1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
1001
1002
1003
1004
1005
1006
1007
1008
1009
1010
1011
1012
1013
1014
1015
1016
1017
1018
1019
1020
1021
1022
1023
1024
1025
1026
1027
1028
1029
1030
1031
1032
1033
1034
1035
1036
1037
1038
1039
1040
1041
1042
1043
1044
1045
1046
1047
1048
1049
1050
1051
1052
1053
1054
1055
1056
1057
1058
1059
1060
1061
1062
1063
1064
1065
1066
1067
1068
1069
1070
1071
1072
1073
1074
1075
1076
1077
1078
1079
1080
1081
1082
1083
1084
1085
1086
1087
1088
1089
1090
1091
1092
1093
1094
1095
1096
1097
1098
1099
1100
1101
1102
1103
1104
1105
1106
1107
1108
1109
1110
1111
1112
1113
1114
1115
1116
1117
1118
1119
1120
1121
1122
1123
1124
1125
1126
1127
1128
1129
1130
1131
1132
1133
1134
1135
1136
1137
1138
1139
1140
1141
1142
1143
1144
1145
1146
1147
1148
1149
1150
1151
1152
1153
1154
1155
1156
1157
1158
1159
1160
1161
1162
1163
1164
1165
1166
1167
1168
1169
1170
1171
1172
1173
1174
1175
1176
1177
1178
1179
1180
1181
1182
1183
1184
1185
1186
1187
1188
1189
1190
1191
1192
1193
1194
1195
1196
1197
1198
1199
1200
1201
1202
1203
1204
1205
1206
1207
1208
1209
1210
1211
1212
1213
1214
1215
1216
1217
1218
1219
1220
1221
1222
1223
1224
1225
1226
1227
1228
1229
1230
1231
1232
1233
1234
1235
1236
1237
1238
1239
1240
1241
1242
1243
1244
1245
1246
1247
1248
1249
1250
1251
1252
1253
1254
1255
1256
1257
1258
1259
1260
1261
1262
1263
1264
1265
1266
1267
1268
1269
1270
1271
1272
1273
1274
1275
1276
1277
1278
1279
1280
1281
1282
1283
1284
1285
1286
1287
1288
1289
1290
1291
1292
1293
1294
1295
1296
1297
1298
1299
1300
1301
1302
1303
1304
1305
1306
1307
1308
1309
1310
1311
1312
1313
1314
1315
1316
1317
1318
1319
1320
1321
1322
1323
1324
1325
1326
1327
1328
1329
1330
1331
1332
1333
1334
1335
1336
1337
1338
1339
1340
1341
1342
1343
1344
1345
1346
1347
1348
1349
1350
1351
1352
1353
1354
1355
1356
1357
1358
1359
1360
1361
1362
1363
1364
1365
1366
1367
1368
1369
1370
1371
1372
1373
1374
1375
1376
1377
1378
1379
1380
1381
1382
1383
1384
1385
1386
1387
1388
1389
1390
1391
1392
1393
1394
1395
1396
1397
1398
1399
1400
1401
1402
1403
1404
1405
1406
1407
1408
1409
1410
1411
1412
1413
1414
1415
1416
1417
1418
1419
1420
1421
1422
1423
1424
1425
1426
1427
1428
1429
1430
1431
1432
1433
1434
1435
1436
1437
1438
1439
1440
1441
1442
1443
1444
1445
1446
1447
1448
1449
1450
1451
1452
1453
1454
1455
1456
1457
1458
1459
1460
1461
1462
1463
1464
1465
1466
1467
1468
1469
1470
1471
1472
1473
1474
1475
1476
1477
1478
1479
1480
1481
1482
1483
1484
1485
1486
1487
1488
1489
1490
1491
1492
1493
1494
1495
1496
1497
1498
1499
1500
1501
1502
1503
1504
1505
1506
1507
1508
1509
1510
1511
1512
1513
1514
1515
1516
1517
1518
1519
1520
1521
1522
1523
1524
1525
1526
1527
1528
1529
1530
1531
1532
1533
1534
1535
1536
1537
1538
1539
1540
1541
1542
1543
1544
1545
1546
1547
1548
1549
1550
1551
1552
1553
1554
1555
1556
1557
1558
1559
1560
1561
1562
1563
1564
1565
1566
1567
1568
1569
1570
1571
1572
1573
1574
1575
1576
1577
1578
1579
1580
1581
1582
1583
1584
1585
1586
1587
1588
1589
1590
1591
1592
1593
1594
1595
1596
1597
1598
1599
1600
1601
1602
1603
1604
1605
1606
1607
1608
1609
1610
1611
1612
1613
1614
1615
1616
1617
1618
1619
1620
1621
1622
1623
1624
1625
1626
1627
1628
1629
1630
1631
1632
1633
1634
1635
1636
1637
1638
1639
1640
1641
1642
1643
1644
1645
1646
1647
1648
1649
1650
1651
1652
1653
1654
1655
1656
1657
1658
1659
1660
1661
1662
1663
1664
1665
1666
1667
1668
1669
1670
1671
1672
1673
1674
1675
1676
1677
1678
1679
1680
1681
1682
1683
1684
1685
1686
1687
1688
1689
1690
1691
1692
1693
1694
1695
1696
1697
1698
1699
1700
1701
1702
1703
1704
1705
1706
1707
1708
1709
1710
1711
1712
1713
1714
1715
1716
1717
1718
1719
1720
1721
1722
1723
1724
1725
1726
1727
1728
1729
1730
1731
1732
1733
1734
1735
1736
1737
1738
1739
1740
1741
1742
1743
1744
1745
1746
1747
1748
1749
1750
1751
1752
1753
1754
1755
1756
1757
1758
1759
1760
1761
1762
1763
1764
1765
1766
1767
1768
1769
1770
1771
1772
1773
1774
1775
1776
1777
1778
1779
1780
1781
1782
1783
1784
1785
1786
1787
1788
1789
1790
1791
1792
1793
1794
1795
1796
1797
1798
1799
1800
1801
1802
1803
1804
1805
1806
1807
1808
1809
1810
1811
1812
1813
1814
1815
1816
1817
1818
1819
1820
1821
1822
1823
1824
1825
1826
1827
1828
1829
1830
1831
1832
1833
1834
1835
1836
1837
1838
1839
1840
1841
1842
1843
1844
1845
1846
1847
1848
1849
1850
1851
1852
1853
1854
1855
1856
1857
1858
1859
1860
1861
1862
1863
1864
1865
1866
1867
1868
1869
1870
1871
1872
1873
1874
1875
1876
1877
1878
1879
1880
1881
1882
1883
1884
1885
1886
1887
1888
1889
1890
1891
1892
1893
1894
1895
1896
1897
1898
1899
1900
1901
1902
1903
1904
1905
1906
1907
1908
1909
1910
1911
1912
1913
1914
1915
1916
1917
1918
1919
1920
1921
1922
1923
1924
1925
1926
1927
1928
1929
1930
1931
1932
1933
1934
1935
1936
1937
1938
1939
1940
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
1947
1948
1949
1950
1951
1952
1953
1954
1955
1956
1957
1958
1959
1960
1961
1962
1963
1964
1965
1966
1967
1968
1969
1970
1971
1972
1973
1974
1975
1976
1977
1978
1979
1980
1981
1982
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
1996
1997
1998
1999
2000
2001
2002
2003
2004
2005
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
2023
2024
2025
2026
2027
2028
2029
2030
2031
2032
2033
2034
2035
2036
2037
2038
2039
2040
2041
2042
2043
2044
2045
2046
2047
2048
2049
2050
2051
2052
2053
2054
2055
2056
2057
2058
2059
2060
2061
2062
2063
2064
2065
2066
2067
2068
2069
2070
2071
2072
2073
2074
2075
2076
2077
2078
2079
2080
2081
2082
2083
2084
2085
2086
2087
2088
2089
2090
2091
2092
2093
2094
2095
2096
2097
2098
2099
2100
2101
2102
2103
2104
2105
2106
2107
2108
2109
2110
2111
2112
2113
2114
2115
2116
2117
2118
2119
2120
2121
2122
2123
2124
2125
2126
2127
2128
2129
2130
2131
2132
2133
2134
2135
2136
2137
2138
2139
2140
2141
2142
2143
2144
2145
2146
2147
2148
2149
2150
2151
2152
2153
2154
2155
2156
2157
2158
2159
2160
2161
2162
2163
2164
2165
2166
2167
2168
2169
2170
2171
2172
2173
2174
2175
2176
2177
2178
2179
2180
2181
2182
2183
2184
2185
2186
2187
2188
2189
2190
2191
2192
2193
2194
2195
2196
2197
2198
2199
2200
2201
2202
2203
2204
2205
2206
2207
2208
2209
2210
2211
2212
2213
2214
2215
2216
2217
2218
2219
2220
2221
2222
2223
2224
2225
2226
2227
2228
2229
2230
2231
2232
2233
2234
2235
2236
2237
2238
2239
2240
2241
2242
2243
2244
2245
2246
2247
2248
2249
2250
2251
2252
2253
2254
2255
2256
2257
2258
2259
2260
2261
2262
2263
2264
2265
2266
2267
2268
2269
2270
2271
2272
2273
2274
2275
2276
2277
2278
2279
2280
2281
2282
2283
2284
2285
2286
2287
2288
2289
2290
2291
2292
2293
2294
2295
2296
2297
2298
2299
2300
2301
2302
2303
2304
2305
2306
2307
2308
2309
2310
2311
2312
2313
2314
2315
2316
2317
2318
2319
2320
2321
2322
2323
2324
2325
2326
2327
2328
2329
2330
2331
2332
2333
2334
2335
2336
2337
2338
2339
2340
2341
2342
2343
2344
2345
2346
2347
2348
2349
2350
2351
2352
2353
2354
2355
2356
2357
2358
2359
2360
2361
2362
2363
2364
2365
2366
2367
2368
2369
2370
2371
2372
2373
2374
2375
2376
2377
2378
2379
2380
2381
2382
2383
2384
2385
2386
2387
2388
2389
2390
2391
2392
2393
2394
2395
2396
2397
2398
2399
2400
2401
2402
2403
2404
2405
2406
2407
2408
2409
2410
2411
2412
2413
2414
2415
2416
2417
2418
2419
2420
2421
2422
2423
2424
2425
2426
2427
2428
2429
2430
2431
2432
2433
2434
2435
2436
2437
2438
2439
2440
2441
2442
2443
2444
2445
2446
2447
2448
2449
2450
2451
2452
2453
2454
2455
2456
2457
2458
2459
2460
2461
2462
2463
2464
2465
2466
2467
2468
2469
2470
2471
2472
2473
2474
2475
2476
2477
2478
2479
2480
2481
2482
2483
2484
2485
2486
2487
2488
2489
2490
2491
2492
2493
2494
2495
2496
2497
2498
2499
2500
2501
2502
2503
2504
2505
2506
2507
2508
2509
2510
2511
2512
2513
2514
2515
2516
2517
2518
2519
2520
2521
2522
2523
2524
2525
2526
2527
2528
2529
2530
2531
2532
2533
2534
2535
2536
2537
2538
2539
2540
2541
2542
2543
2544
2545
2546
2547
2548
2549
2550
2551
2552
2553
2554
2555
2556
2557
2558
2559
2560
2561
2562
2563
2564
2565
2566
2567
2568
2569
2570
2571
2572
2573
2574
2575
2576
2577
2578
2579
2580
2581
2582
2583
2584
2585
2586
2587
2588
2589
2590
2591
2592
2593
2594
2595
2596
2597
2598
2599
2600
2601
2602
2603
2604
2605
2606
2607
2608
2609
2610
2611
2612
2613
2614
2615
2616
2617
2618
2619
2620
2621
2622
2623
2624
2625
2626
2627
2628
2629
2630
2631
2632
2633
2634
2635
2636
2637
2638
2639
2640
2641
2642
2643
2644
2645
2646
2647
2648
2649
2650
2651
2652
2653
2654
2655
2656
2657
2658
2659
2660
2661
2662
2663
2664
2665
2666
2667
2668
2669
2670
2671
2672
2673
2674
2675
2676
2677
2678
2679
2680
2681
2682
2683
2684
2685
2686
2687
2688
2689
2690
2691
2692
2693
2694
2695
2696
2697
2698
2699
2700
2701
2702
2703
2704
2705
2706
2707
2708
2709
2710
2711
2712
2713
2714
2715
2716
2717
2718
2719
2720
2721
2722
2723
2724
2725
2726
2727
2728
2729
2730
2731
2732
2733
2734
2735
2736
2737
2738
2739
2740
2741
2742
2743
2744
2745
2746
2747
2748
2749
2750
2751
2752
2753
2754
2755
2756
2757
2758
2759
2760
2761
2762
2763
2764
2765
2766
2767
2768
2769
2770
2771
2772
2773
2774
2775
2776
2777
2778
2779
2780
2781
2782
2783
2784
2785
2786
2787
2788
2789
2790
2791
2792
2793
2794
2795
2796
2797
2798
2799
2800
2801
2802
2803
2804
2805
2806
2807
2808
2809
2810
2811
2812
2813
2814
2815
2816
2817
2818
2819
2820
2821
2822
2823
2824
2825
2826
2827
2828
2829
2830
2831
2832
2833
2834
2835
2836
2837
2838
2839
2840
2841
2842
2843
2844
2845
2846
2847
2848
2849
2850
2851
2852
2853
2854
2855
2856
2857
2858
2859
2860
2861
2862
2863
2864
2865
2866
2867
2868
2869
2870
2871
2872
2873
2874
2875
2876
2877
2878
2879
2880
2881
2882
2883
2884
2885
2886
2887
2888
2889
2890
2891
2892
2893
2894
2895
2896
2897
2898
2899
2900
2901
2902
2903
2904
2905
2906
2907
2908
2909
2910
2911
2912
2913
2914
2915
2916
2917
2918
2919
2920
2921
2922
2923
2924
2925
2926
2927
2928
2929
2930
2931
2932
2933
2934
2935
2936
2937
2938
2939
2940
2941
2942
2943
2944
2945
2946
2947
2948
2949
2950
2951
2952
2953
2954
2955
2956
2957
2958
2959
2960
2961
2962
2963
2964
2965
2966
2967
2968
2969
2970
2971
2972
2973
2974
2975
2976
2977
2978
2979
2980
2981
2982
2983
2984
2985
2986
2987
2988
2989
2990
2991
2992
2993
2994
2995
2996
2997
2998
2999
3000
3001
3002
3003
3004
3005
3006
3007
3008
3009
3010
3011
3012
3013
3014
3015
3016
3017
3018
3019
3020
3021
3022
3023
3024
3025
3026
3027
3028
3029
3030
3031
3032
3033
3034
3035
3036
3037
3038
3039
3040
3041
3042
3043
3044
3045
3046
3047
3048
3049
3050
3051
3052
3053
3054
3055
3056
3057
3058
3059
3060
3061
3062
3063
3064
3065
3066
3067
3068
3069
3070
3071
3072
3073
3074
3075
3076
3077
3078
3079
3080
3081
3082
3083
3084
3085
3086
3087
3088
3089
3090
3091
3092
3093
3094
3095
3096
3097
3098
3099
3100
3101
3102
3103
3104
3105
3106
3107
3108
3109
3110
3111
3112
3113
3114
3115
3116
3117
3118
3119
3120
3121
3122
3123
3124
3125
3126
3127
3128
3129
3130
3131
3132
3133
3134
3135
3136
3137
3138
3139
3140
3141
3142
3143
3144
3145
3146
3147
3148
3149
3150
3151
3152
3153
3154
3155
3156
3157
3158
3159
3160
3161
3162
3163
3164
3165
3166
3167
3168
3169
3170
3171
3172
3173
3174
3175
3176
3177
3178
3179
3180
3181
3182
3183
3184
3185
3186
3187
3188
3189
3190
3191
3192
3193
3194
3195
3196
3197
3198
3199
3200
3201
3202
3203
3204
3205
3206
3207
3208
3209
3210
3211
3212
3213
3214
3215
3216
3217
3218
3219
3220
3221
3222
3223
3224
3225
3226
3227
3228
3229
3230
3231
3232
3233
3234
3235
3236
3237
3238
3239
3240
3241
3242
3243
3244
3245
3246
3247
3248
3249
3250
3251
3252
3253
3254
3255
3256
3257
3258
3259
3260
3261
3262
3263
3264
3265
3266
3267
3268
3269
3270
3271
3272
3273
3274
3275
3276
3277
3278
3279
3280
3281
3282
3283
3284
3285
3286
3287
3288
3289
3290
3291
3292
3293
3294
3295
3296
3297
3298
3299
3300
3301
3302
3303
3304
3305
3306
3307
3308
3309
3310
3311
3312
3313
3314
3315
3316
3317
3318
3319
3320
3321
3322
3323
3324
3325
3326
3327
3328
3329
3330
3331
3332
3333
3334
3335
3336
3337
3338
3339
3340
3341
3342
3343
3344
3345
3346
3347
3348
3349
3350
3351
3352
3353
3354
3355
3356
3357
3358
3359
3360
3361
3362
3363
3364
3365
3366
3367
3368
3369
3370
3371
3372
3373
3374
3375
3376
3377
3378
3379
3380
3381
3382
3383
3384
3385
3386
3387
3388
3389
3390
3391
3392
3393
3394
3395
3396
3397
3398
3399
3400
3401
3402
3403
3404
3405
3406
3407
3408
3409
3410
3411
3412
3413
3414
3415
3416
3417
3418
3419
3420
3421
3422
3423
3424
3425
3426
3427
3428
3429
3430
3431
3432
3433
3434
3435
3436
3437
3438
3439
3440
3441
3442
3443
3444
3445
3446
3447
3448
3449
3450
3451
3452
3453
3454
3455
3456
3457
3458
3459
3460
3461
3462
3463
3464
3465
3466
3467
3468
3469
3470
3471
3472
3473
3474
3475
3476
3477
3478
3479
3480
3481
3482
3483
3484
3485
3486
3487
3488
3489
3490
3491
3492
3493
3494
3495
3496
3497
3498
3499
3500
3501
3502
3503
3504
3505
3506
3507
3508
3509
3510
3511
3512
3513
3514
3515
3516
3517
3518
3519
3520
3521
3522
3523
3524
3525
3526
3527
3528
3529
3530
3531
3532
3533
3534
3535
3536
3537
3538
3539
3540
3541
3542
3543
3544
3545
3546
3547
3548
3549
3550
3551
3552
3553
3554
3555
3556
3557
3558
3559
3560
3561
3562
3563
3564
3565
3566
3567
3568
3569
3570
3571
3572
3573
3574
3575
3576
3577
3578
3579
3580
3581
3582
3583
3584
3585
3586
3587
3588
3589
3590
3591
3592
3593
3594
3595
3596
3597
3598
3599
3600
3601
3602
3603
3604
3605
3606
3607
3608
3609
3610
3611
3612
3613
3614
3615
3616
3617
3618
3619
3620
3621
3622
3623
3624
3625
3626
3627
3628
3629
3630
3631
3632
3633
3634
3635
3636
3637
3638
3639
3640
3641
3642
3643
3644
3645
3646
3647
3648
3649
3650
3651
3652
3653
3654
3655
3656
3657
3658
3659
3660
3661
3662
3663
3664
3665
3666
3667
3668
3669
3670
3671
3672
3673
3674
3675
3676
3677
3678
3679
3680
3681
3682
3683
3684
3685
3686
3687
3688
3689
3690
3691
3692
3693
3694
3695
3696
3697
3698
3699
3700
3701
3702
3703
3704
3705
3706
3707
3708
3709
3710
3711
3712
3713
3714
3715
3716
3717
3718
3719
3720
3721
3722
3723
3724
3725
3726
3727
3728
3729
3730
3731
3732
3733
3734
3735
3736
3737
3738
3739
3740
3741
3742
3743
3744
3745
3746
3747
3748
3749
3750
3751
3752
3753
3754
3755
3756
3757
3758
3759
3760
3761
3762
3763
3764
3765
3766
3767
3768
3769
3770
3771
3772
3773
3774
3775
3776
3777
3778
3779
3780
3781
3782
3783
3784
3785
3786
3787
3788
3789
3790
3791
3792
3793
3794
3795
3796
3797
3798
3799
3800
3801
3802
3803
3804
3805
3806
3807
3808
3809
3810
3811
3812
3813
3814
3815
3816
3817
3818
3819
3820
3821
3822
3823
3824
3825
3826
3827
3828
3829
3830
3831
3832
3833
3834
3835
3836
3837
3838
3839
3840
3841
3842
3843
3844
3845
3846
3847
3848
3849
3850
3851
3852
3853
3854
3855
3856
3857
3858
3859
3860
3861
3862
3863
3864
3865
3866
3867
3868
3869
3870
3871
3872
3873
3874
3875
3876
3877
3878
3879
3880
3881
3882
3883
3884
3885
3886
3887
3888
3889
3890
3891
3892
3893
3894
3895
3896
3897
3898
3899
3900
3901
3902
3903
3904
3905
3906
3907
3908
3909
3910
3911
3912
3913
3914
3915
3916
3917
3918
3919
3920
3921
3922
3923
3924
3925
3926
3927
3928
3929
3930
3931
3932
3933
3934
3935
3936
3937
3938
3939
3940
3941
3942
3943
3944
3945
3946
3947
3948
3949
3950
3951
3952
3953
3954
3955
3956
3957
3958
3959
3960
3961
3962
3963
3964
3965
3966
3967
3968
3969
3970
3971
3972
3973
3974
3975
3976
3977
3978
3979
3980
3981
3982
3983
3984
3985
3986
3987
3988
3989
3990
3991
3992
3993
3994
3995
3996
3997
3998
3999
4000
4001
4002
4003
4004
4005
4006
4007
4008
4009
4010
4011
4012
4013
4014
4015
4016
4017
4018
4019
4020
4021
4022
4023
4024
4025
4026
4027
4028
4029
4030
4031
4032
4033
4034
4035
4036
4037
4038
4039
4040
4041
4042
4043
4044
4045
4046
4047
4048
4049
4050
4051
4052
4053
4054
4055
4056
4057
4058
4059
4060
4061
4062
4063
4064
4065
4066
4067
4068
4069
4070
4071
4072
4073
4074
4075
4076
4077
4078
4079
4080
4081
4082
4083
4084
4085
4086
4087
4088
4089
4090
4091
4092
4093
4094
4095
4096
4097
4098
4099
4100
4101
4102
4103
4104
4105
4106
4107
4108
4109
4110
4111
4112
4113
4114
4115
4116
4117
4118
4119
4120
4121
4122
4123
4124
4125
4126
4127
4128
4129
4130
4131
4132
4133
4134
4135
4136
4137
4138
4139
4140
4141
4142
4143
4144
4145
4146
4147
4148
4149
4150
4151
4152
4153
4154
4155
4156
4157
4158
4159
4160
4161
4162
4163
4164
4165
4166
4167
4168
4169
4170
4171
4172
4173
4174
4175
4176
4177
4178
4179
4180
4181
4182
4183
4184
4185
4186
4187
4188
4189
4190
4191
4192
4193
4194
4195
4196
4197
4198
4199
4200
4201
4202
4203
4204
4205
4206
4207
4208
4209
4210
4211
4212
4213
4214
4215
4216
4217
4218
4219
4220
4221
4222
4223
4224
4225
4226
4227
4228
4229
4230
4231
4232
4233
4234
4235
4236
4237
4238
4239
4240
4241
4242
4243
4244
4245
4246
4247
4248
4249
4250
4251
4252
4253
4254
4255
4256
4257
4258
4259
4260
4261
4262
4263
4264
4265
4266
4267
4268
4269
4270
4271
4272
4273
4274
4275
4276
4277
4278
4279
4280
4281
4282
4283
4284
4285
4286
4287
4288
4289
4290
4291
4292
4293
4294
4295
4296
4297
4298
4299
4300
4301
4302
4303
4304
4305
4306
4307
4308
4309
4310
4311
4312
4313
4314
4315
4316
4317
4318
4319
4320
4321
4322
4323
4324
4325
4326
4327
4328
4329
4330
4331
4332
4333
4334
4335
4336
4337
4338
4339
4340
4341
4342
4343
4344
4345
4346
4347
4348
4349
4350
4351
4352
4353
4354
4355
4356
4357
4358
4359
4360
4361
4362
4363
4364
4365
4366
4367
4368
4369
4370
4371
4372
4373
4374
4375
4376
4377
4378
4379
4380
4381
4382
4383
4384
4385
4386
4387
4388
4389
4390
4391
4392
4393
4394
4395
4396
4397
4398
4399
4400
4401
4402
4403
4404
4405
4406
4407
4408
4409
4410
4411
4412
4413
4414
4415
4416
4417
4418
4419
4420
4421
4422
4423
4424
4425
4426
4427
4428
4429
4430
4431
4432
4433
4434
4435
4436
4437
4438
4439
4440
4441
4442
4443
4444
4445
4446
4447
4448
4449
4450
4451
4452
4453
4454
4455
4456
4457
4458
4459
4460
4461
4462
4463
4464
4465
4466
4467
4468
4469
4470
4471
4472
4473
4474
4475
4476
4477
4478
4479
4480
4481
4482
4483
4484
4485
4486
4487
4488
4489
4490
4491
4492
4493
4494
4495
4496
4497
4498
4499
4500
4501
4502
4503
4504
4505
4506
4507
4508
4509
4510
4511
4512
4513
4514
4515
4516
4517
4518
4519
4520
4521
4522
4523
4524
4525
4526
4527
4528
4529
4530
4531
4532
4533
4534
4535
4536
4537
4538
4539
4540
4541
4542
4543
4544
4545
4546
4547
4548
4549
4550
4551
4552
4553
4554
4555
4556
4557
4558
4559
4560
4561
4562
4563
4564
4565
4566
4567
4568
4569
4570
4571
4572
4573
4574
4575
4576
4577
4578
4579
4580
4581
4582
4583
4584
4585
4586
4587
4588
4589
4590
4591
4592
4593
4594
4595
4596
4597
4598
4599
4600
4601
4602
4603
4604
4605
4606
4607
4608
4609
4610
4611
4612
4613
4614
4615
4616
4617
4618
4619
4620
4621
4622
4623
4624
4625
4626
4627
4628
4629
4630
4631
4632
4633
4634
4635
4636
4637
4638
4639
4640
4641
4642
4643
4644
4645
4646
4647
4648
4649
4650
4651
4652
4653
4654
4655
4656
4657
4658
4659
4660
4661
4662
4663
4664
4665
4666
4667
4668
4669
4670
4671
4672
4673
4674
4675
4676
4677
4678
4679
4680
4681
4682
4683
4684
4685
4686
4687
4688
4689
4690
4691
4692
4693
4694
4695
4696
4697
4698
4699
4700
4701
4702
4703
4704
4705
4706
4707
4708
4709
4710
4711
4712
4713
4714
4715
4716
4717
4718
4719
4720
4721
4722
4723
4724
4725
4726
4727
4728
4729
4730
4731
4732
4733
4734
4735
4736
4737
4738
4739
4740
4741
4742
4743
4744
4745
4746
4747
4748
4749
4750
4751
4752
4753
4754
4755
4756
4757
4758
4759
4760
4761
4762
4763
4764
4765
4766
4767
4768
4769
4770
4771
4772
4773
4774
4775
4776
4777
4778
4779
4780
4781
4782
4783
4784
4785
4786
4787
4788
4789
4790
4791
4792
4793
4794
4795
4796
4797
4798
4799
4800
4801
4802
4803
4804
4805
4806
4807
4808
4809
4810
4811
4812
4813
4814
4815
4816
4817
4818
4819
4820
4821
4822
4823
4824
4825
4826
4827
4828
4829
4830
4831
4832
4833
4834
4835
4836
4837
4838
4839
4840
4841
4842
4843
4844
4845
4846
4847
4848
4849
4850
4851
4852
4853
4854
4855
4856
4857
4858
4859
4860
4861
4862
4863
4864
4865
4866
4867
4868
4869
4870
4871
4872
4873
4874
4875
4876
4877
4878
4879
4880
4881
4882
4883
4884
4885
4886
4887
4888
4889
4890
4891
4892
4893
4894
4895
4896
4897
4898
4899
4900
4901
4902
4903
4904
4905
4906
4907
4908
4909
4910
4911
4912
4913
4914
4915
4916
4917
4918
4919
4920
4921
4922
4923
4924
4925
4926
4927
4928
4929
4930
4931
4932
4933
4934
4935
4936
4937
4938
4939
4940
4941
4942
4943
4944
4945
4946
4947
4948
4949
4950
4951
4952
4953
4954
4955
4956
4957
4958
4959
4960
4961
4962
4963
4964
4965
4966
4967
4968
4969
4970
4971
4972
4973
4974
4975
4976
4977
4978
4979
4980
4981
4982
4983
4984
4985
4986
4987
4988
4989
4990
4991
4992
4993
4994
4995
4996
4997
4998
4999
5000
5001
5002
5003
5004
5005
5006
5007
5008
5009
5010
5011
5012
5013
5014
5015
5016
5017
5018
5019
5020
5021
5022
5023
5024
5025
5026
5027
5028
5029
5030
5031
5032
5033
5034
5035
5036
5037
5038
5039
5040
5041
5042
5043
5044
5045
5046
5047
5048
5049
5050
5051
5052
5053
5054
5055
5056
5057
5058
5059
5060
5061
5062
5063
5064
5065
5066
5067
5068
5069
5070
5071
5072
5073
5074
5075
5076
5077
5078
5079
5080
5081
5082
5083
5084
5085
5086
5087
5088
5089
5090
5091
5092
5093
5094
5095
5096
5097
5098
5099
5100
5101
5102
5103
5104
5105
5106
5107
5108
5109
5110
5111
5112
5113
5114
5115
5116
5117
5118
5119
5120
5121
5122
5123
5124
5125
5126
5127
5128
5129
5130
5131
5132
5133
5134
5135
5136
5137
5138
5139
5140
5141
5142
5143
5144
5145
5146
5147
5148
5149
5150
5151
5152
5153
5154
5155
5156
5157
5158
5159
5160
5161
5162
5163
5164
5165
5166
5167
5168
5169
5170
5171
5172
5173
5174
5175
5176
5177
5178
5179
5180
5181
5182
5183
5184
5185
5186
5187
5188
5189
5190
5191
5192
5193
5194
5195
5196
5197
5198
5199
5200
5201
5202
5203
5204
5205
5206
5207
5208
5209
5210
5211
5212
5213
5214
5215
5216
5217
5218
5219
5220
5221
5222
5223
5224
5225
5226
5227
5228
5229
5230
5231
5232
5233
5234
5235
5236
5237
5238
5239
5240
5241
5242
5243
5244
5245
5246
5247
5248
5249
5250
5251
5252
5253
5254
5255
5256
5257
5258
5259
5260
5261
5262
5263
5264
5265
5266
5267
5268
5269
5270
5271
5272
5273
5274
5275
5276
5277
5278
5279
5280
5281
5282
5283
5284
5285
5286
5287
5288
5289
5290
5291
5292
5293
5294
5295
5296
5297
5298
5299
5300
5301
5302
5303
5304
5305
5306
5307
5308
5309
5310
5311
5312
5313
5314
5315
5316
5317
5318
5319
5320
5321
5322
5323
5324
5325
5326
5327
5328
5329
5330
5331
5332
5333
5334
5335
5336
5337
5338
5339
5340
5341
5342
5343
5344
5345
5346
5347
5348
5349
5350
5351
5352
5353
5354
5355
5356
5357
5358
5359
5360
5361
5362
5363
5364
5365
5366
5367
5368
5369
5370
5371
5372
5373
5374
5375
5376
5377
5378
5379
5380
5381
5382
5383
5384
5385
5386
5387
5388
5389
5390
5391
5392
5393
5394
5395
5396
5397
5398
5399
5400
5401
5402
5403
5404
5405
5406
5407
5408
5409
5410
5411
5412
5413
5414
5415
5416
5417
5418
5419
5420
5421
5422
5423
5424
5425
5426
5427
5428
5429
5430
5431
5432
5433
5434
5435
5436
5437
5438
5439
5440
5441
5442
5443
5444
5445
5446
5447
5448
5449
5450
5451
5452
5453
5454
5455
5456
5457
5458
5459
5460
5461
5462
5463
5464
5465
5466
5467
5468
5469
5470
5471
5472
5473
5474
5475
5476
5477
5478
5479
5480
5481
5482
5483
5484
5485
5486
5487
5488
5489
5490
5491
5492
5493
5494
5495
5496
5497
5498
5499
5500
5501
5502
5503
5504
5505
5506
5507
5508
5509
5510
5511
5512
5513
5514
5515
5516
5517
5518
5519
5520
5521
5522
5523
5524
5525
5526
5527
5528
5529
5530
5531
5532
5533
5534
5535
5536
5537
5538
5539
5540
5541
5542
5543
5544
5545
5546
5547
5548
5549
5550
5551
5552
5553
5554
5555
5556
5557
5558
5559
5560
5561
5562
5563
5564
5565
5566
5567
5568
5569
5570
5571
5572
5573
5574
5575
5576
5577
5578
5579
5580
5581
5582
5583
5584
5585
5586
5587
5588
5589
5590
5591
5592
5593
5594
5595
5596
5597
5598
5599
5600
5601
5602
5603
5604
5605
5606
5607
5608
5609
5610
5611
5612
5613
5614
5615
5616
5617
5618
5619
5620
5621
5622
5623
5624
5625
5626
5627
5628
5629
5630
5631
5632
5633
5634
5635
5636
5637
5638
5639
5640
5641
5642
5643
5644
5645
5646
5647
5648
5649
5650
5651
5652
5653
5654
5655
5656
5657
5658
5659
5660
5661
5662
5663
5664
5665
5666
5667
5668
5669
5670
5671
5672
5673
5674
5675
5676
5677
5678
5679
5680
5681
5682
5683
5684
5685
5686
5687
5688
5689
5690
5691
5692
5693
5694
5695
5696
5697
5698
5699
5700
5701
5702
5703
5704
5705
5706
5707
5708
5709
5710
5711
5712
5713
5714
5715
5716
5717
5718
5719
5720
5721
5722
5723
5724
5725
5726
5727
5728
5729
5730
5731
5732
5733
5734
5735
5736
5737
5738
5739
5740
5741
5742
5743
5744
5745
5746
5747
5748
5749
5750
5751
5752
5753
5754
5755
5756
5757
5758
5759
5760
5761
5762
5763
5764
5765
5766
5767
5768
5769
5770
5771
5772
5773
5774
5775
5776
5777
5778
5779
5780
5781
5782
5783
5784
5785
5786
5787
5788
5789
5790
5791
5792
5793
5794
5795
5796
5797
5798
5799
5800
5801
5802
5803
5804
5805
5806
5807
5808
5809
5810
5811
5812
5813
5814
5815
5816
5817
5818
5819
5820
5821
5822
5823
5824
5825
5826
5827
5828
5829
5830
5831
5832
5833
5834
5835
5836
5837
5838
5839
5840
5841
5842
5843
5844
5845
5846
5847
5848
5849
5850
5851
5852
5853
5854
5855
5856
5857
5858
5859
5860
5861
5862
5863
5864
5865
5866
5867
5868
5869
5870
5871
5872
5873
5874
5875
5876
5877
5878
5879
5880
5881
5882
5883
5884
5885
5886
5887
5888
5889
5890
5891
5892
5893
5894
5895
5896
5897
5898
5899
5900
5901
5902
5903
5904
5905
5906
5907
5908
5909
5910
5911
5912
5913
5914
5915
5916
5917
5918
5919
5920
5921
5922
5923
5924
5925
5926
5927
5928
5929
5930
5931
5932
5933
5934
5935
5936
5937
5938
5939
5940
5941
5942
5943
5944
5945
5946
5947
5948
5949
5950
5951
5952
5953
5954
5955
5956
5957
5958
5959
5960
5961
5962
5963
5964
5965
5966
5967
5968
5969
5970
5971
5972
5973
5974
5975
5976
5977
5978
5979
5980
5981
5982
5983
5984
5985
5986
5987
5988
5989
5990
5991
5992
5993
5994
5995
5996
5997
5998
5999
6000
6001
6002
6003
6004
6005
6006
6007
6008
6009
6010
6011
6012
6013
6014
6015
6016
6017
6018
6019
6020
6021
6022
6023
6024
6025
6026
6027
6028
6029
6030
6031
6032
6033
6034
6035
6036
6037
6038
6039
6040
6041
6042
6043
6044
6045
6046
6047
6048
6049
6050
6051
6052
6053
6054
6055
6056
6057
6058
6059
6060
6061
6062
6063
6064
6065
6066
6067
6068
6069
6070
6071
6072
6073
6074
6075
6076
6077
6078
6079
6080
6081
6082
6083
6084
6085
6086
6087
6088
6089
6090
6091
6092
6093
6094
6095
6096
6097
6098
6099
6100
6101
6102
6103
6104
6105
6106
6107
6108
6109
6110
6111
6112
6113
6114
6115
6116
6117
6118
6119
6120
6121
6122
6123
6124
6125
6126
6127
6128
6129
6130
6131
6132
6133
6134
6135
6136
6137
6138
6139
6140
6141
6142
6143
6144
6145
6146
6147
6148
6149
6150
6151
6152
6153
6154
6155
6156
6157
6158
6159
6160
6161
6162
6163
6164
6165
6166
6167
6168
6169
6170
6171
6172
6173
6174
6175
6176
6177
6178
6179
6180
6181
6182
6183
6184
6185
6186
6187
6188
6189
6190
6191
6192
6193
6194
6195
6196
6197
6198
6199
6200
6201
6202
6203
6204
6205
6206
6207
6208
6209
6210
6211
6212
6213
6214
6215
6216
6217
6218
6219
6220
6221
6222
6223
6224
6225
6226
6227
6228
6229
6230
6231
6232
6233
6234
6235
6236
6237
6238
6239
6240
6241
6242
6243
6244
6245
6246
6247
6248
6249
6250
6251
6252
6253
6254
6255
6256
6257
6258
6259
6260
6261
6262
6263
6264
6265
6266
6267
6268
6269
6270
6271
6272
6273
6274
6275
6276
6277
6278
6279
6280
6281
6282
6283
6284
6285
6286
6287
6288
6289
6290
6291
6292
6293
6294
6295
6296
6297
6298
6299
6300
6301
6302
6303
6304
6305
6306
6307
6308
6309
6310
6311
6312
6313
6314
6315
6316
6317
6318
6319
6320
6321
6322
6323
6324
6325
6326
6327
6328
6329
6330
6331
6332
6333
6334
6335
6336
6337
6338
6339
6340
6341
6342
6343
6344
6345
6346
6347
6348
6349
6350
6351
6352
6353
6354
6355
6356
6357
6358
6359
6360
6361
6362
6363
6364
6365
6366
6367
6368
6369
6370
6371
6372
6373
6374
6375
6376
6377
6378
6379
6380
6381
6382
6383
6384
6385
6386
6387
6388
6389
6390
6391
6392
6393
6394
6395
6396
6397
6398
6399
6400
6401
6402
6403
6404
6405
6406
6407
6408
6409
6410
6411
6412
6413
6414
6415
6416
6417
6418
6419
6420
6421
6422
6423
6424
6425
6426
6427
6428
6429
6430
6431
6432
6433
6434
6435
6436
6437
6438
6439
6440
6441
6442
6443
6444
6445
6446
6447
6448
6449
6450
6451
6452
6453
6454
6455
6456
6457
6458
6459
6460
6461
6462
6463
6464
6465
6466
6467
6468
6469
6470
6471
6472
6473
6474
6475
6476
6477
6478
6479
6480
6481
6482
6483
6484
6485
6486
6487
6488
6489
6490
6491
6492
6493
6494
6495
6496
6497
6498
6499
6500
6501
6502
6503
6504
6505
6506
6507
6508
6509
6510
6511
6512
6513
6514
6515
6516
6517
6518
6519
6520
6521
6522
6523
6524
6525
6526
6527
6528
6529
6530
6531
6532
6533
6534
6535
6536
6537
6538
6539
6540
6541
6542
6543
6544
6545
6546
6547
6548
6549
6550
6551
6552
6553
6554
6555
6556
6557
6558
6559
6560
6561
6562
6563
6564
6565
6566
6567
6568
6569
6570
6571
6572
6573
6574
6575
6576
6577
6578
6579
6580
6581
6582
6583
6584
6585
6586
6587
6588
6589
6590
6591
6592
6593
6594
6595
6596
6597
6598
6599
6600
6601
6602
6603
6604
6605
6606
6607
6608
6609
6610
6611
6612
6613
6614
6615
6616
6617
6618
6619
6620
6621
6622
6623
6624
6625
6626
6627
6628
6629
6630
6631
6632
6633
6634
6635
6636
6637
6638
6639
6640
6641
6642
6643
6644
6645
6646
6647
6648
6649
6650
6651
6652
6653
6654
6655
6656
6657
6658
6659
6660
6661
6662
6663
6664
6665
6666
6667
6668
6669
6670
6671
6672
6673
6674
6675
6676
6677
6678
6679
6680
6681
6682
6683
6684
6685
6686
6687
6688
6689
6690
6691
6692
6693
6694
6695
6696
6697
6698
6699
6700
6701
6702
6703
6704
6705
6706
6707
6708
6709
6710
6711
6712
6713
6714
6715
6716
6717
6718
6719
6720
6721
6722
6723
6724
6725
6726
6727
6728
6729
6730
6731
6732
6733
6734
6735
6736
6737
6738
6739
6740
6741
6742
6743
6744
6745
6746
6747
6748
6749
6750
6751
6752
6753
6754
6755
6756
6757
6758
6759
6760
6761
6762
6763
6764
6765
6766
6767
6768
6769
6770
6771
6772
6773
6774
6775
6776
6777
6778
6779
6780
6781
6782
6783
6784
6785
6786
6787
6788
6789
6790
6791
6792
6793
6794
6795
6796
6797
6798
6799
6800
6801
6802
6803
6804
6805
6806
6807
6808
6809
6810
6811
6812
6813
6814
6815
6816
6817
6818
6819
6820
6821
6822
6823
6824
6825
6826
6827
6828
6829
6830
6831
6832
6833
6834
6835
6836
6837
6838
6839
6840
6841
6842
6843
6844
6845
6846
6847
6848
6849
6850
6851
6852
6853
6854
6855
6856
6857
6858
6859
6860
6861
6862
6863
6864
6865
6866
6867
6868
6869
6870
6871
6872
6873
6874
6875
6876
6877
6878
6879
6880
6881
6882
6883
6884
6885
6886
6887
6888
6889
6890
6891
6892
6893
6894
6895
6896
6897
6898
6899
6900
6901
6902
6903
6904
6905
6906
6907
6908
6909
6910
6911
6912
6913
6914
6915
6916
6917
6918
6919
6920
6921
6922
6923
6924
6925
6926
6927
6928
6929
6930
6931
6932
6933
6934
6935
6936
6937
6938
6939
6940
6941
6942
6943
6944
6945
6946
6947
6948
6949
6950
6951
6952
6953
6954
6955
6956
6957
6958
6959
6960
6961
6962
6963
6964
6965
6966
6967
6968
6969
6970
6971
6972
6973
6974
6975
6976
6977
6978
6979
6980
6981
6982
6983
6984
6985
6986
6987
6988
6989
6990
6991
6992
6993
6994
6995
6996
6997
6998
6999
7000
7001
7002
7003
7004
7005
7006
7007
7008
7009
7010
7011
7012
7013
7014
7015
7016
7017
7018
7019
7020
7021
7022
7023
7024
7025
7026
7027
7028
7029
7030
7031
7032
7033
7034
7035
7036
7037
7038
7039
7040
7041
7042
7043
7044
7045
7046
7047
7048
7049
7050
7051
7052
7053
7054
7055
7056
7057
7058
7059
7060
7061
7062
7063
7064
7065
7066
7067
7068
7069
7070
7071
7072
7073
7074
7075
7076
7077
7078
7079
7080
7081
7082
7083
7084
7085
7086
7087
7088
7089
7090
7091
7092
7093
7094
7095
7096
7097
7098
7099
7100
7101
7102
7103
7104
7105
7106
7107
7108
7109
7110
7111
7112
7113
7114
7115
7116
7117
7118
7119
7120
7121
7122
7123
7124
7125
7126
7127
7128
7129
7130
7131
7132
7133
7134
7135
7136
7137
7138
7139
7140
7141
7142
7143
7144
7145
7146
7147
7148
7149
7150
7151
7152
7153
7154
7155
7156
7157
7158
7159
7160
7161
7162
7163
7164
7165
7166
7167
7168
7169
7170
7171
7172
7173
7174
7175
7176
7177
7178
7179
7180
7181
7182
7183
7184
7185
7186
7187
7188
7189
7190
7191
7192
7193
7194
7195
7196
7197
7198
7199
7200
7201
7202
7203
7204
7205
7206
7207
7208
7209
7210
7211
7212
7213
7214
7215
7216
|
<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en">
<head>
<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" />
<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" />
<title>O Pioneers! | Project Gutenberg</title>
<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" />
<style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve">
body { margin-left: 20%;
margin-right: 20%;
text-align: justify; }
h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight:
normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;}
h1 {font-size: 300%;
margin-top: 0.6em;
margin-bottom: 0.6em;
letter-spacing: 0.12em;
word-spacing: 0.2em;
text-indent: 0em;}
h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;}
h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;}
h4 {font-size: 120%;}
h5 {font-size: 110%;}
.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */
div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;}
hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;}
p {text-indent: 1em;
margin-top: 0.25em;
margin-bottom: 0.25em; }
.p2 {margin-top: 2em;}
p.poem {text-indent: 0%;
margin-left: 10%;
font-size: 90%;
margin-top: 1em;
margin-bottom: 1em; }
p.letter {text-indent: 0%;
margin-left: 10%;
margin-right: 10%;
margin-top: 1em;
margin-bottom: 1em; }
p.noindent {text-indent: 0% }
p.center {text-align: center;
text-indent: 0em;
margin-top: 1em;
margin-bottom: 1em; }
p.right {text-align: right;
margin-right: 10%;
margin-top: 1em;
margin-bottom: 1em; }
a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none}
a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none}
a:hover {color:red}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 24 ***</div>
<h1>O PIONEERS!</h1>
<h2 class="no-break">by Willa Sibert Cather</h2>
<p class="letter">
“Those fields, colored by various grain!”
</p>
<p class="letter">
M<small>ICKIEWICZ</small>
</p>
<hr />
<h2>Contents</h2>
<table summary="" style="">
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_PART"><b>PART I. The Wild Land</b></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0002">I</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0003">II</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0004">III</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0005">IV</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0006">V</a><br /><br /></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_PART2"><b>PART II. Neighboring Fields</b></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0008">I</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0009">II</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0010">III</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0011">IV</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0012">V</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0013">VI</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0014">VII</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0015">VIII</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0016">IX</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0017">X</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0018">XI</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0019">XII</a><br /><br /></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_PART3"><b>PART III. Winter Memories</b></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0021">I</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0022">II</a><br /><br /></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_PART4"><b>PART IV. The White Mulberry Tree</b></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0024">I</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0025">II</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0026">III</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0027">IV</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0028">V</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0029">VI</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0030">VII</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0031">VIII</a><br /><br /></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_PART5"><b>PART V. Alexandra</b></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0033">I</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0034">II</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0035">III</a></td>
</tr>
</table>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<p class="center">
TO THE MEMORY OF<br/>
<big>SARAH ORNE JEWETT</big><br/>
IN WHOSE BEAUTIFUL AND DELICATE WORK<br/>
THERE IS THE PERFECTION<br/>
THAT ENDURES<br/>
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<p class="center">
PRAIRIE SPRING
</p>
<p class="letter">
Evening and the flat land,<br/>
Rich and sombre and always silent;<br/>
The miles of fresh-plowed soil,<br/>
Heavy and black, full of strength and harshness;<br/>
The growing wheat, the growing weeds,<br/>
The toiling horses, the tired men;<br/>
The long empty roads,<br/>
Sullen fires of sunset, fading,<br/>
The eternal, unresponsive sky.<br/>
Against all this, Youth,<br/>
Flaming like the wild roses,<br/>
Singing like the larks over the plowed fields,<br/>
Flashing like a star out of the twilight;<br/>
Youth with its insupportable sweetness,<br/>
Its fierce necessity,<br/>
Its sharp desire,<br/>
Singing and singing,<br/>
Out of the lips of silence,<br/>
Out of the earthy dusk.<br/>
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_PART"></a>PART I.<br/>
The Wild Land</h2>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_4_0002"></a>I</h2>
<p>
One January day, thirty years ago, the little town of Hanover, anchored on a
windy Nebraska tableland, was trying not to be blown away. A mist of fine
snowflakes was curling and eddying about the cluster of low drab buildings
huddled on the gray prairie, under a gray sky. The dwelling-houses were set
about haphazard on the tough prairie sod; some of them looked as if they had
been moved in overnight, and others as if they were straying off by themselves,
headed straight for the open plain. None of them had any appearance of
permanence, and the howling wind blew under them as well as over them. The main
street was a deeply rutted road, now frozen hard, which ran from the squat red
railway station and the grain “elevator” at the north end of the town to the
lumber yard and the horse pond at the south end. On either side of this road
straggled two uneven rows of wooden buildings; the general merchandise stores,
the two banks, the drug store, the feed store, the saloon, the post-office. The
board sidewalks were gray with trampled snow, but at two o’clock in the
afternoon the shopkeepers, having come back from dinner, were keeping well
behind their frosty windows. The children were all in school, and there was
nobody abroad in the streets but a few rough-looking countrymen in coarse
overcoats, with their long caps pulled down to their noses. Some of them had
brought their wives to town, and now and then a red or a plaid shawl flashed
out of one store into the shelter of another. At the hitch-bars along the
street a few heavy work-horses, harnessed to farm wagons, shivered under their
blankets. About the station everything was quiet, for there would not be
another train in until night.
</p>
<p>
On the sidewalk in front of one of the stores sat a little Swede boy, crying
bitterly. He was about five years old. His black cloth coat was much too big
for him and made him look like a little old man. His shrunken brown flannel
dress had been washed many times and left a long stretch of stocking between
the hem of his skirt and the tops of his clumsy, copper-toed shoes. His cap was
pulled down over his ears; his nose and his chubby cheeks were chapped and red
with cold. He cried quietly, and the few people who hurried by did not notice
him. He was afraid to stop any one, afraid to go into the store and ask for
help, so he sat wringing his long sleeves and looking up a telegraph pole
beside him, whimpering, “My kitten, oh, my kitten! Her will fweeze!” At the top
of the pole crouched a shivering gray kitten, mewing faintly and clinging
desperately to the wood with her claws. The boy had been left at the store
while his sister went to the doctor’s office, and in her absence a dog had
chased his kitten up the pole. The little creature had never been so high
before, and she was too frightened to move. Her master was sunk in despair. He
was a little country boy, and this village was to him a very strange and
perplexing place, where people wore fine clothes and had hard hearts. He always
felt shy and awkward here, and wanted to hide behind things for fear some one
might laugh at him. Just now, he was too unhappy to care who laughed. At last
he seemed to see a ray of hope: his sister was coming, and he got up and ran
toward her in his heavy shoes.
</p>
<p>
His sister was a tall, strong girl, and she walked rapidly and resolutely, as
if she knew exactly where she was going and what she was going to do next. She
wore a man’s long ulster (not as if it were an affliction, but as if it were
very comfortable and belonged to her; carried it like a young soldier), and a
round plush cap, tied down with a thick veil. She had a serious, thoughtful
face, and her clear, deep blue eyes were fixed intently on the distance,
without seeming to see anything, as if she were in trouble. She did not notice
the little boy until he pulled her by the coat. Then she stopped short and
stooped down to wipe his wet face.
</p>
<p>
“Why, Emil! I told you to stay in the store and not to come out. What is the
matter with you?”
</p>
<p>
“My kitten, sister, my kitten! A man put her out, and a dog chased her up
there.” His forefinger, projecting from the sleeve of his coat, pointed up to
the wretched little creature on the pole.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Emil! Didn’t I tell you she’d get us into trouble of some kind, if you
brought her? What made you tease me so? But there, I ought to have known better
myself.” She went to the foot of the pole and held out her arms, crying,
“Kitty, kitty, kitty,” but the kitten only mewed and faintly waved its tail.
Alexandra turned away decidedly. “No, she won’t come down. Somebody will have
to go up after her. I saw the Linstrums’ wagon in town. I’ll go and see if I
can find Carl. Maybe he can do something. Only you must stop crying, or I won’t
go a step. Where’s your comforter? Did you leave it in the store? Never mind.
Hold still, till I put this on you.”
</p>
<p>
She unwound the brown veil from her head and tied it about his throat. A shabby
little traveling man, who was just then coming out of the store on his way to
the saloon, stopped and gazed stupidly at the shining mass of hair she bared
when she took off her veil; two thick braids, pinned about her head in the
German way, with a fringe of reddish-yellow curls blowing out from under her
cap. He took his cigar out of his mouth and held the wet end between the
fingers of his woolen glove. “My God, girl, what a head of hair!” he exclaimed,
quite innocently and foolishly. She stabbed him with a glance of Amazonian
fierceness and drew in her lower lip—most unnecessary severity. It gave the
little clothing drummer such a start that he actually let his cigar fall to the
sidewalk and went off weakly in the teeth of the wind to the saloon. His hand
was still unsteady when he took his glass from the bartender. His feeble
flirtatious instincts had been crushed before, but never so mercilessly. He
felt cheap and ill-used, as if some one had taken advantage of him. When a
drummer had been knocking about in little drab towns and crawling across the
wintry country in dirty smoking-cars, was he to be blamed if, when he chanced
upon a fine human creature, he suddenly wished himself more of a man?
</p>
<p>
While the little drummer was drinking to recover his nerve, Alexandra hurried
to the drug store as the most likely place to find Carl Linstrum. There he was,
turning over a portfolio of chromo “studies” which the druggist sold to the
Hanover women who did china-painting. Alexandra explained her predicament, and
the boy followed her to the corner, where Emil still sat by the pole.
</p>
<p>
“I’ll have to go up after her, Alexandra. I think at the depot they have some
spikes I can strap on my feet. Wait a minute.” Carl thrust his hands into his
pockets, lowered his head, and darted up the street against the north wind. He
was a tall boy of fifteen, slight and narrow-chested. When he came back with
the spikes, Alexandra asked him what he had done with his overcoat.
</p>
<p>
“I left it in the drug store. I couldn’t climb in it, anyhow. Catch me if I
fall, Emil,” he called back as he began his ascent. Alexandra watched him
anxiously; the cold was bitter enough on the ground. The kitten would not budge
an inch. Carl had to go to the very top of the pole, and then had some
difficulty in tearing her from her hold. When he reached the ground, he handed
the cat to her tearful little master. “Now go into the store with her, Emil,
and get warm.” He opened the door for the child. “Wait a minute, Alexandra. Why
can’t I drive for you as far as our place? It’s getting colder every minute.
Have you seen the doctor?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes. He is coming over to-morrow. But he says father can’t get better; can’t
get well.” The girl’s lip trembled. She looked fixedly up the bleak street as
if she were gathering her strength to face something, as if she were trying
with all her might to grasp a situation which, no matter how painful, must be
met and dealt with somehow. The wind flapped the skirts of her heavy coat about
her.
</p>
<p>
Carl did not say anything, but she felt his sympathy. He, too, was lonely. He
was a thin, frail boy, with brooding dark eyes, very quiet in all his
movements. There was a delicate pallor in his thin face, and his mouth was too
sensitive for a boy’s. The lips had already a little curl of bitterness and
skepticism. The two friends stood for a few moments on the windy street corner,
not speaking a word, as two travelers, who have lost their way, sometimes stand
and admit their perplexity in silence. When Carl turned away he said, “I’ll see
to your team.” Alexandra went into the store to have her purchases packed in
the egg-boxes, and to get warm before she set out on her long cold drive.
</p>
<p>
When she looked for Emil, she found him sitting on a step of the staircase that
led up to the clothing and carpet department. He was playing with a little
Bohemian girl, Marie Tovesky, who was tying her handkerchief over the kitten’s
head for a bonnet. Marie was a stranger in the country, having come from Omaha
with her mother to visit her uncle, Joe Tovesky. She was a dark child, with
brown curly hair, like a brunette doll’s, a coaxing little red mouth, and
round, yellow-brown eyes. Every one noticed her eyes; the brown iris had golden
glints that made them look like gold-stone, or, in softer lights, like that
Colorado mineral called tiger-eye.
</p>
<p>
The country children thereabouts wore their dresses to their shoe-tops, but
this city child was dressed in what was then called the “Kate Greenaway”
manner, and her red cashmere frock, gathered full from the yoke, came almost to
the floor. This, with her poke bonnet, gave her the look of a quaint little
woman. She had a white fur tippet about her neck and made no fussy objections
when Emil fingered it admiringly. Alexandra had not the heart to take him away
from so pretty a playfellow, and she let them tease the kitten together until
Joe Tovesky came in noisily and picked up his little niece, setting her on his
shoulder for every one to see. His children were all boys, and he adored this
little creature. His cronies formed a circle about him, admiring and teasing
the little girl, who took their jokes with great good nature. They were all
delighted with her, for they seldom saw so pretty and carefully nurtured a
child. They told her that she must choose one of them for a sweetheart, and
each began pressing his suit and offering her bribes; candy, and little pigs,
and spotted calves. She looked archly into the big, brown, mustached faces,
smelling of spirits and tobacco, then she ran her tiny forefinger delicately
over Joe’s bristly chin and said, “Here is my sweetheart.”
</p>
<p>
The Bohemians roared with laughter, and Marie’s uncle hugged her until she
cried, “Please don’t, Uncle Joe! You hurt me.” Each of Joe’s friends gave her a
bag of candy, and she kissed them all around, though she did not like country
candy very well. Perhaps that was why she bethought herself of Emil. “Let me
down, Uncle Joe,” she said, “I want to give some of my candy to that nice
little boy I found.” She walked graciously over to Emil, followed by her lusty
admirers, who formed a new circle and teased the little boy until he hid his
face in his sister’s skirts, and she had to scold him for being such a baby.
</p>
<p>
The farm people were making preparations to start for home. The women were
checking over their groceries and pinning their big red shawls about their
heads. The men were buying tobacco and candy with what money they had left,
were showing each other new boots and gloves and blue flannel shirts. Three big
Bohemians were drinking raw alcohol, tinctured with oil of cinnamon. This was
said to fortify one effectually against the cold, and they smacked their lips
after each pull at the flask. Their volubility drowned every other noise in the
place, and the overheated store sounded of their spirited language as it reeked
of pipe smoke, damp woolens, and kerosene.
</p>
<p>
Carl came in, wearing his overcoat and carrying a wooden box with a brass
handle. “Come,” he said, “I’ve fed and watered your team, and the wagon is
ready.” He carried Emil out and tucked him down in the straw in the wagonbox.
The heat had made the little boy sleepy, but he still clung to his kitten.
</p>
<p>
“You were awful good to climb so high and get my kitten, Carl. When I get big
I’ll climb and get little boys’ kittens for them,” he murmured drowsily. Before
the horses were over the first hill, Emil and his cat were both fast asleep.
</p>
<p>
Although it was only four o’clock, the winter day was fading. The road led
southwest, toward the streak of pale, watery light that glimmered in the leaden
sky. The light fell upon the two sad young faces that were turned mutely toward
it: upon the eyes of the girl, who seemed to be looking with such anguished
perplexity into the future; upon the sombre eyes of the boy, who seemed already
to be looking into the past. The little town behind them had vanished as if it
had never been, had fallen behind the swell of the prairie, and the stern
frozen country received them into its bosom. The homesteads were few and far
apart; here and there a windmill gaunt against the sky, a sod house crouching
in a hollow. But the great fact was the land itself, which seemed to overwhelm
the little beginnings of human society that struggled in its sombre wastes. It
was from facing this vast hardness that the boy’s mouth had become so bitter;
because he felt that men were too weak to make any mark here, that the land
wanted to be let alone, to preserve its own fierce strength, its peculiar,
savage kind of beauty, its uninterrupted mournfulness.
</p>
<p>
The wagon jolted along over the frozen road. The two friends had less to say to
each other than usual, as if the cold had somehow penetrated to their hearts.
</p>
<p>
“Did Lou and Oscar go to the Blue to cut wood to-day?” Carl asked.
</p>
<p>
“Yes. I’m almost sorry I let them go, it’s turned so cold. But mother frets if
the wood gets low.” She stopped and put her hand to her forehead, brushing back
her hair. “I don’t know what is to become of us, Carl, if father has to die. I
don’t dare to think about it. I wish we could all go with him and let the grass
grow back over everything.”
</p>
<p>
Carl made no reply. Just ahead of them was the Norwegian graveyard, where the
grass had, indeed, grown back over everything, shaggy and red, hiding even the
wire fence. Carl realized that he was not a very helpful companion, but there
was nothing he could say.
</p>
<p>
“Of course,” Alexandra went on, steadying her voice a little, “the boys are
strong and work hard, but we’ve always depended so on father that I don’t see
how we can go ahead. I almost feel as if there were nothing to go ahead for.”
</p>
<p>
“Does your father know?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, I think he does. He lies and counts on his fingers all day. I think he is
trying to count up what he is leaving for us. It’s a comfort to him that my
chickens are laying right on through the cold weather and bringing in a little
money. I wish we could keep his mind off such things, but I don’t have much
time to be with him now.”
</p>
<p>
“I wonder if he’d like to have me bring my magic lantern over some evening?”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra turned her face toward him. “Oh, Carl! Have you got it?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes. It’s back there in the straw. Didn’t you notice the box I was carrying? I
tried it all morning in the drug-store cellar, and it worked ever so well,
makes fine big pictures.”
</p>
<p>
“What are they about?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, hunting pictures in Germany, and Robinson Crusoe and funny pictures about
cannibals. I’m going to paint some slides for it on glass, out of the Hans
Andersen book.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra seemed actually cheered. There is often a good deal of the child left
in people who have had to grow up too soon. “Do bring it over, Carl. I can
hardly wait to see it, and I’m sure it will please father. Are the pictures
colored? Then I know he’ll like them. He likes the calendars I get him in town.
I wish I could get more. You must leave me here, mustn’t you? It’s been nice to
have company.”
</p>
<p>
Carl stopped the horses and looked dubiously up at the black sky. “It’s pretty
dark. Of course the horses will take you home, but I think I’d better light
your lantern, in case you should need it.”
</p>
<p>
He gave her the reins and climbed back into the wagon-box, where he crouched
down and made a tent of his overcoat. After a dozen trials he succeeded in
lighting the lantern, which he placed in front of Alexandra, half covering it
with a blanket so that the light would not shine in her eyes. “Now, wait until
I find my box. Yes, here it is. Good-night, Alexandra. Try not to worry.” Carl
sprang to the ground and ran off across the fields toward the Linstrum
homestead. “Hoo, hoo-o-o-o!” he called back as he disappeared over a ridge and
dropped into a sand gully. The wind answered him like an echo, “Hoo,
hoo-o-o-o-o-o!” Alexandra drove off alone. The rattle of her wagon was lost in
the howling of the wind, but her lantern, held firmly between her feet, made a
moving point of light along the highway, going deeper and deeper into the dark
country.
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_4_0003"></a>II</h2>
<p>
On one of the ridges of that wintry waste stood the low log house in which John
Bergson was dying. The Bergson homestead was easier to find than many another,
because it overlooked Norway Creek, a shallow, muddy stream that sometimes
flowed, and sometimes stood still, at the bottom of a winding ravine with
steep, shelving sides overgrown with brush and cottonwoods and dwarf ash. This
creek gave a sort of identity to the farms that bordered upon it. Of all the
bewildering things about a new country, the absence of human landmarks is one
of the most depressing and disheartening. The houses on the Divide were small
and were usually tucked away in low places; you did not see them until you came
directly upon them. Most of them were built of the sod itself, and were only
the unescapable ground in another form. The roads were but faint tracks in the
grass, and the fields were scarcely noticeable. The record of the plow was
insignificant, like the feeble scratches on stone left by prehistoric races, so
indeterminate that they may, after all, be only the markings of glaciers, and
not a record of human strivings.
</p>
<p>
In eleven long years John Bergson had made but little impression upon the wild
land he had come to tame. It was still a wild thing that had its ugly moods;
and no one knew when they were likely to come, or why. Mischance hung over it.
Its Genius was unfriendly to man. The sick man was feeling this as he lay
looking out of the window, after the doctor had left him, on the day following
Alexandra’s trip to town. There it lay outside his door, the same land, the
same lead-colored miles. He knew every ridge and draw and gully between him and
the horizon. To the south, his plowed fields; to the east, the sod stables, the
cattle corral, the pond,—and then the grass.
</p>
<p>
Bergson went over in his mind the things that had held him back. One winter his
cattle had perished in a blizzard. The next summer one of his plow horses broke
its leg in a prairiedog hole and had to be shot. Another summer he lost his
hogs from cholera, and a valuable stallion died from a rattlesnake bite. Time
and again his crops had failed. He had lost two children, boys, that came
between Lou and Emil, and there had been the cost of sickness and death. Now,
when he had at last struggled out of debt, he was going to die himself. He was
only forty-six, and had, of course, counted upon more time.
</p>
<p>
Bergson had spent his first five years on the Divide getting into debt, and the
last six getting out. He had paid off his mortgages and had ended pretty much
where he began, with the land. He owned exactly six hundred and forty acres of
what stretched outside his door; his own original homestead and timber claim,
making three hundred and twenty acres, and the half-section adjoining, the
homestead of a younger brother who had given up the fight, gone back to Chicago
to work in a fancy bakery and distinguish himself in a Swedish athletic club.
So far John had not attempted to cultivate the second half-section, but used it
for pasture land, and one of his sons rode herd there in open weather.
</p>
<p>
John Bergson had the Old-World belief that land, in itself, is desirable. But
this land was an enigma. It was like a horse that no one knows how to break to
harness, that runs wild and kicks things to pieces. He had an idea that no one
understood how to farm it properly, and this he often discussed with Alexandra.
Their neighbors, certainly, knew even less about farming than he did. Many of
them had never worked on a farm until they took up their homesteads. They had
been <i>handwerkers</i> at home; tailors, locksmiths, joiners, cigar-makers,
etc. Bergson himself had worked in a shipyard.
</p>
<p>
For weeks, John Bergson had been thinking about these things. His bed stood in
the sitting-room, next to the kitchen. Through the day, while the baking and
washing and ironing were going on, the father lay and looked up at the roof
beams that he himself had hewn, or out at the cattle in the corral. He counted
the cattle over and over. It diverted him to speculate as to how much weight
each of the steers would probably put on by spring. He often called his
daughter in to talk to her about this. Before Alexandra was twelve years old
she had begun to be a help to him, and as she grew older he had come to depend
more and more upon her resourcefulness and good judgment. His boys were willing
enough to work, but when he talked with them they usually irritated him. It was
Alexandra who read the papers and followed the markets, and who learned by the
mistakes of their neighbors. It was Alexandra who could always tell about what
it had cost to fatten each steer, and who could guess the weight of a hog
before it went on the scales closer than John Bergson himself. Lou and Oscar
were industrious, but he could never teach them to use their heads about their
work.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra, her father often said to himself, was like her grandfather; which
was his way of saying that she was intelligent. John Bergson’s father had been
a shipbuilder, a man of considerable force and of some fortune. Late in life he
married a second time, a Stockholm woman of questionable character, much
younger than he, who goaded him into every sort of extravagance. On the
shipbuilder’s part, this marriage was an infatuation, the despairing folly of a
powerful man who cannot bear to grow old. In a few years his unprincipled wife
warped the probity of a lifetime. He speculated, lost his own fortune and funds
entrusted to him by poor seafaring men, and died disgraced, leaving his
children nothing. But when all was said, he had come up from the sea himself,
had built up a proud little business with no capital but his own skill and
foresight, and had proved himself a man. In his daughter, John Bergson
recognized the strength of will, and the simple direct way of thinking things
out, that had characterized his father in his better days. He would much
rather, of course, have seen this likeness in one of his sons, but it was not a
question of choice. As he lay there day after day he had to accept the
situation as it was, and to be thankful that there was one among his children
to whom he could entrust the future of his family and the possibilities of his
hard-won land.
</p>
<p>
The winter twilight was fading. The sick man heard his wife strike a match in
the kitchen, and the light of a lamp glimmered through the cracks of the door.
It seemed like a light shining far away. He turned painfully in his bed and
looked at his white hands, with all the work gone out of them. He was ready to
give up, he felt. He did not know how it had come about, but he was quite
willing to go deep under his fields and rest, where the plow could not find
him. He was tired of making mistakes. He was content to leave the tangle to
other hands; he thought of his Alexandra’s strong ones.
</p>
<p>
“<i>Dotter</i>,” he called feebly, “<i>dotter!</i>” He heard her quick step and
saw her tall figure appear in the doorway, with the light of the lamp behind
her. He felt her youth and strength, how easily she moved and stooped and
lifted. But he would not have had it again if he could, not he! He knew the end
too well to wish to begin again. He knew where it all went to, what it all
became.
</p>
<p>
His daughter came and lifted him up on his pillows. She called him by an old
Swedish name that she used to call him when she was little and took his dinner
to him in the shipyard.
</p>
<p>
“Tell the boys to come here, daughter. I want to speak to them.”
</p>
<p>
“They are feeding the horses, father. They have just come back from the Blue.
Shall I call them?”
</p>
<p>
He sighed. “No, no. Wait until they come in. Alexandra, you will have to do the
best you can for your brothers. Everything will come on you.”
</p>
<p>
“I will do all I can, father.”
</p>
<p>
“Don’t let them get discouraged and go off like Uncle Otto. I want them to keep
the land.”
</p>
<p>
“We will, father. We will never lose the land.”
</p>
<p>
There was a sound of heavy feet in the kitchen. Alexandra went to the door and
beckoned to her brothers, two strapping boys of seventeen and nineteen. They
came in and stood at the foot of the bed. Their father looked at them
searchingly, though it was too dark to see their faces; they were just the same
boys, he told himself, he had not been mistaken in them. The square head and
heavy shoulders belonged to Oscar, the elder. The younger boy was quicker, but
vacillating.
</p>
<p>
“Boys,” said the father wearily, “I want you to keep the land together and to
be guided by your sister. I have talked to her since I have been sick, and she
knows all my wishes. I want no quarrels among my children, and so long as there
is one house there must be one head. Alexandra is the oldest, and she knows my
wishes. She will do the best she can. If she makes mistakes, she will not make
so many as I have made. When you marry, and want a house of your own, the land
will be divided fairly, according to the courts. But for the next few years you
will have it hard, and you must all keep together. Alexandra will manage the
best she can.”
</p>
<p>
Oscar, who was usually the last to speak, replied because he was the older,
“Yes, father. It would be so anyway, without your speaking. We will all work
the place together.”
</p>
<p>
“And you will be guided by your sister, boys, and be good brothers to her, and
good sons to your mother? That is good. And Alexandra must not work in the
fields any more. There is no necessity now. Hire a man when you need help. She
can make much more with her eggs and butter than the wages of a man. It was one
of my mistakes that I did not find that out sooner. Try to break a little more
land every year; sod corn is good for fodder. Keep turning the land, and always
put up more hay than you need. Don’t grudge your mother a little time for
plowing her garden and setting out fruit trees, even if it comes in a busy
season. She has been a good mother to you, and she has always missed the old
country.”
</p>
<p class="p2">
When they went back to the kitchen the boys sat down silently at the table.
Throughout the meal they looked down at their plates and did not lift their red
eyes. They did not eat much, although they had been working in the cold all
day, and there was a rabbit stewed in gravy for supper, and prune pies.
</p>
<p>
John Bergson had married beneath him, but he had married a good housewife. Mrs.
Bergson was a fair-skinned, corpulent woman, heavy and placid like her son,
Oscar, but there was something comfortable about her; perhaps it was her own
love of comfort. For eleven years she had worthily striven to maintain some
semblance of household order amid conditions that made order very difficult.
Habit was very strong with Mrs. Bergson, and her unremitting efforts to repeat
the routine of her old life among new surroundings had done a great deal to
keep the family from disintegrating morally and getting careless in their ways.
The Bergsons had a log house, for instance, only because Mrs. Bergson would not
live in a sod house. She missed the fish diet of her own country, and twice
every summer she sent the boys to the river, twenty miles to the southward, to
fish for channel cat. When the children were little she used to load them all
into the wagon, the baby in its crib, and go fishing herself.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra often said that if her mother were cast upon a desert island, she
would thank God for her deliverance, make a garden, and find something to
preserve. Preserving was almost a mania with Mrs. Bergson. Stout as she was,
she roamed the scrubby banks of Norway Creek looking for fox grapes and goose
plums, like a wild creature in search of prey. She made a yellow jam of the
insipid ground-cherries that grew on the prairie, flavoring it with lemon peel;
and she made a sticky dark conserve of garden tomatoes. She had experimented
even with the rank buffalo-pea, and she could not see a fine bronze cluster of
them without shaking her head and murmuring, “What a pity!” When there was
nothing more to preserve, she began to pickle. The amount of sugar she used in
these processes was sometimes a serious drain upon the family resources. She
was a good mother, but she was glad when her children were old enough not to be
in her way in the kitchen. She had never quite forgiven John Bergson for
bringing her to the end of the earth; but, now that she was there, she wanted
to be let alone to reconstruct her old life in so far as that was possible. She
could still take some comfort in the world if she had bacon in the cave, glass
jars on the shelves, and sheets in the press. She disapproved of all her
neighbors because of their slovenly housekeeping, and the women thought her
very proud. Once when Mrs. Bergson, on her way to Norway Creek, stopped to see
old Mrs. Lee, the old woman hid in the haymow “for fear Mis’ Bergson would
catch her barefoot.”
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_4_0004"></a>III</h2>
<p>
One Sunday afternoon in July, six months after John Bergson’s death, Carl was
sitting in the doorway of the Linstrum kitchen, dreaming over an illustrated
paper, when he heard the rattle of a wagon along the hill road. Looking up he
recognized the Bergsons’ team, with two seats in the wagon, which meant they
were off for a pleasure excursion. Oscar and Lou, on the front seat, wore their
cloth hats and coats, never worn except on Sundays, and Emil, on the second
seat with Alexandra, sat proudly in his new trousers, made from a pair of his
father’s, and a pink-striped shirt, with a wide ruffled collar. Oscar stopped
the horses and waved to Carl, who caught up his hat and ran through the melon
patch to join them.
</p>
<p>
“Want to go with us?” Lou called. “We’re going to Crazy Ivar’s to buy a
hammock.”
</p>
<p>
“Sure.” Carl ran up panting, and clambering over the wheel sat down beside
Emil. “I’ve always wanted to see Ivar’s pond. They say it’s the biggest in all
the country. Aren’t you afraid to go to Ivar’s in that new shirt, Emil? He
might want it and take it right off your back.”
</p>
<p>
Emil grinned. “I’d be awful scared to go,” he admitted, “if you big boys
weren’t along to take care of me. Did you ever hear him howl, Carl? People say
sometimes he runs about the country howling at night because he is afraid the
Lord will destroy him. Mother thinks he must have done something awful wicked.”
</p>
<p>
Lou looked back and winked at Carl. “What would you do, Emil, if you was out on
the prairie by yourself and seen him coming?”
</p>
<p>
Emil stared. “Maybe I could hide in a badger-hole,” he suggested doubtfully.
</p>
<p>
“But suppose there wasn’t any badger-hole,” Lou persisted. “Would you run?”
</p>
<p>
“No, I’d be too scared to run,” Emil admitted mournfully, twisting his fingers.
“I guess I’d sit right down on the ground and say my prayers.”
</p>
<p>
The big boys laughed, and Oscar brandished his whip over the broad backs of the
horses.
</p>
<p>
“He wouldn’t hurt you, Emil,” said Carl persuasively. “He came to doctor our
mare when she ate green corn and swelled up most as big as the water-tank. He
petted her just like you do your cats. I couldn’t understand much he said, for
he don’t talk any English, but he kept patting her and groaning as if he had
the pain himself, and saying, ‘There now, sister, that’s easier, that’s
better!’”
</p>
<p>
Lou and Oscar laughed, and Emil giggled delightedly and looked up at his
sister.
</p>
<p>
“I don’t think he knows anything at all about doctoring,” said Oscar
scornfully. “They say when horses have distemper he takes the medicine himself,
and then prays over the horses.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra spoke up. “That’s what the Crows said, but he cured their horses, all
the same. Some days his mind is cloudy, like. But if you can get him on a clear
day, you can learn a great deal from him. He understands animals. Didn’t I see
him take the horn off the Berquist’s cow when she had torn it loose and went
crazy? She was tearing all over the place, knocking herself against things. And
at last she ran out on the roof of the old dugout and her legs went through and
there she stuck, bellowing. Ivar came running with his white bag, and the
moment he got to her she was quiet and let him saw her horn off and daub the
place with tar.”
</p>
<p>
Emil had been watching his sister, his face reflecting the sufferings of the
cow. “And then didn’t it hurt her any more?” he asked.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra patted him. “No, not any more. And in two days they could use her
milk again.”
</p>
<p>
The road to Ivar’s homestead was a very poor one. He had settled in the rough
country across the county line, where no one lived but some Russians,—half a
dozen families who dwelt together in one long house, divided off like barracks.
Ivar had explained his choice by saying that the fewer neighbors he had, the
fewer temptations. Nevertheless, when one considered that his chief business
was horse-doctoring, it seemed rather short-sighted of him to live in the most
inaccessible place he could find. The Bergson wagon lurched along over the
rough hummocks and grass banks, followed the bottom of winding draws, or
skirted the margin of wide lagoons, where the golden coreopsis grew up out of
the clear water and the wild ducks rose with a whirr of wings.
</p>
<p>
Lou looked after them helplessly. “I wish I’d brought my gun, anyway,
Alexandra,” he said fretfully. “I could have hidden it under the straw in the
bottom of the wagon.”
</p>
<p>
“Then we’d have had to lie to Ivar. Besides, they say he can smell dead birds.
And if he knew, we wouldn’t get anything out of him, not even a hammock. I want
to talk to him, and he won’t talk sense if he’s angry. It makes him foolish.”
</p>
<p>
Lou sniffed. “Whoever heard of him talking sense, anyhow! I’d rather have ducks
for supper than Crazy Ivar’s tongue.”
</p>
<p>
Emil was alarmed. “Oh, but, Lou, you don’t want to make him mad! He might
howl!”
</p>
<p>
They all laughed again, and Oscar urged the horses up the crumbling side of a
clay bank. They had left the lagoons and the red grass behind them. In Crazy
Ivar’s country the grass was short and gray, the draws deeper than they were in
the Bergsons’ neighborhood, and the land was all broken up into hillocks and
clay ridges. The wild flowers disappeared, and only in the bottom of the draws
and gullies grew a few of the very toughest and hardiest: shoestring, and
ironweed, and snow-on-the-mountain.
</p>
<p>
“Look, look, Emil, there’s Ivar’s big pond!” Alexandra pointed to a shining
sheet of water that lay at the bottom of a shallow draw. At one end of the pond
was an earthen dam, planted with green willow bushes, and above it a door and a
single window were set into the hillside. You would not have seen them at all
but for the reflection of the sunlight upon the four panes of window-glass. And
that was all you saw. Not a shed, not a corral, not a well, not even a path
broken in the curly grass. But for the piece of rusty stovepipe sticking up
through the sod, you could have walked over the roof of Ivar’s dwelling without
dreaming that you were near a human habitation. Ivar had lived for three years
in the clay bank, without defiling the face of nature any more than the coyote
that had lived there before him had done.
</p>
<p>
When the Bergsons drove over the hill, Ivar was sitting in the doorway of his
house, reading the Norwegian Bible. He was a queerly shaped old man, with a
thick, powerful body set on short bow-legs. His shaggy white hair, falling in a
thick mane about his ruddy cheeks, made him look older than he was. He was
barefoot, but he wore a clean shirt of unbleached cotton, open at the neck. He
always put on a clean shirt when Sunday morning came round, though he never
went to church. He had a peculiar religion of his own and could not get on with
any of the denominations. Often he did not see anybody from one week’s end to
another. He kept a calendar, and every morning he checked off a day, so that he
was never in any doubt as to which day of the week it was. Ivar hired himself
out in threshing and corn-husking time, and he doctored sick animals when he
was sent for. When he was at home, he made hammocks out of twine and committed
chapters of the Bible to memory.
</p>
<p>
Ivar found contentment in the solitude he had sought out for himself. He
disliked the litter of human dwellings: the broken food, the bits of broken
china, the old wash-boilers and tea-kettles thrown into the sunflower patch. He
preferred the cleanness and tidiness of the wild sod. He always said that the
badgers had cleaner houses than people, and that when he took a housekeeper her
name would be Mrs. Badger. He best expressed his preference for his wild
homestead by saying that his Bible seemed truer to him there. If one stood in
the doorway of his cave, and looked off at the rough land, the smiling sky, the
curly grass white in the hot sunlight; if one listened to the rapturous song of
the lark, the drumming of the quail, the burr of the locust against that vast
silence, one understood what Ivar meant.
</p>
<p>
On this Sunday afternoon his face shone with happiness. He closed the book on
his knee, keeping the place with his horny finger, and repeated softly:—
</p>
<p class="poem">
He sendeth the springs into the valleys, which run among the hills;<br/>
They give drink to every beast of the field; the wild asses quench their
thirst.<br/>
The trees of the Lord are full of sap; the cedars of Lebanon which he hath
planted;<br/>
Where the birds make their nests: as for the stork, the fir trees are her
house.<br/>
The high hills are a refuge for the wild goats; and the rocks for the conies.
</p>
<p>
Before he opened his Bible again, Ivar heard the Bergsons’ wagon approaching,
and he sprang up and ran toward it.
</p>
<p>
“No guns, no guns!” he shouted, waving his arms distractedly.
</p>
<p>
“No, Ivar, no guns,” Alexandra called reassuringly.
</p>
<p>
He dropped his arms and went up to the wagon, smiling amiably and looking at
them out of his pale blue eyes.
</p>
<p>
“We want to buy a hammock, if you have one,” Alexandra explained, “and my
little brother, here, wants to see your big pond, where so many birds come.”
</p>
<p>
Ivar smiled foolishly, and began rubbing the horses’ noses and feeling about
their mouths behind the bits. “Not many birds just now. A few ducks this
morning; and some snipe come to drink. But there was a crane last week. She
spent one night and came back the next evening. I don’t know why. It is not her
season, of course. Many of them go over in the fall. Then the pond is full of
strange voices every night.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra translated for Carl, who looked thoughtful. “Ask him, Alexandra, if
it is true that a sea gull came here once. I have heard so.”
</p>
<p>
She had some difficulty in making the old man understand.
</p>
<p>
He looked puzzled at first, then smote his hands together as he remembered.
“Oh, yes, yes! A big white bird with long wings and pink feet. My! what a voice
she had! She came in the afternoon and kept flying about the pond and screaming
until dark. She was in trouble of some sort, but I could not understand her.
She was going over to the other ocean, maybe, and did not know how far it was.
She was afraid of never getting there. She was more mournful than our birds
here; she cried in the night. She saw the light from my window and darted up to
it. Maybe she thought my house was a boat, she was such a wild thing. Next
morning, when the sun rose, I went out to take her food, but she flew up into
the sky and went on her way.” Ivar ran his fingers through his thick hair. “I
have many strange birds stop with me here. They come from very far away and are
great company. I hope you boys never shoot wild birds?”
</p>
<p>
Lou and Oscar grinned, and Ivar shook his bushy head. “Yes, I know boys are
thoughtless. But these wild things are God’s birds. He watches over them and
counts them, as we do our cattle; Christ says so in the New Testament.”
</p>
<p>
“Now, Ivar,” Lou asked, “may we water our horses at your pond and give them
some feed? It’s a bad road to your place.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, yes, it is.” The old man scrambled about and began to loose the tugs. “A
bad road, eh, girls? And the bay with a colt at home!”
</p>
<p>
Oscar brushed the old man aside. “We’ll take care of the horses, Ivar. You’ll
be finding some disease on them. Alexandra wants to see your hammocks.”
</p>
<p>
Ivar led Alexandra and Emil to his little cave house. He had but one room,
neatly plastered and whitewashed, and there was a wooden floor. There was a
kitchen stove, a table covered with oilcloth, two chairs, a clock, a calendar,
a few books on the window-shelf; nothing more. But the place was as clean as a
cupboard.
</p>
<p>
“But where do you sleep, Ivar?” Emil asked, looking about.
</p>
<p>
Ivar unslung a hammock from a hook on the wall; in it was rolled a buffalo
robe. “There, my son. A hammock is a good bed, and in winter I wrap up in this
skin. Where I go to work, the beds are not half so easy as this.”
</p>
<p>
By this time Emil had lost all his timidity. He thought a cave a very superior
kind of house. There was something pleasantly unusual about it and about Ivar.
“Do the birds know you will be kind to them, Ivar? Is that why so many come?”
he asked.
</p>
<p>
Ivar sat down on the floor and tucked his feet under him. “See, little brother,
they have come from a long way, and they are very tired. From up there where
they are flying, our country looks dark and flat. They must have water to drink
and to bathe in before they can go on with their journey. They look this way
and that, and far below them they see something shining, like a piece of glass
set in the dark earth. That is my pond. They come to it and are not disturbed.
Maybe I sprinkle a little corn. They tell the other birds, and next year more
come this way. They have their roads up there, as we have down here.”
</p>
<p>
Emil rubbed his knees thoughtfully. “And is that true, Ivar, about the head
ducks falling back when they are tired, and the hind ones taking their place?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes. The point of the wedge gets the worst of it; they cut the wind. They can
only stand it there a little while—half an hour, maybe. Then they fall back and
the wedge splits a little, while the rear ones come up the middle to the front.
Then it closes up and they fly on, with a new edge. They are always changing
like that, up in the air. Never any confusion; just like soldiers who have been
drilled.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra had selected her hammock by the time the boys came up from the pond.
They would not come in, but sat in the shade of the bank outside while
Alexandra and Ivar talked about the birds and about his housekeeping, and why
he never ate meat, fresh or salt.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra was sitting on one of the wooden chairs, her arms resting on the
table. Ivar was sitting on the floor at her feet. “Ivar,” she said suddenly,
beginning to trace the pattern on the oilcloth with her forefinger, “I came
to-day more because I wanted to talk to you than because I wanted to buy a
hammock.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes?” The old man scraped his bare feet on the plank floor.
</p>
<p>
“We have a big bunch of hogs, Ivar. I wouldn’t sell in the spring, when
everybody advised me to, and now so many people are losing their hogs that I am
frightened. What can be done?”
</p>
<p>
Ivar’s little eyes began to shine. They lost their vagueness.
</p>
<p>
“You feed them swill and such stuff? Of course! And sour milk? Oh, yes! And
keep them in a stinking pen? I tell you, sister, the hogs of this country are
put upon! They become unclean, like the hogs in the Bible. If you kept your
chickens like that, what would happen? You have a little sorghum patch, maybe?
Put a fence around it, and turn the hogs in. Build a shed to give them shade, a
thatch on poles. Let the boys haul water to them in barrels, clean water, and
plenty. Get them off the old stinking ground, and do not let them go back there
until winter. Give them only grain and clean feed, such as you would give
horses or cattle. Hogs do not like to be filthy.”
</p>
<p>
The boys outside the door had been listening. Lou nudged his brother. “Come,
the horses are done eating. Let’s hitch up and get out of here. He’ll fill her
full of notions. She’ll be for having the pigs sleep with us, next.”
</p>
<p>
Oscar grunted and got up. Carl, who could not understand what Ivar said, saw
that the two boys were displeased. They did not mind hard work, but they hated
experiments and could never see the use of taking pains. Even Lou, who was more
elastic than his older brother, disliked to do anything different from their
neighbors. He felt that it made them conspicuous and gave people a chance to
talk about them.
</p>
<p>
Once they were on the homeward road, the boys forgot their ill-humor and joked
about Ivar and his birds. Alexandra did not propose any reforms in the care of
the pigs, and they hoped she had forgotten Ivar’s talk. They agreed that he was
crazier than ever, and would never be able to prove up on his land because he
worked it so little. Alexandra privately resolved that she would have a talk
with Ivar about this and stir him up. The boys persuaded Carl to stay for
supper and go swimming in the pasture pond after dark.
</p>
<p>
That evening, after she had washed the supper dishes, Alexandra sat down on the
kitchen doorstep, while her mother was mixing the bread. It was a still,
deep-breathing summer night, full of the smell of the hay fields. Sounds of
laughter and splashing came up from the pasture, and when the moon rose rapidly
above the bare rim of the prairie, the pond glittered like polished metal, and
she could see the flash of white bodies as the boys ran about the edge, or
jumped into the water. Alexandra watched the shimmering pool dreamily, but
eventually her eyes went back to the sorghum patch south of the barn, where she
was planning to make her new pig corral.
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_4_0005"></a>IV</h2>
<p>
For the first three years after John Bergson’s death, the affairs of his family
prospered. Then came the hard times that brought every one on the Divide to the
brink of despair; three years of drouth and failure, the last struggle of a
wild soil against the encroaching plowshare. The first of these fruitless
summers the Bergson boys bore courageously. The failure of the corn crop made
labor cheap. Lou and Oscar hired two men and put in bigger crops than ever
before. They lost everything they spent. The whole country was discouraged.
Farmers who were already in debt had to give up their land. A few foreclosures
demoralized the county. The settlers sat about on the wooden sidewalks in the
little town and told each other that the country was never meant for men to
live in; the thing to do was to get back to Iowa, to Illinois, to any place
that had been proved habitable. The Bergson boys, certainly, would have been
happier with their uncle Otto, in the bakery shop in Chicago. Like most of
their neighbors, they were meant to follow in paths already marked out for
them, not to break trails in a new country. A steady job, a few holidays,
nothing to think about, and they would have been very happy. It was no fault of
theirs that they had been dragged into the wilderness when they were little
boys. A pioneer should have imagination, should be able to enjoy the idea of
things more than the things themselves.
</p>
<p>
The second of these barren summers was passing. One September afternoon
Alexandra had gone over to the garden across the draw to dig sweet
potatoes—they had been thriving upon the weather that was fatal to everything
else. But when Carl Linstrum came up the garden rows to find her, she was not
working. She was standing lost in thought, leaning upon her pitchfork, her
sunbonnet lying beside her on the ground. The dry garden patch smelled of
drying vines and was strewn with yellow seed-cucumbers and pumpkins and
citrons. At one end, next the rhubarb, grew feathery asparagus, with red
berries. Down the middle of the garden was a row of gooseberry and currant
bushes. A few tough zenias and marigolds and a row of scarlet sage bore witness
to the buckets of water that Mrs. Bergson had carried there after sundown,
against the prohibition of her sons. Carl came quietly and slowly up the garden
path, looking intently at Alexandra. She did not hear him. She was standing
perfectly still, with that serious ease so characteristic of her. Her thick,
reddish braids, twisted about her head, fairly burned in the sunlight. The air
was cool enough to make the warm sun pleasant on one’s back and shoulders, and
so clear that the eye could follow a hawk up and up, into the blazing blue
depths of the sky. Even Carl, never a very cheerful boy, and considerably
darkened by these last two bitter years, loved the country on days like this,
felt something strong and young and wild come out of it, that laughed at care.
</p>
<p>
“Alexandra,” he said as he approached her, “I want to talk to you. Let’s sit
down by the gooseberry bushes.” He picked up her sack of potatoes and they
crossed the garden. “Boys gone to town?” he asked as he sank down on the warm,
sun-baked earth. “Well, we have made up our minds at last, Alexandra. We are
really going away.”
</p>
<p>
She looked at him as if she were a little frightened. “Really, Carl? Is it
settled?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, father has heard from St. Louis, and they will give him back his old job
in the cigar factory. He must be there by the first of November. They are
taking on new men then. We will sell the place for whatever we can get, and
auction the stock. We haven’t enough to ship. I am going to learn engraving
with a German engraver there, and then try to get work in Chicago.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra’s hands dropped in her lap. Her eyes became dreamy and filled with
tears.
</p>
<p>
Carl’s sensitive lower lip trembled. He scratched in the soft earth beside him
with a stick. “That’s all I hate about it, Alexandra,” he said slowly. “You’ve
stood by us through so much and helped father out so many times, and now it
seems as if we were running off and leaving you to face the worst of it. But it
isn’t as if we could really ever be of any help to you. We are only one more
drag, one more thing you look out for and feel responsible for. Father was
never meant for a farmer, you know that. And I hate it. We’d only get in deeper
and deeper.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, yes, Carl, I know. You are wasting your life here. You are able to do
much better things. You are nearly nineteen now, and I wouldn’t have you stay.
I’ve always hoped you would get away. But I can’t help feeling scared when I
think how I will miss you—more than you will ever know.” She brushed the tears
from her cheeks, not trying to hide them.
</p>
<p>
“But, Alexandra,” he said sadly and wistfully, “I’ve never been any real help
to you, beyond sometimes trying to keep the boys in a good humor.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra smiled and shook her head. “Oh, it’s not that. Nothing like that.
It’s by understanding me, and the boys, and mother, that you’ve helped me. I
expect that is the only way one person ever really can help another. I think
you are about the only one that ever helped me. Somehow it will take more
courage to bear your going than everything that has happened before.”
</p>
<p>
Carl looked at the ground. “You see, we’ve all depended so on you,” he said,
“even father. He makes me laugh. When anything comes up he always says, ‘I
wonder what the Bergsons are going to do about that? I guess I’ll go and ask
her.’ I’ll never forget that time, when we first came here, and our horse had
the colic, and I ran over to your place—your father was away, and you came home
with me and showed father how to let the wind out of the horse. You were only a
little girl then, but you knew ever so much more about farm work than poor
father. You remember how homesick I used to get, and what long talks we used to
have coming from school? We’ve someway always felt alike about things.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, that’s it; we’ve liked the same things and we’ve liked them together,
without anybody else knowing. And we’ve had good times, hunting for Christmas
trees and going for ducks and making our plum wine together every year. We’ve
never either of us had any other close friend. And now—” Alexandra wiped her
eyes with the corner of her apron, “and now I must remember that you are going
where you will have many friends, and will find the work you were meant to do.
But you’ll write to me, Carl? That will mean a great deal to me here.”
</p>
<p>
“I’ll write as long as I live,” cried the boy impetuously. “And I’ll be working
for you as much as for myself, Alexandra. I want to do something you’ll like
and be proud of. I’m a fool here, but I know I can do something!” He sat up and
frowned at the red grass.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra sighed. “How discouraged the boys will be when they hear. They always
come home from town discouraged, anyway. So many people are trying to leave the
country, and they talk to our boys and make them low-spirited. I’m afraid they
are beginning to feel hard toward me because I won’t listen to any talk about
going. Sometimes I feel like I’m getting tired of standing up for this
country.”
</p>
<p>
“I won’t tell the boys yet, if you’d rather not.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, I’ll tell them myself, to-night, when they come home. They’ll be talking
wild, anyway, and no good comes of keeping bad news. It’s all harder on them
than it is on me. Lou wants to get married, poor boy, and he can’t until times
are better. See, there goes the sun, Carl. I must be getting back. Mother will
want her potatoes. It’s chilly already, the moment the light goes.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra rose and looked about. A golden afterglow throbbed in the west, but
the country already looked empty and mournful. A dark moving mass came over the
western hill, the Lee boy was bringing in the herd from the other half-section.
Emil ran from the windmill to open the corral gate. From the log house, on the
little rise across the draw, the smoke was curling. The cattle lowed and
bellowed. In the sky the pale half-moon was slowly silvering. Alexandra and
Carl walked together down the potato rows. “I have to keep telling myself what
is going to happen,” she said softly. “Since you have been here, ten years now,
I have never really been lonely. But I can remember what it was like before.
Now I shall have nobody but Emil. But he is my boy, and he is tender-hearted.”
</p>
<p>
That night, when the boys were called to supper, they sat down moodily. They
had worn their coats to town, but they ate in their striped shirts and
suspenders. They were grown men now, and, as Alexandra said, for the last few
years they had been growing more and more like themselves. Lou was still the
slighter of the two, the quicker and more intelligent, but apt to go off at
half-cock. He had a lively blue eye, a thin, fair skin (always burned red to
the neckband of his shirt in summer), stiff, yellow hair that would not lie
down on his head, and a bristly little yellow mustache, of which he was very
proud. Oscar could not grow a mustache; his pale face was as bare as an egg,
and his white eyebrows gave it an empty look. He was a man of powerful body and
unusual endurance; the sort of man you could attach to a corn-sheller as you
would an engine. He would turn it all day, without hurrying, without slowing
down. But he was as indolent of mind as he was unsparing of his body. His love
of routine amounted to a vice. He worked like an insect, always doing the same
thing over in the same way, regardless of whether it was best or no. He felt
that there was a sovereign virtue in mere bodily toil, and he rather liked to
do things in the hardest way. If a field had once been in corn, he couldn’t
bear to put it into wheat. He liked to begin his corn-planting at the same time
every year, whether the season were backward or forward. He seemed to feel that
by his own irreproachable regularity he would clear himself of blame and
reprove the weather. When the wheat crop failed, he threshed the straw at a
dead loss to demonstrate how little grain there was, and thus prove his case
against Providence.
</p>
<p>
Lou, on the other hand, was fussy and flighty; always planned to get through
two days’ work in one, and often got only the least important things done. He
liked to keep the place up, but he never got round to doing odd jobs until he
had to neglect more pressing work to attend to them. In the middle of the wheat
harvest, when the grain was over-ripe and every hand was needed, he would stop
to mend fences or to patch the harness; then dash down to the field and
overwork and be laid up in bed for a week. The two boys balanced each other,
and they pulled well together. They had been good friends since they were
children. One seldom went anywhere, even to town, without the other.
</p>
<p>
To-night, after they sat down to supper, Oscar kept looking at Lou as if he
expected him to say something, and Lou blinked his eyes and frowned at his
plate. It was Alexandra herself who at last opened the discussion.
</p>
<p>
“The Linstrums,” she said calmly, as she put another plate of hot biscuit on
the table, “are going back to St. Louis. The old man is going to work in the
cigar factory again.”
</p>
<p>
At this Lou plunged in. “You see, Alexandra, everybody who can crawl out is
going away. There’s no use of us trying to stick it out, just to be stubborn.
There’s something in knowing when to quit.”
</p>
<p>
“Where do you want to go, Lou?”
</p>
<p>
“Any place where things will grow,” said Oscar grimly.
</p>
<p>
Lou reached for a potato. “Chris Arnson has traded his half-section for a place
down on the river.”
</p>
<p>
“Who did he trade with?”
</p>
<p>
“Charley Fuller, in town.”
</p>
<p>
“Fuller the real estate man? You see, Lou, that Fuller has a head on him. He’s
buying and trading for every bit of land he can get up here. It’ll make him a
rich man, some day.”
</p>
<p>
“He’s rich now, that’s why he can take a chance.”
</p>
<p>
“Why can’t we? We’ll live longer than he will. Some day the land itself will be
worth more than all we can ever raise on it.”
</p>
<p>
Lou laughed. “It could be worth that, and still not be worth much. Why,
Alexandra, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Our place wouldn’t bring
now what it would six years ago. The fellows that settled up here just made a
mistake. Now they’re beginning to see this high land wasn’t never meant to grow
nothing on, and everybody who ain’t fixed to graze cattle is trying to crawl
out. It’s too high to farm up here. All the Americans are skinning out. That
man Percy Adams, north of town, told me that he was going to let Fuller take
his land and stuff for four hundred dollars and a ticket to Chicago.”
</p>
<p>
“There’s Fuller again!” Alexandra exclaimed. “I wish that man would take me for
a partner. He’s feathering his nest! If only poor people could learn a little
from rich people! But all these fellows who are running off are bad farmers,
like poor Mr. Linstrum. They couldn’t get ahead even in good years, and they
all got into debt while father was getting out. I think we ought to hold on as
long as we can on father’s account. He was so set on keeping this land. He must
have seen harder times than this, here. How was it in the early days, mother?”
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Bergson was weeping quietly. These family discussions always depressed
her, and made her remember all that she had been torn away from. “I don’t see
why the boys are always taking on about going away,” she said, wiping her eyes.
“I don’t want to move again; out to some raw place, maybe, where we’d be worse
off than we are here, and all to do over again. I won’t move! If the rest of
you go, I will ask some of the neighbors to take me in, and stay and be buried
by father. I’m not going to leave him by himself on the prairie, for cattle to
run over.” She began to cry more bitterly.
</p>
<p>
The boys looked angry. Alexandra put a soothing hand on her mother’s shoulder.
“There’s no question of that, mother. You don’t have to go if you don’t want
to. A third of the place belongs to you by American law, and we can’t sell
without your consent. We only want you to advise us. How did it use to be when
you and father first came? Was it really as bad as this, or not?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, worse! Much worse,” moaned Mrs. Bergson. “Drouth, chince-bugs, hail,
everything! My garden all cut to pieces like sauerkraut. No grapes on the
creek, no nothing. The people all lived just like coyotes.”
</p>
<p>
Oscar got up and tramped out of the kitchen. Lou followed him. They felt that
Alexandra had taken an unfair advantage in turning their mother loose on them.
The next morning they were silent and reserved. They did not offer to take the
women to church, but went down to the barn immediately after breakfast and
stayed there all day. When Carl Linstrum came over in the afternoon, Alexandra
winked to him and pointed toward the barn. He understood her and went down to
play cards with the boys. They believed that a very wicked thing to do on
Sunday, and it relieved their feelings.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra stayed in the house. On Sunday afternoon Mrs. Bergson always took a
nap, and Alexandra read. During the week she read only the newspaper, but on
Sunday, and in the long evenings of winter, she read a good deal; read a few
things over a great many times. She knew long portions of the “Frithjof Saga”
by heart, and, like most Swedes who read at all, she was fond of Longfellow’s
verse,—the ballads and the “Golden Legend” and “The Spanish Student.” To-day
she sat in the wooden rocking-chair with the Swedish Bible open on her knees,
but she was not reading. She was looking thoughtfully away at the point where
the upland road disappeared over the rim of the prairie. Her body was in an
attitude of perfect repose, such as it was apt to take when she was thinking
earnestly. Her mind was slow, truthful, steadfast. She had not the least spark
of cleverness.
</p>
<p>
All afternoon the sitting-room was full of quiet and sunlight. Emil was making
rabbit traps in the kitchen shed. The hens were clucking and scratching brown
holes in the flower beds, and the wind was teasing the prince’s feather by the
door.
</p>
<p>
That evening Carl came in with the boys to supper.
</p>
<p>
“Emil,” said Alexandra, when they were all seated at the table, “how would you
like to go traveling? Because I am going to take a trip, and you can go with me
if you want to.”
</p>
<p>
The boys looked up in amazement; they were always afraid of Alexandra’s
schemes. Carl was interested.
</p>
<p>
“I’ve been thinking, boys,” she went on, “that maybe I am too set against
making a change. I’m going to take Brigham and the buckboard to-morrow and
drive down to the river country and spend a few days looking over what they’ve
got down there. If I find anything good, you boys can go down and make a
trade.”
</p>
<p>
“Nobody down there will trade for anything up here,” said Oscar gloomily.
</p>
<p>
“That’s just what I want to find out. Maybe they are just as discontented down
there as we are up here. Things away from home often look better than they are.
You know what your Hans Andersen book says, Carl, about the Swedes liking to
buy Danish bread and the Danes liking to buy Swedish bread, because people
always think the bread of another country is better than their own. Anyway,
I’ve heard so much about the river farms, I won’t be satisfied till I’ve seen
for myself.”
</p>
<p>
Lou fidgeted. “Look out! Don’t agree to anything. Don’t let them fool you.”
</p>
<p>
Lou was apt to be fooled himself. He had not yet learned to keep away from the
shell-game wagons that followed the circus.
</p>
<p>
After supper Lou put on a necktie and went across the fields to court Annie
Lee, and Carl and Oscar sat down to a game of checkers, while Alexandra read
“The Swiss Family Robinson” aloud to her mother and Emil. It was not long
before the two boys at the table neglected their game to listen. They were all
big children together, and they found the adventures of the family in the tree
house so absorbing that they gave them their undivided attention.
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_4_0006"></a>V</h2>
<p>
Alexandra and Emil spent five days down among the river farms, driving up and
down the valley. Alexandra talked to the men about their crops and to the women
about their poultry. She spent a whole day with one young farmer who had been
away at school, and who was experimenting with a new kind of clover hay. She
learned a great deal. As they drove along, she and Emil talked and planned. At
last, on the sixth day, Alexandra turned Brigham’s head northward and left the
river behind.
</p>
<p>
“There’s nothing in it for us down there, Emil. There are a few fine farms, but
they are owned by the rich men in town, and couldn’t be bought. Most of the
land is rough and hilly. They can always scrape along down there, but they can
never do anything big. Down there they have a little certainty, but up with us
there is a big chance. We must have faith in the high land, Emil. I want to
hold on harder than ever, and when you’re a man you’ll thank me.” She urged
Brigham forward.
</p>
<p>
When the road began to climb the first long swells of the Divide, Alexandra
hummed an old Swedish hymn, and Emil wondered why his sister looked so happy.
Her face was so radiant that he felt shy about asking her. For the first time,
perhaps, since that land emerged from the waters of geologic ages, a human face
was set toward it with love and yearning. It seemed beautiful to her, rich and
strong and glorious. Her eyes drank in the breadth of it, until her tears
blinded her. Then the Genius of the Divide, the great, free spirit which
breathes across it, must have bent lower than it ever bent to a human will
before. The history of every country begins in the heart of a man or a woman.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra reached home in the afternoon. That evening she held a family council
and told her brothers all that she had seen and heard.
</p>
<p>
“I want you boys to go down yourselves and look it over. Nothing will convince
you like seeing with your own eyes. The river land was settled before this, and
so they are a few years ahead of us, and have learned more about farming. The
land sells for three times as much as this, but in five years we will double
it. The rich men down there own all the best land, and they are buying all they
can get. The thing to do is to sell our cattle and what little old corn we
have, and buy the Linstrum place. Then the next thing to do is to take out two
loans on our half-sections, and buy Peter Crow’s place; raise every dollar we
can, and buy every acre we can.”
</p>
<p>
“Mortgage the homestead again?” Lou cried. He sprang up and began to wind the
clock furiously. “I won’t slave to pay off another mortgage. I’ll never do it.
You’d just as soon kill us all, Alexandra, to carry out some scheme!”
</p>
<p>
Oscar rubbed his high, pale forehead. “How do you propose to pay off your
mortgages?”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra looked from one to the other and bit her lip. They had never seen her
so nervous. “See here,” she brought out at last. “We borrow the money for six
years. Well, with the money we buy a half-section from Linstrum and a half from
Crow, and a quarter from Struble, maybe. That will give us upwards of fourteen
hundred acres, won’t it? You won’t have to pay off your mortgages for six
years. By that time, any of this land will be worth thirty dollars an acre—it
will be worth fifty, but we’ll say thirty; then you can sell a garden patch
anywhere, and pay off a debt of sixteen hundred dollars. It’s not the principal
I’m worried about, it’s the interest and taxes. We’ll have to strain to meet
the payments. But as sure as we are sitting here to-night, we can sit down here
ten years from now independent landowners, not struggling farmers any longer.
The chance that father was always looking for has come.”
</p>
<p>
Lou was pacing the floor. “But how do you <i>know</i> that land is going to go
up enough to pay the mortgages and—”
</p>
<p>
“And make us rich besides?” Alexandra put in firmly. “I can’t explain that,
Lou. You’ll have to take my word for it. I <i>know</i>, that’s all. When you
drive about over the country you can feel it coming.”
</p>
<p>
Oscar had been sitting with his head lowered, his hands hanging between his
knees. “But we can’t work so much land,” he said dully, as if he were talking
to himself. “We can’t even try. It would just lie there and we’d work ourselves
to death.” He sighed, and laid his calloused fist on the table.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra’s eyes filled with tears. She put her hand on his shoulder. “You poor
boy, you won’t have to work it. The men in town who are buying up other
people’s land don’t try to farm it. They are the men to watch, in a new
country. Let’s try to do like the shrewd ones, and not like these stupid
fellows. I don’t want you boys always to have to work like this. I want you to
be independent, and Emil to go to school.”
</p>
<p>
Lou held his head as if it were splitting. “Everybody will say we are crazy. It
must be crazy, or everybody would be doing it.”
</p>
<p>
“If they were, we wouldn’t have much chance. No, Lou, I was talking about that
with the smart young man who is raising the new kind of clover. He says the
right thing is usually just what everybody don’t do. Why are we better fixed
than any of our neighbors? Because father had more brains. Our people were
better people than these in the old country. We <i>ought</i> to do more than
they do, and see further ahead. Yes, mother, I’m going to clear the table now.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra rose. The boys went to the stable to see to the stock, and they were
gone a long while. When they came back Lou played on his <i>dragharmonika</i>
and Oscar sat figuring at his father’s secretary all evening. They said nothing
more about Alexandra’s project, but she felt sure now that they would consent
to it. Just before bedtime Oscar went out for a pail of water. When he did not
come back, Alexandra threw a shawl over her head and ran down the path to the
windmill. She found him sitting there with his head in his hands, and she sat
down beside him.
</p>
<p>
“Don’t do anything you don’t want to do, Oscar,” she whispered. She waited a
moment, but he did not stir. “I won’t say any more about it, if you’d rather
not. What makes you so discouraged?”
</p>
<p>
“I dread signing my name to them pieces of paper,” he said slowly. “All the
time I was a boy we had a mortgage hanging over us.”
</p>
<p>
“Then don’t sign one. I don’t want you to, if you feel that way.”
</p>
<p>
Oscar shook his head. “No, I can see there’s a chance that way. I’ve thought a
good while there might be. We’re in so deep now, we might as well go deeper.
But it’s hard work pulling out of debt. Like pulling a threshing-machine out of
the mud; breaks your back. Me and Lou’s worked hard, and I can’t see it’s got
us ahead much.”
</p>
<p>
“Nobody knows about that as well as I do, Oscar. That’s why I want to try an
easier way. I don’t want you to have to grub for every dollar.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, I know what you mean. Maybe it’ll come out right. But signing papers is
signing papers. There ain’t no maybe about that.” He took his pail and trudged
up the path to the house.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra drew her shawl closer about her and stood leaning against the frame
of the mill, looking at the stars which glittered so keenly through the frosty
autumn air. She always loved to watch them, to think of their vastness and
distance, and of their ordered march. It fortified her to reflect upon the
great operations of nature, and when she thought of the law that lay behind
them, she felt a sense of personal security. That night she had a new
consciousness of the country, felt almost a new relation to it. Even her talk
with the boys had not taken away the feeling that had overwhelmed her when she
drove back to the Divide that afternoon. She had never known before how much
the country meant to her. The chirping of the insects down in the long grass
had been like the sweetest music. She had felt as if her heart were hiding down
there, somewhere, with the quail and the plover and all the little wild things
that crooned or buzzed in the sun. Under the long shaggy ridges, she felt the
future stirring.
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_PART2"></a>PART II.<br/>
Neighboring Fields</h2>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_4_0008"></a>I</h2>
<p>
IT is sixteen years since John Bergson died. His wife now lies beside him, and
the white shaft that marks their graves gleams across the wheat-fields. Could
he rise from beneath it, he would not know the country under which he has been
asleep. The shaggy coat of the prairie, which they lifted to make him a bed,
has vanished forever. From the Norwegian graveyard one looks out over a vast
checker-board, marked off in squares of wheat and corn; light and dark, dark
and light. Telephone wires hum along the white roads, which always run at right
angles. From the graveyard gate one can count a dozen gayly painted farmhouses;
the gilded weather-vanes on the big red barns wink at each other across the
green and brown and yellow fields. The light steel windmills tremble throughout
their frames and tug at their moorings, as they vibrate in the wind that often
blows from one week’s end to another across that high, active, resolute stretch
of country.
</p>
<p>
The Divide is now thickly populated. The rich soil yields heavy harvests; the
dry, bracing climate and the smoothness of the land make labor easy for men and
beasts. There are few scenes more gratifying than a spring plowing in that
country, where the furrows of a single field often lie a mile in length, and
the brown earth, with such a strong, clean smell, and such a power of growth
and fertility in it, yields itself eagerly to the plow; rolls away from the
shear, not even dimming the brightness of the metal, with a soft, deep sigh of
happiness. The wheat-cutting sometimes goes on all night as well as all day,
and in good seasons there are scarcely men and horses enough to do the
harvesting. The grain is so heavy that it bends toward the blade and cuts like
velvet.
</p>
<p>
There is something frank and joyous and young in the open face of the country.
It gives itself ungrudgingly to the moods of the season, holding nothing back.
Like the plains of Lombardy, it seems to rise a little to meet the sun. The air
and the earth are curiously mated and intermingled, as if the one were the
breath of the other. You feel in the atmosphere the same tonic, puissant
quality that is in the tilth, the same strength and resoluteness.
</p>
<p>
One June morning a young man stood at the gate of the Norwegian graveyard,
sharpening his scythe in strokes unconsciously timed to the tune he was
whistling. He wore a flannel cap and duck trousers, and the sleeves of his
white flannel shirt were rolled back to the elbow. When he was satisfied with
the edge of his blade, he slipped the whetstone into his hip pocket and began
to swing his scythe, still whistling, but softly, out of respect to the quiet
folk about him. Unconscious respect, probably, for he seemed intent upon his
own thoughts, and, like the Gladiator’s, they were far away. He was a splendid
figure of a boy, tall and straight as a young pine tree, with a handsome head,
and stormy gray eyes, deeply set under a serious brow. The space between his
two front teeth, which were unusually far apart, gave him the proficiency in
whistling for which he was distinguished at college. (He also played the cornet
in the University band.)
</p>
<p>
When the grass required his close attention, or when he had to stoop to cut
about a head-stone, he paused in his lively air,—the “Jewel” song,—taking it up
where he had left it when his scythe swung free again. He was not thinking
about the tired pioneers over whom his blade glittered. The old wild country,
the struggle in which his sister was destined to succeed while so many men
broke their hearts and died, he can scarcely remember. That is all among the
dim things of childhood and has been forgotten in the brighter pattern life
weaves to-day, in the bright facts of being captain of the track team, and
holding the interstate record for the high jump, in the all-suffusing
brightness of being twenty-one. Yet sometimes, in the pauses of his work, the
young man frowned and looked at the ground with an intentness which suggested
that even twenty-one might have its problems.
</p>
<p>
When he had been mowing the better part of an hour, he heard the rattle of a
light cart on the road behind him. Supposing that it was his sister coming back
from one of her farms, he kept on with his work. The cart stopped at the gate
and a merry contralto voice called, “Almost through, Emil?” He dropped his
scythe and went toward the fence, wiping his face and neck with his
handkerchief. In the cart sat a young woman who wore driving gauntlets and a
wide shade hat, trimmed with red poppies. Her face, too, was rather like a
poppy, round and brown, with rich color in her cheeks and lips, and her dancing
yellow-brown eyes bubbled with gayety. The wind was flapping her big hat and
teasing a curl of her chestnut-colored hair. She shook her head at the tall
youth.
</p>
<p>
“What time did you get over here? That’s not much of a job for an athlete. Here
I’ve been to town and back. Alexandra lets you sleep late. Oh, I know! Lou’s
wife was telling me about the way she spoils you. I was going to give you a
lift, if you were done.” She gathered up her reins.
</p>
<p>
“But I will be, in a minute. Please wait for me, Marie,” Emil coaxed.
“Alexandra sent me to mow our lot, but I’ve done half a dozen others, you see.
Just wait till I finish off the Kourdnas’. By the way, they were Bohemians. Why
aren’t they up in the Catholic graveyard?”
</p>
<p>
“Free-thinkers,” replied the young woman laconically.
</p>
<p>
“Lots of the Bohemian boys at the University are,” said Emil, taking up his
scythe again. “What did you ever burn John Huss for, anyway? It’s made an awful
row. They still jaw about it in history classes.”
</p>
<p>
“We’d do it right over again, most of us,” said the young woman hotly. “Don’t
they ever teach you in your history classes that you’d all be heathen Turks if
it hadn’t been for the Bohemians?”
</p>
<p>
Emil had fallen to mowing. “Oh, there’s no denying you’re a spunky little
bunch, you Czechs,” he called back over his shoulder.
</p>
<p>
Marie Shabata settled herself in her seat and watched the rhythmical movement
of the young man’s long arms, swinging her foot as if in time to some air that
was going through her mind. The minutes passed. Emil mowed vigorously and Marie
sat sunning herself and watching the long grass fall. She sat with the ease
that belongs to persons of an essentially happy nature, who can find a
comfortable spot almost anywhere; who are supple, and quick in adapting
themselves to circumstances. After a final swish, Emil snapped the gate and
sprang into the cart, holding his scythe well out over the wheel. “There,” he
sighed. “I gave old man Lee a cut or so, too. Lou’s wife needn’t talk. I never
see Lou’s scythe over here.”
</p>
<p>
Marie clucked to her horse. “Oh, you know Annie!” She looked at the young man’s
bare arms. “How brown you’ve got since you came home. I wish I had an athlete
to mow my orchard. I get wet to my knees when I go down to pick cherries.”
</p>
<p>
“You can have one, any time you want him. Better wait until after it rains.”
Emil squinted off at the horizon as if he were looking for clouds.
</p>
<p>
“Will you? Oh, there’s a good boy!” She turned her head to him with a quick,
bright smile. He felt it rather than saw it. Indeed, he had looked away with
the purpose of not seeing it. “I’ve been up looking at Angélique’s wedding
clothes,” Marie went on, “and I’m so excited I can hardly wait until Sunday.
Amédée will be a handsome bridegroom. Is anybody but you going to stand up with
him? Well, then it will be a handsome wedding party.” She made a droll face at
Emil, who flushed. “Frank,” Marie continued, flicking her horse, “is cranky at
me because I loaned his saddle to Jan Smirka, and I’m terribly afraid he won’t
take me to the dance in the evening. Maybe the supper will tempt him. All
Angélique’s folks are baking for it, and all Amédée’s twenty cousins. There
will be barrels of beer. If once I get Frank to the supper, I’ll see that I
stay for the dance. And by the way, Emil, you mustn’t dance with me but once or
twice. You must dance with all the French girls. It hurts their feelings if you
don’t. They think you’re proud because you’ve been away to school or
something.”
</p>
<p>
Emil sniffed. “How do you know they think that?”
</p>
<p>
“Well, you didn’t dance with them much at Raoul Marcel’s party, and I could
tell how they took it by the way they looked at you—and at me.”
</p>
<p>
“All right,” said Emil shortly, studying the glittering blade of his scythe.
</p>
<p>
They drove westward toward Norway Creek, and toward a big white house that
stood on a hill, several miles across the fields. There were so many sheds and
outbuildings grouped about it that the place looked not unlike a tiny village.
A stranger, approaching it, could not help noticing the beauty and fruitfulness
of the outlying fields. There was something individual about the great farm, a
most unusual trimness and care for detail. On either side of the road, for a
mile before you reached the foot of the hill, stood tall osage orange hedges,
their glossy green marking off the yellow fields. South of the hill, in a low,
sheltered swale, surrounded by a mulberry hedge, was the orchard, its fruit
trees knee-deep in timothy grass. Any one thereabouts would have told you that
this was one of the richest farms on the Divide, and that the farmer was a
woman, Alexandra Bergson.
</p>
<p>
If you go up the hill and enter Alexandra’s big house, you will find that it is
curiously unfinished and uneven in comfort. One room is papered, carpeted,
over-furnished; the next is almost bare. The pleasantest rooms in the house are
the kitchen—where Alexandra’s three young Swedish girls chatter and cook and
pickle and preserve all summer long—and the sitting-room, in which Alexandra
has brought together the old homely furniture that the Bergsons used in their
first log house, the family portraits, and the few things her mother brought
from Sweden.
</p>
<p>
When you go out of the house into the flower garden, there you feel again the
order and fine arrangement manifest all over the great farm; in the fencing and
hedging, in the windbreaks and sheds, in the symmetrical pasture ponds, planted
with scrub willows to give shade to the cattle in fly-time. There is even a
white row of beehives in the orchard, under the walnut trees. You feel that,
properly, Alexandra’s house is the big out-of-doors, and that it is in the soil
that she expresses herself best.
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_4_0009"></a>II</h2>
<p>
Emil reached home a little past noon, and when he went into the kitchen
Alexandra was already seated at the head of the long table, having dinner with
her men, as she always did unless there were visitors. He slipped into his
empty place at his sister’s right. The three pretty young Swedish girls who did
Alexandra’s housework were cutting pies, refilling coffeecups, placing platters
of bread and meat and potatoes upon the red tablecloth, and continually getting
in each other’s way between the table and the stove. To be sure they always
wasted a good deal of time getting in each other’s way and giggling at each
other’s mistakes. But, as Alexandra had pointedly told her sisters-in-law, it
was to hear them giggle that she kept three young things in her kitchen; the
work she could do herself, if it were necessary. These girls, with their long
letters from home, their finery, and their love-affairs, afforded her a great
deal of entertainment, and they were company for her when Emil was away at
school.
</p>
<p>
Of the youngest girl, Signa, who has a pretty figure, mottled pink cheeks, and
yellow hair, Alexandra is very fond, though she keeps a sharp eye upon her.
Signa is apt to be skittish at mealtime, when the men are about, and to spill
the coffee or upset the cream. It is supposed that Nelse Jensen, one of the six
men at the dinner-table, is courting Signa, though he has been so careful not
to commit himself that no one in the house, least of all Signa, can tell just
how far the matter has progressed. Nelse watches her glumly as she waits upon
the table, and in the evening he sits on a bench behind the stove with his
DRAGHARMONIKA, playing mournful airs and watching her as she goes about her
work. When Alexandra asked Signa whether she thought Nelse was in earnest, the
poor child hid her hands under her apron and murmured, “I don’t know, ma’m. But
he scolds me about everything, like as if he wanted to have me!”
</p>
<p>
At Alexandra’s left sat a very old man, barefoot and wearing a long blue
blouse, open at the neck. His shaggy head is scarcely whiter than it was
sixteen years ago, but his little blue eyes have become pale and watery, and
his ruddy face is withered, like an apple that has clung all winter to the
tree. When Ivar lost his land through mismanagement a dozen years ago,
Alexandra took him in, and he has been a member of her household ever since. He
is too old to work in the fields, but he hitches and unhitches the work-teams
and looks after the health of the stock. Sometimes of a winter evening
Alexandra calls him into the sitting-room to read the Bible aloud to her, for
he still reads very well. He dislikes human habitations, so Alexandra has
fitted him up a room in the barn, where he is very comfortable, being near the
horses and, as he says, further from temptations. No one has ever found out
what his temptations are. In cold weather he sits by the kitchen fire and makes
hammocks or mends harness until it is time to go to bed. Then he says his
prayers at great length behind the stove, puts on his buffalo-skin coat and
goes out to his room in the barn.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra herself has changed very little. Her figure is fuller, and she has
more color. She seems sunnier and more vigorous than she did as a young girl.
But she still has the same calmness and deliberation of manner, the same clear
eyes, and she still wears her hair in two braids wound round her head. It is so
curly that fiery ends escape from the braids and make her head look like one of
the big double sunflowers that fringe her vegetable garden. Her face is always
tanned in summer, for her sunbonnet is oftener on her arm than on her head. But
where her collar falls away from her neck, or where her sleeves are pushed back
from her wrist, the skin is of such smoothness and whiteness as none but
Swedish women ever possess; skin with the freshness of the snow itself.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra did not talk much at the table, but she encouraged her men to talk,
and she always listened attentively, even when they seemed to be talking
foolishly.
</p>
<p>
To-day Barney Flinn, the big red-headed Irishman who had been with Alexandra
for five years and who was actually her foreman, though he had no such title,
was grumbling about the new silo she had put up that spring. It happened to be
the first silo on the Divide, and Alexandra’s neighbors and her men were
skeptical about it. “To be sure, if the thing don’t work, we’ll have plenty of
feed without it, indeed,” Barney conceded.
</p>
<p>
Nelse Jensen, Signa’s gloomy suitor, had his word. “Lou, he says he wouldn’t
have no silo on his place if you’d give it to him. He says the feed outen it
gives the stock the bloat. He heard of somebody lost four head of horses,
feedin’ ’em that stuff.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra looked down the table from one to another. “Well, the only way we can
find out is to try. Lou and I have different notions about feeding stock, and
that’s a good thing. It’s bad if all the members of a family think alike. They
never get anywhere. Lou can learn by my mistakes and I can learn by his. Isn’t
that fair, Barney?”
</p>
<p>
The Irishman laughed. He had no love for Lou, who was always uppish with him
and who said that Alexandra paid her hands too much. “I’ve no thought but to
give the thing an honest try, mum. ’T would be only right, after puttin’ so
much expense into it. Maybe Emil will come out an’ have a look at it wid me.”
He pushed back his chair, took his hat from the nail, and marched out with
Emil, who, with his university ideas, was supposed to have instigated the silo.
The other hands followed them, all except old Ivar. He had been depressed
throughout the meal and had paid no heed to the talk of the men, even when they
mentioned cornstalk bloat, upon which he was sure to have opinions.
</p>
<p>
“Did you want to speak to me, Ivar?” Alexandra asked as she rose from the
table. “Come into the sitting-room.”
</p>
<p>
The old man followed Alexandra, but when she motioned him to a chair he shook
his head. She took up her workbasket and waited for him to speak. He stood
looking at the carpet, his bushy head bowed, his hands clasped in front of him.
Ivar’s bandy legs seemed to have grown shorter with years, and they were
completely misfitted to his broad, thick body and heavy shoulders.
</p>
<p>
“Well, Ivar, what is it?” Alexandra asked after she had waited longer than
usual.
</p>
<p>
Ivar had never learned to speak English and his Norwegian was quaint and grave,
like the speech of the more old-fashioned people. He always addressed Alexandra
in terms of the deepest respect, hoping to set a good example to the kitchen
girls, whom he thought too familiar in their manners.
</p>
<p>
“Mistress,” he began faintly, without raising his eyes, “the folk have been
looking coldly at me of late. You know there has been talk.”
</p>
<p>
“Talk about what, Ivar?”
</p>
<p>
“About sending me away; to the asylum.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra put down her sewing-basket. “Nobody has come to me with such talk,”
she said decidedly. “Why need you listen? You know I would never consent to
such a thing.”
</p>
<p>
Ivar lifted his shaggy head and looked at her out of his little eyes. “They say
that you cannot prevent it if the folk complain of me, if your brothers
complain to the authorities. They say that your brothers are afraid—God
forbid!—that I may do you some injury when my spells are on me. Mistress, how
can any one think that?—that I could bite the hand that fed me!” The tears
trickled down on the old man’s beard.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra frowned. “Ivar, I wonder at you, that you should come bothering me
with such nonsense. I am still running my own house, and other people have
nothing to do with either you or me. So long as I am suited with you, there is
nothing to be said.”
</p>
<p>
Ivar pulled a red handkerchief out of the breast of his blouse and wiped his
eyes and beard. “But I should not wish you to keep me if, as they say, it is
against your interests, and if it is hard for you to get hands because I am
here.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra made an impatient gesture, but the old man put out his hand and went
on earnestly:—
</p>
<p>
“Listen, mistress, it is right that you should take these things into account.
You know that my spells come from God, and that I would not harm any living
creature. You believe that every one should worship God in the way revealed to
him. But that is not the way of this country. The way here is for all to do
alike. I am despised because I do not wear shoes, because I do not cut my hair,
and because I have visions. At home, in the old country, there were many like
me, who had been touched by God, or who had seen things in the graveyard at
night and were different afterward. We thought nothing of it, and let them
alone. But here, if a man is different in his feet or in his head, they put him
in the asylum. Look at Peter Kralik; when he was a boy, drinking out of a
creek, he swallowed a snake, and always after that he could eat only such food
as the creature liked, for when he ate anything else, it became enraged and
gnawed him. When he felt it whipping about in him, he drank alcohol to stupefy
it and get some ease for himself. He could work as good as any man, and his
head was clear, but they locked him up for being different in his stomach. That
is the way; they have built the asylum for people who are different, and they
will not even let us live in the holes with the badgers. Only your great
prosperity has protected me so far. If you had had ill-fortune, they would have
taken me to Hastings long ago.”
</p>
<p>
As Ivar talked, his gloom lifted. Alexandra had found that she could often
break his fasts and long penances by talking to him and letting him pour out
the thoughts that troubled him. Sympathy always cleared his mind, and ridicule
was poison to him.
</p>
<p>
“There is a great deal in what you say, Ivar. Like as not they will be wanting
to take me to Hastings because I have built a silo; and then I may take you
with me. But at present I need you here. Only don’t come to me again telling me
what people say. Let people go on talking as they like, and we will go on
living as we think best. You have been with me now for twelve years, and I have
gone to you for advice oftener than I have ever gone to any one. That ought to
satisfy you.”
</p>
<p>
Ivar bowed humbly. “Yes, mistress, I shall not trouble you with their talk
again. And as for my feet, I have observed your wishes all these years, though
you have never questioned me; washing them every night, even in winter.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra laughed. “Oh, never mind about your feet, Ivar. We can remember when
half our neighbors went barefoot in summer. I expect old Mrs. Lee would love to
slip her shoes off now sometimes, if she dared. I’m glad I’m not Lou’s
mother-in-law.”
</p>
<p>
Ivar looked about mysteriously and lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “You
know what they have over at Lou’s house? A great white tub, like the stone
water-troughs in the old country, to wash themselves in. When you sent me over
with the strawberries, they were all in town but the old woman Lee and the
baby. She took me in and showed me the thing, and she told me it was impossible
to wash yourself clean in it, because, in so much water, you could not make a
strong suds. So when they fill it up and send her in there, she pretends, and
makes a splashing noise. Then, when they are all asleep, she washes herself in
a little wooden tub she keeps under her bed.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra shook with laughter. “Poor old Mrs. Lee! They won’t let her wear
nightcaps, either. Never mind; when she comes to visit me, she can do all the
old things in the old way, and have as much beer as she wants. We’ll start an
asylum for old-time people, Ivar.”
</p>
<p>
Ivar folded his big handkerchief carefully and thrust it back into his blouse.
“This is always the way, mistress. I come to you sorrowing, and you send me
away with a light heart. And will you be so good as to tell the Irishman that
he is not to work the brown gelding until the sore on its shoulder is healed?”
</p>
<p>
“That I will. Now go and put Emil’s mare to the cart. I am going to drive up to
the north quarter to meet the man from town who is to buy my alfalfa hay.”
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_4_0010"></a>III</h2>
<p>
Alexandra was to hear more of Ivar’s case, however. On Sunday her married
brothers came to dinner. She had asked them for that day because Emil, who
hated family parties, would be absent, dancing at Amédée Chevalier’s wedding,
up in the French country. The table was set for company in the dining-room,
where highly varnished wood and colored glass and useless pieces of china were
conspicuous enough to satisfy the standards of the new prosperity. Alexandra
had put herself into the hands of the Hanover furniture dealer, and he had
conscientiously done his best to make her dining-room look like his display
window. She said frankly that she knew nothing about such things, and she was
willing to be governed by the general conviction that the more useless and
utterly unusable objects were, the greater their virtue as ornament. That
seemed reasonable enough. Since she liked plain things herself, it was all the
more necessary to have jars and punchbowls and candlesticks in the company
rooms for people who did appreciate them. Her guests liked to see about them
these reassuring emblems of prosperity.
</p>
<p>
The family party was complete except for Emil, and Oscar’s wife who, in the
country phrase, “was not going anywhere just now.” Oscar sat at the foot of the
table and his four tow-headed little boys, aged from twelve to five, were
ranged at one side. Neither Oscar nor Lou has changed much; they have simply,
as Alexandra said of them long ago, grown to be more and more like themselves.
Lou now looks the older of the two; his face is thin and shrewd and wrinkled
about the eyes, while Oscar’s is thick and dull. For all his dullness, however,
Oscar makes more money than his brother, which adds to Lou’s sharpness and
uneasiness and tempts him to make a show. The trouble with Lou is that he is
tricky, and his neighbors have found out that, as Ivar says, he has not a fox’s
face for nothing. Politics being the natural field for such talents, he
neglects his farm to attend conventions and to run for county offices.
</p>
<p>
Lou’s wife, formerly Annie Lee, has grown to look curiously like her husband.
Her face has become longer, sharper, more aggressive. She wears her yellow hair
in a high pompadour, and is bedecked with rings and chains and “beauty pins.”
Her tight, high-heeled shoes give her an awkward walk, and she is always more
or less preoccupied with her clothes. As she sat at the table, she kept telling
her youngest daughter to “be careful now, and not drop anything on mother.”
</p>
<p>
The conversation at the table was all in English. Oscar’s wife, from the
malaria district of Missouri, was ashamed of marrying a foreigner, and his boys
do not understand a word of Swedish. Annie and Lou sometimes speak Swedish at
home, but Annie is almost as much afraid of being “caught” at it as ever her
mother was of being caught barefoot. Oscar still has a thick accent, but Lou
speaks like anybody from Iowa.
</p>
<p>
“When I was in Hastings to attend the convention,” he was saying, “I saw the
superintendent of the asylum, and I was telling him about Ivar’s symptoms. He
says Ivar’s case is one of the most dangerous kind, and it’s a wonder he hasn’t
done something violent before this.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra laughed good-humoredly. “Oh, nonsense, Lou! The doctors would have us
all crazy if they could. Ivar’s queer, certainly, but he has more sense than
half the hands I hire.”
</p>
<p>
Lou flew at his fried chicken. “Oh, I guess the doctor knows his business,
Alexandra. He was very much surprised when I told him how you’d put up with
Ivar. He says he’s likely to set fire to the barn any night, or to take after
you and the girls with an axe.”
</p>
<p>
Little Signa, who was waiting on the table, giggled and fled to the kitchen.
Alexandra’s eyes twinkled. “That was too much for Signa, Lou. We all know that
Ivar’s perfectly harmless. The girls would as soon expect me to chase them with
an axe.”
</p>
<p>
Lou flushed and signaled to his wife. “All the same, the neighbors will be
having a say about it before long. He may burn anybody’s barn. It’s only
necessary for one property-owner in the township to make complaint, and he’ll
be taken up by force. You’d better send him yourself and not have any hard
feelings.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra helped one of her little nephews to gravy. “Well, Lou, if any of the
neighbors try that, I’ll have myself appointed Ivar’s guardian and take the
case to court, that’s all. I am perfectly satisfied with him.”
</p>
<p>
“Pass the preserves, Lou,” said Annie in a warning tone. She had reasons for
not wishing her husband to cross Alexandra too openly. “But don’t you sort of
hate to have people see him around here, Alexandra?” she went on with
persuasive smoothness. “He IS a disgraceful object, and you’re fixed up so nice
now. It sort of makes people distant with you, when they never know when
they’ll hear him scratching about. My girls are afraid as death of him, aren’t
you, Milly, dear?”
</p>
<p>
Milly was fifteen, fat and jolly and pompadoured, with a creamy complexion,
square white teeth, and a short upper lip. She looked like her grandmother
Bergson, and had her comfortable and comfort-loving nature. She grinned at her
aunt, with whom she was a great deal more at ease than she was with her mother.
Alexandra winked a reply.
</p>
<p>
“Milly needn’t be afraid of Ivar. She’s an especial favorite of his. In my
opinion Ivar has just as much right to his own way of dressing and thinking as
we have. But I’ll see that he doesn’t bother other people. I’ll keep him at
home, so don’t trouble any more about him, Lou. I’ve been wanting to ask you
about your new bathtub. How does it work?”
</p>
<p>
Annie came to the fore to give Lou time to recover himself. “Oh, it works
something grand! I can’t keep him out of it. He washes himself all over three
times a week now, and uses all the hot water. I think it’s weakening to stay in
as long as he does. You ought to have one, Alexandra.”
</p>
<p>
“I’m thinking of it. I might have one put in the barn for Ivar, if it will ease
people’s minds. But before I get a bathtub, I’m going to get a piano for
Milly.”
</p>
<p>
Oscar, at the end of the table, looked up from his plate. “What does Milly want
of a pianny? What’s the matter with her organ? She can make some use of that,
and play in church.”
</p>
<p>
Annie looked flustered. She had begged Alexandra not to say anything about this
plan before Oscar, who was apt to be jealous of what his sister did for Lou’s
children. Alexandra did not get on with Oscar’s wife at all. “Milly can play in
church just the same, and she’ll still play on the organ. But practising on it
so much spoils her touch. Her teacher says so,” Annie brought out with spirit.
</p>
<p>
Oscar rolled his eyes. “Well, Milly must have got on pretty good if she’s got
past the organ. I know plenty of grown folks that ain’t,” he said bluntly.
</p>
<p>
Annie threw up her chin. “She has got on good, and she’s going to play for her
commencement when she graduates in town next year.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes,” said Alexandra firmly, “I think Milly deserves a piano. All the girls
around here have been taking lessons for years, but Milly is the only one of
them who can ever play anything when you ask her. I’ll tell you when I first
thought I would like to give you a piano, Milly, and that was when you learned
that book of old Swedish songs that your grandfather used to sing. He had a
sweet tenor voice, and when he was a young man he loved to sing. I can remember
hearing him singing with the sailors down in the shipyard, when I was no bigger
than Stella here,” pointing to Annie’s younger daughter.
</p>
<p>
Milly and Stella both looked through the door into the sitting-room, where a
crayon portrait of John Bergson hung on the wall. Alexandra had had it made
from a little photograph, taken for his friends just before he left Sweden; a
slender man of thirty-five, with soft hair curling about his high forehead, a
drooping mustache, and wondering, sad eyes that looked forward into the
distance, as if they already beheld the New World.
</p>
<p>
After dinner Lou and Oscar went to the orchard to pick cherries—they had
neither of them had the patience to grow an orchard of their own—and Annie went
down to gossip with Alexandra’s kitchen girls while they washed the dishes. She
could always find out more about Alexandra’s domestic economy from the
prattling maids than from Alexandra herself, and what she discovered she used
to her own advantage with Lou. On the Divide, farmers’ daughters no longer went
out into service, so Alexandra got her girls from Sweden, by paying their fare
over. They stayed with her until they married, and were replaced by sisters or
cousins from the old country.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra took her three nieces into the flower garden. She was fond of the
little girls, especially of Milly, who came to spend a week with her aunt now
and then, and read aloud to her from the old books about the house, or listened
to stories about the early days on the Divide. While they were walking among
the flower beds, a buggy drove up the hill and stopped in front of the gate. A
man got out and stood talking to the driver. The little girls were delighted at
the advent of a stranger, some one from very far away, they knew by his
clothes, his gloves, and the sharp, pointed cut of his dark beard. The girls
fell behind their aunt and peeped out at him from among the castor beans. The
stranger came up to the gate and stood holding his hat in his hand, smiling,
while Alexandra advanced slowly to meet him. As she approached he spoke in a
low, pleasant voice.
</p>
<p>
“Don’t you know me, Alexandra? I would have known you, anywhere.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra shaded her eyes with her hand. Suddenly she took a quick step
forward. “Can it be!” she exclaimed with feeling; “can it be that it is Carl
Linstrum? Why, Carl, it is!” She threw out both her hands and caught his across
the gate. “Sadie, Milly, run tell your father and Uncle Oscar that our old
friend Carl Linstrum is here. Be quick! Why, Carl, how did it happen? I can’t
believe this!” Alexandra shook the tears from her eyes and laughed.
</p>
<p>
The stranger nodded to his driver, dropped his suitcase inside the fence, and
opened the gate. “Then you are glad to see me, and you can put me up overnight?
I couldn’t go through this country without stopping off to have a look at you.
How little you have changed! Do you know, I was sure it would be like that. You
simply couldn’t be different. How fine you are!” He stepped back and looked at
her admiringly.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra blushed and laughed again. “But you yourself, Carl—with that
beard—how could I have known you? You went away a little boy.” She reached for
his suitcase and when he intercepted her she threw up her hands. “You see, I
give myself away. I have only women come to visit me, and I do not know how to
behave. Where is your trunk?”
</p>
<p>
“It’s in Hanover. I can stay only a few days. I am on my way to the coast.”
</p>
<p>
They started up the path. “A few days? After all these years!” Alexandra shook
her finger at him. “See this, you have walked into a trap. You do not get away
so easy.” She put her hand affectionately on his shoulder. “You owe me a visit
for the sake of old times. Why must you go to the coast at all?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, I must! I am a fortune hunter. From Seattle I go on to Alaska.”
</p>
<p>
“Alaska?” She looked at him in astonishment. “Are you going to paint the
Indians?”
</p>
<p>
“Paint?” the young man frowned. “Oh! I’m not a painter, Alexandra. I’m an
engraver. I have nothing to do with painting.”
</p>
<p>
“But on my parlor wall I have the paintings—”
</p>
<p>
He interrupted nervously. “Oh, water-color sketches—done for amusement. I sent
them to remind you of me, not because they were good. What a wonderful place
you have made of this, Alexandra.” He turned and looked back at the wide,
map-like prospect of field and hedge and pasture. “I would never have believed
it could be done. I’m disappointed in my own eye, in my imagination.”
</p>
<p>
At this moment Lou and Oscar came up the hill from the orchard. They did not
quicken their pace when they saw Carl; indeed, they did not openly look in his
direction. They advanced distrustfully, and as if they wished the distance were
longer.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra beckoned to them. “They think I am trying to fool them. Come, boys,
it’s Carl Linstrum, our old Carl!”
</p>
<p>
Lou gave the visitor a quick, sidelong glance and thrust out his hand. “Glad to
see you.”
</p>
<p>
Oscar followed with “How d’ do.” Carl could not tell whether their offishness
came from unfriendliness or from embarrassment. He and Alexandra led the way to
the porch.
</p>
<p>
“Carl,” Alexandra explained, “is on his way to Seattle. He is going to Alaska.”
</p>
<p>
Oscar studied the visitor’s yellow shoes. “Got business there?” he asked.
</p>
<p>
Carl laughed. “Yes, very pressing business. I’m going there to get rich.
Engraving’s a very interesting profession, but a man never makes any money at
it. So I’m going to try the goldfields.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra felt that this was a tactful speech, and Lou looked up with some
interest. “Ever done anything in that line before?”
</p>
<p>
“No, but I’m going to join a friend of mine who went out from New York and has
done well. He has offered to break me in.”
</p>
<p>
“Turrible cold winters, there, I hear,” remarked Oscar. “I thought people went
up there in the spring.”
</p>
<p>
“They do. But my friend is going to spend the winter in Seattle and I am to
stay with him there and learn something about prospecting before we start north
next year.”
</p>
<p>
Lou looked skeptical. “Let’s see, how long have you been away from here?”
</p>
<p>
“Sixteen years. You ought to remember that, Lou, for you were married just
after we went away.”
</p>
<p>
“Going to stay with us some time?” Oscar asked.
</p>
<p>
“A few days, if Alexandra can keep me.”
</p>
<p>
“I expect you’ll be wanting to see your old place,” Lou observed more
cordially. “You won’t hardly know it. But there’s a few chunks of your old sod
house left. Alexandra wouldn’t never let Frank Shabata plough over it.”
</p>
<p>
Annie Lee, who, ever since the visitor was announced, had been touching up her
hair and settling her lace and wishing she had worn another dress, now emerged
with her three daughters and introduced them. She was greatly impressed by
Carl’s urban appearance, and in her excitement talked very loud and threw her
head about. “And you ain’t married yet? At your age, now! Think of that! You’ll
have to wait for Milly. Yes, we’ve got a boy, too. The youngest. He’s at home
with his grandma. You must come over to see mother and hear Milly play. She’s
the musician of the family. She does pyrography, too. That’s burnt wood, you
know. You wouldn’t believe what she can do with her poker. Yes, she goes to
school in town, and she is the youngest in her class by two years.”
</p>
<p>
Milly looked uncomfortable and Carl took her hand again. He liked her creamy
skin and happy, innocent eyes, and he could see that her mother’s way of
talking distressed her. “I’m sure she’s a clever little girl,” he murmured,
looking at her thoughtfully. “Let me see—Ah, it’s your mother that she looks
like, Alexandra. Mrs. Bergson must have looked just like this when she was a
little girl. Does Milly run about over the country as you and Alexandra used
to, Annie?”
</p>
<p>
Milly’s mother protested. “Oh, my, no! Things has changed since we was girls.
Milly has it very different. We are going to rent the place and move into town
as soon as the girls are old enough to go out into company. A good many are
doing that here now. Lou is going into business.”
</p>
<p>
Lou grinned. “That’s what she says. You better go get your things on. Ivar’s
hitching up,” he added, turning to Annie.
</p>
<p>
Young farmers seldom address their wives by name. It is always “you,” or “she.”
</p>
<p>
Having got his wife out of the way, Lou sat down on the step and began to
whittle. “Well, what do folks in New York think of William Jennings Bryan?” Lou
began to bluster, as he always did when he talked politics. “We gave Wall
Street a scare in ninety-six, all right, and we’re fixing another to hand them.
Silver wasn’t the only issue,” he nodded mysteriously. “There’s a good many
things got to be changed. The West is going to make itself heard.”
</p>
<p>
Carl laughed. “But, surely, it did do that, if nothing else.”
</p>
<p>
Lou’s thin face reddened up to the roots of his bristly hair. “Oh, we’ve only
begun. We’re waking up to a sense of our responsibilities, out here, and we
ain’t afraid, neither. You fellows back there must be a tame lot. If you had
any nerve you’d get together and march down to Wall Street and blow it up.
Dynamite it, I mean,” with a threatening nod.
</p>
<p>
He was so much in earnest that Carl scarcely knew how to answer him. “That
would be a waste of powder. The same business would go on in another street.
The street doesn’t matter. But what have you fellows out here got to kick
about? You have the only safe place there is. Morgan himself couldn’t touch
you. One only has to drive through this country to see that you’re all as rich
as barons.”
</p>
<p>
“We have a good deal more to say than we had when we were poor,” said Lou
threateningly. “We’re getting on to a whole lot of things.”
</p>
<p>
As Ivar drove a double carriage up to the gate, Annie came out in a hat that
looked like the model of a battleship. Carl rose and took her down to the
carriage, while Lou lingered for a word with his sister.
</p>
<p>
“What do you suppose he’s come for?” he asked, jerking his head toward the
gate.
</p>
<p>
“Why, to pay us a visit. I’ve been begging him to for years.”
</p>
<p>
Oscar looked at Alexandra. “He didn’t let you know he was coming?”
</p>
<p>
“No. Why should he? I told him to come at any time.”
</p>
<p>
Lou shrugged his shoulders. “He doesn’t seem to have done much for himself.
Wandering around this way!”
</p>
<p>
Oscar spoke solemnly, as from the depths of a cavern. “He never was much
account.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra left them and hurried down to the gate where Annie was rattling on to
Carl about her new dining-room furniture. “You must bring Mr. Linstrum over
real soon, only be sure to telephone me first,” she called back, as Carl helped
her into the carriage. Old Ivar, his white head bare, stood holding the horses.
Lou came down the path and climbed into the front seat, took up the reins, and
drove off without saying anything further to any one. Oscar picked up his
youngest boy and trudged off down the road, the other three trotting after him.
Carl, holding the gate open for Alexandra, began to laugh. “Up and coming on
the Divide, eh, Alexandra?” he cried gayly.
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_4_0011"></a>IV</h2>
<p>
Carl had changed, Alexandra felt, much less than one might have expected. He
had not become a trim, self-satisfied city man. There was still something
homely and wayward and definitely personal about him. Even his clothes, his
Norfolk coat and his very high collars, were a little unconventional. He seemed
to shrink into himself as he used to do; to hold himself away from things, as
if he were afraid of being hurt. In short, he was more self-conscious than a
man of thirty-five is expected to be. He looked older than his years and not
very strong. His black hair, which still hung in a triangle over his pale
forehead, was thin at the crown, and there were fine, relentless lines about
his eyes. His back, with its high, sharp shoulders, looked like the back of an
over-worked German professor off on his holiday. His face was intelligent,
sensitive, unhappy.
</p>
<p>
That evening after supper, Carl and Alexandra were sitting by the clump of
castor beans in the middle of the flower garden. The gravel paths glittered in
the moonlight, and below them the fields lay white and still.
</p>
<p>
“Do you know, Alexandra,” he was saying, “I’ve been thinking how strangely
things work out. I’ve been away engraving other men’s pictures, and you’ve
stayed at home and made your own.” He pointed with his cigar toward the
sleeping landscape. “How in the world have you done it? How have your neighbors
done it?”
</p>
<p>
“We hadn’t any of us much to do with it, Carl. The land did it. It had its
little joke. It pretended to be poor because nobody knew how to work it right;
and then, all at once, it worked itself. It woke up out of its sleep and
stretched itself, and it was so big, so rich, that we suddenly found we were
rich, just from sitting still. As for me, you remember when I began to buy
land. For years after that I was always squeezing and borrowing until I was
ashamed to show my face in the banks. And then, all at once, men began to come
to me offering to lend me money—and I didn’t need it! Then I went ahead and
built this house. I really built it for Emil. I want you to see Emil, Carl. He
is so different from the rest of us!”
</p>
<p>
“How different?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, you’ll see! I’m sure it was to have sons like Emil, and to give them a
chance, that father left the old country. It’s curious, too; on the outside
Emil is just like an American boy,—he graduated from the State University in
June, you know,—but underneath he is more Swedish than any of us. Sometimes he
is so like father that he frightens me; he is so violent in his feelings like
that.”
</p>
<p>
“Is he going to farm here with you?”
</p>
<p>
“He shall do whatever he wants to,” Alexandra declared warmly. “He is going to
have a chance, a whole chance; that’s what I’ve worked for. Sometimes he talks
about studying law, and sometimes, just lately, he’s been talking about going
out into the sand hills and taking up more land. He has his sad times, like
father. But I hope he won’t do that. We have land enough, at last!” Alexandra
laughed.
</p>
<p>
“How about Lou and Oscar? They’ve done well, haven’t they?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, very well; but they are different, and now that they have farms of their
own I do not see so much of them. We divided the land equally when Lou married.
They have their own way of doing things, and they do not altogether like my
way, I am afraid. Perhaps they think me too independent. But I have had to
think for myself a good many years and am not likely to change. On the whole,
though, we take as much comfort in each other as most brothers and sisters do.
And I am very fond of Lou’s oldest daughter.”
</p>
<p>
“I think I liked the old Lou and Oscar better, and they probably feel the same
about me. I even, if you can keep a secret,”—Carl leaned forward and touched
her arm, smiling,—“I even think I liked the old country better. This is all
very splendid in its way, but there was something about this country when it
was a wild old beast that has haunted me all these years. Now, when I come back
to all this milk and honey, I feel like the old German song, ‘Wo bist du, wo
bist du, mein geliebtest Land?’—Do you ever feel like that, I wonder?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, sometimes, when I think about father and mother and those who are gone;
so many of our old neighbors.” Alexandra paused and looked up thoughtfully at
the stars. “We can remember the graveyard when it was wild prairie, Carl, and
now—”
</p>
<p>
“And now the old story has begun to write itself over there,” said Carl softly.
“Isn’t it queer: there are only two or three human stories, and they go on
repeating themselves as fiercely as if they had never happened before; like the
larks in this country, that have been singing the same five notes over for
thousands of years.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, yes! The young people, they live so hard. And yet I sometimes envy them.
There is my little neighbor, now; the people who bought your old place. I
wouldn’t have sold it to any one else, but I was always fond of that girl. You
must remember her, little Marie Tovesky, from Omaha, who used to visit here?
When she was eighteen she ran away from the convent school and got married,
crazy child! She came out here a bride, with her father and husband. He had
nothing, and the old man was willing to buy them a place and set them up. Your
farm took her fancy, and I was glad to have her so near me. I’ve never been
sorry, either. I even try to get along with Frank on her account.”
</p>
<p>
“Is Frank her husband?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes. He’s one of these wild fellows. Most Bohemians are good-natured, but
Frank thinks we don’t appreciate him here, I guess. He’s jealous about
everything, his farm and his horses and his pretty wife. Everybody likes her,
just the same as when she was little. Sometimes I go up to the Catholic church
with Emil, and it’s funny to see Marie standing there laughing and shaking
hands with people, looking so excited and gay, with Frank sulking behind her as
if he could eat everybody alive. Frank’s not a bad neighbor, but to get on with
him you’ve got to make a fuss over him and act as if you thought he was a very
important person all the time, and different from other people. I find it hard
to keep that up from one year’s end to another.”
</p>
<p>
“I shouldn’t think you’d be very successful at that kind of thing, Alexandra.”
Carl seemed to find the idea amusing.
</p>
<p>
“Well,” said Alexandra firmly, “I do the best I can, on Marie’s account. She
has it hard enough, anyway. She’s too young and pretty for this sort of life.
We’re all ever so much older and slower. But she’s the kind that won’t be
downed easily. She’ll work all day and go to a Bohemian wedding and dance all
night, and drive the hay wagon for a cross man next morning. I could stay by a
job, but I never had the go in me that she has, when I was going my best. I’ll
have to take you over to see her to-morrow.”
</p>
<p>
Carl dropped the end of his cigar softly among the castor beans and sighed.
“Yes, I suppose I must see the old place. I’m cowardly about things that remind
me of myself. It took courage to come at all, Alexandra. I wouldn’t have, if I
hadn’t wanted to see you very, very much.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra looked at him with her calm, deliberate eyes. “Why do you dread
things like that, Carl?” she asked earnestly. “Why are you dissatisfied with
yourself?”
</p>
<p>
Her visitor winced. “How direct you are, Alexandra! Just like you used to be.
Do I give myself away so quickly? Well, you see, for one thing, there’s nothing
to look forward to in my profession. Wood-engraving is the only thing I care
about, and that had gone out before I began. Everything’s cheap metal work
nowadays, touching up miserable photographs, forcing up poor drawings, and
spoiling good ones. I’m absolutely sick of it all.” Carl frowned. “Alexandra,
all the way out from New York I’ve been planning how I could deceive you and
make you think me a very enviable fellow, and here I am telling you the truth
the first night. I waste a lot of time pretending to people, and the joke of it
is, I don’t think I ever deceive any one. There are too many of my kind; people
know us on sight.”
</p>
<p>
Carl paused. Alexandra pushed her hair back from her brow with a puzzled,
thoughtful gesture. “You see,” he went on calmly, “measured by your standards
here, I’m a failure. I couldn’t buy even one of your cornfields. I’ve enjoyed a
great many things, but I’ve got nothing to show for it all.”
</p>
<p>
“But you show for it yourself, Carl. I’d rather have had your freedom than my
land.”
</p>
<p>
Carl shook his head mournfully. “Freedom so often means that one isn’t needed
anywhere. Here you are an individual, you have a background of your own, you
would be missed. But off there in the cities there are thousands of rolling
stones like me. We are all alike; we have no ties, we know nobody, we own
nothing. When one of us dies, they scarcely know where to bury him. Our
landlady and the delicatessen man are our mourners, and we leave nothing behind
us but a frock-coat and a fiddle, or an easel, or a typewriter, or whatever
tool we got our living by. All we have ever managed to do is to pay our rent,
the exorbitant rent that one has to pay for a few square feet of space near the
heart of things. We have no house, no place, no people of our own. We live in
the streets, in the parks, in the theatres. We sit in restaurants and concert
halls and look about at the hundreds of our own kind and shudder.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra was silent. She sat looking at the silver spot the moon made on the
surface of the pond down in the pasture. He knew that she understood what he
meant. At last she said slowly, “And yet I would rather have Emil grow up like
that than like his two brothers. We pay a high rent, too, though we pay
differently. We grow hard and heavy here. We don’t move lightly and easily as
you do, and our minds get stiff. If the world were no wider than my cornfields,
if there were not something beside this, I wouldn’t feel that it was much worth
while to work. No, I would rather have Emil like you than like them. I felt
that as soon as you came.”
</p>
<p>
“I wonder why you feel like that?” Carl mused.
</p>
<p>
“I don’t know. Perhaps I am like Carrie Jensen, the sister of one of my hired
men. She had never been out of the cornfields, and a few years ago she got
despondent and said life was just the same thing over and over, and she didn’t
see the use of it. After she had tried to kill herself once or twice, her folks
got worried and sent her over to Iowa to visit some relations. Ever since she’s
come back she’s been perfectly cheerful, and she says she’s contented to live
and work in a world that’s so big and interesting. She said that anything as
big as the bridges over the Platte and the Missouri reconciled her. And it’s
what goes on in the world that reconciles me.”
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_4_0012"></a>V</h2>
<p>
Alexandra did not find time to go to her neighbor’s the next day, nor the next.
It was a busy season on the farm, with the corn-plowing going on, and even Emil
was in the field with a team and cultivator. Carl went about over the farms
with Alexandra in the morning, and in the afternoon and evening they found a
great deal to talk about. Emil, for all his track practice, did not stand up
under farmwork very well, and by night he was too tired to talk or even to
practise on his cornet.
</p>
<p>
On Wednesday morning Carl got up before it was light, and stole downstairs and
out of the kitchen door just as old Ivar was making his morning ablutions at
the pump. Carl nodded to him and hurried up the draw, past the garden, and into
the pasture where the milking cows used to be kept.
</p>
<p>
The dawn in the east looked like the light from some great fire that was
burning under the edge of the world. The color was reflected in the globules of
dew that sheathed the short gray pasture grass. Carl walked rapidly until he
came to the crest of the second hill, where the Bergson pasture joined the one
that had belonged to his father. There he sat down and waited for the sun to
rise. It was just there that he and Alexandra used to do their milking
together, he on his side of the fence, she on hers. He could remember exactly
how she looked when she came over the close-cropped grass, her skirts pinned
up, her head bare, a bright tin pail in either hand, and the milky light of the
early morning all about her. Even as a boy he used to feel, when he saw her
coming with her free step, her upright head and calm shoulders, that she looked
as if she had walked straight out of the morning itself. Since then, when he
had happened to see the sun come up in the country or on the water, he had
often remembered the young Swedish girl and her milking pails.
</p>
<p>
Carl sat musing until the sun leaped above the prairie, and in the grass about
him all the small creatures of day began to tune their tiny instruments. Birds
and insects without number began to chirp, to twitter, to snap and whistle, to
make all manner of fresh shrill noises. The pasture was flooded with light;
every clump of ironweed and snow-on-the-mountain threw a long shadow, and the
golden light seemed to be rippling through the curly grass like the tide racing
in.
</p>
<p>
He crossed the fence into the pasture that was now the Shabatas’ and continued
his walk toward the pond. He had not gone far, however, when he discovered that
he was not the only person abroad. In the draw below, his gun in his hands, was
Emil, advancing cautiously, with a young woman beside him. They were moving
softly, keeping close together, and Carl knew that they expected to find ducks
on the pond. At the moment when they came in sight of the bright spot of water,
he heard a whirr of wings and the ducks shot up into the air. There was a sharp
crack from the gun, and five of the birds fell to the ground. Emil and his
companion laughed delightedly, and Emil ran to pick them up. When he came back,
dangling the ducks by their feet, Marie held her apron and he dropped them into
it. As she stood looking down at them, her face changed. She took up one of the
birds, a rumpled ball of feathers with the blood dripping slowly from its
mouth, and looked at the live color that still burned on its plumage.
</p>
<p>
As she let it fall, she cried in distress, “Oh, Emil, why did you?”
</p>
<p>
“I like that!” the boy exclaimed indignantly. “Why, Marie, you asked me to come
yourself.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, yes, I know,” she said tearfully, “but I didn’t think. I hate to see them
when they are first shot. They were having such a good time, and we’ve spoiled
it all for them.”
</p>
<p>
Emil gave a rather sore laugh. “I should say we had! I’m not going hunting with
you any more. You’re as bad as Ivar. Here, let me take them.” He snatched the
ducks out of her apron.
</p>
<p>
“Don’t be cross, Emil. Only—Ivar’s right about wild things. They’re too happy
to kill. You can tell just how they felt when they flew up. They were scared,
but they didn’t really think anything could hurt them. No, we won’t do that any
more.”
</p>
<p>
“All right,” Emil assented. “I’m sorry I made you feel bad.” As he looked down
into her tearful eyes, there was a curious, sharp young bitterness in his own.
</p>
<p>
Carl watched them as they moved slowly down the draw. They had not seen him at
all. He had not overheard much of their dialogue, but he felt the import of it.
It made him, somehow, unreasonably mournful to find two young things abroad in
the pasture in the early morning. He decided that he needed his breakfast.
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_4_0013"></a>VI</h2>
<p>
At dinner that day Alexandra said she thought they must really manage to go
over to the Shabatas’ that afternoon. “It’s not often I let three days go by
without seeing Marie. She will think I have forsaken her, now that my old
friend has come back.”
</p>
<p>
After the men had gone back to work, Alexandra put on a white dress and her
sun-hat, and she and Carl set forth across the fields. “You see we have kept up
the old path, Carl. It has been so nice for me to feel that there was a friend
at the other end of it again.”
</p>
<p>
Carl smiled a little ruefully. “All the same, I hope it hasn’t been
<i>quite</i> the same.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra looked at him with surprise. “Why, no, of course not. Not the same.
She could not very well take your place, if that’s what you mean. I’m friendly
with all my neighbors, I hope. But Marie is really a companion, some one I can
talk to quite frankly. You wouldn’t want me to be more lonely than I have been,
would you?”
</p>
<p>
Carl laughed and pushed back the triangular lock of hair with the edge of his
hat. “Of course I don’t. I ought to be thankful that this path hasn’t been worn
by—well, by friends with more pressing errands than your little Bohemian is
likely to have.” He paused to give Alexandra his hand as she stepped over the
stile. “Are you the least bit disappointed in our coming together again?” he
asked abruptly. “Is it the way you hoped it would be?”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra smiled at this. “Only better. When I’ve thought about your coming,
I’ve sometimes been a little afraid of it. You have lived where things move so
fast, and everything is slow here; the people slowest of all. Our lives are
like the years, all made up of weather and crops and cows. How you hated cows!”
She shook her head and laughed to herself.
</p>
<p>
“I didn’t when we milked together. I walked up to the pasture corners this
morning. I wonder whether I shall ever be able to tell you all that I was
thinking about up there. It’s a strange thing, Alexandra; I find it easy to be
frank with you about everything under the sun except—yourself!”
</p>
<p>
“You are afraid of hurting my feelings, perhaps.” Alexandra looked at him
thoughtfully.
</p>
<p>
“No, I’m afraid of giving you a shock. You’ve seen yourself for so long in the
dull minds of the people about you, that if I were to tell you how you seem to
me, it would startle you. But you must see that you astonish me. You must feel
when people admire you.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra blushed and laughed with some confusion. “I felt that you were
pleased with me, if you mean that.”
</p>
<p>
“And you’ve felt when other people were pleased with you?” he insisted.
</p>
<p>
“Well, sometimes. The men in town, at the banks and the county offices, seem
glad to see me. I think, myself, it is more pleasant to do business with people
who are clean and healthy-looking,” she admitted blandly.
</p>
<p>
Carl gave a little chuckle as he opened the Shabatas’ gate for her. “Oh, do
you?” he asked dryly.
</p>
<p>
There was no sign of life about the Shabatas’ house except a big yellow cat,
sunning itself on the kitchen doorstep.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra took the path that led to the orchard. “She often sits there and
sews. I didn’t telephone her we were coming, because I didn’t want her to go to
work and bake cake and freeze ice-cream. She’ll always make a party if you give
her the least excuse. Do you recognize the apple trees, Carl?”
</p>
<p>
Linstrum looked about him. “I wish I had a dollar for every bucket of water
I’ve carried for those trees. Poor father, he was an easy man, but he was
perfectly merciless when it came to watering the orchard.”
</p>
<p>
“That’s one thing I like about Germans; they make an orchard grow if they can’t
make anything else. I’m so glad these trees belong to some one who takes
comfort in them. When I rented this place, the tenants never kept the orchard
up, and Emil and I used to come over and take care of it ourselves. It needs
mowing now. There she is, down in the corner. Maria-a-a!” she called.
</p>
<p>
A recumbent figure started up from the grass and came running toward them
through the flickering screen of light and shade.
</p>
<p>
“Look at her! Isn’t she like a little brown rabbit?” Alexandra laughed.
</p>
<p>
Maria ran up panting and threw her arms about Alexandra. “Oh, I had begun to
think you were not coming at all, maybe. I knew you were so busy. Yes, Emil
told me about Mr. Linstrum being here. Won’t you come up to the house?”
</p>
<p>
“Why not sit down there in your corner? Carl wants to see the orchard. He kept
all these trees alive for years, watering them with his own back.”
</p>
<p>
Marie turned to Carl. “Then I’m thankful to you, Mr. Linstrum. We’d never have
bought the place if it hadn’t been for this orchard, and then I wouldn’t have
had Alexandra, either.” She gave Alexandra’s arm a little squeeze as she walked
beside her. “How nice your dress smells, Alexandra; you put rosemary leaves in
your chest, like I told you.”
</p>
<p>
She led them to the northwest corner of the orchard, sheltered on one side by a
thick mulberry hedge and bordered on the other by a wheatfield, just beginning
to yellow. In this corner the ground dipped a little, and the blue-grass, which
the weeds had driven out in the upper part of the orchard, grew thick and
luxuriant. Wild roses were flaming in the tufts of bunchgrass along the fence.
Under a white mulberry tree there was an old wagon-seat. Beside it lay a book
and a workbasket.
</p>
<p>
“You must have the seat, Alexandra. The grass would stain your dress,” the
hostess insisted. She dropped down on the ground at Alexandra’s side and tucked
her feet under her. Carl sat at a little distance from the two women, his back
to the wheatfield, and watched them. Alexandra took off her shade-hat and threw
it on the ground. Marie picked it up and played with the white ribbons,
twisting them about her brown fingers as she talked. They made a pretty picture
in the strong sunlight, the leafy pattern surrounding them like a net; the
Swedish woman so white and gold, kindly and amused, but armored in calm, and
the alert brown one, her full lips parted, points of yellow light dancing in
her eyes as she laughed and chattered. Carl had never forgotten little Marie
Tovesky’s eyes, and he was glad to have an opportunity to study them. The brown
iris, he found, was curiously slashed with yellow, the color of sunflower
honey, or of old amber. In each eye one of these streaks must have been larger
than the others, for the effect was that of two dancing points of light, two
little yellow bubbles, such as rise in a glass of champagne. Sometimes they
seemed like the sparks from a forge. She seemed so easily excited, to kindle
with a fierce little flame if one but breathed upon her. “What a waste,” Carl
reflected. “She ought to be doing all that for a sweetheart. How awkwardly
things come about!”
</p>
<p>
It was not very long before Marie sprang up out of the grass again. “Wait a
moment. I want to show you something.” She ran away and disappeared behind the
low-growing apple trees.
</p>
<p>
“What a charming creature,” Carl murmured. “I don’t wonder that her husband is
jealous. But can’t she walk? does she always run?”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra nodded. “Always. I don’t see many people, but I don’t believe there
are many like her, anywhere.”
</p>
<p>
Marie came back with a branch she had broken from an apricot tree, laden with
pale yellow, pink-cheeked fruit. She dropped it beside Carl. “Did you plant
those, too? They are such beautiful little trees.”
</p>
<p>
Carl fingered the blue-green leaves, porous like blotting-paper and shaped like
birch leaves, hung on waxen red stems. “Yes, I think I did. Are these the
circus trees, Alexandra?”
</p>
<p>
“Shall I tell her about them?” Alexandra asked. “Sit down like a good girl,
Marie, and don’t ruin my poor hat, and I’ll tell you a story. A long time ago,
when Carl and I were, say, sixteen and twelve, a circus came to Hanover and we
went to town in our wagon, with Lou and Oscar, to see the parade. We hadn’t
money enough to go to the circus. We followed the parade out to the circus
grounds and hung around until the show began and the crowd went inside the
tent. Then Lou was afraid we looked foolish standing outside in the pasture, so
we went back to Hanover feeling very sad. There was a man in the streets
selling apricots, and we had never seen any before. He had driven down from
somewhere up in the French country, and he was selling them twenty-five cents a
peck. We had a little money our fathers had given us for candy, and I bought
two pecks and Carl bought one. They cheered us a good deal, and we saved all
the seeds and planted them. Up to the time Carl went away, they hadn’t borne at
all.”
</p>
<p>
“And now he’s come back to eat them,” cried Marie, nodding at Carl. “That IS a
good story. I can remember you a little, Mr. Linstrum. I used to see you in
Hanover sometimes, when Uncle Joe took me to town. I remember you because you
were always buying pencils and tubes of paint at the drug store. Once, when my
uncle left me at the store, you drew a lot of little birds and flowers for me
on a piece of wrapping-paper. I kept them for a long while. I thought you were
very romantic because you could draw and had such black eyes.”
</p>
<p>
Carl smiled. “Yes, I remember that time. Your uncle bought you some kind of a
mechanical toy, a Turkish lady sitting on an ottoman and smoking a hookah,
wasn’t it? And she turned her head backwards and forwards.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, yes! Wasn’t she splendid! I knew well enough I ought not to tell Uncle Joe
I wanted it, for he had just come back from the saloon and was feeling good.
You remember how he laughed? She tickled him, too. But when we got home, my
aunt scolded him for buying toys when she needed so many things. We wound our
lady up every night, and when she began to move her head my aunt used to laugh
as hard as any of us. It was a music-box, you know, and the Turkish lady played
a tune while she smoked. That was how she made you feel so jolly. As I remember
her, she was lovely, and had a gold crescent on her turban.”
</p>
<p>
Half an hour later, as they were leaving the house, Carl and Alexandra were met
in the path by a strapping fellow in overalls and a blue shirt. He was
breathing hard, as if he had been running, and was muttering to himself.
</p>
<p>
Marie ran forward, and, taking him by the arm, gave him a little push toward
her guests. “Frank, this is Mr. Linstrum.”
</p>
<p>
Frank took off his broad straw hat and nodded to Alexandra. When he spoke to
Carl, he showed a fine set of white teeth. He was burned a dull red down to his
neckband, and there was a heavy three-days’ stubble on his face. Even in his
agitation he was handsome, but he looked a rash and violent man.
</p>
<p>
Barely saluting the callers, he turned at once to his wife and began, in an
outraged tone, “I have to leave my team to drive the old woman Hiller’s hogs
out-a my wheat. I go to take dat old woman to de court if she ain’t careful, I
tell you!”
</p>
<p>
His wife spoke soothingly. “But, Frank, she has only her lame boy to help her.
She does the best she can.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra looked at the excited man and offered a suggestion. “Why don’t you go
over there some afternoon and hog-tight her fences? You’d save time for
yourself in the end.”
</p>
<p>
Frank’s neck stiffened. “Not-a-much, I won’t. I keep my hogs home. Other
peoples can do like me. See? If that Louis can mend shoes, he can mend fence.”
</p>
<p>
“Maybe,” said Alexandra placidly; “but I’ve found it sometimes pays to mend
other people’s fences. Good-bye, Marie. Come to see me soon.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra walked firmly down the path and Carl followed her.
</p>
<p>
Frank went into the house and threw himself on the sofa, his face to the wall,
his clenched fist on his hip. Marie, having seen her guests off, came in and
put her hand coaxingly on his shoulder.
</p>
<p>
“Poor Frank! You’ve run until you’ve made your head ache, now haven’t you? Let
me make you some coffee.”
</p>
<p>
“What else am I to do?” he cried hotly in Bohemian. “Am I to let any old
woman’s hogs root up my wheat? Is that what I work myself to death for?”
</p>
<p>
“Don’t worry about it, Frank. I’ll speak to Mrs. Hiller again. But, really, she
almost cried last time they got out, she was so sorry.”
</p>
<p>
Frank bounced over on his other side. “That’s it; you always side with them
against me. They all know it. Anybody here feels free to borrow the mower and
break it, or turn their hogs in on me. They know you won’t care!”
</p>
<p>
Marie hurried away to make his coffee. When she came back, he was fast asleep.
She sat down and looked at him for a long while, very thoughtfully. When the
kitchen clock struck six she went out to get supper, closing the door gently
behind her. She was always sorry for Frank when he worked himself into one of
these rages, and she was sorry to have him rough and quarrelsome with his
neighbors. She was perfectly aware that the neighbors had a good deal to put up
with, and that they bore with Frank for her sake.
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_4_0014"></a>VII</h2>
<p>
Marie’s father, Albert Tovesky, was one of the more intelligent Bohemians who
came West in the early seventies. He settled in Omaha and became a leader and
adviser among his people there. Marie was his youngest child, by a second wife,
and was the apple of his eye. She was barely sixteen, and was in the graduating
class of the Omaha High School, when Frank Shabata arrived from the old country
and set all the Bohemian girls in a flutter. He was easily the buck of the
beer-gardens, and on Sunday he was a sight to see, with his silk hat and tucked
shirt and blue frock-coat, wearing gloves and carrying a little wisp of a
yellow cane. He was tall and fair, with splendid teeth and close-cropped yellow
curls, and he wore a slightly disdainful expression, proper for a young man
with high connections, whose mother had a big farm in the Elbe valley. There
was often an interesting discontent in his blue eyes, and every Bohemian girl
he met imagined herself the cause of that unsatisfied expression. He had a way
of drawing out his cambric handkerchief slowly, by one corner, from his
breast-pocket, that was melancholy and romantic in the extreme. He took a
little flight with each of the more eligible Bohemian girls, but it was when he
was with little Marie Tovesky that he drew his handkerchief out most slowly,
and, after he had lit a fresh cigar, dropped the match most despairingly. Any
one could see, with half an eye, that his proud heart was bleeding for
somebody.
</p>
<p>
One Sunday, late in the summer after Marie’s graduation, she met Frank at a
Bohemian picnic down the river and went rowing with him all the afternoon. When
she got home that evening she went straight to her father’s room and told him
that she was engaged to Shabata. Old Tovesky was having a comfortable pipe
before he went to bed. When he heard his daughter’s announcement, he first
prudently corked his beer bottle and then leaped to his feet and had a turn of
temper. He characterized Frank Shabata by a Bohemian expression which is the
equivalent of stuffed shirt.
</p>
<p>
“Why don’t he go to work like the rest of us did? His farm in the Elbe valley,
indeed! Ain’t he got plenty brothers and sisters? It’s his mother’s farm, and
why don’t he stay at home and help her? Haven’t I seen his mother out in the
morning at five o’clock with her ladle and her big bucket on wheels, putting
liquid manure on the cabbages? Don’t I know the look of old Eva Shabata’s
hands? Like an old horse’s hoofs they are—and this fellow wearing gloves and
rings! Engaged, indeed! You aren’t fit to be out of school, and that’s what’s
the matter with you. I will send you off to the Sisters of the Sacred Heart in
St. Louis, and they will teach you some sense, <i>I</i> guess!”
</p>
<p>
Accordingly, the very next week, Albert Tovesky took his daughter, pale and
tearful, down the river to the convent. But the way to make Frank want anything
was to tell him he couldn’t have it. He managed to have an interview with Marie
before she went away, and whereas he had been only half in love with her
before, he now persuaded himself that he would not stop at anything. Marie took
with her to the convent, under the canvas lining of her trunk, the results of a
laborious and satisfying morning on Frank’s part; no less than a dozen
photographs of himself, taken in a dozen different love-lorn attitudes. There
was a little round photograph for her watch-case, photographs for her wall and
dresser, and even long narrow ones to be used as bookmarks. More than once the
handsome gentleman was torn to pieces before the French class by an indignant
nun.
</p>
<p>
Marie pined in the convent for a year, until her eighteenth birthday was
passed. Then she met Frank Shabata in the Union Station in St. Louis and ran
away with him. Old Tovesky forgave his daughter because there was nothing else
to do, and bought her a farm in the country that she had loved so well as a
child. Since then her story had been a part of the history of the Divide. She
and Frank had been living there for five years when Carl Linstrum came back to
pay his long deferred visit to Alexandra. Frank had, on the whole, done better
than one might have expected. He had flung himself at the soil with savage
energy. Once a year he went to Hastings or to Omaha, on a spree. He stayed away
for a week or two, and then came home and worked like a demon. He did work; if
he felt sorry for himself, that was his own affair.
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_4_0015"></a>VIII</h2>
<p>
On the evening of the day of Alexandra’s call at the Shabatas’, a heavy rain
set in. Frank sat up until a late hour reading the Sunday newspapers. One of
the Goulds was getting a divorce, and Frank took it as a personal affront. In
printing the story of the young man’s marital troubles, the knowing editor gave
a sufficiently colored account of his career, stating the amount of his income
and the manner in which he was supposed to spend it. Frank read English slowly,
and the more he read about this divorce case, the angrier he grew. At last he
threw down the page with a snort. He turned to his farm-hand who was reading
the other half of the paper.
</p>
<p>
“By God! if I have that young feller in de hayfield once, I show him someting.
Listen here what he do wit his money.” And Frank began the catalogue of the
young man’s reputed extravagances.
</p>
<p>
Marie sighed. She thought it hard that the Goulds, for whom she had nothing but
good will, should make her so much trouble. She hated to see the Sunday
newspapers come into the house. Frank was always reading about the doings of
rich people and feeling outraged. He had an inexhaustible stock of stories
about their crimes and follies, how they bribed the courts and shot down their
butlers with impunity whenever they chose. Frank and Lou Bergson had very
similar ideas, and they were two of the political agitators of the county.
</p>
<p>
The next morning broke clear and brilliant, but Frank said the ground was too
wet to plough, so he took the cart and drove over to Sainte-Agnes to spend the
day at Moses Marcel’s saloon. After he was gone, Marie went out to the back
porch to begin her butter-making. A brisk wind had come up and was driving
puffy white clouds across the sky. The orchard was sparkling and rippling in
the sun. Marie stood looking toward it wistfully, her hand on the lid of the
churn, when she heard a sharp ring in the air, the merry sound of the whetstone
on the scythe. That invitation decided her. She ran into the house, put on a
short skirt and a pair of her husband’s boots, caught up a tin pail and started
for the orchard. Emil had already begun work and was mowing vigorously. When he
saw her coming, he stopped and wiped his brow. His yellow canvas leggings and
khaki trousers were splashed to the knees.
</p>
<p>
“Don’t let me disturb you, Emil. I’m going to pick cherries. Isn’t everything
beautiful after the rain? Oh, but I’m glad to get this place mowed! When I
heard it raining in the night, I thought maybe you would come and do it for me
to-day. The wind wakened me. Didn’t it blow dreadfully? Just smell the wild
roses! They are always so spicy after a rain. We never had so many of them in
here before. I suppose it’s the wet season. Will you have to cut them, too?”
</p>
<p>
“If I cut the grass, I will,” Emil said teasingly. “What’s the matter with you?
What makes you so flighty?”
</p>
<p>
“Am I flighty? I suppose that’s the wet season, too, then. It’s exciting to see
everything growing so fast,—and to get the grass cut! Please leave the roses
till last, if you must cut them. Oh, I don’t mean all of them, I mean that low
place down by my tree, where there are so many. Aren’t you splashed! Look at
the spider-webs all over the grass. Good-bye. I’ll call you if I see a snake.”
</p>
<p>
She tripped away and Emil stood looking after her. In a few moments he heard
the cherries dropping smartly into the pail, and he began to swing his scythe
with that long, even stroke that few American boys ever learn. Marie picked
cherries and sang softly to herself, stripping one glittering branch after
another, shivering when she caught a shower of raindrops on her neck and hair.
And Emil mowed his way slowly down toward the cherry trees.
</p>
<p>
That summer the rains had been so many and opportune that it was almost more
than Shabata and his man could do to keep up with the corn; the orchard was a
neglected wilderness. All sorts of weeds and herbs and flowers had grown up
there; splotches of wild larkspur, pale green-and-white spikes of hoarhound,
plantations of wild cotton, tangles of foxtail and wild wheat. South of the
apricot trees, cornering on the wheatfield, was Frank’s alfalfa, where myriads
of white and yellow butterflies were always fluttering above the purple
blossoms. When Emil reached the lower corner by the hedge, Marie was sitting
under her white mulberry tree, the pailful of cherries beside her, looking off
at the gentle, tireless swelling of the wheat.
</p>
<p>
“Emil,” she said suddenly—he was mowing quietly about under the tree so as not
to disturb her—“what religion did the Swedes have away back, before they were
Christians?”
</p>
<p>
Emil paused and straightened his back. “I don’t know. About like the Germans’,
wasn’t it?”
</p>
<p>
Marie went on as if she had not heard him. “The Bohemians, you know, were tree
worshipers before the missionaries came. Father says the people in the
mountains still do queer things, sometimes,—they believe that trees bring good
or bad luck.”
</p>
<p>
Emil looked superior. “Do they? Well, which are the lucky trees? I’d like to
know.”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t know all of them, but I know lindens are. The old people in the
mountains plant lindens to purify the forest, and to do away with the spells
that come from the old trees they say have lasted from heathen times. I’m a
good Catholic, but I think I could get along with caring for trees, if I hadn’t
anything else.”
</p>
<p>
“That’s a poor saying,” said Emil, stooping over to wipe his hands in the wet
grass.
</p>
<p>
“Why is it? If I feel that way, I feel that way. I like trees because they seem
more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do. I feel as if
this tree knows everything I ever think of when I sit here. When I come back to
it, I never have to remind it of anything; I begin just where I left off.”
</p>
<p>
Emil had nothing to say to this. He reached up among the branches and began to
pick the sweet, insipid fruit,—long ivory-colored berries, tipped with faint
pink, like white coral, that fall to the ground unheeded all summer through. He
dropped a handful into her lap.
</p>
<p>
“Do you like Mr. Linstrum?” Marie asked suddenly.
</p>
<p>
“Yes. Don’t you?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, ever so much; only he seems kind of staid and school-teachery. But, of
course, he is older than Frank, even. I’m sure I don’t want to live to be more
than thirty, do you? Do you think Alexandra likes him very much?”
</p>
<p>
“I suppose so. They were old friends.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Emil, you know what I mean!” Marie tossed her head impatiently. “Does she
really care about him? When she used to tell me about him, I always wondered
whether she wasn’t a little in love with him.”
</p>
<p>
“Who, Alexandra?” Emil laughed and thrust his hands into his trousers pockets.
“Alexandra’s never been in love, you crazy!” He laughed again. “She wouldn’t
know how to go about it. The idea!”
</p>
<p>
Marie shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, you don’t know Alexandra as well as you
think you do! If you had any eyes, you would see that she is very fond of him.
It would serve you all right if she walked off with Carl. I like him because he
appreciates her more than you do.”
</p>
<p>
Emil frowned. “What are you talking about, Marie? Alexandra’s all right. She
and I have always been good friends. What more do you want? I like to talk to
Carl about New York and what a fellow can do there.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Emil! Surely you are not thinking of going off there?”
</p>
<p>
“Why not? I must go somewhere, mustn’t I?” The young man took up his scythe and
leaned on it. “Would you rather I went off in the sand hills and lived like
Ivar?”
</p>
<p>
Marie’s face fell under his brooding gaze. She looked down at his wet leggings.
“I’m sure Alexandra hopes you will stay on here,” she murmured.
</p>
<p>
“Then Alexandra will be disappointed,” the young man said roughly. “What do I
want to hang around here for? Alexandra can run the farm all right, without me.
I don’t want to stand around and look on. I want to be doing something on my
own account.”
</p>
<p>
“That’s so,” Marie sighed. “There are so many, many things you can do. Almost
anything you choose.”
</p>
<p>
“And there are so many, many things I can’t do.” Emil echoed her tone
sarcastically. “Sometimes I don’t want to do anything at all, and sometimes I
want to pull the four corners of the Divide together,”—he threw out his arm and
brought it back with a jerk,—“so, like a table-cloth. I get tired of seeing men
and horses going up and down, up and down.”
</p>
<p>
Marie looked up at his defiant figure and her face clouded. “I wish you weren’t
so restless, and didn’t get so worked up over things,” she said sadly.
</p>
<p>
“Thank you,” he returned shortly.
</p>
<p>
She sighed despondently. “Everything I say makes you cross, don’t it? And you
never used to be cross to me.”
</p>
<p>
Emil took a step nearer and stood frowning down at her bent head. He stood in
an attitude of self-defense, his feet well apart, his hands clenched and drawn
up at his sides, so that the cords stood out on his bare arms. “I can’t play
with you like a little boy any more,” he said slowly. “That’s what you miss,
Marie. You’ll have to get some other little boy to play with.” He stopped and
took a deep breath. Then he went on in a low tone, so intense that it was
almost threatening: “Sometimes you seem to understand perfectly, and then
sometimes you pretend you don’t. You don’t help things any by pretending. It’s
then that I want to pull the corners of the Divide together. If you WON’T
understand, you know, I could make you!”
</p>
<p>
Marie clasped her hands and started up from her seat. She had grown very pale
and her eyes were shining with excitement and distress. “But, Emil, if I
understand, then all our good times are over, we can never do nice things
together any more. We shall have to behave like Mr. Linstrum. And, anyhow,
there’s nothing to understand!” She struck the ground with her little foot
fiercely. “That won’t last. It will go away, and things will be just as they
used to. I wish you were a Catholic. The Church helps people, indeed it does. I
pray for you, but that’s not the same as if you prayed yourself.”
</p>
<p>
She spoke rapidly and pleadingly, looked entreatingly into his face. Emil stood
defiant, gazing down at her.
</p>
<p>
“I can’t pray to have the things I want,” he said slowly, “and I won’t pray not
to have them, not if I’m damned for it.”
</p>
<p>
Marie turned away, wringing her hands. “Oh, Emil, you won’t try! Then all our
good times are over.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes; over. I never expect to have any more.”
</p>
<p>
Emil gripped the hand-holds of his scythe and began to mow. Marie took up her
cherries and went slowly toward the house, crying bitterly.
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_4_0016"></a>IX</h2>
<p>
On Sunday afternoon, a month after Carl Linstrum’s arrival, he rode with Emil
up into the French country to attend a Catholic fair. He sat for most of the
afternoon in the basement of the church, where the fair was held, talking to
Marie Shabata, or strolled about the gravel terrace, thrown up on the hillside
in front of the basement doors, where the French boys were jumping and
wrestling and throwing the discus. Some of the boys were in their white
baseball suits; they had just come up from a Sunday practice game down in the
ballgrounds. Amédée, the newly married, Emil’s best friend, was their pitcher,
renowned among the country towns for his dash and skill. Amédée was a little
fellow, a year younger than Emil and much more boyish in appearance; very lithe
and active and neatly made, with a clear brown and white skin, and flashing
white teeth. The Sainte-Agnes boys were to play the Hastings nine in a
fortnight, and Amédée’s lightning balls were the hope of his team. The little
Frenchman seemed to get every ounce there was in him behind the ball as it left
his hand.
</p>
<p>
“You’d have made the battery at the University for sure, ’Médée,” Emil said as
they were walking from the ball-grounds back to the church on the hill. “You’re
pitching better than you did in the spring.”
</p>
<p>
Amédée grinned. “Sure! A married man don’t lose his head no more.” He slapped
Emil on the back as he caught step with him. “Oh, Emil, you wanna get married
right off quick! It’s the greatest thing ever!”
</p>
<p>
Emil laughed. “How am I going to get married without any girl?”
</p>
<p>
Amédée took his arm. “Pooh! There are plenty girls will have you. You wanna get
some nice French girl, now. She treat you well; always be jolly. See,”—he began
checking off on his fingers,—“there is Sévérine, and Alphosen, and Joséphine,
and Hectorine, and Louise, and Malvina—why, I could love any of them girls! Why
don’t you get after them? Are you stuck up, Emil, or is anything the matter
with you? I never did know a boy twenty-two years old before that didn’t have
no girl. You wanna be a priest, maybe? Not-a for me!” Amédée swaggered. “I
bring many good Catholics into this world, I hope, and that’s a way I help the
Church.”
</p>
<p>
Emil looked down and patted him on the shoulder. “Now you’re windy, ’Médée. You
Frenchies like to brag.”
</p>
<p>
But Amédée had the zeal of the newly married, and he was not to be lightly
shaken off. “Honest and true, Emil, don’t you want ANY girl? Maybe there’s some
young lady in Lincoln, now, very grand,”—Amédée waved his hand languidly before
his face to denote the fan of heartless beauty,—“and you lost your heart up
there. Is that it?”
</p>
<p>
“Maybe,” said Emil.
</p>
<p>
But Amédée saw no appropriate glow in his friend’s face. “Bah!” he exclaimed in
disgust. “I tell all the French girls to keep ’way from you. You gotta rock in
there,” thumping Emil on the ribs.
</p>
<p>
When they reached the terrace at the side of the church, Amédée, who was
excited by his success on the ball-grounds, challenged Emil to a jumping-match,
though he knew he would be beaten. They belted themselves up, and Raoul Marcel,
the choir tenor and Father Duchesne’s pet, and Jean Bordelau, held the string
over which they vaulted. All the French boys stood round, cheering and humping
themselves up when Emil or Amédée went over the wire, as if they were helping
in the lift. Emil stopped at five-feet-five, declaring that he would spoil his
appetite for supper if he jumped any more.
</p>
<p>
Angélique, Amédée’s pretty bride, as blonde and fair as her name, who had come
out to watch the match, tossed her head at Emil and said:—
</p>
<p>
“’Médée could jump much higher than you if he were as tall. And anyhow, he is
much more graceful. He goes over like a bird, and you have to hump yourself all
up.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, I do, do I?” Emil caught her and kissed her saucy mouth squarely, while
she laughed and struggled and called, “’Médée! ’Médée!”
</p>
<p>
“There, you see your ’Médée isn’t even big enough to get you away from me. I
could run away with you right now and he could only sit down and cry about it.
I’ll show you whether I have to hump myself!” Laughing and panting, he picked
Angélique up in his arms and began running about the rectangle with her. Not
until he saw Marie Shabata’s tiger eyes flashing from the gloom of the basement
doorway did he hand the disheveled bride over to her husband. “There, go to
your graceful; I haven’t the heart to take you away from him.”
</p>
<p>
Angélique clung to her husband and made faces at Emil over the white shoulder
of Amédée’s ball-shirt. Emil was greatly amused at her air of proprietorship
and at Amédée’s shameless submission to it. He was delighted with his friend’s
good fortune. He liked to see and to think about Amédée’s sunny, natural, happy
love.
</p>
<p>
He and Amédée had ridden and wrestled and larked together since they were lads
of twelve. On Sundays and holidays they were always arm in arm. It seemed
strange that now he should have to hide the thing that Amédée was so proud of,
that the feeling which gave one of them such happiness should bring the other
such despair. It was like that when Alexandra tested her seed-corn in the
spring, he mused. From two ears that had grown side by side, the grains of one
shot up joyfully into the light, projecting themselves into the future, and the
grains from the other lay still in the earth and rotted; and nobody knew why.
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_4_0017"></a>X</h2>
<p>
While Emil and Carl were amusing themselves at the fair, Alexandra was at home,
busy with her account-books, which had been neglected of late. She was almost
through with her figures when she heard a cart drive up to the gate, and
looking out of the window she saw her two older brothers. They had seemed to
avoid her ever since Carl Linstrum’s arrival, four weeks ago that day, and she
hurried to the door to welcome them. She saw at once that they had come with
some very definite purpose. They followed her stiffly into the sitting-room.
Oscar sat down, but Lou walked over to the window and remained standing, his
hands behind him.
</p>
<p>
“You are by yourself?” he asked, looking toward the doorway into the parlor.
</p>
<p>
“Yes. Carl and Emil went up to the Catholic fair.”
</p>
<p>
For a few moments neither of the men spoke.
</p>
<p>
Then Lou came out sharply. “How soon does he intend to go away from here?”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t know, Lou. Not for some time, I hope.” Alexandra spoke in an even,
quiet tone that often exasperated her brothers. They felt that she was trying
to be superior with them.
</p>
<p>
Oscar spoke up grimly. “We thought we ought to tell you that people have begun
to talk,” he said meaningly.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra looked at him. “What about?”
</p>
<p>
Oscar met her eyes blankly. “About you, keeping him here so long. It looks bad
for him to be hanging on to a woman this way. People think you’re getting taken
in.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra shut her account-book firmly. “Boys,” she said seriously, “don’t
let’s go on with this. We won’t come out anywhere. I can’t take advice on such
a matter. I know you mean well, but you must not feel responsible for me in
things of this sort. If we go on with this talk it will only make hard
feeling.”
</p>
<p>
Lou whipped about from the window. “You ought to think a little about your
family. You’re making us all ridiculous.”
</p>
<p>
“How am I?”
</p>
<p>
“People are beginning to say you want to marry the fellow.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, and what is ridiculous about that?”
</p>
<p>
Lou and Oscar exchanged outraged looks. “Alexandra! Can’t you see he’s just a
tramp and he’s after your money? He wants to be taken care of, he does!”
</p>
<p>
“Well, suppose I want to take care of him? Whose business is it but my own?”
</p>
<p>
“Don’t you know he’d get hold of your property?”
</p>
<p>
“He’d get hold of what I wished to give him, certainly.”
</p>
<p>
Oscar sat up suddenly and Lou clutched at his bristly hair.
</p>
<p>
“Give him?” Lou shouted. “Our property, our homestead?”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t know about the homestead,” said Alexandra quietly. “I know you and
Oscar have always expected that it would be left to your children, and I’m not
sure but what you’re right. But I’ll do exactly as I please with the rest of my
land, boys.”
</p>
<p>
“The rest of your land!” cried Lou, growing more excited every minute. “Didn’t
all the land come out of the homestead? It was bought with money borrowed on
the homestead, and Oscar and me worked ourselves to the bone paying interest on
it.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, you paid the interest. But when you married we made a division of the
land, and you were satisfied. I’ve made more on my farms since I’ve been alone
than when we all worked together.”
</p>
<p>
“Everything you’ve made has come out of the original land that us boys worked
for, hasn’t it? The farms and all that comes out of them belongs to us as a
family.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra waved her hand impatiently. “Come now, Lou. Stick to the facts. You
are talking nonsense. Go to the county clerk and ask him who owns my land, and
whether my titles are good.”
</p>
<p>
Lou turned to his brother. “This is what comes of letting a woman meddle in
business,” he said bitterly. “We ought to have taken things in our own hands
years ago. But she liked to run things, and we humored her. We thought you had
good sense, Alexandra. We never thought you’d do anything foolish.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra rapped impatiently on her desk with her knuckles. “Listen, Lou. Don’t
talk wild. You say you ought to have taken things into your own hands years
ago. I suppose you mean before you left home. But how could you take hold of
what wasn’t there? I’ve got most of what I have now since we divided the
property; I’ve built it up myself, and it has nothing to do with you.”
</p>
<p>
Oscar spoke up solemnly. “The property of a family really belongs to the men of
the family, no matter about the title. If anything goes wrong, it’s the men
that are held responsible.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, of course,” Lou broke in. “Everybody knows that. Oscar and me have always
been easy-going and we’ve never made any fuss. We were willing you should hold
the land and have the good of it, but you got no right to part with any of it.
We worked in the fields to pay for the first land you bought, and whatever’s
come out of it has got to be kept in the family.”
</p>
<p>
Oscar reinforced his brother, his mind fixed on the one point he could see.
“The property of a family belongs to the men of the family, because they are
held responsible, and because they do the work.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra looked from one to the other, her eyes full of indignation. She had
been impatient before, but now she was beginning to feel angry. “And what about
my work?” she asked in an unsteady voice.
</p>
<p>
Lou looked at the carpet. “Oh, now, Alexandra, you always took it pretty easy!
Of course we wanted you to. You liked to manage round, and we always humored
you. We realize you were a great deal of help to us. There’s no woman anywhere
around that knows as much about business as you do, and we’ve always been proud
of that, and thought you were pretty smart. But, of course, the real work
always fell on us. Good advice is all right, but it don’t get the weeds out of
the corn.”
</p>
<p>
“Maybe not, but it sometimes puts in the crop, and it sometimes keeps the
fields for corn to grow in,” said Alexandra dryly. “Why, Lou, I can remember
when you and Oscar wanted to sell this homestead and all the improvements to
old preacher Ericson for two thousand dollars. If I’d consented, you’d have
gone down to the river and scraped along on poor farms for the rest of your
lives. When I put in our first field of alfalfa you both opposed me, just
because I first heard about it from a young man who had been to the University.
You said I was being taken in then, and all the neighbors said so. You know as
well as I do that alfalfa has been the salvation of this country. You all
laughed at me when I said our land here was about ready for wheat, and I had to
raise three big wheat crops before the neighbors quit putting all their land in
corn. Why, I remember you cried, Lou, when we put in the first big
wheat-planting, and said everybody was laughing at us.”
</p>
<p>
Lou turned to Oscar. “That’s the woman of it; if she tells you to put in a
crop, she thinks she’s put it in. It makes women conceited to meddle in
business. I shouldn’t think you’d want to remind us how hard you were on us,
Alexandra, after the way you baby Emil.”
</p>
<p>
“Hard on you? I never meant to be hard. Conditions were hard. Maybe I would
never have been very soft, anyhow; but I certainly didn’t choose to be the kind
of girl I was. If you take even a vine and cut it back again and again, it
grows hard, like a tree.”
</p>
<p>
Lou felt that they were wandering from the point, and that in digression
Alexandra might unnerve him. He wiped his forehead with a jerk of his
handkerchief. “We never doubted you, Alexandra. We never questioned anything
you did. You’ve always had your own way. But you can’t expect us to sit like
stumps and see you done out of the property by any loafer who happens along,
and making yourself ridiculous into the bargain.”
</p>
<p>
Oscar rose. “Yes,” he broke in, “everybody’s laughing to see you get took in;
at your age, too. Everybody knows he’s nearly five years younger than you, and
is after your money. Why, Alexandra, you are forty years old!”
</p>
<p>
“All that doesn’t concern anybody but Carl and me. Go to town and ask your
lawyers what you can do to restrain me from disposing of my own property. And I
advise you to do what they tell you; for the authority you can exert by law is
the only influence you will ever have over me again.” Alexandra rose. “I think
I would rather not have lived to find out what I have to-day,” she said
quietly, closing her desk.
</p>
<p>
Lou and Oscar looked at each other questioningly. There seemed to be nothing to
do but to go, and they walked out.
</p>
<p>
“You can’t do business with women,” Oscar said heavily as he clambered into the
cart. “But anyhow, we’ve had our say, at last.”
</p>
<p>
Lou scratched his head. “Talk of that kind might come too high, you know; but
she’s apt to be sensible. You hadn’t ought to said that about her age, though,
Oscar. I’m afraid that hurt her feelings; and the worst thing we can do is to
make her sore at us. She’d marry him out of contrariness.”
</p>
<p>
“I only meant,” said Oscar, “that she is old enough to know better, and she is.
If she was going to marry, she ought to done it long ago, and not go making a
fool of herself now.”
</p>
<p>
Lou looked anxious, nevertheless. “Of course,” he reflected hopefully and
inconsistently, “Alexandra ain’t much like other women-folks. Maybe it won’t
make her sore. Maybe she’d as soon be forty as not!”
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_4_0018"></a>XI</h2>
<p>
Emil came home at about half-past seven o’clock that evening. Old Ivar met him
at the windmill and took his horse, and the young man went directly into the
house. He called to his sister and she answered from her bedroom, behind the
sitting-room, saying that she was lying down.
</p>
<p>
Emil went to her door.
</p>
<p>
“Can I see you for a minute?” he asked. “I want to talk to you about something
before Carl comes.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra rose quickly and came to the door. “Where is Carl?”
</p>
<p>
“Lou and Oscar met us and said they wanted to talk to him, so he rode over to
Oscar’s with them. Are you coming out?” Emil asked impatiently.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, sit down. I’ll be dressed in a moment.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra closed her door, and Emil sank down on the old slat lounge and sat
with his head in his hands. When his sister came out, he looked up, not knowing
whether the interval had been short or long, and he was surprised to see that
the room had grown quite dark. That was just as well; it would be easier to
talk if he were not under the gaze of those clear, deliberate eyes, that saw so
far in some directions and were so blind in others. Alexandra, too, was glad of
the dusk. Her face was swollen from crying.
</p>
<p>
Emil started up and then sat down again. “Alexandra,” he said slowly, in his
deep young baritone, “I don’t want to go away to law school this fall. Let me
put it off another year. I want to take a year off and look around. It’s
awfully easy to rush into a profession you don’t really like, and awfully hard
to get out of it. Linstrum and I have been talking about that.”
</p>
<p>
“Very well, Emil. Only don’t go off looking for land.” She came up and put her
hand on his shoulder. “I’ve been wishing you could stay with me this winter.”
</p>
<p>
“That’s just what I don’t want to do, Alexandra. I’m restless. I want to go to
a new place. I want to go down to the City of Mexico to join one of the
University fellows who’s at the head of an electrical plant. He wrote me he
could give me a little job, enough to pay my way, and I could look around and
see what I want to do. I want to go as soon as harvest is over. I guess Lou and
Oscar will be sore about it.”
</p>
<p>
“I suppose they will.” Alexandra sat down on the lounge beside him. “They are
very angry with me, Emil. We have had a quarrel. They will not come here
again.”
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
“What about?” he asked absently.
</p>
<p>
“About Carl Linstrum. They are afraid I am going to marry him, and that some of
my property will get away from them.”
</p>
<p>
Emil shrugged his shoulders. “What nonsense!” he murmured. “Just like them.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra drew back. “Why nonsense, Emil?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, you’ve never thought of such a thing, have you? They always have to have
something to fuss about.”
</p>
<p>
“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?”
</p>
<p>
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.”
</p>
<p>
“But it would seem a little bit ridiculous to you if I married Carl?”
</p>
<p>
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.”
</p>
<p>
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.”
</p>
<p>
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.”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t know. If they talk to him the way they did to me, I think he’ll go
away.”
</p>
<p>
Emil grew more and more uneasy. “Think so? Well, Marie said it would serve us
all right if you walked off with him.”
</p>
<p>
“Did she? Bless her little heart! SHE would.” Alexandra’s voice broke.
</p>
<p>
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.”
</p>
<p>
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. <i>Why</i> 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?
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_4_0019"></a>XII</h2>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
“You have seen Lou and Oscar?” Alexandra asked.
</p>
<p>
“Yes.” His eyes avoided hers.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra took a deep breath. “And now you are going away. I thought so.”
</p>
<p>
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.”
</p>
<p>
“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.”
</p>
<p>
“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.”
</p>
<p>
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.”
</p>
<p>
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!”
</p>
<p>
“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.”
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_PART3"></a>PART III.<br/>
Winter Memories</h2>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_4_0021"></a>I</h2>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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?”
</p>
<p>
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.”
</p>
<p>
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.”
</p>
<p>
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?”
</p>
<p>
She pointed to the window-shelves, full of blooming fuchsias and geraniums.
</p>
<p>
“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?”
</p>
<p>
“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.”
</p>
<p>
“I remember, and Emil had his kitten along. When are you going to send Emil’s
Christmas box?”
</p>
<p>
“It ought to have gone before this. I’ll have to send it by mail now, to get it
there in time.”
</p>
<p>
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.”
</p>
<p>
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.”
</p>
<p>
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?”
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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.”
</p>
<p>
“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.”
</p>
<p>
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.”
</p>
<p>
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?”
</p>
<p>
“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?”
</p>
<p>
“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.
</p>
<p>
“I don’t, very often. There’s Mrs. Lee without any coffee!”
</p>
<p>
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 there, 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.”
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
“What in the world is this, Marie? You don’t mean to tell me Frank ever carried
such a thing?”
</p>
<p>
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.”
</p>
<p>
“It really is a cane, then?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes. One he brought from the old country. He used to carry it when I first
knew him. Isn’t it foolish? Poor Frank!”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra twirled the stick in her fingers and laughed. “He must have looked
funny!”
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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.”
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra had never heard Marie speak so frankly about her husband before, and
she felt that it was wiser not to encourage her. No good, she reasoned, ever
came from talking about such things, and while Marie was thinking aloud,
Alexandra had been steadily searching the hat-boxes. “Aren’t these the
patterns, Maria?”
</p>
<p>
Maria sprang up from the floor. “Sure enough, we were looking for patterns,
weren’t we? I’d forgot about everything but Frank’s other wife. I’ll put that
away.”
</p>
<p>
She poked the cane behind Frank’s Sunday clothes, and though she laughed,
Alexandra saw there were tears in her eyes.
</p>
<p>
When they went back to the kitchen, the snow had begun to fall, and Marie’s
visitors thought they must be getting home. She went out to the cart with them,
and tucked the robes about old Mrs. Lee while Alexandra took the blanket off
her horse. As they drove away, Marie turned and went slowly back to the house.
She took up the package of letters Alexandra had brought, but she did not read
them. She turned them over and looked at the foreign stamps, and then sat
watching the flying snow while the dusk deepened in the kitchen and the stove
sent out a red glow.
</p>
<p>
Marie knew perfectly well that Emil’s letters were written more for her than
for Alexandra. They were not the sort of letters that a young man writes to his
sister. They were both more personal and more painstaking; full of descriptions
of the gay life in the old Mexican capital in the days when the strong hand of
Porfirio Diaz was still strong. He told about bull-fights and cock-fights,
churches and <i>fiestas</i>, the flower-markets and the fountains, the music
and dancing, the people of all nations he met in the Italian restaurants on San
Francisco Street. In short, they were the kind of letters a young man writes to
a woman when he wishes himself and his life to seem interesting to her, when he
wishes to enlist her imagination in his behalf.
</p>
<p>
Marie, when she was alone or when she sat sewing in the evening, often thought
about what it must be like down there where Emil was; where there were flowers
and street bands everywhere, and carriages rattling up and down, and where
there was a little blind boot-black in front of the cathedral who could play
any tune you asked for by dropping the lids of blacking-boxes on the stone
steps. When everything is done and over for one at twenty-three, it is pleasant
to let the mind wander forth and follow a young adventurer who has life before
him. “And if it had not been for me,” she thought, “Frank might still be free
like that, and having a good time making people admire him. Poor Frank, getting
married wasn’t very good for him either. I’m afraid I do set people against
him, as he says. I seem, somehow, to give him away all the time. Perhaps he
would try to be agreeable to people again, if I were not around. It seems as if
I always make him just as bad as he can be.”
</p>
<p>
Later in the winter, Alexandra looked back upon that afternoon as the last
satisfactory visit she had had with Marie. After that day the younger woman
seemed to shrink more and more into herself. When she was with Alexandra she
was not spontaneous and frank as she used to be. She seemed to be brooding over
something, and holding something back. The weather had a good deal to do with
their seeing less of each other than usual. There had not been such snowstorms
in twenty years, and the path across the fields was drifted deep from Christmas
until March. When the two neighbors went to see each other, they had to go
round by the wagon-road, which was twice as far. They telephoned each other
almost every night, though in January there was a stretch of three weeks when
the wires were down, and when the postman did not come at all.
</p>
<p>
Marie often ran in to see her nearest neighbor, old Mrs. Hiller, who was
crippled with rheumatism and had only her son, the lame shoemaker, to take care
of her; and she went to the French Church, whatever the weather. She was a
sincerely devout girl. She prayed for herself and for Frank, and for Emil,
among the temptations of that gay, corrupt old city. She found more comfort in
the Church that winter than ever before. It seemed to come closer to her, and
to fill an emptiness that ached in her heart. She tried to be patient with her
husband. He and his hired man usually played California Jack in the evening.
Marie sat sewing or crocheting and tried to take a friendly interest in the
game, but she was always thinking about the wide fields outside, where the snow
was drifting over the fences; and about the orchard, where the snow was falling
and packing, crust over crust. When she went out into the dark kitchen to fix
her plants for the night, she used to stand by the window and look out at the
white fields, or watch the currents of snow whirling over the orchard. She
seemed to feel the weight of all the snow that lay down there. The branches had
become so hard that they wounded your hand if you but tried to break a twig.
And yet, down under the frozen crusts, at the roots of the trees, the secret of
life was still safe, warm as the blood in one’s heart; and the spring would
come again! Oh, it would come again!
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_4_0022"></a>II</h2>
<p>
If Alexandra had had much imagination she might have guessed what was going on
in Marie’s mind, and she would have seen long before what was going on in
Emil’s. But that, as Emil himself had more than once reflected, was Alexandra’s
blind side, and her life had not been of the kind to sharpen her vision. Her
training had all been toward the end of making her proficient in what she had
undertaken to do. Her personal life, her own realization of herself, was almost
a subconscious existence; like an underground river that came to the surface
only here and there, at intervals months apart, and then sank again to flow on
under her own fields. Nevertheless, the underground stream was there, and it
was because she had so much personality to put into her enterprises and
succeeded in putting it into them so completely, that her affairs prospered
better than those of her neighbors.
</p>
<p>
There were certain days in her life, outwardly uneventful, which Alexandra
remembered as peculiarly happy; days when she was close to the flat, fallow
world about her, and felt, as it were, in her own body the joyous germination
in the soil. There were days, too, which she and Emil had spent together, upon
which she loved to look back. There had been such a day when they were down on
the river in the dry year, looking over the land. They had made an early start
one morning and had driven a long way before noon. When Emil said he was
hungry, they drew back from the road, gave Brigham his oats among the bushes,
and climbed up to the top of a grassy bluff to eat their lunch under the shade
of some little elm trees. The river was clear there, and shallow, since there
had been no rain, and it ran in ripples over the sparkling sand. Under the
overhanging willows of the opposite bank there was an inlet where the water was
deeper and flowed so slowly that it seemed to sleep in the sun. In this little
bay a single wild duck was swimming and diving and preening her feathers,
disporting herself very happily in the flickering light and shade. They sat for
a long time, watching the solitary bird take its pleasure. No living thing had
ever seemed to Alexandra as beautiful as that wild duck. Emil must have felt
about it as she did, for afterward, when they were at home, he used sometimes
to say, “Sister, you know our duck down there—” Alexandra remembered that day
as one of the happiest in her life. Years afterward she thought of the duck as
still there, swimming and diving all by herself in the sunlight, a kind of
enchanted bird that did not know age or change.
</p>
<p>
Most of Alexandra’s happy memories were as impersonal as this one; yet to her
they were very personal. Her mind was a white book, with clear writing about
weather and beasts and growing things. Not many people would have cared to read
it; only a happy few. She had never been in love, she had never indulged in
sentimental reveries. Even as a girl she had looked upon men as work-fellows.
She had grown up in serious times.
</p>
<p>
There was one fancy indeed, which persisted through her girlhood. It most often
came to her on Sunday mornings, the one day in the week when she lay late abed
listening to the familiar morning sounds; the windmill singing in the brisk
breeze, Emil whistling as he blacked his boots down by the kitchen door.
Sometimes, as she lay thus luxuriously idle, her eyes closed, she used to have
an illusion of being lifted up bodily and carried lightly by some one very
strong. It was a man, certainly, who carried her, but he was like no man she
knew; he was much larger and stronger and swifter, and he carried her as easily
as if she were a sheaf of wheat. She never saw him, but, with eyes closed, she
could feel that he was yellow like the sunlight, and there was the smell of
ripe cornfields about him. She could feel him approach, bend over her and lift
her, and then she could feel herself being carried swiftly off across the
fields. After such a reverie she would rise hastily, angry with herself, and go
down to the bath-house that was partitioned off the kitchen shed. There she
would stand in a tin tub and prosecute her bath with vigor, finishing it by
pouring buckets of cold well-water over her gleaming white body which no man on
the Divide could have carried very far.
</p>
<p>
As she grew older, this fancy more often came to her when she was tired than
when she was fresh and strong. Sometimes, after she had been in the open all
day, overseeing the branding of the cattle or the loading of the pigs, she
would come in chilled, take a concoction of spices and warm home-made wine, and
go to bed with her body actually aching with fatigue. Then, just before she
went to sleep, she had the old sensation of being lifted and carried by a
strong being who took from her all her bodily weariness.
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_PART4"></a>PART IV.<br/>
The White Mulberry Tree</h2>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_4_0024"></a>I</h2>
<p>
The French Church, properly the Church of Sainte-Agnes, stood upon a hill. The
high, narrow, red-brick building, with its tall steeple and steep roof, could
be seen for miles across the wheatfields, though the little town of
Sainte-Agnes was completely hidden away at the foot of the hill. The church
looked powerful and triumphant there on its eminence, so high above the rest of
the landscape, with miles of warm color lying at its feet, and by its position
and setting it reminded one of some of the churches built long ago in the
wheat-lands of middle France.
</p>
<p>
Late one June afternoon Alexandra Bergson was driving along one of the many
roads that led through the rich French farming country to the big church. The
sunlight was shining directly in her face, and there was a blaze of light all
about the red church on the hill. Beside Alexandra lounged a strikingly exotic
figure in a tall Mexican hat, a silk sash, and a black velvet jacket sewn with
silver buttons. Emil had returned only the night before, and his sister was so
proud of him that she decided at once to take him up to the church supper, and
to make him wear the Mexican costume he had brought home in his trunk. “All the
girls who have stands are going to wear fancy costumes,” she argued, “and some
of the boys. Marie is going to tell fortunes, and she sent to Omaha for a
Bohemian dress her father brought back from a visit to the old country. If you
wear those clothes, they will all be pleased. And you must take your guitar.
Everybody ought to do what they can to help along, and we have never done much.
We are not a talented family.”
</p>
<p>
The supper was to be at six o’clock, in the basement of the church, and
afterward there would be a fair, with charades and an auction. Alexandra had
set out from home early, leaving the house to Signa and Nelse Jensen, who were
to be married next week. Signa had shyly asked to have the wedding put off
until Emil came home.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra was well satisfied with her brother. As they drove through the
rolling French country toward the westering sun and the stalwart church, she
was thinking of that time long ago when she and Emil drove back from the river
valley to the still unconquered Divide. Yes, she told herself, it had been
worth while; both Emil and the country had become what she had hoped. Out of
her father’s children there was one who was fit to cope with the world, who had
not been tied to the plow, and who had a personality apart from the soil. And
that, she reflected, was what she had worked for. She felt well satisfied with
her life.
</p>
<p>
When they reached the church, a score of teams were hitched in front of the
basement doors that opened from the hillside upon the sanded terrace, where the
boys wrestled and had jumping-matches. Amédée Chevalier, a proud father of one
week, rushed out and embraced Emil. Amédée was an only son,—hence he was a very
rich young man,—but he meant to have twenty children himself, like his uncle
Xavier. “Oh, Emil,” he cried, hugging his old friend rapturously, “why ain’t
you been up to see my boy? You come to-morrow, sure? Emil, you wanna get a boy
right off! It’s the greatest thing ever! No, no, no! Angel not sick at all.
Everything just fine. That boy he come into this world laughin’, and he been
laughin’ ever since. You come an’ see!” He pounded Emil’s ribs to emphasize
each announcement.
</p>
<p>
Emil caught his arms. “Stop, Amédée. You’re knocking the wind out of me. I
brought him cups and spoons and blankets and moccasins enough for an orphan
asylum. I’m awful glad it’s a boy, sure enough!”
</p>
<p>
The young men crowded round Emil to admire his costume and to tell him in a
breath everything that had happened since he went away. Emil had more friends
up here in the French country than down on Norway Creek. The French and
Bohemian boys were spirited and jolly, liked variety, and were as much
predisposed to favor anything new as the Scandinavian boys were to reject it.
The Norwegian and Swedish lads were much more self-centred, apt to be
egotistical and jealous. They were cautious and reserved with Emil because he
had been away to college, and were prepared to take him down if he should try
to put on airs with them. The French boys liked a bit of swagger, and they were
always delighted to hear about anything new: new clothes, new games, new songs,
new dances. Now they carried Emil off to show him the club room they had just
fitted up over the post-office, down in the village. They ran down the hill in
a drove, all laughing and chattering at once, some in French, some in English.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra went into the cool, whitewashed basement where the women were setting
the tables. Marie was standing on a chair, building a little tent of shawls
where she was to tell fortunes. She sprang down and ran toward Alexandra,
stopping short and looking at her in disappointment. Alexandra nodded to her
encouragingly.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, he will be here, Marie. The boys have taken him off to show him something.
You won’t know him. He is a man now, sure enough. I have no boy left. He smokes
terrible-smelling Mexican cigarettes and talks Spanish. How pretty you look,
child. Where did you get those beautiful earrings?”
</p>
<p>
“They belonged to father’s mother. He always promised them to me. He sent them
with the dress and said I could keep them.”
</p>
<p>
Marie wore a short red skirt of stoutly woven cloth, a white bodice and kirtle,
a yellow silk turban wound low over her brown curls, and long coral pendants in
her ears. Her ears had been pierced against a piece of cork by her great-aunt
when she was seven years old. In those germless days she had worn bits of
broom-straw, plucked from the common sweeping-broom, in the lobes until the
holes were healed and ready for little gold rings.
</p>
<p>
When Emil came back from the village, he lingered outside on the terrace with
the boys. Marie could hear him talking and strumming on his guitar while Raoul
Marcel sang falsetto. She was vexed with him for staying out there. It made her
very nervous to hear him and not to see him; for, certainly, she told herself,
she was not going out to look for him. When the supper bell rang and the boys
came trooping in to get seats at the first table, she forgot all about her
annoyance and ran to greet the tallest of the crowd, in his conspicuous attire.
She didn’t mind showing her embarrassment at all. She blushed and laughed
excitedly as she gave Emil her hand, and looked delightedly at the black velvet
coat that brought out his fair skin and fine blond head. Marie was incapable of
being lukewarm about anything that pleased her. She simply did not know how to
give a half-hearted response. When she was delighted, she was as likely as not
to stand on her tip-toes and clap her hands. If people laughed at her, she
laughed with them.
</p>
<p>
“Do the men wear clothes like that every day, in the street?” She caught Emil
by his sleeve and turned him about. “Oh, I wish I lived where people wore
things like that! Are the buttons real silver? Put on the hat, please. What a
heavy thing! How do you ever wear it? Why don’t you tell us about the
bull-fights?”
</p>
<p>
She wanted to wring all his experiences from him at once, without waiting a
moment. Emil smiled tolerantly and stood looking down at her with his old,
brooding gaze, while the French girls fluttered about him in their white
dresses and ribbons, and Alexandra watched the scene with pride. Several of the
French girls, Marie knew, were hoping that Emil would take them to supper, and
she was relieved when he took only his sister. Marie caught Frank’s arm and
dragged him to the same table, managing to get seats opposite the Bergsons, so
that she could hear what they were talking about. Alexandra made Emil tell Mrs.
Xavier Chevalier, the mother of the twenty, about how he had seen a famous
matador killed in the bull-ring. Marie listened to every word, only taking her
eyes from Emil to watch Frank’s plate and keep it filled. When Emil finished
his account,—bloody enough to satisfy Mrs. Xavier and to make her feel thankful
that she was not a matador,—Marie broke out with a volley of questions. How did
the women dress when they went to bull-fights? Did they wear mantillas? Did
they never wear hats?
</p>
<p>
After supper the young people played charades for the amusement of their
elders, who sat gossiping between their guesses. All the shops in Sainte-Agnes
were closed at eight o’clock that night, so that the merchants and their clerks
could attend the fair. The auction was the liveliest part of the entertainment,
for the French boys always lost their heads when they began to bid, satisfied
that their extravagance was in a good cause. After all the pincushions and sofa
pillows and embroidered slippers were sold, Emil precipitated a panic by taking
out one of his turquoise shirt studs, which every one had been admiring, and
handing it to the auctioneer. All the French girls clamored for it, and their
sweethearts bid against each other recklessly. Marie wanted it, too, and she
kept making signals to Frank, which he took a sour pleasure in disregarding. He
didn’t see the use of making a fuss over a fellow just because he was dressed
like a clown. When the turquoise went to Malvina Sauvage, the French banker’s
daughter, Marie shrugged her shoulders and betook herself to her little tent of
shawls, where she began to shuffle her cards by the light of a tallow candle,
calling out, “Fortunes, fortunes!”
</p>
<p>
The young priest, Father Duchesne, went first to have his fortune read. Marie
took his long white hand, looked at it, and then began to run off her cards. “I
see a long journey across water for you, Father. You will go to a town all cut
up by water; built on islands, it seems to be, with rivers and green fields all
about. And you will visit an old lady with a white cap and gold hoops in her
ears, and you will be very happy there.”
</p>
<p>
“Mais, oui,” said the priest, with a melancholy smile. “C’est L’Isle-Adam, chez
ma mère. Vous êtes très savante, ma fille.” He patted her yellow turban,
calling, “Venez donc, mes garçons! Il y a ici une véritable clairvoyante!”
</p>
<p>
Marie was clever at fortune-telling, indulging in a light irony that amused the
crowd. She told old Brunot, the miser, that he would lose all his money, marry
a girl of sixteen, and live happily on a crust. Sholte, the fat Russian boy,
who lived for his stomach, was to be disappointed in love, grow thin, and shoot
himself from despondency. Amédée was to have twenty children, and nineteen of
them were to be girls. Amédée slapped Frank on the back and asked him why he
didn’t see what the fortune-teller would promise him. But Frank shook off his
friendly hand and grunted, “She tell my fortune long ago; bad enough!” Then he
withdrew to a corner and sat glowering at his wife.
</p>
<p>
Frank’s case was all the more painful because he had no one in particular to
fix his jealousy upon. Sometimes he could have thanked the man who would bring
him evidence against his wife. He had discharged a good farm-boy, Jan Smirka,
because he thought Marie was fond of him; but she had not seemed to miss Jan
when he was gone, and she had been just as kind to the next boy. The farm-hands
would always do anything for Marie; Frank couldn’t find one so surly that he
would not make an effort to please her. At the bottom of his heart Frank knew
well enough that if he could once give up his grudge, his wife would come back
to him. But he could never in the world do that. The grudge was fundamental.
Perhaps he could not have given it up if he had tried. Perhaps he got more
satisfaction out of feeling himself abused than he would have got out of being
loved. If he could once have made Marie thoroughly unhappy, he might have
relented and raised her from the dust. But she had never humbled herself. In
the first days of their love she had been his slave; she had admired him
abandonedly. But the moment he began to bully her and to be unjust, she began
to draw away; at first in tearful amazement, then in quiet, unspoken disgust.
The distance between them had widened and hardened. It no longer contracted and
brought them suddenly together. The spark of her life went somewhere else, and
he was always watching to surprise it. He knew that somewhere she must get a
feeling to live upon, for she was not a woman who could live without loving. He
wanted to prove to himself the wrong he felt. What did she hide in her heart?
Where did it go? Even Frank had his churlish delicacies; he never reminded her
of how much she had once loved him. For that Marie was grateful to him.
</p>
<p>
While Marie was chattering to the French boys, Amédée called Emil to the back
of the room and whispered to him that they were going to play a joke on the
girls. At eleven o’clock, Amédée was to go up to the switchboard in the
vestibule and turn off the electric lights, and every boy would have a chance
to kiss his sweetheart before Father Duchesne could find his way up the stairs
to turn the current on again. The only difficulty was the candle in Marie’s
tent; perhaps, as Emil had no sweetheart, he would oblige the boys by blowing
out the candle. Emil said he would undertake to do that.
</p>
<p>
At five minutes to eleven he sauntered up to Marie’s booth, and the French boys
dispersed to find their girls. He leaned over the card-table and gave himself
up to looking at her. “Do you think you could tell my fortune?” he murmured. It
was the first word he had had alone with her for almost a year. “My luck hasn’t
changed any. It’s just the same.”
</p>
<p>
Marie had often wondered whether there was anyone else who could look his
thoughts to you as Emil could. To-night, when she met his steady, powerful
eyes, it was impossible not to feel the sweetness of the dream he was dreaming;
it reached her before she could shut it out, and hid itself in her heart. She
began to shuffle her cards furiously. “I’m angry with you, Emil,” she broke out
with petulance. “Why did you give them that lovely blue stone to sell? You
might have known Frank wouldn’t buy it for me, and I wanted it awfully!”
</p>
<p>
Emil laughed shortly. “People who want such little things surely ought to have
them,” he said dryly. He thrust his hand into the pocket of his velvet trousers
and brought out a handful of uncut turquoises, as big as marbles. Leaning over
the table he dropped them into her lap. “There, will those do? Be careful,
don’t let any one see them. Now, I suppose you want me to go away and let you
play with them?”
</p>
<p>
Marie was gazing in rapture at the soft blue color of the stones. “Oh, Emil! Is
everything down there beautiful like these? How could you ever come away?”
</p>
<p>
At that instant Amédée laid hands on the switchboard. There was a shiver and a
giggle, and every one looked toward the red blur that Marie’s candle made in
the dark. Immediately that, too, was gone. Little shrieks and currents of soft
laughter ran up and down the dark hall. Marie started up,—directly into Emil’s
arms. In the same instant she felt his lips. The veil that had hung uncertainly
between them for so long was dissolved. Before she knew what she was doing, she
had committed herself to that kiss that was at once a boy’s and a man’s, as
timid as it was tender; so like Emil and so unlike any one else in the world.
Not until it was over did she realize what it meant. And Emil, who had so often
imagined the shock of this first kiss, was surprised at its gentleness and
naturalness. It was like a sigh which they had breathed together; almost
sorrowful, as if each were afraid of wakening something in the other.
</p>
<p>
When the lights came on again, everybody was laughing and shouting, and all the
French girls were rosy and shining with mirth. Only Marie, in her little tent
of shawls, was pale and quiet. Under her yellow turban the red coral pendants
swung against white cheeks. Frank was still staring at her, but he seemed to
see nothing. Years ago, he himself had had the power to take the blood from her
cheeks like that. Perhaps he did not remember—perhaps he had never noticed!
Emil was already at the other end of the hall, walking about with the
shoulder-motion he had acquired among the Mexicans, studying the floor with his
intent, deep-set eyes. Marie began to take down and fold her shawls. She did
not glance up again. The young people drifted to the other end of the hall
where the guitar was sounding. In a moment she heard Emil and Raoul singing:—
</p>
<p class="poem">
“Across the Rio Grand-e<br/>
There lies a sunny land-e,<br/>
My bright-eyed Mexico!”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra Bergson came up to the card booth. “Let me help you, Marie. You look
tired.”
</p>
<p>
She placed her hand on Marie’s arm and felt her shiver. Marie stiffened under
that kind, calm hand. Alexandra drew back, perplexed and hurt.
</p>
<p>
There was about Alexandra something of the impervious calm of the fatalist,
always disconcerting to very young people, who cannot feel that the heart lives
at all unless it is still at the mercy of storms; unless its strings can scream
to the touch of pain.
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_4_0025"></a>II</h2>
<p>
Signa’s wedding supper was over. The guests, and the tiresome little Norwegian
preacher who had performed the marriage ceremony, were saying good-night. Old
Ivar was hitching the horses to the wagon to take the wedding presents and the
bride and groom up to their new home, on Alexandra’s north quarter. When Ivar
drove up to the gate, Emil and Marie Shabata began to carry out the presents,
and Alexandra went into her bedroom to bid Signa good-bye and to give her a few
words of good counsel. She was surprised to find that the bride had changed her
slippers for heavy shoes and was pinning up her skirts. At that moment Nelse
appeared at the gate with the two milk cows that Alexandra had given Signa for
a wedding present.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra began to laugh. “Why, Signa, you and Nelse are to ride home. I’ll
send Ivar over with the cows in the morning.”
</p>
<p>
Signa hesitated and looked perplexed. When her husband called her, she pinned
her hat on resolutely. “I ta-ank I better do yust like he say,” she murmured in
confusion.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra and Marie accompanied Signa to the gate and saw the party set off,
old Ivar driving ahead in the wagon and the bride and groom following on foot,
each leading a cow. Emil burst into a laugh before they were out of hearing.
</p>
<p>
“Those two will get on,” said Alexandra as they turned back to the house. “They
are not going to take any chances. They will feel safer with those cows in
their own stable. Marie, I am going to send for an old woman next. As soon as I
get the girls broken in, I marry them off.”
</p>
<p>
“I’ve no patience with Signa, marrying that grumpy fellow!” Marie declared. “I
wanted her to marry that nice Smirka boy who worked for us last winter. I think
she liked him, too.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, I think she did,” Alexandra assented, “but I suppose she was too much
afraid of Nelse to marry any one else. Now that I think of it, most of my girls
have married men they were afraid of. I believe there is a good deal of the cow
in most Swedish girls. You high-strung Bohemian can’t understand us. We’re a
terribly practical people, and I guess we think a cross man makes a good
manager.”
</p>
<p>
Marie shrugged her shoulders and turned to pin up a lock of hair that had
fallen on her neck. Somehow Alexandra had irritated her of late. Everybody
irritated her. She was tired of everybody. “I’m going home alone, Emil, so you
needn’t get your hat,” she said as she wound her scarf quickly about her head.
“Good-night, Alexandra,” she called back in a strained voice, running down the
gravel walk.
</p>
<p>
Emil followed with long strides until he overtook her. Then she began to walk
slowly. It was a night of warm wind and faint starlight, and the fireflies were
glimmering over the wheat.
</p>
<p>
“Marie,” said Emil after they had walked for a while, “I wonder if you know how
unhappy I am?”
</p>
<p>
Marie did not answer him. Her head, in its white scarf, drooped forward a
little.
</p>
<p>
Emil kicked a clod from the path and went on:—
</p>
<p>
“I wonder whether you are really shallow-hearted, like you seem? Sometimes I
think one boy does just as well as another for you. It never seems to make much
difference whether it is me or Raoul Marcel or Jan Smirka. Are you really like
that?”
</p>
<p>
“Perhaps I am. What do you want me to do? Sit round and cry all day? When I’ve
cried until I can’t cry any more, then—then I must do something else.”
</p>
<p>
“Are you sorry for me?” he persisted.
</p>
<p>
“No, I’m not. If I were big and free like you, I wouldn’t let anything make me
unhappy. As old Napoleon Brunot said at the fair, I wouldn’t go lovering after
no woman. I’d take the first train and go off and have all the fun there is.”
</p>
<p>
“I tried that, but it didn’t do any good. Everything reminded me. The nicer the
place was, the more I wanted you.” They had come to the stile and Emil pointed
to it persuasively. “Sit down a moment, I want to ask you something.” Marie sat
down on the top step and Emil drew nearer. “Would you tell me something that’s
none of my business if you thought it would help me out? Well, then, tell me,
<i>please</i> tell me, why you ran away with Frank Shabata!”
</p>
<p>
Marie drew back. “Because I was in love with him,” she said firmly.
</p>
<p>
“Really?” he asked incredulously.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, indeed. Very much in love with him. I think I was the one who suggested
our running away. From the first it was more my fault than his.”
</p>
<p>
Emil turned away his face.
</p>
<p>
“And now,” Marie went on, “I’ve got to remember that. Frank is just the same
now as he was then, only then I would see him as I wanted him to be. I would
have my own way. And now I pay for it.”
</p>
<p>
“You don’t do all the paying.”
</p>
<p>
“That’s it. When one makes a mistake, there’s no telling where it will stop.
But you can go away; you can leave all this behind you.”
</p>
<p>
“Not everything. I can’t leave you behind. Will you go away with me, Marie?”
</p>
<p>
Marie started up and stepped across the stile. “Emil! How wickedly you talk! I
am not that kind of a girl, and you know it. But what am I going to do if you
keep tormenting me like this!” she added plaintively.
</p>
<p>
“Marie, I won’t bother you any more if you will tell me just one thing. Stop a
minute and look at me. No, nobody can see us. Everybody’s asleep. That was only
a firefly. Marie, <i>stop</i> and tell me!”
</p>
<p>
Emil overtook her and catching her by the shoulders shook her gently, as if he
were trying to awaken a sleepwalker.
</p>
<p>
Marie hid her face on his arm. “Don’t ask me anything more. I don’t know
anything except how miserable I am. And I thought it would be all right when
you came back. Oh, Emil,” she clutched his sleeve and began to cry, “what am I
to do if you don’t go away? I can’t go, and one of us must. Can’t you see?”
</p>
<p>
Emil stood looking down at her, holding his shoulders stiff and stiffening the
arm to which she clung. Her white dress looked gray in the darkness. She seemed
like a troubled spirit, like some shadow out of the earth, clinging to him and
entreating him to give her peace. Behind her the fireflies were weaving in and
out over the wheat. He put his hand on her bent head. “On my honor, Marie, if
you will say you love me, I will go away.”
</p>
<p>
She lifted her face to his. “How could I help it? Didn’t you know?”
</p>
<p>
Emil was the one who trembled, through all his frame. After he left Marie at
her gate, he wandered about the fields all night, till morning put out the
fireflies and the stars.
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_4_0026"></a>III</h2>
<p>
One evening, a week after Signa’s wedding, Emil was kneeling before a box in
the sitting-room, packing his books. From time to time he rose and wandered
about the house, picking up stray volumes and bringing them listlessly back to
his box. He was packing without enthusiasm. He was not very sanguine about his
future. Alexandra sat sewing by the table. She had helped him pack his trunk in
the afternoon. As Emil came and went by her chair with his books, he thought to
himself that it had not been so hard to leave his sister since he first went
away to school. He was going directly to Omaha, to read law in the office of a
Swedish lawyer until October, when he would enter the law school at Ann Arbor.
They had planned that Alexandra was to come to Michigan—a long journey for
her—at Christmas time, and spend several weeks with him. Nevertheless, he felt
that this leave-taking would be more final than his earlier ones had been; that
it meant a definite break with his old home and the beginning of something
new—he did not know what. His ideas about the future would not crystallize; the
more he tried to think about it, the vaguer his conception of it became. But
one thing was clear, he told himself; it was high time that he made good to
Alexandra, and that ought to be incentive enough to begin with.
</p>
<p>
As he went about gathering up his books he felt as if he were uprooting things.
At last he threw himself down on the old slat lounge where he had slept when he
was little, and lay looking up at the familiar cracks in the ceiling.
</p>
<p>
“Tired, Emil?” his sister asked.
</p>
<p>
“Lazy,” he murmured, turning on his side and looking at her. He studied
Alexandra’s face for a long time in the lamplight. It had never occurred to him
that his sister was a handsome woman until Marie Shabata had told him so.
Indeed, he had never thought of her as being a woman at all, only a sister. As
he studied her bent head, he looked up at the picture of John Bergson above the
lamp. “No,” he thought to himself, “she didn’t get it there. I suppose I am
more like that.”
</p>
<p>
“Alexandra,” he said suddenly, “that old walnut secretary you use for a desk
was father’s, wasn’t it?”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra went on stitching. “Yes. It was one of the first things he bought for
the old log house. It was a great extravagance in those days. But he wrote a
great many letters back to the old country. He had many friends there, and they
wrote to him up to the time he died. No one ever blamed him for grandfather’s
disgrace. I can see him now, sitting there on Sundays, in his white shirt,
writing pages and pages, so carefully. He wrote a fine, regular hand, almost
like engraving. Yours is something like his, when you take pains.”
</p>
<p>
“Grandfather was really crooked, was he?”
</p>
<p>
“He married an unscrupulous woman, and then—then I’m afraid he was really
crooked. When we first came here father used to have dreams about making a
great fortune and going back to Sweden to pay back to the poor sailors the
money grandfather had lost.”
</p>
<p>
Emil stirred on the lounge. “I say, that would have been worth while, wouldn’t
it? Father wasn’t a bit like Lou or Oscar, was he? I can’t remember much about
him before he got sick.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, not at all!” Alexandra dropped her sewing on her knee. “He had better
opportunities; not to make money, but to make something of himself. He was a
quiet man, but he was very intelligent. You would have been proud of him,
Emil.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra felt that he would like to know there had been a man of his kin whom
he could admire. She knew that Emil was ashamed of Lou and Oscar, because they
were bigoted and self-satisfied. He never said much about them, but she could
feel his disgust. His brothers had shown their disapproval of him ever since he
first went away to school. The only thing that would have satisfied them would
have been his failure at the University. As it was, they resented every change
in his speech, in his dress, in his point of view; though the latter they had
to conjecture, for Emil avoided talking to them about any but family matters.
All his interests they treated as affectations.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra took up her sewing again. “I can remember father when he was quite a
young man. He belonged to some kind of a musical society, a male chorus, in
Stockholm. I can remember going with mother to hear them sing. There must have
been a hundred of them, and they all wore long black coats and white neckties.
I was used to seeing father in a blue coat, a sort of jacket, and when I
recognized him on the platform, I was very proud. Do you remember that Swedish
song he taught you, about the ship boy?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes. I used to sing it to the Mexicans. They like anything different.” Emil
paused. “Father had a hard fight here, didn’t he?” he added thoughtfully.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, and he died in a dark time. Still, he had hope. He believed in the land.”
</p>
<p>
“And in you, I guess,” Emil said to himself. There was another period of
silence; that warm, friendly silence, full of perfect understanding, in which
Emil and Alexandra had spent many of their happiest half-hours.
</p>
<p>
At last Emil said abruptly, “Lou and Oscar would be better off if they were
poor, wouldn’t they?”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra smiled. “Maybe. But their children wouldn’t. I have great hopes of
Milly.”
</p>
<p>
Emil shivered. “I don’t know. Seems to me it gets worse as it goes on. The
worst of the Swedes is that they’re never willing to find out how much they
don’t know. It was like that at the University. Always so pleased with
themselves! There’s no getting behind that conceited Swedish grin. The
Bohemians and Germans were so different.”
</p>
<p>
“Come, Emil, don’t go back on your own people. Father wasn’t conceited, Uncle
Otto wasn’t. Even Lou and Oscar weren’t when they were boys.”
</p>
<p>
Emil looked incredulous, but he did not dispute the point. He turned on his
back and lay still for a long time, his hands locked under his head, looking up
at the ceiling. Alexandra knew that he was thinking of many things. She felt no
anxiety about Emil. She had always believed in him, as she had believed in the
land. He had been more like himself since he got back from Mexico; seemed glad
to be at home, and talked to her as he used to do. She had no doubt that his
wandering fit was over, and that he would soon be settled in life.
</p>
<p>
“Alexandra,” said Emil suddenly, “do you remember the wild duck we saw down on
the river that time?”
</p>
<p>
His sister looked up. “I often think of her. It always seems to me she’s there
still, just like we saw her.”
</p>
<p>
“I know. It’s queer what things one remembers and what things one forgets.”
Emil yawned and sat up. “Well, it’s time to turn in.” He rose, and going over
to Alexandra stooped down and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Good-night,
sister. I think you did pretty well by us.”
</p>
<p>
Emil took up his lamp and went upstairs. Alexandra sat finishing his new
nightshirt, that must go in the top tray of his trunk.
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_4_0027"></a>IV</h2>
<p>
The next morning Angélique, Amédée’s wife, was in the kitchen baking pies,
assisted by old Mrs. Chevalier. Between the mixing-board and the stove stood
the old cradle that had been Amédée’s, and in it was his black-eyed son. As
Angélique, flushed and excited, with flour on her hands, stopped to smile at
the baby, Emil Bergson rode up to the kitchen door on his mare and dismounted.
</p>
<p>
“’Médée is out in the field, Emil,” Angélique called as she ran across the
kitchen to the oven. “He begins to cut his wheat to-day; the first wheat ready
to cut anywhere about here. He bought a new header, you know, because all the
wheat’s so short this year. I hope he can rent it to the neighbors, it cost so
much. He and his cousins bought a steam thresher on shares. You ought to go out
and see that header work. I watched it an hour this morning, busy as I am with
all the men to feed. He has a lot of hands, but he’s the only one that knows
how to drive the header or how to run the engine, so he has to be everywhere at
once. He’s sick, too, and ought to be in his bed.”
</p>
<p>
Emil bent over Hector Baptiste, trying to make him blink his round, bead-like
black eyes. “Sick? What’s the matter with your daddy, kid? Been making him walk
the floor with you?”
</p>
<p>
Angélique sniffed. “Not much! We don’t have that kind of babies. It was his
father that kept Baptiste awake. All night I had to be getting up and making
mustard plasters to put on his stomach. He had an awful colic. He said he felt
better this morning, but I don’t think he ought to be out in the field,
overheating himself.”
</p>
<p>
Angélique did not speak with much anxiety, not because she was indifferent, but
because she felt so secure in their good fortune. Only good things could happen
to a rich, energetic, handsome young man like Amédée, with a new baby in the
cradle and a new header in the field.
</p>
<p>
Emil stroked the black fuzz on Baptiste’s head. “I say, Angélique, one of
’Médée’s grandmothers, ’way back, must have been a squaw. This kid looks
exactly like the Indian babies.”
</p>
<p>
Angélique made a face at him, but old Mrs. Chevalier had been touched on a sore
point, and she let out such a stream of fiery <i>patois</i> that Emil fled from
the kitchen and mounted his mare.
</p>
<p>
Opening the pasture gate from the saddle, Emil rode across the field to the
clearing where the thresher stood, driven by a stationary engine and fed from
the header boxes. As Amédée was not on the engine, Emil rode on to the
wheatfield, where he recognized, on the header, the slight, wiry figure of his
friend, coatless, his white shirt puffed out by the wind, his straw hat stuck
jauntily on the side of his head. The six big work-horses that drew, or rather
pushed, the header, went abreast at a rapid walk, and as they were still green
at the work they required a good deal of management on Amédée’s part;
especially when they turned the corners, where they divided, three and three,
and then swung round into line again with a movement that looked as complicated
as a wheel of artillery. Emil felt a new thrill of admiration for his friend,
and with it the old pang of envy at the way in which Amédée could do with his
might what his hand found to do, and feel that, whatever it was, it was the
most important thing in the world. “I’ll have to bring Alexandra up to see this
thing work,” Emil thought; “it’s splendid!”
</p>
<p>
When he saw Emil, Amédée waved to him and called to one of his twenty cousins
to take the reins. Stepping off the header without stopping it, he ran up to
Emil who had dismounted. “Come along,” he called. “I have to go over to the
engine for a minute. I gotta green man running it, and I gotta to keep an eye
on him.”
</p>
<p>
Emil thought the lad was unnaturally flushed and more excited than even the
cares of managing a big farm at a critical time warranted. As they passed
behind a last year’s stack, Amédée clutched at his right side and sank down for
a moment on the straw.
</p>
<p>
“Ouch! I got an awful pain in me, Emil. Something’s the matter with my insides,
for sure.”
</p>
<p>
Emil felt his fiery cheek. “You ought to go straight to bed, ’Médée, and
telephone for the doctor; that’s what you ought to do.”
</p>
<p>
Amédée staggered up with a gesture of despair. “How can I? I got no time to be
sick. Three thousand dollars’ worth of new machinery to manage, and the wheat
so ripe it will begin to shatter next week. My wheat’s short, but it’s gotta
grand full berries. What’s he slowing down for? We haven’t got header boxes
enough to feed the thresher, I guess.”
</p>
<p>
Amédée started hot-foot across the stubble, leaning a little to the right as he
ran, and waved to the engineer not to stop the engine.
</p>
<p>
Emil saw that this was no time to talk about his own affairs. He mounted his
mare and rode on to Sainte-Agnes, to bid his friends there good-bye. He went
first to see Raoul Marcel, and found him innocently practising the “Gloria” for
the big confirmation service on Sunday while he polished the mirrors of his
father’s saloon.
</p>
<p>
As Emil rode homewards at three o’clock in the afternoon, he saw Amédée
staggering out of the wheatfield, supported by two of his cousins. Emil stopped
and helped them put the boy to bed.
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_4_0028"></a>V</h2>
<p>
When Frank Shabata came in from work at five o’clock that evening, old Moses
Marcel, Raoul’s father, telephoned him that Amédée had had a seizure in the
wheatfield, and that Doctor Paradis was going to operate on him as soon as the
Hanover doctor got there to help. Frank dropped a word of this at the table,
bolted his supper, and rode off to Sainte-Agnes, where there would be
sympathetic discussion of Amédée’s case at Marcel’s saloon.
</p>
<p>
As soon as Frank was gone, Marie telephoned Alexandra. It was a comfort to hear
her friend’s voice. Yes, Alexandra knew what there was to be known about
Amédée. Emil had been there when they carried him out of the field, and had
stayed with him until the doctors operated for appendicitis at five o’clock.
They were afraid it was too late to do much good; it should have been done
three days ago. Amédée was in a very bad way. Emil had just come home, worn out
and sick himself. She had given him some brandy and put him to bed.
</p>
<p>
Marie hung up the receiver. Poor Amédée’s illness had taken on a new meaning to
her, now that she knew Emil had been with him. And it might so easily have been
the other way—Emil who was ill and Amédée who was sad! Marie looked about the
dusky sitting-room. She had seldom felt so utterly lonely. If Emil was asleep,
there was not even a chance of his coming; and she could not go to Alexandra
for sympathy. She meant to tell Alexandra everything, as soon as Emil went
away. Then whatever was left between them would be honest.
</p>
<p>
But she could not stay in the house this evening. Where should she go? She
walked slowly down through the orchard, where the evening air was heavy with
the smell of wild cotton. The fresh, salty scent of the wild roses had given
way before this more powerful perfume of midsummer. Wherever those
ashes-of-rose balls hung on their milky stalks, the air about them was
saturated with their breath. The sky was still red in the west and the evening
star hung directly over the Bergsons’ wind-mill. Marie crossed the fence at the
wheatfield corner, and walked slowly along the path that led to Alexandra’s.
She could not help feeling hurt that Emil had not come to tell her about
Amédée. It seemed to her most unnatural that he should not have come. If she
were in trouble, certainly he was the one person in the world she would want to
see. Perhaps he wished her to understand that for her he was as good as gone
already.
</p>
<p>
Marie stole slowly, flutteringly, along the path, like a white night-moth out
of the fields. The years seemed to stretch before her like the land; spring,
summer, autumn, winter, spring; always the same patient fields, the patient
little trees, the patient lives; always the same yearning, the same pulling at
the chain—until the instinct to live had torn itself and bled and weakened for
the last time, until the chain secured a dead woman, who might cautiously be
released. Marie walked on, her face lifted toward the remote, inaccessible
evening star.
</p>
<p>
When she reached the stile she sat down and waited. How terrible it was to love
people when you could not really share their lives!
</p>
<p>
Yes, in so far as she was concerned, Emil was already gone. They couldn’t meet
any more. There was nothing for them to say. They had spent the last penny of
their small change; there was nothing left but gold. The day of love-tokens was
past. They had now only their hearts to give each other. And Emil being gone,
what was her life to be like? In some ways, it would be easier. She would not,
at least, live in perpetual fear. If Emil were once away and settled at work,
she would not have the feeling that she was spoiling his life. With the memory
he left her, she could be as rash as she chose. Nobody could be the worse for
it but herself; and that, surely, did not matter. Her own case was clear. When
a girl had loved one man, and then loved another while that man was still
alive, everybody knew what to think of her. What happened to her was of little
consequence, so long as she did not drag other people down with her. Emil once
away, she could let everything else go and live a new life of perfect love.
</p>
<p>
Marie left the stile reluctantly. She had, after all, thought he might come.
And how glad she ought to be, she told herself, that he was asleep. She left
the path and went across the pasture. The moon was almost full. An owl was
hooting somewhere in the fields. She had scarcely thought about where she was
going when the pond glittered before her, where Emil had shot the ducks. She
stopped and looked at it. Yes, there would be a dirty way out of life, if one
chose to take it. But she did not want to die. She wanted to live and dream—a
hundred years, forever! As long as this sweetness welled up in her heart, as
long as her breast could hold this treasure of pain! She felt as the pond must
feel when it held the moon like that; when it encircled and swelled with that
image of gold.
</p>
<p class="p2">
In the morning, when Emil came down-stairs, Alexandra met him in the
sitting-room and put her hands on his shoulders. “Emil, I went to your room as
soon as it was light, but you were sleeping so sound I hated to wake you. There
was nothing you could do, so I let you sleep. They telephoned from Sainte-Agnes
that Amédée died at three o’clock this morning.”
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_4_0029"></a>VI</h2>
<p>
The Church has always held that life is for the living. On Saturday, while half
the village of Sainte-Agnes was mourning for Amédée and preparing the funeral
black for his burial on Monday, the other half was busy with white dresses and
white veils for the great confirmation service to-morrow, when the bishop was
to confirm a class of one hundred boys and girls. Father Duchesne divided his
time between the living and the dead. All day Saturday the church was a scene
of bustling activity, a little hushed by the thought of Amédée. The choir were
busy rehearsing a mass of Rossini, which they had studied and practised for
this occasion. The women were trimming the altar, the boys and girls were
bringing flowers.
</p>
<p>
On Sunday morning the bishop was to drive overland to Sainte-Agnes from
Hanover, and Emil Bergson had been asked to take the place of one of Amédée’s
cousins in the cavalcade of forty French boys who were to ride across country
to meet the bishop’s carriage. At six o’clock on Sunday morning the boys met at
the church. As they stood holding their horses by the bridle, they talked in
low tones of their dead comrade. They kept repeating that Amédée had always
been a good boy, glancing toward the red brick church which had played so large
a part in Amédée’s life, had been the scene of his most serious moments and of
his happiest hours. He had played and wrestled and sung and courted under its
shadow. Only three weeks ago he had proudly carried his baby there to be
christened. They could not doubt that that invisible arm was still about
Amédée; that through the church on earth he had passed to the church
triumphant, the goal of the hopes and faith of so many hundred years.
</p>
<p>
When the word was given to mount, the young men rode at a walk out of the
village; but once out among the wheatfields in the morning sun, their horses
and their own youth got the better of them. A wave of zeal and fiery enthusiasm
swept over them. They longed for a Jerusalem to deliver. The thud of their
galloping hoofs interrupted many a country breakfast and brought many a woman
and child to the door of the farmhouses as they passed. Five miles east of
Sainte-Agnes they met the bishop in his open carriage, attended by two priests.
Like one man the boys swung off their hats in a broad salute, and bowed their
heads as the handsome old man lifted his two fingers in the episcopal blessing.
The horsemen closed about the carriage like a guard, and whenever a restless
horse broke from control and shot down the road ahead of the body, the bishop
laughed and rubbed his plump hands together. “What fine boys!” he said to his
priests. “The Church still has her cavalry.”
</p>
<p>
As the troop swept past the graveyard half a mile east of the town,—the first
frame church of the parish had stood there,—old Pierre Seguin was already out
with his pick and spade, digging Amédée’s grave. He knelt and uncovered as the
bishop passed. The boys with one accord looked away from old Pierre to the red
church on the hill, with the gold cross flaming on its steeple.
</p>
<p>
Mass was at eleven. While the church was filling, Emil Bergson waited outside,
watching the wagons and buggies drive up the hill. After the bell began to
ring, he saw Frank Shabata ride up on horseback and tie his horse to the
hitch-bar. Marie, then, was not coming. Emil turned and went into the church.
Amédée’s was the only empty pew, and he sat down in it. Some of Amédée’s
cousins were there, dressed in black and weeping. When all the pews were full,
the old men and boys packed the open space at the back of the church, kneeling
on the floor. There was scarcely a family in town that was not represented in
the confirmation class, by a cousin, at least. The new communicants, with their
clear, reverent faces, were beautiful to look upon as they entered in a body
and took the front benches reserved for them. Even before the Mass began, the
air was charged with feeling. The choir had never sung so well and Raoul
Marcel, in the “Gloria,” drew even the bishop’s eyes to the organ loft. For the
offertory he sang Gounod’s “Ave Maria,”—always spoken of in Sainte-Agnes as
“the Ave Maria.”
</p>
<p>
Emil began to torture himself with questions about Marie. Was she ill? Had she
quarreled with her husband? Was she too unhappy to find comfort even here? Had
she, perhaps, thought that he would come to her? Was she waiting for him?
Overtaxed by excitement and sorrow as he was, the rapture of the service took
hold upon his body and mind. As he listened to Raoul, he seemed to emerge from
the conflicting emotions which had been whirling him about and sucking him
under. He felt as if a clear light broke upon his mind, and with it a
conviction that good was, after all, stronger than evil, and that good was
possible to men. He seemed to discover that there was a kind of rapture in
which he could love forever without faltering and without sin. He looked across
the heads of the people at Frank Shabata with calmness. That rapture was for
those who could feel it; for people who could not, it was non-existent. He
coveted nothing that was Frank Shabata’s. The spirit he had met in music was
his own. Frank Shabata had never found it; would never find it if he lived
beside it a thousand years; would have destroyed it if he had found it, as
Herod slew the innocents, as Rome slew the martyrs.
</p>
<p class="poem">
San—cta Mari-i-i-a,
</p>
<p class="noindent">
wailed Raoul from the organ loft;
</p>
<p class="poem">
O—ra pro no-o-bis!
</p>
<p class="noindent">
And it did not occur to Emil that any one had ever reasoned thus before, that
music had ever before given a man this equivocal revelation.
</p>
<p>
The confirmation service followed the Mass. When it was over, the congregation
thronged about the newly confirmed. The girls, and even the boys, were kissed
and embraced and wept over. All the aunts and grandmothers wept with joy. The
housewives had much ado to tear themselves away from the general rejoicing and
hurry back to their kitchens. The country parishioners were staying in town for
dinner, and nearly every house in Sainte-Agnes entertained visitors that day.
Father Duchesne, the bishop, and the visiting priests dined with Fabien
Sauvage, the banker. Emil and Frank Shabata were both guests of old Moise
Marcel. After dinner Frank and old Moise retired to the rear room of the saloon
to play California Jack and drink their cognac, and Emil went over to the
banker’s with Raoul, who had been asked to sing for the bishop.
</p>
<p>
At three o’clock, Emil felt that he could stand it no longer. He slipped out
under cover of “The Holy City,” followed by Malvina’s wistful eye, and went to
the stable for his mare. He was at that height of excitement from which
everything is foreshortened, from which life seems short and simple, death very
near, and the soul seems to soar like an eagle. As he rode past the graveyard
he looked at the brown hole in the earth where Amédée was to lie, and felt no
horror. That, too, was beautiful, that simple doorway into forgetfulness. The
heart, when it is too much alive, aches for that brown earth, and ecstasy has
no fear of death. It is the old and the poor and the maimed who shrink from
that brown hole; its wooers are found among the young, the passionate, the
gallant-hearted. It was not until he had passed the graveyard that Emil
realized where he was going. It was the hour for saying good-bye. It might be
the last time that he would see her alone, and today he could leave her without
rancor, without bitterness.
</p>
<p>
Everywhere the grain stood ripe and the hot afternoon was full of the smell of
the ripe wheat, like the smell of bread baking in an oven. The breath of the
wheat and the sweet clover passed him like pleasant things in a dream. He could
feel nothing but the sense of diminishing distance. It seemed to him that his
mare was flying, or running on wheels, like a railway train. The sunlight,
flashing on the window-glass of the big red barns, drove him wild with joy. He
was like an arrow shot from the bow. His life poured itself out along the road
before him as he rode to the Shabata farm.
</p>
<p>
When Emil alighted at the Shabatas’ gate, his horse was in a lather. He tied
her in the stable and hurried to the house. It was empty. She might be at Mrs.
Hiller’s or with Alexandra. But anything that reminded him of her would be
enough, the orchard, the mulberry tree... When he reached the orchard the sun
was hanging low over the wheatfield. Long fingers of light reached through the
apple branches as through a net; the orchard was riddled and shot with gold;
light was the reality, the trees were merely interferences that reflected and
refracted light. Emil went softly down between the cherry trees toward the
wheatfield. When he came to the corner, he stopped short and put his hand over
his mouth. Marie was lying on her side under the white mulberry tree, her face
half hidden in the grass, her eyes closed, her hands lying limply where they
had happened to fall. She had lived a day of her new life of perfect love, and
it had left her like this. Her breast rose and fell faintly, as if she were
asleep. Emil threw himself down beside her and took her in his arms. The blood
came back to her cheeks, her amber eyes opened slowly, and in them Emil saw his
own face and the orchard and the sun. “I was dreaming this,” she whispered,
hiding her face against him, “don’t take my dream away!”
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_4_0030"></a>VII</h2>
<p>
When Frank Shabata got home that night, he found Emil’s mare in his stable.
Such an impertinence amazed him. Like everybody else, Frank had had an exciting
day. Since noon he had been drinking too much, and he was in a bad temper. He
talked bitterly to himself while he put his own horse away, and as he went up
the path and saw that the house was dark he felt an added sense of injury. He
approached quietly and listened on the doorstep. Hearing nothing, he opened the
kitchen door and went softly from one room to another. Then he went through the
house again, upstairs and down, with no better result. He sat down on the
bottom step of the box stairway and tried to get his wits together. In that
unnatural quiet there was no sound but his own heavy breathing. Suddenly an owl
began to hoot out in the fields. Frank lifted his head. An idea flashed into
his mind, and his sense of injury and outrage grew. He went into his bedroom
and took his murderous 405 Winchester from the closet.
</p>
<p>
When Frank took up his gun and walked out of the house, he had not the faintest
purpose of doing anything with it. He did not believe that he had any real
grievance. But it gratified him to feel like a desperate man. He had got into
the habit of seeing himself always in desperate straits. His unhappy
temperament was like a cage; he could never get out of it; and he felt that
other people, his wife in particular, must have put him there. It had never
more than dimly occurred to Frank that he made his own unhappiness. Though he
took up his gun with dark projects in his mind, he would have been paralyzed
with fright had he known that there was the slightest probability of his ever
carrying any of them out.
</p>
<p>
Frank went slowly down to the orchard gate, stopped and stood for a moment lost
in thought. He retraced his steps and looked through the barn and the hayloft.
Then he went out to the road, where he took the foot-path along the outside of
the orchard hedge. The hedge was twice as tall as Frank himself, and so dense
that one could see through it only by peering closely between the leaves. He
could see the empty path a long way in the moonlight. His mind traveled ahead
to the stile, which he always thought of as haunted by Emil Bergson. But why
had he left his horse?
</p>
<p>
At the wheatfield corner, where the orchard hedge ended and the path led across
the pasture to the Bergsons’, Frank stopped. In the warm, breathless night air
he heard a murmuring sound, perfectly inarticulate, as low as the sound of
water coming from a spring, where there is no fall, and where there are no
stones to fret it. Frank strained his ears. It ceased. He held his breath and
began to tremble. Resting the butt of his gun on the ground, he parted the
mulberry leaves softly with his fingers and peered through the hedge at the
dark figures on the grass, in the shadow of the mulberry tree. It seemed to him
that they must feel his eyes, that they must hear him breathing. But they did
not. Frank, who had always wanted to see things blacker than they were, for
once wanted to believe less than he saw. The woman lying in the shadow might so
easily be one of the Bergsons’ farm-girls.... Again the murmur, like water
welling out of the ground. This time he heard it more distinctly, and his blood
was quicker than his brain. He began to act, just as a man who falls into the
fire begins to act. The gun sprang to his shoulder, he sighted mechanically and
fired three times without stopping, stopped without knowing why. Either he shut
his eyes or he had vertigo. He did not see anything while he was firing. He
thought he heard a cry simultaneous with the second report, but he was not
sure. He peered again through the hedge, at the two dark figures under the
tree. They had fallen a little apart from each other, and were perfectly
still—No, not quite; in a white patch of light, where the moon shone through
the branches, a man’s hand was plucking spasmodically at the grass.
</p>
<p>
Suddenly the woman stirred and uttered a cry, then another, and another. She
was living! She was dragging herself toward the hedge! Frank dropped his gun
and ran back along the path, shaking, stumbling, gasping. He had never imagined
such horror. The cries followed him. They grew fainter and thicker, as if she
were choking. He dropped on his knees beside the hedge and crouched like a
rabbit, listening; fainter, fainter; a sound like a whine; again—a
moan—another—silence. Frank scrambled to his feet and ran on, groaning and
praying. From habit he went toward the house, where he was used to being
soothed when he had worked himself into a frenzy, but at the sight of the
black, open door, he started back. He knew that he had murdered somebody, that
a woman was bleeding and moaning in the orchard, but he had not realized before
that it was his wife. The gate stared him in the face. He threw his hands over
his head. Which way to turn? He lifted his tormented face and looked at the
sky. “Holy Mother of God, not to suffer! She was a good girl—not to suffer!”
</p>
<p>
Frank had been wont to see himself in dramatic situations; but now, when he
stood by the windmill, in the bright space between the barn and the house,
facing his own black doorway, he did not see himself at all. He stood like the
hare when the dogs are approaching from all sides. And he ran like a hare, back
and forth about that moonlit space, before he could make up his mind to go into
the dark stable for a horse. The thought of going into a doorway was terrible
to him. He caught Emil’s horse by the bit and led it out. He could not have
buckled a bridle on his own. After two or three attempts, he lifted himself
into the saddle and started for Hanover. If he could catch the one o’clock
train, he had money enough to get as far as Omaha.
</p>
<p>
While he was thinking dully of this in some less sensitized part of his brain,
his acuter faculties were going over and over the cries he had heard in the
orchard. Terror was the only thing that kept him from going back to her, terror
that she might still be she, that she might still be suffering. A woman,
mutilated and bleeding in his orchard—it was because it was a woman that he was
so afraid. It was inconceivable that he should have hurt a woman. He would
rather be eaten by wild beasts than see her move on the ground as she had moved
in the orchard. Why had she been so careless? She knew he was like a crazy man
when he was angry. She had more than once taken that gun away from him and held
it, when he was angry with other people. Once it had gone off while they were
struggling over it. She was never afraid. But, when she knew him, why hadn’t
she been more careful? Didn’t she have all summer before her to love Emil
Bergson in, without taking such chances? Probably she had met the Smirka boy,
too, down there in the orchard. He didn’t care. She could have met all the men
on the Divide there, and welcome, if only she hadn’t brought this horror on
him.
</p>
<p>
There was a wrench in Frank’s mind. He did not honestly believe that of her. He
knew that he was doing her wrong. He stopped his horse to admit this to himself
the more directly, to think it out the more clearly. He knew that he was to
blame. For three years he had been trying to break her spirit. She had a way of
making the best of things that seemed to him a sentimental affectation. He
wanted his wife to resent that he was wasting his best years among these stupid
and unappreciative people; but she had seemed to find the people quite good
enough. If he ever got rich he meant to buy her pretty clothes and take her to
California in a Pullman car, and treat her like a lady; but in the mean time he
wanted her to feel that life was as ugly and as unjust as he felt it. He had
tried to make her life ugly. He had refused to share any of the little
pleasures she was so plucky about making for herself. She could be gay about
the least thing in the world; but she must be gay! When she first came to him,
her faith in him, her adoration—Frank struck the mare with his fist. Why had
Marie made him do this thing; why had she brought this upon him? He was
overwhelmed by sickening misfortune. All at once he heard her cries again—he
had forgotten for a moment. “Maria,” he sobbed aloud, “Maria!”
</p>
<p>
When Frank was halfway to Hanover, the motion of his horse brought on a violent
attack of nausea. After it had passed, he rode on again, but he could think of
nothing except his physical weakness and his desire to be comforted by his
wife. He wanted to get into his own bed. Had his wife been at home, he would
have turned and gone back to her meekly enough.
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_4_0031"></a>VIII</h2>
<p>
When old Ivar climbed down from his loft at four o’clock the next morning, he
came upon Emil’s mare, jaded and lather-stained, her bridle broken, chewing the
scattered tufts of hay outside the stable door. The old man was thrown into a
fright at once. He put the mare in her stall, threw her a measure of oats, and
then set out as fast as his bow-legs could carry him on the path to the nearest
neighbor.
</p>
<p>
“Something is wrong with that boy. Some misfortune has come upon us. He would
never have used her so, in his right senses. It is not his way to abuse his
mare,” the old man kept muttering, as he scuttled through the short, wet
pasture grass on his bare feet.
</p>
<p>
While Ivar was hurrying across the fields, the first long rays of the sun were
reaching down between the orchard boughs to those two dew-drenched figures. The
story of what had happened was written plainly on the orchard grass, and on the
white mulberries that had fallen in the night and were covered with dark stain.
For Emil the chapter had been short. He was shot in the heart, and had rolled
over on his back and died. His face was turned up to the sky and his brows were
drawn in a frown, as if he had realized that something had befallen him. But
for Marie Shabata it had not been so easy. One ball had torn through her right
lung, another had shattered the carotid artery. She must have started up and
gone toward the hedge, leaving a trail of blood. There she had fallen and bled.
From that spot there was another trail, heavier than the first, where she must
have dragged herself back to Emil’s body. Once there, she seemed not to have
struggled any more. She had lifted her head to her lover’s breast, taken his
hand in both her own, and bled quietly to death. She was lying on her right
side in an easy and natural position, her cheek on Emil’s shoulder. On her face
there was a look of ineffable content. Her lips were parted a little; her eyes
were lightly closed, as if in a day-dream or a light slumber. After she lay
down there, she seemed not to have moved an eyelash. The hand she held was
covered with dark stains, where she had kissed it.
</p>
<p>
But the stained, slippery grass, the darkened mulberries, told only half the
story. Above Marie and Emil, two white butterflies from Frank’s alfalfa-field
were fluttering in and out among the interlacing shadows; diving and soaring,
now close together, now far apart; and in the long grass by the fence the last
wild roses of the year opened their pink hearts to die.
</p>
<p>
When Ivar reached the path by the hedge, he saw Shabata’s rifle lying in the
way. He turned and peered through the branches, falling upon his knees as if
his legs had been mowed from under him. “Merciful God!” he groaned.
</p>
<p class="p2">
Alexandra, too, had risen early that morning, because of her anxiety about
Emil. She was in Emil’s room upstairs when, from the window, she saw Ivar
coming along the path that led from the Shabatas’. He was running like a spent
man, tottering and lurching from side to side. Ivar never drank, and Alexandra
thought at once that one of his spells had come upon him, and that he must be
in a very bad way indeed. She ran downstairs and hurried out to meet him, to
hide his infirmity from the eyes of her household. The old man fell in the road
at her feet and caught her hand, over which he bowed his shaggy head.
“Mistress, mistress,” he sobbed, “it has fallen! Sin and death for the young
ones! God have mercy upon us!”
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_PART5"></a>PART V.<br/>
Alexandra</h2>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_4_0033"></a>I</h2>
<p>
Ivar was sitting at a cobbler’s bench in the barn, mending harness by the light
of a lantern and repeating to himself the 101st Psalm. It was only five o’clock
of a mid-October day, but a storm had come up in the afternoon, bringing black
clouds, a cold wind and torrents of rain. The old man wore his buffalo-skin
coat, and occasionally stopped to warm his fingers at the lantern. Suddenly a
woman burst into the shed, as if she had been blown in, accompanied by a shower
of rain-drops. It was Signa, wrapped in a man’s overcoat and wearing a pair of
boots over her shoes. In time of trouble Signa had come back to stay with her
mistress, for she was the only one of the maids from whom Alexandra would
accept much personal service. It was three months now since the news of the
terrible thing that had happened in Frank Shabata’s orchard had first run like
a fire over the Divide. Signa and Nelse were staying on with Alexandra until
winter.
</p>
<p>
“Ivar,” Signa exclaimed as she wiped the rain from her face, “do you know where
she is?”
</p>
<p>
The old man put down his cobbler’s knife. “Who, the mistress?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes. She went away about three o’clock. I happened to look out of the window
and saw her going across the fields in her thin dress and sun-hat. And now this
storm has come on. I thought she was going to Mrs. Hiller’s, and I telephoned
as soon as the thunder stopped, but she had not been there. I’m afraid she is
out somewhere and will get her death of cold.”
</p>
<p>
Ivar put on his cap and took up the lantern. “<i>Ja</i>, <i>ja</i>, we will
see. I will hitch the boy’s mare to the cart and go.”
</p>
<p>
Signa followed him across the wagon-shed to the horses’ stable. She was
shivering with cold and excitement. “Where do you suppose she can be, Ivar?”
</p>
<p>
The old man lifted a set of single harness carefully from its peg. “How should
I know?”
</p>
<p>
“But you think she is at the graveyard, don’t you?” Signa persisted. “So do I.
Oh, I wish she would be more like herself! I can’t believe it’s Alexandra
Bergson come to this, with no head about anything. I have to tell her when to
eat and when to go to bed.”
</p>
<p>
“Patience, patience, sister,” muttered Ivar as he settled the bit in the
horse’s mouth. “When the eyes of the flesh are shut, the eyes of the spirit are
open. She will have a message from those who are gone, and that will bring her
peace. Until then we must bear with her. You and I are the only ones who have
weight with her. She trusts us.”
</p>
<p>
“How awful it’s been these last three months.” Signa held the lantern so that
he could see to buckle the straps. “It don’t seem right that we must all be so
miserable. Why do we all have to be punished? Seems to me like good times would
never come again.”
</p>
<p>
Ivar expressed himself in a deep sigh, but said nothing. He stooped and took a
sandburr from his toe.
</p>
<p>
“Ivar,” Signa asked suddenly, “will you tell me why you go barefoot? All the
time I lived here in the house I wanted to ask you. Is it for a penance, or
what?”
</p>
<p>
“No, sister. It is for the indulgence of the body. From my youth up I have had
a strong, rebellious body, and have been subject to every kind of temptation.
Even in age my temptations are prolonged. It was necessary to make some
allowances; and the feet, as I understand it, are free members. There is no
divine prohibition for them in the Ten Commandments. The hands, the tongue, the
eyes, the heart, all the bodily desires we are commanded to subdue; but the
feet are free members. I indulge them without harm to any one, even to
trampling in filth when my desires are low. They are quickly cleaned again.”
</p>
<p>
Signa did not laugh. She looked thoughtful as she followed Ivar out to the
wagon-shed and held the shafts up for him, while he backed in the mare and
buckled the hold-backs. “You have been a good friend to the mistress, Ivar,”
she murmured.
</p>
<p>
“And you, God be with you,” replied Ivar as he clambered into the cart and put
the lantern under the oilcloth lap-cover. “Now for a ducking, my girl,” he said
to the mare, gathering up the reins.
</p>
<p>
As they emerged from the shed, a stream of water, running off the thatch,
struck the mare on the neck. She tossed her head indignantly, then struck out
bravely on the soft ground, slipping back again and again as she climbed the
hill to the main road. Between the rain and the darkness Ivar could see very
little, so he let Emil’s mare have the rein, keeping her head in the right
direction. When the ground was level, he turned her out of the dirt road upon
the sod, where she was able to trot without slipping.
</p>
<p>
Before Ivar reached the graveyard, three miles from the house, the storm had
spent itself, and the downpour had died into a soft, dripping rain. The sky and
the land were a dark smoke color, and seemed to be coming together, like two
waves. When Ivar stopped at the gate and swung out his lantern, a white figure
rose from beside John Bergson’s white stone.
</p>
<p>
The old man sprang to the ground and shuffled toward the gate calling,
“Mistress, mistress!”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra hurried to meet him and put her hand on his shoulder. “<i>Tyst!</i>
Ivar. There’s nothing to be worried about. I’m sorry if I’ve scared you all. I
didn’t notice the storm till it was on me, and I couldn’t walk against it. I’m
glad you’ve come. I am so tired I didn’t know how I’d ever get home.”
</p>
<p>
Ivar swung the lantern up so that it shone in her face. “<i>Gud!</i> You are
enough to frighten us, mistress. You look like a drowned woman. How could you
do such a thing!”
</p>
<p>
Groaning and mumbling he led her out of the gate and helped her into the cart,
wrapping her in the dry blankets on which he had been sitting.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra smiled at his solicitude. “Not much use in that, Ivar. You will only
shut the wet in. I don’t feel so cold now; but I’m heavy and numb. I’m glad you
came.”
</p>
<p>
Ivar turned the mare and urged her into a sliding trot. Her feet sent back a
continual spatter of mud.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra spoke to the old man as they jogged along through the sullen gray
twilight of the storm. “Ivar, I think it has done me good to get cold clear
through like this, once. I don’t believe I shall suffer so much any more. When
you get so near the dead, they seem more real than the living. Worldly thoughts
leave one. Ever since Emil died, I’ve suffered so when it rained. Now that I’ve
been out in it with him, I shan’t dread it. After you once get cold clear
through, the feeling of the rain on you is sweet. It seems to bring back
feelings you had when you were a baby. It carries you back into the dark,
before you were born; you can’t see things, but they come to you, somehow, and
you know them and aren’t afraid of them. Maybe it’s like that with the dead. If
they feel anything at all, it’s the old things, before they were born, that
comfort people like the feeling of their own bed does when they are little.”
</p>
<p>
“Mistress,” said Ivar reproachfully, “those are bad thoughts. The dead are in
Paradise.”
</p>
<p>
Then he hung his head, for he did not believe that Emil was in Paradise.
</p>
<p>
When they got home, Signa had a fire burning in the sitting-room stove. She
undressed Alexandra and gave her a hot footbath, while Ivar made ginger tea in
the kitchen. When Alexandra was in bed, wrapped in hot blankets, Ivar came in
with his tea and saw that she drank it. Signa asked permission to sleep on the
slat lounge outside her door. Alexandra endured their attentions patiently, but
she was glad when they put out the lamp and left her. As she lay alone in the
dark, it occurred to her for the first time that perhaps she was actually tired
of life. All the physical operations of life seemed difficult and painful. She
longed to be free from her own body, which ached and was so heavy. And longing
itself was heavy: she yearned to be free of that.
</p>
<p>
As she lay with her eyes closed, she had again, more vividly than for many
years, the old illusion of her girlhood, of being lifted and carried lightly by
some one very strong. He was with her a long while this time, and carried her
very far, and in his arms she felt free from pain. When he laid her down on her
bed again, she opened her eyes, and, for the first time in her life, she saw
him, saw him clearly, though the room was dark, and his face was covered. He
was standing in the doorway of her room. His white cloak was thrown over his
face, and his head was bent a little forward. His shoulders seemed as strong as
the foundations of the world. His right arm, bared from the elbow, was dark and
gleaming, like bronze, and she knew at once that it was the arm of the
mightiest of all lovers. She knew at last for whom it was she had waited, and
where he would carry her. That, she told herself, was very well. Then she went
to sleep.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra wakened in the morning with nothing worse than a hard cold and a
stiff shoulder. She kept her bed for several days, and it was during that time
that she formed a resolution to go to Lincoln to see Frank Shabata. Ever since
she last saw him in the courtroom, Frank’s haggard face and wild eyes had
haunted her. The trial had lasted only three days. Frank had given himself up
to the police in Omaha and pleaded guilty of killing without malice and without
premeditation. The gun was, of course, against him, and the judge had given him
the full sentence,—ten years. He had now been in the State Penitentiary for a
month.
</p>
<p>
Frank was the only one, Alexandra told herself, for whom anything could be
done. He had been less in the wrong than any of them, and he was paying the
heaviest penalty. She often felt that she herself had been more to blame than
poor Frank. From the time the Shabatas had first moved to the neighboring farm,
she had omitted no opportunity of throwing Marie and Emil together. Because she
knew Frank was surly about doing little things to help his wife, she was always
sending Emil over to spade or plant or carpenter for Marie. She was glad to
have Emil see as much as possible of an intelligent, city-bred girl like their
neighbor; she noticed that it improved his manners. She knew that Emil was fond
of Marie, but it had never occurred to her that Emil’s feeling might be
different from her own. She wondered at herself now, but she had never thought
of danger in that direction. If Marie had been unmarried,—oh, yes! Then she
would have kept her eyes open. But the mere fact that she was Shabata’s wife,
for Alexandra, settled everything. That she was beautiful, impulsive, barely
two years older than Emil, these facts had had no weight with Alexandra. Emil
was a good boy, and only bad boys ran after married women.
</p>
<p>
Now, Alexandra could in a measure realize that Marie was, after all, Marie; not
merely a “married woman.” Sometimes, when Alexandra thought of her, it was with
an aching tenderness. The moment she had reached them in the orchard that
morning, everything was clear to her. There was something about those two lying
in the grass, something in the way Marie had settled her cheek on Emil’s
shoulder, that told her everything. She wondered then how they could have
helped loving each other; how she could have helped knowing that they must.
Emil’s cold, frowning face, the girl’s content—Alexandra had felt awe of them,
even in the first shock of her grief.
</p>
<p>
The idleness of those days in bed, the relaxation of body which attended them,
enabled Alexandra to think more calmly than she had done since Emil’s death.
She and Frank, she told herself, were left out of that group of friends who had
been overwhelmed by disaster. She must certainly see Frank Shabata. Even in the
courtroom her heart had grieved for him. He was in a strange country, he had no
kinsmen or friends, and in a moment he had ruined his life. Being what he was,
she felt, Frank could not have acted otherwise. She could understand his
behavior more easily than she could understand Marie’s. Yes, she must go to
Lincoln to see Frank Shabata.
</p>
<p>
The day after Emil’s funeral, Alexandra had written to Carl Linstrum; a single
page of notepaper, a bare statement of what had happened. She was not a woman
who could write much about such a thing, and about her own feelings she could
never write very freely. She knew that Carl was away from post-offices,
prospecting somewhere in the interior. Before he started he had written her
where he expected to go, but her ideas about Alaska were vague. As the weeks
went by and she heard nothing from him, it seemed to Alexandra that her heart
grew hard against Carl. She began to wonder whether she would not do better to
finish her life alone. What was left of life seemed unimportant.
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_4_0034"></a>II</h2>
<p>
Late in the afternoon of a brilliant October day, Alexandra Bergson, dressed in
a black suit and traveling-hat, alighted at the Burlington depot in Lincoln.
She drove to the Lindell Hotel, where she had stayed two years ago when she
came up for Emil’s Commencement. In spite of her usual air of sureness and
self-possession, Alexandra felt ill at ease in hotels, and she was glad, when
she went to the clerk’s desk to register, that there were not many people in
the lobby. She had her supper early, wearing her hat and black jacket down to
the dining-room and carrying her handbag. After supper she went out for a walk.
</p>
<p>
It was growing dark when she reached the university campus. She did not go into
the grounds, but walked slowly up and down the stone walk outside the long iron
fence, looking through at the young men who were running from one building to
another, at the lights shining from the armory and the library. A squad of
cadets were going through their drill behind the armory, and the commands of
their young officer rang out at regular intervals, so sharp and quick that
Alexandra could not understand them. Two stalwart girls came down the library
steps and out through one of the iron gates. As they passed her, Alexandra was
pleased to hear them speaking Bohemian to each other. Every few moments a boy
would come running down the flagged walk and dash out into the street as if he
were rushing to announce some wonder to the world. Alexandra felt a great
tenderness for them all. She wished one of them would stop and speak to her.
She wished she could ask them whether they had known Emil.
</p>
<p>
As she lingered by the south gate she actually did encounter one of the boys.
He had on his drill cap and was swinging his books at the end of a long strap.
It was dark by this time; he did not see her and ran against her. He snatched
off his cap and stood bareheaded and panting. “I’m awfully sorry,” he said in a
bright, clear voice, with a rising inflection, as if he expected her to say
something.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, it was my fault!” said Alexandra eagerly. “Are you an old student here,
may I ask?”
</p>
<p>
“No, ma’am. I’m a Freshie, just off the farm. Cherry County. Were you hunting
somebody?”
</p>
<p>
“No, thank you. That is—” Alexandra wanted to detain him. “That is, I would
like to find some of my brother’s friends. He graduated two years ago.”
</p>
<p>
“Then you’d have to try the Seniors, wouldn’t you? Let’s see; I don’t know any
of them yet, but there’ll be sure to be some of them around the library. That
red building, right there,” he pointed.
</p>
<p>
“Thank you, I’ll try there,” said Alexandra lingeringly.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, that’s all right! Good-night.” The lad clapped his cap on his head and ran
straight down Eleventh Street. Alexandra looked after him wistfully.
</p>
<p>
She walked back to her hotel unreasonably comforted. “What a nice voice that
boy had, and how polite he was. I know Emil was always like that to women.” And
again, after she had undressed and was standing in her nightgown, brushing her
long, heavy hair by the electric light, she remembered him and said to herself,
“I don’t think I ever heard a nicer voice than that boy had. I hope he will get
on well here. Cherry County; that’s where the hay is so fine, and the coyotes
can scratch down to water.”
</p>
<p>
At nine o’clock the next morning Alexandra presented herself at the warden’s
office in the State Penitentiary. The warden was a German, a ruddy,
cheerful-looking man who had formerly been a harness-maker. Alexandra had a
letter to him from the German banker in Hanover. As he glanced at the letter,
Mr. Schwartz put away his pipe.
</p>
<p>
“That big Bohemian, is it? Sure, he’s gettin’ along fine,” said Mr. Schwartz
cheerfully.
</p>
<p>
“I am glad to hear that. I was afraid he might be quarrelsome and get himself
into more trouble. Mr. Schwartz, if you have time, I would like to tell you a
little about Frank Shabata, and why I am interested in him.”
</p>
<p>
The warden listened genially while she told him briefly something of Frank’s
history and character, but he did not seem to find anything unusual in her
account.
</p>
<p>
“Sure, I’ll keep an eye on him. We’ll take care of him all right,” he said,
rising. “You can talk to him here, while I go to see to things in the kitchen.
I’ll have him sent in. He ought to be done washing out his cell by this time.
We have to keep ’em clean, you know.”
</p>
<p>
The warden paused at the door, speaking back over his shoulder to a pale young
man in convicts’ clothes who was seated at a desk in the corner, writing in a
big ledger.
</p>
<p>
“Bertie, when 1037 is brought in, you just step out and give this lady a chance
to talk.”
</p>
<p>
The young man bowed his head and bent over his ledger again.
</p>
<p>
When Mr. Schwartz disappeared, Alexandra thrust her black-edged handkerchief
nervously into her handbag. Coming out on the streetcar she had not had the
least dread of meeting Frank. But since she had been here the sounds and smells
in the corridor, the look of the men in convicts’ clothes who passed the glass
door of the warden’s office, affected her unpleasantly.
</p>
<p>
The warden’s clock ticked, the young convict’s pen scratched busily in the big
book, and his sharp shoulders were shaken every few seconds by a loose cough
which he tried to smother. It was easy to see that he was a sick man. Alexandra
looked at him timidly, but he did not once raise his eyes. He wore a white
shirt under his striped jacket, a high collar, and a necktie, very carefully
tied. His hands were thin and white and well cared for, and he had a seal ring
on his little finger. When he heard steps approaching in the corridor, he rose,
blotted his book, put his pen in the rack, and left the room without raising
his eyes. Through the door he opened a guard came in, bringing Frank Shabata.
</p>
<p>
“You the lady that wanted to talk to 1037? Here he is. Be on your good
behavior, now. He can set down, lady,” seeing that Alexandra remained standing.
“Push that white button when you’re through with him, and I’ll come.”
</p>
<p>
The guard went out and Alexandra and Frank were left alone.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra tried not to see his hideous clothes. She tried to look straight into
his face, which she could scarcely believe was his. It was already bleached to
a chalky gray. His lips were colorless, his fine teeth looked yellowish. He
glanced at Alexandra sullenly, blinked as if he had come from a dark place, and
one eyebrow twitched continually. She felt at once that this interview was a
terrible ordeal to him. His shaved head, showing the conformation of his skull,
gave him a criminal look which he had not had during the trial.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra held out her hand. “Frank,” she said, her eyes filling suddenly, “I
hope you’ll let me be friendly with you. I understand how you did it. I don’t
feel hard toward you. They were more to blame than you.”
</p>
<p>
Frank jerked a dirty blue handkerchief from his trousers pocket. He had begun
to cry. He turned away from Alexandra. “I never did mean to do not’ing to dat
woman,” he muttered. “I never mean to do not’ing to dat boy. I ain’t had
not’ing ag’in’ dat boy. I always like dat boy fine. An’ then I find him—” He
stopped. The feeling went out of his face and eyes. He dropped into a chair and
sat looking stolidly at the floor, his hands hanging loosely between his knees,
the handkerchief lying across his striped leg. He seemed to have stirred up in
his mind a disgust that had paralyzed his faculties.
</p>
<p>
“I haven’t come up here to blame you, Frank. I think they were more to blame
than you.” Alexandra, too, felt benumbed.
</p>
<p>
Frank looked up suddenly and stared out of the office window. “I guess dat
place all go to hell what I work so hard on,” he said with a slow, bitter
smile. “I not care a damn.” He stopped and rubbed the palm of his hand over the
light bristles on his head with annoyance. “I no can t’ink without my hair,” he
complained. “I forget English. We not talk here, except swear.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra was bewildered. Frank seemed to have undergone a change of
personality. There was scarcely anything by which she could recognize her
handsome Bohemian neighbor. He seemed, somehow, not altogether human. She did
not know what to say to him.
</p>
<p>
“You do not feel hard to me, Frank?” she asked at last.
</p>
<p>
Frank clenched his fist and broke out in excitement. “I not feel hard at no
woman. I tell you I not that kind-a man. I never hit my wife. No, never I hurt
her when she devil me something awful!” He struck his fist down on the warden’s
desk so hard that he afterward stroked it absently. A pale pink crept over his
neck and face. “Two, t’ree years I know dat woman don’ care no more ’bout me,
Alexandra Bergson. I know she after some other man. I know her, oo-oo! An’ I
ain’t never hurt her. I never would-a done dat, if I ain’t had dat gun along. I
don’ know what in hell make me take dat gun. She always say I ain’t no man to
carry gun. If she been in dat house, where she ought-a been—But das a foolish
talk.”
</p>
<p>
Frank rubbed his head and stopped suddenly, as he had stopped before. Alexandra
felt that there was something strange in the way he chilled off, as if
something came up in him that extinguished his power of feeling or thinking.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, Frank,” she said kindly. “I know you never meant to hurt Marie.”
</p>
<p>
Frank smiled at her queerly. His eyes filled slowly with tears. “You know, I
most forgit dat woman’s name. She ain’t got no name for me no more. I never
hate my wife, but dat woman what make me do dat—Honest to God, but I hate her!
I no man to fight. I don’ want to kill no boy and no woman. I not care how many
men she take under dat tree. I no care for not’ing but dat fine boy I kill,
Alexandra Bergson. I guess I go crazy sure ’nough.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra remembered the little yellow cane she had found in Frank’s
clothes-closet. She thought of how he had come to this country a gay young
fellow, so attractive that the prettiest Bohemian girl in Omaha had run away
with him. It seemed unreasonable that life should have landed him in such a
place as this. She blamed Marie bitterly. And why, with her happy, affectionate
nature, should she have brought destruction and sorrow to all who had loved
her, even to poor old Joe Tovesky, the uncle who used to carry her about so
proudly when she was a little girl? That was the strangest thing of all. Was
there, then, something wrong in being warm-hearted and impulsive like that?
Alexandra hated to think so. But there was Emil, in the Norwegian graveyard at
home, and here was Frank Shabata. Alexandra rose and took him by the hand.
</p>
<p>
“Frank Shabata, I am never going to stop trying until I get you pardoned. I’ll
never give the Governor any peace. I know I can get you out of this place.”
</p>
<p>
Frank looked at her distrustfully, but he gathered confidence from her face.
“Alexandra,” he said earnestly, “if I git out-a here, I not trouble dis country
no more. I go back where I come from; see my mother.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra tried to withdraw her hand, but Frank held on to it nervously. He put
out his finger and absently touched a button on her black jacket. “Alexandra,”
he said in a low tone, looking steadily at the button, “you ain’ t’ink I use
dat girl awful bad before—”
</p>
<p>
“No, Frank. We won’t talk about that,” Alexandra said, pressing his hand. “I
can’t help Emil now, so I’m going to do what I can for you. You know I don’t go
away from home often, and I came up here on purpose to tell you this.”
</p>
<p>
The warden at the glass door looked in inquiringly. Alexandra nodded, and he
came in and touched the white button on his desk. The guard appeared, and with
a sinking heart Alexandra saw Frank led away down the corridor. After a few
words with Mr. Schwartz, she left the prison and made her way to the
street-car. She had refused with horror the warden’s cordial invitation to “go
through the institution.” As the car lurched over its uneven roadbed, back
toward Lincoln, Alexandra thought of how she and Frank had been wrecked by the
same storm and of how, although she could come out into the sunlight, she had
not much more left in her life than he. She remembered some lines from a poem
she had liked in her schooldays:—
</p>
<p class="poem">
Henceforth the world will only be<br/>
A wider prison-house to me,—
</p>
<p class="noindent">
and sighed. A disgust of life weighed upon her heart; some such feeling as had
twice frozen Frank Shabata’s features while they talked together. She wished
she were back on the Divide.
</p>
<p>
When Alexandra entered her hotel, the clerk held up one finger and beckoned to
her. As she approached his desk, he handed her a telegram. Alexandra took the
yellow envelope and looked at it in perplexity, then stepped into the elevator
without opening it. As she walked down the corridor toward her room, she
reflected that she was, in a manner, immune from evil tidings. On reaching her
room she locked the door, and sitting down on a chair by the dresser, opened
the telegram. It was from Hanover, and it read:—
</p>
<p class="letter">
Arrived Hanover last night. Shall wait here until you come. Please hurry.
</p>
<p class="right">
C<small>ARL</small> L<small>INSTRUM</small>.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra put her head down on the dresser and burst into tears.
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="link2H_4_0035"></a>III</h2>
<p>
The next afternoon Carl and Alexandra were walking across the fields from Mrs.
Hiller’s. Alexandra had left Lincoln after midnight, and Carl had met her at
the Hanover station early in the morning. After they reached home, Alexandra
had gone over to Mrs. Hiller’s to leave a little present she had bought for her
in the city. They stayed at the old lady’s door but a moment, and then came out
to spend the rest of the afternoon in the sunny fields.
</p>
<p>
Alexandra had taken off her black traveling suit and put on a white dress;
partly because she saw that her black clothes made Carl uncomfortable and
partly because she felt oppressed by them herself. They seemed a little like
the prison where she had worn them yesterday, and to be out of place in the
open fields. Carl had changed very little. His cheeks were browner and fuller.
He looked less like a tired scholar than when he went away a year ago, but no
one, even now, would have taken him for a man of business. His soft, lustrous
black eyes, his whimsical smile, would be less against him in the Klondike than
on the Divide. There are always dreamers on the frontier.
</p>
<p>
Carl and Alexandra had been talking since morning. Her letter had never reached
him. He had first learned of her misfortune from a San Francisco paper, four
weeks old, which he had picked up in a saloon, and which contained a brief
account of Frank Shabata’s trial. When he put down the paper, he had already
made up his mind that he could reach Alexandra as quickly as a letter could;
and ever since he had been on the way; day and night, by the fastest boats and
trains he could catch. His steamer had been held back two days by rough
weather.
</p>
<p>
As they came out of Mrs. Hiller’s garden they took up their talk again where
they had left it.
</p>
<p>
“But could you come away like that, Carl, without arranging things? Could you
just walk off and leave your business?” Alexandra asked.
</p>
<p>
Carl laughed. “Prudent Alexandra! You see, my dear, I happen to have an honest
partner. I trust him with everything. In fact, it’s been his enterprise from
the beginning, you know. I’m in it only because he took me in. I’ll have to go
back in the spring. Perhaps you will want to go with me then. We haven’t turned
up millions yet, but we’ve got a start that’s worth following. But this winter
I’d like to spend with you. You won’t feel that we ought to wait longer, on
Emil’s account, will you, Alexandra?”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra shook her head. “No, Carl; I don’t feel that way about it. And surely
you needn’t mind anything Lou and Oscar say now. They are much angrier with me
about Emil, now, than about you. They say it was all my fault. That I ruined
him by sending him to college.”
</p>
<p>
“No, I don’t care a button for Lou or Oscar. The moment I knew you were in
trouble, the moment I thought you might need me, it all looked different.
You’ve always been a triumphant kind of person.” Carl hesitated, looking
sidewise at her strong, full figure. “But you do need me now, Alexandra?”
</p>
<p>
She put her hand on his arm. “I needed you terribly when it happened, Carl. I
cried for you at night. Then everything seemed to get hard inside of me, and I
thought perhaps I should never care for you again. But when I got your telegram
yesterday, then—then it was just as it used to be. You are all I have in the
world, you know.”
</p>
<p>
Carl pressed her hand in silence. They were passing the Shabatas’ empty house
now, but they avoided the orchard path and took one that led over by the
pasture pond.
</p>
<p>
“Can you understand it, Carl?” Alexandra murmured. “I have had nobody but Ivar
and Signa to talk to. Do talk to me. Can you understand it? Could you have
believed that of Marie Tovesky? I would have been cut to pieces, little by
little, before I would have betrayed her trust in me!”
</p>
<p>
Carl looked at the shining spot of water before them. “Maybe she was cut to
pieces, too, Alexandra. I am sure she tried hard; they both did. That was why
Emil went to Mexico, of course. And he was going away again, you tell me,
though he had only been home three weeks. You remember that Sunday when I went
with Emil up to the French Church fair? I thought that day there was some kind
of feeling, something unusual, between them. I meant to talk to you about it.
But on my way back I met Lou and Oscar and got so angry that I forgot
everything else. You mustn’t be hard on them, Alexandra. Sit down here by the
pond a minute. I want to tell you something.”
</p>
<p>
They sat down on the grass-tufted bank and Carl told her how he had seen Emil
and Marie out by the pond that morning, more than a year ago, and how young and
charming and full of grace they had seemed to him. “It happens like that in the
world sometimes, Alexandra,” he added earnestly. “I’ve seen it before. There
are women who spread ruin around them through no fault of theirs, just by being
too beautiful, too full of life and love. They can’t help it. People come to
them as people go to a warm fire in winter. I used to feel that in her when she
was a little girl. Do you remember how all the Bohemians crowded round her in
the store that day, when she gave Emil her candy? You remember those yellow
sparks in her eyes?”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra sighed. “Yes. People couldn’t help loving her. Poor Frank does, even
now, I think; though he’s got himself in such a tangle that for a long time his
love has been bitterer than his hate. But if you saw there was anything wrong,
you ought to have told me, Carl.”
</p>
<p>
Carl took her hand and smiled patiently. “My dear, it was something one felt in
the air, as you feel the spring coming, or a storm in summer. I didn’t
<i>see</i> anything. Simply, when I was with those two young things, I felt my
blood go quicker, I felt—how shall I say it?—an acceleration of life. After I
got away, it was all too delicate, too intangible, to write about.”
</p>
<p>
Alexandra looked at him mournfully. “I try to be more liberal about such things
than I used to be. I try to realize that we are not all made alike. Only, why
couldn’t it have been Raoul Marcel, or Jan Smirka? Why did it have to be my
boy?”
</p>
<p>
“Because he was the best there was, I suppose. They were both the best you had
here.”
</p>
<p>
The sun was dropping low in the west when the two friends rose and took the
path again. The straw-stacks were throwing long shadows, the owls were flying
home to the prairie-dog town. When they came to the corner where the pastures
joined, Alexandra’s twelve young colts were galloping in a drove over the brow
of the hill.
</p>
<p>
“Carl,” said Alexandra, “I should like to go up there with you in the spring. I
haven’t been on the water since we crossed the ocean, when I was a little girl.
After we first came out here I used to dream sometimes about the shipyard where
father worked, and a little sort of inlet, full of masts.” Alexandra paused.
After a moment’s thought she said, “But you would never ask me to go away for
good, would you?”
</p>
<p>
“Of course not, my dearest. I think I know how you feel about this country as
well as you do yourself.” Carl took her hand in both his own and pressed it
tenderly.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, I still feel that way, though Emil is gone. When I was on the train this
morning, and we got near Hanover, I felt something like I did when I drove back
with Emil from the river that time, in the dry year. I was glad to come back to
it. I’ve lived here a long time. There is great peace here, Carl, and
freedom.... I thought when I came out of that prison, where poor Frank is, that
I should never feel free again. But I do, here.” Alexandra took a deep breath
and looked off into the red west.
</p>
<p>
“You belong to the land,” Carl murmured, “as you have always said. Now more
than ever.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, now more than ever. You remember what you once said about the graveyard,
and the old story writing itself over? Only it is we who write it, with the
best we have.”
</p>
<p>
They paused on the last ridge of the pasture, overlooking the house and the
windmill and the stables that marked the site of John Bergson’s homestead. On
every side the brown waves of the earth rolled away to meet the sky.
</p>
<p>
“Lou and Oscar can’t see those things,” said Alexandra suddenly. “Suppose I do
will my land to their children, what difference will that make? The land
belongs to the future, Carl; that’s the way it seems to me. How many of the
names on the county clerk’s plat will be there in fifty years? I might as well
try to will the sunset over there to my brother’s children. We come and go, but
the land is always here. And the people who love it and understand it are the
people who own it—for a little while.”
</p>
<p>
Carl looked at her wonderingly. She was still gazing into the west, and in her
face there was that exalted serenity that sometimes came to her at moments of
deep feeling. The level rays of the sinking sun shone in her clear eyes.
</p>
<p>
“Why are you thinking of such things now, Alexandra?”
</p>
<p>
“I had a dream before I went to Lincoln—But I will tell you about that
afterward, after we are married. It will never come true, now, in the way I
thought it might.” She took Carl’s arm and they walked toward the gate. “How
many times we have walked this path together, Carl. How many times we will walk
it again! Does it seem to you like coming back to your own place? Do you feel
at peace with the world here? I think we shall be very happy. I haven’t any
fears. I think when friends marry, they are safe. We don’t suffer like—those
young ones.” Alexandra ended with a sigh.
</p>
<p>
They had reached the gate. Before Carl opened it, he drew Alexandra to him and
kissed her softly, on her lips and on her eyes.
</p>
<p>
She leaned heavily on his shoulder. “I am tired,” she murmured. “I have been
very lonely, Carl.”
</p>
<p>
They went into the house together, leaving the Divide behind them, under the
evening star. Fortunate country, that is one day to receive hearts like
Alexandra’s into its bosom, to give them out again in the yellow wheat, in the
rustling corn, in the shining eyes of youth!
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 24 ***</div>
</body>
</html>
|
