by Willa Cather
PART I. The Wild Land
PART II. Neighboring Fields
PART III. Winter Memories
PART IV. The White Mulberry Tree
PART I. The Wild Land
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.
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.
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.
"Why, Emil! I told you to stay in the store and not to come out. What is
the matter with you?"
"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.
"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."
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?
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.
"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
"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?"
"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.
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.
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
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."
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.
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
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
"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.
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.
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
"Did Lou and Oscar go to the Blue to cut wood to-day?" Carl asked.
"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."
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.
"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."
"Does your father know?"
"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."
"I wonder if he'd like to have me bring my magic lantern over some
Alexandra turned her face toward him. "Oh, Carl! Have you got it?"
"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."
"What are they about?"
"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."
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."
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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 HANDWERKERS at home; tailors,
locksmiths, joiners, cigar-makers, etc. Bergson himself had worked in a
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.
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.
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
"DOTTER," he called feebly, "DOTTER!" 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.
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.
"Tell the boys to come here, daughter. I want to speak to them."
"They are feeding the horses, father. They have just come back from the
Blue. Shall I call them?"
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."
"I will do all I can, father."
"Don't let them get discouraged and go off like Uncle Otto. I want them to
keep the land."
"We will, father. We will never lose the land."
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.
"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."
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."
"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."
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.
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.
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."
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.
"Want to go with us?" Lou called. "We're going to Crazy Ivar's to buy a
"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."
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."
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?"
Emil stared. "Maybe I could hide in a badger-hole," he suggested
"But suppose there wasn't any badger-hole," Lou persisted. "Would you
"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."
The big boys laughed, and Oscar brandished his whip over the broad backs
of the horses.
"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!'"
Lou and Oscar laughed, and Emil giggled delightedly and looked up at his
"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."
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
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.
Alexandra patted him. "No, not any more. And in two days they could use
her milk again."
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.
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."
"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."
Lou sniffed. "Whoever heard of him talking sense, anyhow! I'd rather have
ducks for supper than Crazy Ivar's tongue."
Emil was alarmed. "Oh, but, Lou, you don't want to make him mad! He might
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.
"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.
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.
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.
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:—
He sendeth the springs into the valleys, which run among the hills;
They give drink to every beast of the field; the wild asses quench
The trees of the Lord are full of sap; the cedars of Lebanon which
he hath planted;
Where the birds make their nests: as for the stork, the fir trees
are her house.
The high hills are a refuge for the wild goats; and the rocks for
Before he opened his Bible again, Ivar heard the Bergsons' wagon
approaching, and he sprang up and ran toward it.
"No guns, no guns!" he shouted, waving his arms distractedly.
"No, Ivar, no guns," Alexandra called reassuringly.
He dropped his arms and went up to the wagon, smiling amiably and looking
at them out of his pale blue eyes.
"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
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."
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."
She had some difficulty in making the old man understand.
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?"
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
"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."
"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!"
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
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.
"But where do you sleep, Ivar?" Emil asked, looking about.
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."
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.
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."
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
"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."
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.
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."
"Yes?" The old man scraped his bare feet on the plank floor.
"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?"
Ivar's little eyes began to shine. They lost their vagueness.
"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."
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
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.
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
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
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.
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.
"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."
She looked at him as if she were a little frightened. "Really, Carl? Is it
"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
Alexandra's hands dropped in her lap. Her eyes became dreamy and filled
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."
"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.
"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."
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
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."
"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."
"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.
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."
"I won't tell the boys yet, if you'd rather not."
"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."
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."
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.
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.
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.
"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."
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."
"Where do you want to go, Lou?"
"Any place where things will grow," said Oscar grimly.
Lou reached for a potato. "Chris Arnson has traded his half-section for a
place down on the river."
"Who did he trade with?"
"Charley Fuller, in town."
"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."
"He's rich now, that's why he can take a chance."
"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."
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."
"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?"
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
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?"
"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."
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.
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.
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.
That evening Carl came in with the boys to supper.
"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."
The boys looked up in amazement; they were always afraid of Alexandra's
schemes. Carl was interested.
"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."
"Nobody down there will trade for anything up here," said Oscar gloomily.
"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."
Lou fidgeted. "Look out! Don't agree to anything. Don't let them fool
Lou was apt to be fooled himself. He had not yet learned to keep away from
the shell-game wagons that followed the circus.
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
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.
"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.
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.
Alexandra reached home in the afternoon. That evening she held a family
council and told her brothers all that she had seen and heard.
"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
"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
Oscar rubbed his high, pale forehead. "How do you propose to pay off your
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."
Lou was pacing the floor. "But how do you KNOW that land is going to go up
enough to pay the mortgages and—"
"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 KNOW, that's all. When
you drive about over the country you can feel it coming."
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
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."
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."
"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 OUGHT to
do more than they do, and see further ahead. Yes, mother, I'm going to
clear the table now."
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
DRAGHARMONIKA 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.
"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?"
"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."
"Then don't sign one. I don't want you to, if you feel that way."
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."
"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."
"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.
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.
PART II. Neighboring Fields
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.
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.
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
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
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.
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.
"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.
"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?"
"Free-thinkers," replied the young woman laconically.
"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."
"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?"
Emil had fallen to mowing. "Oh, there's no denying you're a spunky little
bunch, you Czechs," he called back over his shoulder.
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."
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
"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.
"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
Angelique's wedding clothes," Marie went on, "and I'm so excited I can
hardly wait until Sunday. Amedee 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 Angelique's
folks are baking for it, and all Amedee'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
Emil sniffed. "How do you know they think that?"
"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
"All right," said Emil shortly, studying the glittering blade of his
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
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.
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.
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
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!"
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.
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.
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
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
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."
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?"
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.
"Did you want to speak to me, Ivar?" Alexandra asked as she rose from the
table. "Come into the sitting-room."
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
"Well, Ivar, what is it?" Alexandra asked after she had waited longer than
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
"Mistress," he began faintly, without raising his eyes, "the folk have
been looking coldly at me of late. You know there has been talk."
"Talk about what, Ivar?"
"About sending me away; to the asylum."
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."
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
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."
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."
Alexandra made an impatient gesture, but the old man put out his hand and
went on earnestly:—
"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."
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.
"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."
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
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."
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."
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."
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?"
"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
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 Amedee 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.
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.
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."
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.
"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."
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."
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."
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."
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."
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."
"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?"
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.
"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?"
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."
"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
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."
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.
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
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."
"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
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.
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.
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
"Don't you know me, Alexandra? I would have known you, anywhere."
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
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.
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?"
"It's in Hanover. I can stay only a few days. I am on my way to the
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?"
"Oh, I must! I am a fortune hunter. From Seattle I go on to Alaska."
"Alaska?" She looked at him in astonishment. "Are you going to paint the
"Paint?" the young man frowned. "Oh! I'm not a painter, Alexandra. I'm an
engraver. I have nothing to do with painting."
"But on my parlor wall I have the paintings—"
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."
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.
Alexandra beckoned to them. "They think I am trying to fool them. Come,
boys, it's Carl Linstrum, our old Carl!"
Lou gave the visitor a quick, sidelong glance and thrust out his hand.
"Glad to see you."
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.
"Carl," Alexandra explained, "is on his way to Seattle. He is going to
Oscar studied the visitor's yellow shoes. "Got business there?" he asked.
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."
Alexandra felt that this was a tactful speech, and Lou looked up with some
interest. "Ever done anything in that line before?"
"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."
"Turrible cold winters, there, I hear," remarked Oscar. "I thought people
went up there in the spring."
"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."
Lou looked skeptical. "Let's see, how long have you been away from here?"
"Sixteen years. You ought to remember that, Lou, for you were married just
after we went away."
"Going to stay with us some time?" Oscar asked.
"A few days, if Alexandra can keep me."
"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
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."
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?"
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."
Lou grinned. "That's what she says. You better go get your things on.
Ivar's hitching up," he added, turning to Annie.
Young farmers seldom address their wives by name. It is always "you," or
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."
Carl laughed. "But, surely, it did do that, if nothing else."
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.
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."
"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."
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.
"What do you suppose he's come for?" he asked, jerking his head toward the
"Why, to pay us a visit. I've been begging him to for years."
Oscar looked at Alexandra. "He didn't let you know he was coming?"
"No. Why should he? I told him to come at any time."
Lou shrugged his shoulders. "He doesn't seem to have done much for
himself. Wandering around this way!"
Oscar spoke solemnly, as from the depths of a cavern. "He never was much
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.
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,
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.
"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?"
"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
"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."
"Is he going to farm here with you?"
"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.
"How about Lou and Oscar? They've done well, haven't they?"
"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
"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?"
"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—"
"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."
"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."
"Is Frank her husband?"
"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."
"I shouldn't think you'd be very successful at that kind of thing,
Alexandra." Carl seemed to find the idea amusing.
"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."
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
Alexandra looked at him with her calm, deliberate eyes. "Why do you dread
things like that, Carl?" she asked earnestly. "Why are you dissatisfied
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."
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
"But you show for it yourself, Carl. I'd rather have had your freedom than
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."
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."
"I wonder why you feel like that?" Carl mused.
"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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
As she let it fall, she cried in distress, "Oh, Emil, why did you?"
"I like that!" the boy exclaimed indignantly. "Why, Marie, you asked me to
"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."
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.
"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."
"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
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.
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."
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."
Carl smiled a little ruefully. "All the same, I hope it hasn't been QUITE
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?"
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
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.
"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!"
"You are afraid of hurting my feelings, perhaps." Alexandra looked at him
"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."
Alexandra blushed and laughed with some confusion. "I felt that you were
pleased with me, if you mean that."
"And you've felt when other people were pleased with you?" he insisted.
"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.
Carl gave a little chuckle as he opened the Shabatas' gate for her. "Oh,
do you?" he asked dryly.
There was no sign of life about the Shabatas' house except a big yellow
cat, sunning itself on the kitchen doorstep.
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?"
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."
"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.
A recumbent figure started up from the grass and came running toward them
through the flickering screen of light and shade.
"Look at her! Isn't she like a little brown rabbit?" Alexandra laughed.
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
"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."
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."
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.
"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!"
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.
"What a charming creature," Carl murmured. "I don't wonder that her
husband is jealous. But can't she walk? does she always run?"
Alexandra nodded. "Always. I don't see many people, but I don't believe
there are many like her, anywhere."
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."
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?"
"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."
"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."
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."
"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."
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
Marie ran forward, and, taking him by the arm, gave him a little push
toward her guests. "Frank, this is Mr. Linstrum."
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
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!"
His wife spoke soothingly. "But, Frank, she has only her lame boy to help
her. She does the best she can."
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."
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
"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."
Alexandra walked firmly down the path and Carl followed her.
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.
"Poor Frank! You've run until you've made your head ache, now haven't you?
Let me make you some coffee."
"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?"
"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."
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
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.
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.
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.
"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 guess!"
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.
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.
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.
"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.
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.
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.
"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?"
"If I cut the grass, I will," Emil said teasingly. "What's the matter with
you? What makes you so flighty?"
"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."
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
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.
"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?"
Emil paused and straightened his back. "I don't know. About like the
Germans', wasn't it?"
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."
Emil looked superior. "Do they? Well, which are the lucky trees? I'd like
"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."
"That's a poor saying," said Emil, stooping over to wipe his hands in the
"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."
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.
"Do you like Mr. Linstrum?" Marie asked suddenly.
"Yes. Don't you?"
"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?"
"I suppose so. They were old friends."
"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."
"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!"
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."
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."
"Oh, Emil! Surely you are not thinking of going off there?"
"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?"
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.
"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."
"That's so," Marie sighed. "There are so many, many things you can do.
Almost anything you choose."
"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
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
"Thank you," he returned shortly.
She sighed despondently. "Everything I say makes you cross, don't it? And
you never used to be cross to me."
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
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
She spoke rapidly and pleadingly, looked entreatingly into his face. Emil
stood defiant, gazing down at her.
"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."
Marie turned away, wringing her hands. "Oh, Emil, you won't try! Then all
our good times are over."
"Yes; over. I never expect to have any more."
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.
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. Amedee, the newly married, Emil's best
friend, was their pitcher, renowned among the country towns for his dash
and skill. Amedee 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 Amedee'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.
"You'd have made the battery at the University for sure, 'Medee," 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."
Amedee 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!"
Emil laughed. "How am I going to get married without any girl?"
Amedee 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
Severine, and Alphosen, and Josephine, 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!" Amedee swaggered. "I bring many
good Catholics into this world, I hope, and that's a way I help the
Emil looked down and patted him on the shoulder. "Now you're windy,
'Medee. You Frenchies like to brag."
But Amedee 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,"—Amedee waved his hand
languidly before his face to denote the fan of heartless beauty,—"and
you lost your heart up there. Is that it?"
"Maybe," said Emil.
But Amedee 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.
When they reached the terrace at the side of the church, Amedee, 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 Amedee 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.
Angelique, Amedee'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:—
"'Medee 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."
"Oh, I do, do I?" Emil caught her and kissed her saucy mouth squarely,
while she laughed and struggled and called, "'Medee! 'Medee!"
"There, you see your 'Medee 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 Angelique 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."
Angelique clung to her husband and made faces at Emil over the white
shoulder of Amedee's ball-shirt. Emil was greatly amused at her air of
proprietorship and at Amedee's shameless submission to it. He was
delighted with his friend's good fortune. He liked to see and to think
about Amedee's sunny, natural, happy love.
He and Amedee 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 Amedee 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.
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.
"You are by yourself?" he asked, looking toward the doorway into the
"Yes. Carl and Emil went up to the Catholic fair."
For a few moments neither of the men spoke.
Then Lou came out sharply. "How soon does he intend to go away from here?"
"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.
Oscar spoke up grimly. "We thought we ought to tell you that people have
begun to talk," he said meaningly.
Alexandra looked at him. "What about?"
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."
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
Lou whipped about from the window. "You ought to think a little about your
family. You're making us all ridiculous."
"How am I?"
"People are beginning to say you want to marry the fellow."
"Well, and what is ridiculous about that?"
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
"Well, suppose I want to take care of him? Whose business is it but my
"Don't you know he'd get hold of your property?"
"He'd get hold of what I wished to give him, certainly."
Oscar sat up suddenly and Lou clutched at his bristly hair.
"Give him?" Lou shouted. "Our property, our homestead?"
"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."
"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."
"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."
"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."
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."
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
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
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."
"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."
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."
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.
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."
"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."
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."
"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."
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."
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!"
"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.
Lou and Oscar looked at each other questioningly. There seemed to be
nothing to do but to go, and they walked out.
"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."
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."
"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."
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!"
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.
Emil went to her door.
"Can I see you for a minute?" he asked. "I want to talk to you about
something before Carl comes."
Alexandra rose quickly and came to the door. "Where is Carl?"
"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.
"Yes, sit down. I'll be dressed in a moment."
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.
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
"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
"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."
"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
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
"What about?" he asked absently.
"About Carl Linstrum. They are afraid I am going to marry him, and that
some of my property will get away from them."
Emil shrugged his shoulders. "What nonsense!" he murmured. "Just like
Alexandra drew back. "Why nonsense, Emil?"
"Why, you've never thought of such a thing, have you? They always have to
have something to fuss about."
"Emil," said his sister slowly, "you ought not to take things for granted.
Do you agree with them that I have no right to change my way of living?"
Emil looked at the outline of his sister's head in the dim light. They
were sitting close together and he somehow felt that she could hear his
thoughts. He was silent for a moment, and then said in an embarrassed
tone, "Why, no, certainly not. You ought to do whatever you want to. I'll
always back you."
"But it would seem a little bit ridiculous to you if I married Carl?"
Emil fidgeted. The issue seemed to him too far-fetched to warrant
discussion. "Why, no. I should be surprised if you wanted to. I can't see
exactly why. But that's none of my business. You ought to do as you
please. Certainly you ought not to pay any attention to what the boys
Alexandra sighed. "I had hoped you might understand, a little, why I do
want to. But I suppose that's too much to expect. I've had a pretty lonely
life, Emil. Besides Marie, Carl is the only friend I have ever had."
Emil was awake now; a name in her last sentence roused him. He put out his
hand and took his sister's awkwardly. "You ought to do just as you wish,
and I think Carl's a fine fellow. He and I would always get on. I don't
believe any of the things the boys say about him, honest I don't. They are
suspicious of him because he's intelligent. You know their way. They've
been sore at me ever since you let me go away to college. They're always
trying to catch me up. If I were you, I wouldn't pay any attention to
them. There's nothing to get upset about. Carl's a sensible fellow. He
won't mind them."
"I don't know. If they talk to him the way they did to me, I think he'll
Emil grew more and more uneasy. "Think so? Well, Marie said it would serve
us all right if you walked off with him."
"Did she? Bless her little heart! SHE would." Alexandra's voice broke.
Emil began unlacing his leggings. "Why don't you talk to her about it?
There's Carl, I hear his horse. I guess I'll go upstairs and get my boots
off. No, I don't want any supper. We had supper at five o'clock, at the
Emil was glad to escape and get to his own room. He was a little ashamed
for his sister, though he had tried not to show it. He felt that there was
something indecorous in her proposal, and she did seem to him somewhat
ridiculous. There was trouble enough in the world, he reflected, as he
threw himself upon his bed, without people who were forty years old
imagining they wanted to get married. In the darkness and silence Emil was
not likely to think long about Alexandra. Every image slipped away but
one. He had seen Marie in the crowd that afternoon. She sold candy at the
fair. WHY had she ever run away with Frank Shabata, and how could she go
on laughing and working and taking an interest in things? Why did she like
so many people, and why had she seemed pleased when all the French and
Bohemian boys, and the priest himself, crowded round her candy stand? Why
did she care about any one but him? Why could he never, never find the
thing he looked for in her playful, affectionate eyes?
Then he fell to imagining that he looked once more and found it there, and
what it would be like if she loved him,—she who, as Alexandra said,
could give her whole heart. In that dream he could lie for hours, as if in
a trance. His spirit went out of his body and crossed the fields to Marie
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.
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
"You have seen Lou and Oscar?" Alexandra asked.
"Yes." His eyes avoided hers.
Alexandra took a deep breath. "And now you are going away. I thought so."
Carl threw himself into a chair and pushed the dark lock back from his
forehead with his white, nervous hand. "What a hopeless position you are
in, Alexandra!" he exclaimed feverishly. "It is your fate to be always
surrounded by little men. And I am no better than the rest. I am too
little to face the criticism of even such men as Lou and Oscar. Yes, I am
going away; to-morrow. I cannot even ask you to give me a promise until I
have something to offer you. I thought, perhaps, I could do that; but I
find I can't."
"What good comes of offering people things they don't need?" Alexandra
asked sadly. "I don't need money. But I have needed you for a great many
years. I wonder why I have been permitted to prosper, if it is only to
take my friends away from me."
"I don't deceive myself," Carl said frankly. "I know that I am going away
on my own account. I must make the usual effort. I must have something to
show for myself. To take what you would give me, I should have to be
either a very large man or a very small one, and I am only in the middle
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
Carl rose and looked up at the picture of John Bergson. "But I can't, my
dear, I can't! I will go North at once. Instead of idling about in
California all winter, I shall be getting my bearings up there. I won't
waste another week. Be patient with me, Alexandra. Give me a year!"
"As you will," said Alexandra wearily. "All at once, in a single day, I
lose everything; and I do not know why. Emil, too, is going away." Carl
was still studying John Bergson's face and Alexandra's eyes followed his.
"Yes," she said, "if he could have seen all that would come of the task he
gave me, he would have been sorry. I hope he does not see me now. I hope
that he is among the old people of his blood and country, and that tidings
do not reach him from the New World."
PART III. Winter Memories
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
Alexandra has settled back into her old routine. There are weekly letters
from Emil. Lou and Oscar she has not seen since Carl went away. To avoid
awkward encounters in the presence of curious spectators, she has stopped
going to the Norwegian Church and drives up to the Reform Church at
Hanover, or goes with Marie Shabata to the Catholic Church, locally known
as "the French Church." She has not told Marie about Carl, or her
differences with her brothers. She was never very communicative about her
own affairs, and when she came to the point, an instinct told her that
about such things she and Marie would not understand one another.
Old Mrs. Lee had been afraid that family misunderstandings might deprive
her of her yearly visit to Alexandra. But on the first day of December
Alexandra telephoned Annie that to-morrow she would send Ivar over for her
mother, and the next day the old lady arrived with her bundles. For twelve
years Mrs. Lee had always entered Alexandra's sitting-room with the same
exclamation, "Now we be yust-a like old times!" She enjoyed the liberty
Alexandra gave her, and hearing her own language about her all day long.
Here she could wear her nightcap and sleep with all her windows shut,
listen to Ivar reading the Bible, and here she could run about among the
stables in a pair of Emil's old boots. Though she was bent almost double,
she was as spry as a gopher. Her face was as brown as if it had been
varnished, and as full of wrinkles as a washerwoman's hands. She had three
jolly old teeth left in the front of her mouth, and when she grinned she
looked very knowing, as if when you found out how to take it, life wasn't
half bad. While she and Alexandra patched and pieced and quilted, she
talked incessantly about stories she read in a Swedish family paper,
telling the plots in great detail; or about her life on a dairy farm in
Gottland when she was a girl. Sometimes she forgot which were the printed
stories and which were the real stories, it all seemed so far away. She
loved to take a little brandy, with hot water and sugar, before she went
to bed, and Alexandra always had it ready for her. "It sends good dreams,"
she would say with a twinkle in her eye.
When Mrs. Lee had been with Alexandra for a week, Marie Shabata telephoned
one morning to say that Frank had gone to town for the day, and she would
like them to come over for coffee in the afternoon. Mrs. Lee hurried to
wash out and iron her new cross-stitched apron, which she had finished
only the night before; a checked gingham apron worked with a design ten
inches broad across the bottom; a hunting scene, with fir trees and a stag
and dogs and huntsmen. Mrs. Lee was firm with herself at dinner, and
refused a second helping of apple dumplings. "I ta-ank I save up," she
said with a giggle.
At two o'clock in the afternoon Alexandra's cart drove up to the Shabatas'
gate, and Marie saw Mrs. Lee's red shawl come bobbing up the path. She ran
to the door and pulled the old woman into the house with a hug, helping
her to take off her wraps while Alexandra blanketed the horse outside.
Mrs. Lee had put on her best black satine dress—she abominated
woolen stuffs, even in winter—and a crocheted collar, fastened with
a big pale gold pin, containing faded daguerreotypes of her father and
mother. She had not worn her apron for fear of rumpling it, and now she
shook it out and tied it round her waist with a conscious air. Marie drew
back and threw up her hands, exclaiming, "Oh, what a beauty! I've never
seen this one before, have I, Mrs. Lee?"
The old woman giggled and ducked her head. "No, yust las' night I ma-ake.
See dis tread; verra strong, no wa-ash out, no fade. My sister send from
Sveden. I yust-a ta-ank you like dis."
Marie ran to the door again. "Come in, Alexandra. I have been looking at
Mrs. Lee's apron. Do stop on your way home and show it to Mrs. Hiller.
She's crazy about cross-stitch."
While Alexandra removed her hat and veil, Mrs. Lee went out to the kitchen
and settled herself in a wooden rocking-chair by the stove, looking with
great interest at the table, set for three, with a white cloth, and a pot
of pink geraniums in the middle. "My, a-an't you gotta fine plants; such-a
much flower. How you keep from freeze?"
She pointed to the window-shelves, full of blooming fuchsias and
"I keep the fire all night, Mrs. Lee, and when it's very cold I put them
all on the table, in the middle of the room. Other nights I only put
newspapers behind them. Frank laughs at me for fussing, but when they
don't bloom he says, 'What's the matter with the darned things?'—What
do you hear from Carl, Alexandra?"
"He got to Dawson before the river froze, and now I suppose I won't hear
any more until spring. Before he left California he sent me a box of
orange flowers, but they didn't keep very well. I have brought a bunch of
Emil's letters for you." Alexandra came out from the sitting-room and
pinched Marie's cheek playfully. "You don't look as if the weather ever
froze you up. Never have colds, do you? That's a good girl. She had dark
red cheeks like this when she was a little girl, Mrs. Lee. She looked like
some queer foreign kind of a doll. I've never forgot the first time I saw
you in Mieklejohn's store, Marie, the time father was lying sick. Carl and
I were talking about that before he went away."
"I remember, and Emil had his kitten along. When are you going to send
Emil's Christmas box?"
"It ought to have gone before this. I'll have to send it by mail now, to
get it there in time."
Marie pulled a dark purple silk necktie from her workbasket. "I knit this
for him. It's a good color, don't you think? Will you please put it in
with your things and tell him it's from me, to wear when he goes
Alexandra laughed. "I don't believe he goes serenading much. He says in
one letter that the Mexican ladies are said to be very beautiful, but that
don't seem to me very warm praise."
Marie tossed her head. "Emil can't fool me. If he's bought a guitar, he
goes serenading. Who wouldn't, with all those Spanish girls dropping
flowers down from their windows! I'd sing to them every night, wouldn't
you, Mrs. Lee?"
The old lady chuckled. Her eyes lit up as Marie bent down and opened the
oven door. A delicious hot fragrance blew out into the tidy kitchen. "My,
somet'ing smell good!" She turned to Alexandra with a wink, her three
yellow teeth making a brave show, "I ta-ank dat stop my yaw from ache no
more!" she said contentedly.
Marie took out a pan of delicate little rolls, stuffed with stewed
apricots, and began to dust them over with powdered sugar. "I hope you'll
like these, Mrs. Lee; Alexandra does. The Bohemians always like them with
their coffee. But if you don't, I have a coffee-cake with nuts and poppy
seeds. Alexandra, will you get the cream jug? I put it in the window to
"The Bohemians," said Alexandra, as they drew up to the table, "certainly
know how to make more kinds of bread than any other people in the world.
Old Mrs. Hiller told me once at the church supper that she could make
seven kinds of fancy bread, but Marie could make a dozen."
Mrs. Lee held up one of the apricot rolls between her brown thumb and
forefinger and weighed it critically. "Yust like-a fedders," she
pronounced with satisfaction. "My, a-an't dis nice!" she exclaimed as she
stirred her coffee. "I yust ta-ake a liddle yelly now, too, I ta-ank."
Alexandra and Marie laughed at her forehandedness, and fell to talking of
their own affairs. "I was afraid you had a cold when I talked to you over
the telephone the other night, Marie. What was the matter, had you been
"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
"I thought it was something like that. If I hadn't had company, I'd have
run over to see for myself. If you get down-hearted, what will become of
the rest of us?" Alexandra asked.
"I don't, very often. There's Mrs. Lee without any coffee!"
Later, when Mrs. Lee declared that her powers were spent, Marie and
Alexandra went upstairs to look for some crochet patterns the old lady
wanted to borrow. "Better put on your coat, Alexandra. It's cold up 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."
She began tossing over the contents of the drawers, and Alexandra went
into the clothes-closet. Presently she came back, holding a slender
elastic yellow stick in her hand.
"What in the world is this, Marie? You don't mean to tell me Frank ever
carried such a thing?"
Marie blinked at it with astonishment and sat down on the floor. "Where
did you find it? I didn't know he had kept it. I haven't seen it for
"It really is a cane, then?"
"Yes. One he brought from the old country. He used to carry it when I
first knew him. Isn't it foolish? Poor Frank!"
Alexandra twirled the stick in her fingers and laughed. "He must have
Marie was thoughtful. "No, he didn't, really. It didn't seem out of place.
He used to be awfully gay like that when he was a young man. I guess
people always get what's hardest for them, Alexandra." Marie gathered the
shawl closer about her and still looked hard at the cane. "Frank would be
all right in the right place," she said reflectively. "He ought to have a
different kind of wife, for one thing. Do you know, Alexandra, I could
pick out exactly the right sort of woman for Frank—now. The trouble
is you almost have to marry a man before you can find out the sort of wife
he needs; and usually it's exactly the sort you are not. Then what are you
going to do about it?" she asked candidly.
Alexandra confessed she didn't know. "However," she added, "it seems to me
that you get along with Frank about as well as any woman I've ever seen or
heard of could."
Marie shook her head, pursing her lips and blowing her warm breath softly
out into the frosty air. "No; I was spoiled at home. I like my own way,
and I have a quick tongue. When Frank brags, I say sharp things, and he
never forgets. He goes over and over it in his mind; I can feel him. Then
I'm too giddy. Frank's wife ought to be timid, and she ought not to care
about another living thing in the world but just Frank! I didn't, when I
married him, but I suppose I was too young to stay like that." Marie
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?"
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."
She poked the cane behind Frank's Sunday clothes, and though she laughed,
Alexandra saw there were tears in her eyes.
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.
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 FIESTAS, 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.
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."
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.
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!
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.
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
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.
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.
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
PART IV. The White Mulberry Tree
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.
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."
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.
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.
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. Amedee Chevalier, a proud
father of one week, rushed out and embraced Emil. Amedee 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.
Emil caught his arms. "Stop, Amedee. 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!"
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.
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.
"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?"
"They belonged to father's mother. He always promised them to me. He sent
them with the dress and said I could keep them."
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.
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.
"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?"
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?
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,
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."
"Mais, oui," said the priest, with a melancholy smile. "C'est L'Isle-Adam,
chez ma mere. Vous etes tres savante, ma fille." He patted her yellow
turban, calling, "Venez donc, mes garcons! Il y a ici une veritable
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. Amedee was to have
twenty children, and nineteen of them were to be girls. Amedee 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.
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.
While Marie was chattering to the French boys, Amedee 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, Amedee 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
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."
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!"
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?"
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
At that instant Amedee 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.
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:—
"Across the Rio Grand-e There lies a sunny land-e, My bright-eyed Mexico!"
Alexandra Bergson came up to the card booth. "Let me help you, Marie. You
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.
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.
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
Alexandra began to laugh. "Why, Signa, you and Nelse are to ride home.
I'll send Ivar over with the cows in the morning."
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.
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
"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."
"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."
"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."
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.
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.
"Marie," said Emil after they had walked for a while, "I wonder if you
know how unhappy I am?"
Marie did not answer him. Her head, in its white scarf, drooped forward a
Emil kicked a clod from the path and went on:—
"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?"
"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
"Are you sorry for me?" he persisted.
"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."
"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, PLEASE tell me, why you ran away with
Marie drew back. "Because I was in love with him," she said firmly.
"Really?" he asked incredulously.
"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."
Emil turned away his face.
"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."
"You don't do all the paying."
"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."
"Not everything. I can't leave you behind. Will you go away with me,
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.
"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, STOP and tell me!"
Emil overtook her and catching her by the shoulders shook her gently, as
if he were trying to awaken a sleepwalker.
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?"
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
She lifted her face to his. "How could I help it? Didn't you know?"
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.
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.
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
"Tired, Emil?" his sister asked.
"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."
"Alexandra," he said suddenly, "that old walnut secretary you use for a
desk was father's, wasn't it?"
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."
"Grandfather was really crooked, was he?"
"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."
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."
"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
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.
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?"
"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
"Yes, and he died in a dark time. Still, he had hope. He believed in the
"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.
At last Emil said abruptly, "Lou and Oscar would be better off if they
were poor, wouldn't they?"
Alexandra smiled. "Maybe. But their children wouldn't. I have great hopes
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."
"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."
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.
"Alexandra," said Emil suddenly, "do you remember the wild duck we saw
down on the river that time?"
His sister looked up. "I often think of her. It always seems to me she's
there still, just like we saw her."
"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."
Emil took up his lamp and went upstairs. Alexandra sat finishing his new
nightshirt, that must go in the top tray of his trunk.
The next morning Angelique, Amedee'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 Amedee's, and in it was his black-eyed
son. As Angelique, 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
"'Medee is out in the field, Emil," Angelique 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."
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?"
Angelique 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."
Angelique 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
Amedee, with a new baby in the cradle and a new header in the field.
Emil stroked the black fuzz on Baptiste's head. "I say, Angelique, one of
'Medee's grandmothers, 'way back, must have been a squaw. This kid looks
exactly like the Indian babies."
Angelique 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 PATOIS that Emil fled
from the kitchen and mounted his mare.
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 Amedee 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 Amedee'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 Amedee 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!"
When he saw Emil, Amedee 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."
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, Amedee clutched at his right side and
sank down for a moment on the straw.
"Ouch! I got an awful pain in me, Emil. Something's the matter with my
insides, for sure."
Emil felt his fiery cheek. "You ought to go straight to bed, 'Medee, and
telephone for the doctor; that's what you ought to do."
Amedee 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."
Amedee 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.
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.
As Emil rode homewards at three o'clock in the afternoon, he saw Amedee
staggering out of the wheatfield, supported by two of his cousins. Emil
stopped and helped them put the boy to bed.
When Frank Shabata came in from work at five o'clock that evening, old
Moses Marcel, Raoul's father, telephoned him that Amedee 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 Amedee's case at Marcel's saloon.
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 Amedee. 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. Amedee 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.
Marie hung up the receiver. Poor Amedee'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 Amedee 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.
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 Amedee. 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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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 Amedee died at three o'clock this
The Church has always held that life is for the living. On Saturday, while
half the village of Sainte-Agnes was mourning for Amedee 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 Amedee. 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.
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
Amedee'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 Amedee had always been a good boy, glancing toward the red
brick church which had played so large a part in Amedee'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 Amedee; 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.
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."
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 Amedee'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.
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. Amedee's was the only empty pew, and he sat down in it. Some
of Amedee'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
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.
wailed Raoul from the organ loft;
O—RA PRO NO-O-BIS!
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.
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.
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 Amedee 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.
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
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!"
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.
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.
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?
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.
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!"
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.
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
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!"
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.
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.
"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.
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
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.
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.
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!"
PART V. Alexandra
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.
"Ivar," Signa exclaimed as she wiped the rain from her face, "do you know
where she is?"
The old man put down his cobbler's knife. "Who, the mistress?"
"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."
Ivar put on his cap and took up the lantern. "JA, JA, we will see. I will
hitch the boy's mare to the cart and go."
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,
The old man lifted a set of single harness carefully from its peg. "How
should I know?"
"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."
"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."
"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."
Ivar expressed himself in a deep sigh, but said nothing. He stooped and
took a sandburr from his toe.
"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?"
"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."
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.
"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.
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
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.
The old man sprang to the ground and shuffled toward the gate calling,
Alexandra hurried to meet him and put her hand on his shoulder. "TYST!
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
Ivar swung the lantern up so that it shone in her face. "GUD! You are
enough to frighten us, mistress. You look like a drowned woman. How could
you do such a thing!"
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.
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."
Ivar turned the mare and urged her into a sliding trot. Her feet sent back
a continual spatter of mud.
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."
"Mistress," said Ivar reproachfully, "those are bad thoughts. The dead are
Then he hung his head, for he did not believe that Emil was in Paradise.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"Oh, it was my fault!" said Alexandra eagerly. "Are you an old student
here, may I ask?"
"No, ma'am. I'm a Freshie, just off the farm. Cherry County. Were you
"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
"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.
"Thank you, I'll try there," said Alexandra lingeringly.
"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
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
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.
"That big Bohemian, is it? Sure, he's gettin' along fine," said Mr.
"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."
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.
"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."
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.
"Bertie, when 1037 is brought in, you just step out and give this lady a
chance to talk."
The young man bowed his head and bent over his ledger again.
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
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.
"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
The guard went out and Alexandra and Frank were left alone.
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.
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."
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.
"I haven't come up here to blame you, Frank. I think they were more to
blame than you." Alexandra, too, felt benumbed.
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,
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.
"You do not feel hard to me, Frank?" she asked at last.
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."
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
"Yes, Frank," she said kindly. "I know you never meant to hurt Marie."
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
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.
"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
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."
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—"
"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
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:—
Henceforth the world will only be
A wider prison-house to me,—
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.
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:—
Arrived Hanover last night. Shall wait here until you come.
Please hurry. CARL LINSTRUM.
Alexandra put her head down on the dresser and burst into tears.
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
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.
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.
As they came out of Mrs. Hiller's garden they took up their talk again
where they had left it.
"But could you come away like that, Carl, without arranging things? Could
you just walk off and leave your business?" Alexandra asked.
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 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."
"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?"
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."
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.
"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!"
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
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
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."
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 SEE 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."
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?"
"Because he was the best there was, I suppose. They were both the best you
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.
"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?"
"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.
"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.
"You belong to the land," Carl murmured, "as you have always said. Now
more than ever."
"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."
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
"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."
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
"Why are you thinking of such things now, Alexandra?"
"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
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.
She leaned heavily on his shoulder. "I am tired," she murmured. "I have
been very lonely, Carl."
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!