My Antonia

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`Are there any quail left now?' I asked. I reminded her how she
used to go hunting with me the last summer before we moved to town.
`You weren't a bad shot, Tony. Do you remember how you used to want
to run away and go for ducks with Charley Harling and me?'

`I know, but I'm afraid to look at a gun now.' She picked up
one of the drakes and ruffled his green capote with her fingers.
`Ever since I've had children, I don't like to kill anything.
It makes me kind of faint to wring an old goose's neck.
Ain't that strange, Jim?'

`I don't know. The young Queen of Italy said the same thing once,
to a friend of mine. She used to be a great huntswoman,
but now she feels as you do, and only shoots clay pigeons.'

`Then I'm sure she's a good mother,' Antonia said warmly.

She told me how she and her husband had come out to this new country
when the farm-land was cheap and could be had on easy payments.
The first ten years were a hard struggle. Her husband knew
very little about farming and often grew discouraged.
`We'd never have got through if I hadn't been so strong.
I've always had good health, thank God, and I was able to help him
in the fields until right up to the time before my babies came.
Our children were good about taking care of each other.
Martha, the one you saw when she was a baby, was such
a help to me, and she trained Anna to be just like her.
My Martha's married now, and has a baby of her own.
Think of that, Jim!

`No, I never got down-hearted. Anton's a good man, and I loved
my children and always believed they would turn out well.
I belong on a farm. I'm never lonesome here like I used to be in town.
You remember what sad spells I used to have, when I didn't know
what was the matter with me? I've never had them out here.
And I don't mind work a bit, if I don't have to put up with sadness.'
She leaned her chin on her hand and looked down through the orchard,
where the sunlight was growing more and more golden.

`You ought never to have gone to town, Tony,' I said, wondering at her.

She turned to me eagerly.

`Oh, I'm glad I went! I'd never have known anything about cooking
or housekeeping if I hadn't. I learned nice ways at the Harlings',
and I've been able to bring my children up so much better.
Don't you think they are pretty well-behaved for country children?
If it hadn't been for what Mrs. Harling taught me, I expect I'd have
brought them up like wild rabbits. No, I'm glad I had a chance to learn;
but I'm thankful none of my daughters will ever have to work out.
The trouble with me was, Jim, I never could believe harm of
anybody I loved.'

While we were talking, Antonia assured me that she
could keep me for the night. `We've plenty of room.
Two of the boys sleep in the haymow till cold weather comes,
but there's no need for it. Leo always begs to sleep there,
and Ambrosch goes along to look after him.'

I told her I would like to sleep in the haymow, with the boys.

`You can do just as you want to. The chest is full of clean blankets,
put away for winter. Now I must go, or my girls will be doing all the work,
and I want to cook your supper myself.'

As we went toward the house, we met Ambrosch and Anton,
starting off with their milking-pails to hunt the cows.
I joined them, and Leo accompanied us at some distance,
running ahead and starting up at us out of clumps of ironweed,
calling, `I'm a jack rabbit,' or, `I'm a big bull-snake.'

I walked between the two older boys--straight, well-made fellows,
with good heads and clear eyes. They talked about their school
and the new teacher, told me about the crops and the harvest,
and how many steers they would feed that winter. They were easy
and confidential with me, as if I were an old friend of the family--
and not too old. I felt like a boy in their company, and all manner
of forgotten interests revived in me. It seemed, after all,
so natural to be walking along a barbed-wire fence beside the sunset,
toward a red pond, and to see my shadow moving along at my right,
over the close-cropped grass.

`Has mother shown you the pictures you sent her from the old country?'
Ambrosch asked. `We've had them framed and they're hung up in the parlour.
She was so glad to get them. I don't believe I ever saw her so pleased
about anything.' There was a note of simple gratitude in his voice that made
me wish I had given more occasion for it.

I put my hand on his shoulder. `Your mother, you know,
was very much loved by all of us. She was a beautiful girl.'

`Oh, we know!' They both spoke together; seemed a little
surprised that I should think it necessary to mention this.
`Everybody liked her, didn't they? The Harlings and your grandmother,
and all the town people.'

`Sometimes,' I ventured, `it doesn't occur to boys that their mother
was ever young and pretty.'

`Oh, we know!' they said again, warmly. `She's not very old now,'
Ambrosch added. `Not much older than you.'

`Well,' I said, `if you weren't nice to her, I think I'd take a club and go
for the whole lot of you. I couldn't stand it if you boys were inconsiderate,
or thought of her as if she were just somebody who looked after you.
You see I was very much in love with your mother once, and I know there's
nobody like her.'

The boys laughed and seemed pleased and embarrassed.

`She never told us that,' said Anton. `But she's always talked
lots about you, and about what good times you used to have.
She has a picture of you that she cut out of the Chicago paper once,
and Leo says he recognized you when you drove up to the windmill.
You can't tell about Leo, though; sometimes he likes to be smart.'

We brought the cows home to the corner nearest the barn, and the boys
milked them while night came on. Everything was as it should be:
the strong smell of sunflowers and ironweed in the dew, the clear blue
and gold of the sky, the evening star, the purr of the milk into the pails,
the grunts and squeals of the pigs fighting over their supper.
I began to feel the loneliness of the farm-boy at evening, when the chores
seem everlastingly the same, and the world so far away.

What a tableful we were at supper: two long rows of restless
heads in the lamplight, and so many eyes fastened excitedly upon
Antonia as she sat at the head of the table, filling the plates
and starting the dishes on their way. The children were seated
according to a system; a little one next an older one, who was
to watch over his behaviour and to see that he got his food.
Anna and Yulka left their chairs from time to time to bring
fresh plates of kolaches and pitchers of milk.

After supper we went into the parlour, so that Yulka and Leo
could play for me. Antonia went first, carrying the lamp.
There were not nearly chairs enough to go round,
so the younger children sat down on the bare floor.
Little Lucie whispered to me that they were going to have
a parlour carpet if they got ninety cents for their wheat.
Leo, with a good deal of fussing, got out his violin.
It was old Mr. Shimerda's instrument, which Antonia had always kept,
and it was too big for him. But he played very well for a
self-taught boy. Poor Yulka's efforts were not so successful.
While they were playing, little Nina got up from her corner,
came out into the middle of the floor, and began to do
a pretty little dance on the boards with her bare feet.
No one paid the least attention to her, and when she was
through she stole back and sat down by her brother.

Antonia spoke to Leo in Bohemian. He frowned and wrinkled up his face.
He seemed to be trying to pout, but his attempt only brought out
dimples in unusual places. After twisting and screwing the keys,
he played some Bohemian airs, without the organ to hold him back,
and that went better. The boy was so restless that I had not had
a chance to look at his face before. My first impression was right;
he really was faun-like. He hadn't much head behind his ears,
and his tawny fleece grew down thick to the back of his neck.
His eyes were not frank and wide apart like those of the other boys,
but were deep-set, gold-green in colour, and seemed sensitive to the light.
His mother said he got hurt oftener than all the others put together.
He was always trying to ride the colts before they were broken,
teasing the turkey gobbler, seeing just how much red the bull would
stand for, or how sharp the new axe was.

After the concert was over, Antonia brought out a big boxful of photographs:
she and Anton in their wedding clothes, holding hands; her brother Ambrosch
and his very fat wife, who had a farm of her own, and who bossed her husband,
I was delighted to hear; the three Bohemian Marys and their large families.

`You wouldn't believe how steady those girls have turned out,'
Antonia remarked. `Mary Svoboda's the best butter-maker
in all this country, and a fine manager. Her children will
have a grand chance.'

As Antonia turned over the pictures the young Cuzaks stood behind her chair,
looking over her shoulder with interested faces. Nina and Jan,
after trying to see round the taller ones, quietly brought a chair,
climbed up on it, and stood close together, looking. The little boy forgot
his shyness and grinned delightedly when familiar faces came into view.
In the group about Antonia I was conscious of a kind of physical harmony.
They leaned this way and that, and were not afraid to touch each other.
They contemplated the photographs with pleased recognition; looked at
some admiringly, as if these characters in their mother's girlhood had been
remarkable people. The little children, who could not speak English,
murmured comments to each other in their rich old language.

Antonia held out a photograph of Lena that had come from San
Francisco last Christmas. `Does she still look like that?
She hasn't been home for six years now.' Yes, it was exactly
like Lena, I told her; a comely woman, a trifle too plump,
in a hat a trifle too large, but with the old lazy eyes,
and the old dimpled ingenuousness still lurking at the corners
of her mouth.

There was a picture of Frances Harling in a befrogged riding costume that I
remembered well. `Isn't she fine!' the girls murmured. They all assented.
One could see that Frances had come down as a heroine in the family legend.
Only Leo was unmoved.

`And there's Mr. Harling, in his grand fur coat. He was awfully rich,
wasn't he, mother?'

`He wasn't any Rockefeller,' put in Master Leo, in a very low tone,
which reminded me of the way in which Mrs. Shimerda had once said
that my grandfather `wasn't Jesus.' His habitual scepticism was
like a direct inheritance from that old woman.

`None of your smart speeches,' said Ambrosch severely.

Leo poked out a supple red tongue at him, but a moment later broke
into a giggle at a tintype of two men, uncomfortably seated,
with an awkward-looking boy in baggy clothes standing between them:
Jake and Otto and I! We had it taken, I remembered, when we went
to Black Hawk on the first Fourth of July I spent in Nebraska.
I was glad to see Jake's grin again, and Otto's ferocious moustaches.
The young Cuzaks knew all about them. `He made grandfather's coffin,
didn't he?' Anton asked.

`Wasn't they good fellows, Jim?' Antonia's eyes filled.
`To this day I'm ashamed because I quarrelled with Jake that way.
I was saucy and impertinent to him, Leo, like you are with
people sometimes, and I wish somebody had made me behave.'

`We aren't through with you, yet,' they warned me.
They produced a photograph taken just before I went away to college:
a tall youth in striped trousers and a straw hat, trying to look
easy and jaunty.

`Tell us, Mr. Burden,' said Charley, `about the rattler you killed
at the dog-town. How long was he? Sometimes mother says six feet
and sometimes she says five.'

These children seemed to be upon very much the same terms with
Antonia as the Harling children had been so many years before.
They seemed to feel the same pride in her, and to look to her
for stories and entertainment as we used to do.

It was eleven o'clock when I at last took my bag and some blankets
and started for the barn with the boys. Their mother came to the door
with us, and we tarried for a moment to look out at the white
slope of the corral and the two ponds asleep in the moonlight,
and the long sweep of the pasture under the star-sprinkled sky.

The boys told me to choose my own place in the haymow,
and I lay down before a big window, left open in warm weather,
that looked out into the stars. Ambrosch and Leo cuddled up in a
hay-cave, back under the eaves, and lay giggling and whispering.
They tickled each other and tossed and tumbled in the hay;
and then, all at once, as if they had been shot, they were still.
There was hardly a minute between giggles and bland slumber.

I lay awake for a long while, until the slow-moving moon passed
my window on its way up the heavens. I was thinking about
Antonia and her children; about Anna's solicitude for her,
Ambrosch's grave affection, Leo's jealous, animal little love.
That moment, when they all came tumbling out of the cave into
the light, was a sight any man might have come far to see.
Antonia had always been one to leave images in the mind
that did not fade--that grew stronger with time.
In my memory there was a succession of such pictures,
fixed there like the old woodcuts of one's first primer:
Antonia kicking her bare legs against the sides of my pony when we
came home in triumph with our snake; Antonia in her black shawl
and fur cap, as she stood by her father's grave in the snowstorm;
Antonia coming in with her work-team along the evening sky-line.
She lent herself to immemorial human attitudes which we recognize
by instinct as universal and true. I had not been mistaken.
She was a battered woman now, not a lovely girl; but she
still had that something which fires the imagination,
could still stop one's breath for a moment by a look or
gesture that somehow revealed the meaning in common things.
She had only to stand in the orchard, to put her hand on a
little crab tree and look up at the apples, to make you feel
the goodness of planting and tending and harvesting at last.
All the strong things of her heart came out in her body,
that had been so tireless in serving generous emotions.

It was no wonder that her sons stood tall and straight.
She was a rich mine of life, like the founders of early races.

II

WHEN I AWOKE IN THE morning, long bands of sunshine were
coming in at the window and reaching back under the eaves
where the two boys lay. Leo was wide awake and was tickling
his brother's leg with a dried cone-flower he had pulled
out of the hay. Ambrosch kicked at him and turned over.
I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. Leo lay on
his back, elevated one foot, and began exercising his toes.
He picked up dried flowers with his toes and brandished them
in the belt of sunlight. After he had amused himself thus
for some time, he rose on one elbow and began to look at me,
cautiously, then critically, blinking his eyes in the light.
His expression was droll; it dismissed me lightly.
`This old fellow is no different from other people.
He doesn't know my secret.' He seemed conscious of possessing
a keener power of enjoyment than other people; his quick recognitions
made him frantically impatient of deliberate judgments.
He always knew what he wanted without thinking.

After dressing in the hay, I washed my face in cold water at the windmill.
Breakfast was ready when I entered the kitchen, and Yulka was baking
griddle-cakes. The three older boys set off for the fields early.
Leo and Yulka were to drive to town to meet their father, who would
return from Wilber on the noon train.

`We'll only have a lunch at noon,' Antonia said,
and cook the geese for supper, when our papa will be here.
I wish my Martha could come down to see you. They have a Ford
car now, and she don't seem so far away from me as she used to.
But her husband's crazy about his farm and about having
everything just right, and they almost never get away
except on Sundays. He's a handsome boy, and he'll be rich
some day. Everything he takes hold of turns out well.
When they bring that baby in here, and unwrap him, he looks
like a little prince; Martha takes care of him so beautiful.
I'm reconciled to her being away from me now, but at first I
cried like I was putting her into her coffin.'

We were alone in the kitchen, except for Anna, who was pouring
cream into the churn. She looked up at me. `Yes, she did.
We were just ashamed of mother. She went round crying,
when Martha was so happy, and the rest of us were all glad.
Joe certainly was patient with you, mother.'

Antonia nodded and smiled at herself. `I know it was silly,
but I couldn't help it. I wanted her right here.
She'd never been away from me a night since she was born.
If Anton had made trouble about her when she was a baby, or wanted
me to leave her with my mother, I wouldn't have married him.
I couldn't. But he always loved her like she was his own.'

`I didn't even know Martha wasn't my full sister until after she
was engaged to Joe,' Anna told me.

Toward the middle of the afternoon, the wagon drove in, with the father and
the eldest son. I was smoking in the orchard, and as I went out to meet them,
Antonia came running down from the house and hugged the two men as if they
had been away for months.

`Papa,' interested me, from my first glimpse of him.
He was shorter than his older sons; a crumpled little man,
with run-over boot-heels, and he carried one shoulder
higher than the other. But he moved very quickly,
and there was an air of jaunty liveliness about him.
He had a strong, ruddy colour, thick black hair, a little grizzled,
a curly moustache, and red lips. His smile showed the strong
teeth of which his wife was so proud, and as he saw me
his lively, quizzical eyes told me that he knew all about me.
He looked like a humorous philosopher who had hitched up one
shoulder under the burdens of life, and gone on his way having
a good time when he could. He advanced to meet me and gave me
a hard hand, burned red on the back and heavily coated with hair.
He wore his Sunday clothes, very thick and hot for the weather,
an unstarched white shirt, and a blue necktie with big
white dots, like a little boy's, tied in a flowing bow.
Cuzak began at once to talk about his holiday--from politeness
he spoke in English.

`Mama, I wish you had see the lady dance on the slack-wire
in the street at night. They throw a bright light on her and
she float through the air something beautiful, like a bird!
They have a dancing bear, like in the old country, and two-three
merry-go-around, and people in balloons, and what you call
the big wheel, Rudolph?'

`A Ferris wheel,' Rudolph entered the conversation in a deep baritone voice.
He was six foot two, and had a chest like a young blacksmith.
`We went to the big dance in the hall behind the saloon last night,
mother, and I danced with all the girls, and so did father.
I never saw so many pretty girls. It was a Bohunk crowd, for sure.
We didn't hear a word of English on the street, except from the show people,
did we, papa?'

Cuzak nodded. `And very many send word to you, Antonia.
You will excuse'--turning to me--`if I tell her.' While we walked
toward the house he related incidents and delivered messages
in the tongue he spoke fluently, and I dropped a little behind,
curious to know what their relations had become--or remained.
The two seemed to be on terms of easy friendliness, touched
with humour. Clearly, she was the impulse, and he the corrective.
As they went up the hill he kept glancing at her sidewise,
to see whether she got his point, or how she received it.
I noticed later that he always looked at people sidewise,
as a work-horse does at its yokemate. Even when he sat opposite
me in the kitchen, talking, he would turn his head a little
toward the clock or the stove and look at me from the side,
but with frankness and good nature. This trick did not
suggest duplicity or secretiveness, but merely long habit,
as with the horse.

He had brought a tintype of himself and Rudolph for Antonia's collection,
and several paper bags of candy for the children. He looked a little
disappointed when his wife showed him a big box of candy I had got
in Denver--she hadn't let the children touch it the night before.
He put his candy away in the cupboard, `for when she rains,'
and glanced at the box, chuckling. `I guess you must have hear
about how my family ain't so small,' he said.

Cuzak sat down behind the stove and watched his womenfolk
and the little children with equal amusement. He thought
they were nice, and he thought they were funny, evidently.
He had been off dancing with the girls and forgetting that he was
an old fellow, and now his family rather surprised him; he seemed
to think it a joke that all these children should belong to him.
As the younger ones slipped up to him in his retreat, he kept
taking things out of his pockets; penny dolls, a wooden clown,
a balloon pig that was inflated by a whistle. He beckoned to
the little boy they called Jan, whispered to him, and presented
him with a paper snake, gently, so as not to startle him.
Looking over the boy's head he said to me, `This one is bashful.
He gets left.'

Cuzak had brought home with him a roll of illustrated Bohemian papers.
He opened them and began to tell his wife the news, much of which seemed to
relate to one person. I heard the name Vasakova, Vasakova, repeated several
times with lively interest, and presently I asked him whether he were talking
about the singer, Maria Vasak.

`You know? You have heard, maybe?' he asked incredulously.
When I assured him that I had heard her, he pointed out her
picture and told me that Vasak had broken her leg, climbing in
the Austrian Alps, and would not be able to fill her engagements.
He seemed delighted to find that I had heard her sing in
London and in Vienna; got out his pipe and lit it to enjoy
our talk the better. She came from his part of Prague.
His father used to mend her shoes for her when she was a student.
Cuzak questioned me about her looks, her popularity, her voice;
but he particularly wanted to know whether I had noticed her
tiny feet, and whether I thought she had saved much money.
She was extravagant, of course, but he hoped she wouldn't
squander everything, and have nothing left when she was old.
As a young man, working in Wienn, he had seen a good many artists
who were old and poor, making one glass of beer last all evening,
and `it was not very nice, that.'

When the boys came in from milking and feeding, the long table
was laid, and two brown geese, stuffed with apples, were put
down sizzling before Antonia. She began to carve, and Rudolph,
who sat next his mother, started the plates on their way.
When everybody was served, he looked across the table at me.

`Have you been to Black Hawk lately, Mr. Burden?
Then I wonder if you've heard about the Cutters?'

No, I had heard nothing at all about them.

`Then you must tell him, son, though it's a terrible thing
to talk about at supper. Now, all you children be quiet,
Rudolph is going to tell about the murder.'

`Hurrah! The murder!' the children murmured, looking pleased and interested.

Rudolph told his story in great detail, with occasional promptings
from his mother or father.

Wick Cutter and his wife had gone on living in the house that
Antonia and I knew so well, and in the way we knew so well.
They grew to be very old people. He shrivelled up,
Antonia said, until he looked like a little old yellow monkey,
for his beard and his fringe of hair never changed colour.
Mrs. Cutter remained flushed and wild-eyed as we had known her,
but as the years passed she became afflicted with a shaking palsy
which made her nervous nod continuous instead of occasional.
Her hands were so uncertain that she could no longer disfigure china,
poor woman! As the couple grew older, they quarrelled more and
more often about the ultimate disposition of their `property.'
A new law was passed in the state, securing the surviving
wife a third of her husband's estate under all conditions.
Cutter was tormented by the fear that Mrs. Cutter would
live longer than he, and that eventually her `people,'
whom he had always hated so violently, would inherit.
Their quarrels on this subject passed the boundary of the
close-growing cedars, and were heard in the street by whoever
wished to loiter and listen.

One morning, two years ago, Cutter went into the hardware store and
bought a pistol, saying he was going to shoot a dog, and adding that
he `thought he would take a shot at an old cat while he was about it.'
(Here the children interrupted Rudolph's narrative by smothered giggles.)

Cutter went out behind the hardware store, put up a target,
practised for an hour or so, and then went home. At six
o'clock that evening, when several men were passing the Cutter
house on their way home to supper, they heard a pistol shot.
They paused and were looking doubtfully at one another,
when another shot came crashing through an upstairs window.
They ran into the house and found Wick Cutter lying on
a sofa in his upstairs bedroom, with his throat torn open,
bleeding on a roll of sheets he had placed beside his head.

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