted her, the changes grew less apparent to me,
her identity stronger. She was there, in the full vigour
of her personality, battered but not diminished, looking at me,
speaking to me in the husky, breathy voice I remembered so well.

`My husband's not at home, sir. Can I do anything?'

`Don't you remember me, Antonia? Have I changed so much?'

She frowned into the slanting sunlight that made her brown
hair look redder than it was. Suddenly her eyes widened,
her whole face seemed to grow broader. She caught her breath
and put out two hard-worked hands.

`Why, it's Jim! Anna, Yulka, it's Jim Burden!'
She had no sooner caught my hands than she looked alarmed.
`What's happened? Is anybody dead?'

I patted her arm.

`No. I didn't come to a funeral this time. I got off the train at Hastings
and drove down to see you and your family.'

She dropped my hand and began rushing about. `Anton, Yulka,
Nina, where are you all? Run, Anna, and hunt for the boys.
They're off looking for that dog, somewhere. And call Leo.
Where is that Leo!' She pulled them out of corners and came
bringing them like a mother cat bringing in her kittens.
`You don't have to go right off, Jim? My oldest boy's not here.
He's gone with papa to the street fair at Wilber. I won't let
you go! You've got to stay and see Rudolph and our papa.'
She looked at me imploringly, panting with excitement.

While I reassured her and told her there would be plenty of time,
the barefooted boys from outside were slipping into the kitchen
and gathering about her.

`Now, tell me their names, and how old they are.'

As she told them off in turn, she made several mistakes about ages,
and they roared with laughter. When she came to my light-footed
friend of the windmill, she said, `This is Leo, and he's old enough
to be better than he is.'

He ran up to her and butted her playfully with his curly head,
like a little ram, but his voice was quite desperate.
`You've forgot! You always forget mine. It's mean!
Please tell him, mother!' He clenched his fists in vexation
and looked up at her impetuously.

She wound her forefinger in his yellow fleece and pulled it, watching him.
`Well, how old are you?'

`I'm twelve,' he panted, looking not at me but at her; `I'm twelve years old,
and I was born on Easter Day!'

She nodded to me. `It's true. He was an Easter baby.'

The children all looked at me, as if they expected me
to exhibit astonishment or delight at this information.
Clearly, they were proud of each other, and of being so many.
When they had all been introduced, Anna, the eldest daughter,
who had met me at the door, scattered them gently, and came
bringing a white apron which she tied round her mother's waist.

`Now, mother, sit down and talk to Mr. Burden. We'll finish
the dishes quietly and not disturb you.'

Antonia looked about, quite distracted. `Yes, child, but why don't we take
him into the parlour, now that we've got a nice parlour for company?'

The daughter laughed indulgently, and took my hat from me.
`Well, you're here, now, mother, and if you talk here, Yulka and I
can listen, too. You can show him the parlour after while.'
She smiled at me, and went back to the dishes, with her sister.
The little girl with the rag doll found a place on the bottom step
of an enclosed back stairway, and sat with her toes curled up,
looking out at us expectantly.

`She's Nina, after Nina Harling,' Antonia explained.
`Ain't her eyes like Nina's? I declare, Jim, I loved you children
almost as much as I love my own. These children know all about
you and Charley and Sally, like as if they'd grown up with you.
I can't think of what I want to say, you've got me so stirred up.
And then, I've forgot my English so. I don't often talk it
any more. I tell the children I used to speak real well.'
She said they always spoke Bohemian at home. The little ones
could not speak English at all--didn't learn it until they
went to school.

`I can't believe it's you, sitting here, in my own kitchen.
You wouldn't have known me, would you, Jim? You've kept
so young, yourself. But it's easier for a man. I can't see
how my Anton looks any older than the day I married him.
His teeth have kept so nice. I haven't got many left.
But I feel just as young as I used to, and I can do as much work.
Oh, we don't have to work so hard now! We've got plenty
to help us, papa and me. And how many have you got, Jim?'

When I told her I had no children, she seemed embarrassed.
`Oh, ain't that too bad! Maybe you could take one of my bad ones, now?
That Leo; he's the worst of all.' She leaned toward me with a smile.
`And I love him the best,' she whispered.

`Mother!' the two girls murmured reproachfully from the dishes.

Antonia threw up her head and laughed. `I can't help it.
You know I do. Maybe it's because he came on Easter Day, I don't know.
And he's never out of mischief one minute!'

I was thinking, as I watched her, how little it mattered--
about her teeth, for instance. I know so many women who have kept
all the things that she had lost, but whose inner glow has faded.
Whatever else was gone, Antonia had not lost the fire of life.
Her skin, so brown and hardened, had not that look of flabbiness,
as if the sap beneath it had been secretly drawn away.

While we were talking, the little boy whom they called Jan came in and
sat down on the step beside Nina, under the hood of the stairway.
He wore a funny long gingham apron, like a smock, over his trousers,
and his hair was clipped so short that his head looked white and naked.
He watched us out of his big, sorrowful grey eyes.

`He wants to tell you about the dog, mother. They found it dead,'
Anna said, as she passed us on her way to the cupboard.

Antonia beckoned the boy to her. He stood by her chair,
leaning his elbows on her knees and twisting her apron strings in his
slender fingers, while he told her his story softly in Bohemian,
and the tears brimmed over and hung on his long lashes.
His mother listened, spoke soothingly to him and in a whisper
promised him something that made him give her a quick, teary smile.
He slipped away and whispered his secret to Nina, sitting close
to her and talking behind his hand.

When Anna finished her work and had washed her hands,
she came and stood behind her mother's chair. `Why don't we
show Mr. Burden our new fruit cave?' she asked.

We started off across the yard with the children at our heels.
The boys were standing by the windmill, talking about the dog;
some of them ran ahead to open the cellar door. When we descended,
they all came down after us, and seemed quite as proud of the cave
as the girls were.

Ambrosch, the thoughtful-looking one who had directed me down by the plum
bushes, called my attention to the stout brick walls and the cement floor.
`Yes, it is a good way from the house,' he admitted. `But, you see, in winter
there are nearly always some of us around to come out and get things.'

Anna and Yulka showed me three small barrels; one full of dill pickles,
one full of chopped pickles, and one full of pickled watermelon rinds.

`You wouldn't believe, Jim, what it takes to feed them all!'
their mother exclaimed. `You ought to see the bread we bake on
Wednesdays and Saturdays! It's no wonder their poor papa can't
get rich, he has to buy so much sugar for us to preserve with.
We have our own wheat ground for flour--but then there's that much
less to sell.'

Nina and Jan, and a little girl named Lucie, kept shyly pointing out to me
the shelves of glass jars. They said nothing, but, glancing at me,
traced on the glass with their finger-tips the outline of the cherries
and strawberries and crabapples within, trying by a blissful expression
of countenance to give me some idea of their deliciousness.

`Show him the spiced plums, mother. Americans don't have those,'
said one of the older boys. `Mother uses them to make kolaches,' he added.

Leo, in a low voice, tossed off some scornful remark in Bohemian.

I turned to him. `You think I don't know what kolaches are, eh?
You're mistaken, young man. I've eaten your mother's kolaches long
before that Easter Day when you were born.'

`Always too fresh, Leo,' Ambrosch remarked with a shrug.

Leo dived behind his mother and grinned out at me.

We turned to leave the cave; Antonia and I went up the stairs first,
and the children waited. We were standing outside talking,
when they all came running up the steps together, big and little,
tow heads and gold heads and brown, and flashing little naked legs;
a veritable explosion of life out of the dark cave into the sunlight.
It made me dizzy for a moment.

The boys escorted us to the front of the house, which I hadn't
yet seen; in farm-houses, somehow, life comes and goes by the
back door. The roof was so steep that the eaves were not much
above the forest of tall hollyhocks, now brown and in seed.
Through July, Antonia said, the house was buried in them;
the Bohemians, I remembered, always planted hollyhocks.
The front yard was enclosed by a thorny locust hedge, and at
the gate grew two silvery, mothlike trees of the mimosa family.
From here one looked down over the cattle-yards, with their
two long ponds, and over a wide stretch of stubble which they
told me was a ryefield in summer.

At some distance behind the house were an ash grove and two orchards:
a cherry orchard, with gooseberry and currant bushes between the rows,
and an apple orchard, sheltered by a high hedge from the hot winds.
The older children turned back when we reached the hedge, but Jan and Nina
and Lucie crept through it by a hole known only to themselves and hid
under the low-branching mulberry bushes.

As we walked through the apple orchard, grown up in tall bluegrass,
Antonia kept stopping to tell me about one tree and another.
`I love them as if they were people,' she said, rubbing her hand
over the bark. `There wasn't a tree here when we first came.
We planted every one, and used to carry water for them, too--after we'd
been working in the fields all day. Anton, he was a city man,
and he used to get discouraged. But I couldn't feel so tired
that I wouldn't fret about these trees when there was a dry time.
They were on my mind like children. Many a night after he was asleep
I've got up and come out and carried water to the poor things.
And now, you see, we have the good of them. My man worked in
the orange groves in Florida, and he knows all about grafting.
There ain't one of our neighbours has an orchard that bears like ours.'

In the middle of the orchard we came upon a grape arbour,
with seats built along the sides and a warped plank table.
The three children were waiting for us there. They looked up
at me bashfully and made some request of their mother.

`They want me to tell you how the teacher has the school picnic
here every year. These don't go to school yet, so they think it's
all like the picnic.'

After I had admired the arbour sufficiently, the youngsters ran away
to an open place where there was a rough jungle of French pinks,
and squatted down among them, crawling about and measuring with a string.

`Jan wants to bury his dog there,' Antonia explained.
`I had to tell him he could. He's kind of like Nina Harling;
you remember how hard she used to take little things?
He has funny notions, like her.'

We sat down and watched them. Antonia leaned her elbows on the table.
There was the deepest peace in that orchard. It was surrounded by a
triple enclosure; the wire fence, then the hedge of thorny locusts,
then the mulberry hedge which kept out the hot winds of summer
and held fast to the protecting snows of winter. The hedges were
so tall that we could see nothing but the blue sky above them,
neither the barn roof nor the windmill. The afternoon sun poured
down on us through the drying grape leaves. The orchard seemed full
of sun, like a cup, and we could smell the ripe apples on the trees.
The crabs hung on the branches as thick as beads on a string,
purple-red, with a thin silvery glaze over them. Some hens and ducks
had crept through the hedge and were pecking at the fallen apples.
The drakes were handsome fellows, with pinkish grey bodies,
their heads and necks covered with iridescent green feathers
which grew close and full, changing to blue like a peacock's neck.
Antonia said they always reminded her of soldiers--some uniform
she had seen in the old country, when she was a child.

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