The Prairie Landscape and the Arts
1st-year tutorial, Grinnell College, Fall, 1999
Course schedule

Excerpts from My Antonia by Willa Cather

from Project Gutenberg e-text edition

BOOK I

The Shimerdas


I

1. I FIRST HEARD OF Antonia on what seemed to me an interminable
   journey across the great midland plain of North America.
   I was ten years old then; I had lost both my father
   and mother within a year, and my Virginia relatives were
   sending me out to my grandparents, who lived in Nebraska.
   I travelled in the care of a mountain boy, Jake Marpole,
   one of the `hands' on my father's old farm under the Blue Ridge,
   who was now going West to work for my grandfather.
   Jake's experience of the world was not much wider than mine.
   He had never been in a railway train until the morning when we
   set out together to try our fortunes in a new world.
2. We went all the way in day-coaches, becoming more sticky and
   grimy with each stage of the journey. Jake bought everything
   the newsboys offered him: candy, oranges, brass collar buttons,
   a watch-charm, and for me a `Life of Jesse James,' which I
   remember as one of the most satisfactory books I have ever read.
   Beyond Chicago we were under the protection of a friendly passenger
   conductor, who knew all about the country to which we were going
   and gave us a great deal of advice in exchange for our confidence.
   He seemed to us an experienced and worldly man who had been
   almost everywhere; in his conversation he threw out lightly
   the names of distant states and cities. He wore the rings and pins
   and badges of different fraternal orders to which he belonged.
   Even his cuff-buttons were engraved with hieroglyphics, and he was
   more inscribed than an Egyptian obelisk.
3. Once when he sat down to chat, he told us that in the immigrant
   car ahead there was a family from `across the water'
   whose destination was the same as ours.
4. `They can't any of them speak English, except one little girl, and all she
   can say is "We go Black Hawk, Nebraska." She's not much older than you,
   twelve or thirteen, maybe, and she's as bright as a new dollar.
   Don't you want to go ahead and see her, Jimmy? She's got the pretty
   brown eyes, too!'
5. This last remark made me bashful, and I shook my head and settled
   down to `Jesse James.' Jake nodded at me approvingly and said you
   were likely to get diseases from foreigners.
6. I do not remember crossing the Missouri River, or anything
   about the long day's journey through Nebraska. Probably by that
   time I had crossed so many rivers that I was dull to them.
   The only thing very noticeable about Nebraska was that it
   was still, all day long, Nebraska.
7. I had been sleeping, curled up in a red plush seat, for a long while
   when we reached Black Hawk. Jake roused me and took me by the hand.
   We stumbled down from the train to a wooden siding, where men were running
   about with lanterns. I couldn't see any town, or even distant lights;
   we were surrounded by utter darkness. The engine was panting heavily
   after its long run. In the red glow from the fire-box, a group of people
   stood huddled together on the platform, encumbered by bundles and boxes.
   I knew this must be the immigrant family the conductor had told us about.
   The woman wore a fringed shawl tied over her head, and she carried
   a little tin trunk in her arms, hugging it as if it were a baby.
   There was an old man, tall and stooped. Two half-grown boys and a girl stood
   holding oilcloth bundles, and a little girl clung to her mother's skirts.
   Presently a man with a lantern approached them and began to talk,
   shouting and exclaiming. I pricked up my ears, for it was positively
   the first time I had ever heard a foreign tongue.
8. Another lantern came along. A bantering voice called out:
   `Hello, are you Mr. Burden's folks? If you are, it's me you're looking for.
   I'm Otto Fuchs. I'm Mr. Burden's hired man, and I'm to drive you out.
   Hello, Jimmy, ain't you scared to come so far west?'
9. I looked up with interest at the new face in the lantern-light.
   He might have stepped out of the pages of `Jesse James.'
   He wore a sombrero hat, with a wide leather band and a bright buckle,
   and the ends of his moustache were twisted up stiffly,
   like little horns. He looked lively and ferocious, I thought,
   and as if he had a history. A long scar ran across one cheek
   and drew the corner of his mouth up in a sinister curl.
   The top of his left ear was gone, and his skin was brown
   as an Indian's. Surely this was the face of a desperado.
   As he walked about the platform in his high-heeled boots,
   looking for our trunks, I saw that he was a rather slight man,
   quick and wiry, and light on his feet. He told us we had a long
   night drive ahead of us, and had better be on the hike.
   He led us to a hitching-bar where two farm-wagons were tied,
   and I saw the foreign family crowding into one of them.
   The other was for us. Jake got on the front seat with Otto Fuchs,
   and I rode on the straw in the bottom of the wagon-box,
   covered up with a buffalo hide. The immigrants rumbled off
   into the empty darkness, and we followed them.
10. I tried to go to sleep, but the jolting made me bite my tongue,
    and I soon began to ache all over. When the straw settled down,
    I had a hard bed. Cautiously I slipped from under the buffalo hide,
    got up on my knees and peered over the side of the wagon.
    There seemed to be nothing to see; no fences, no creeks or trees,
    no hills or fields. If there was a road, I could not make
    it out in the faint starlight. There was nothing but land:
    not a country at all, but the material out of which countries
    are made. No, there was nothing but land--slightly undulating,
    I knew, because often our wheels ground against the brake as we
    went down into a hollow and lurched up again on the other side.
    I had the feeling that the world was left behind, that we had
    got over the edge of it, and were outside man's jurisdiction.
    I had never before looked up at the sky when there was not a
    familiar mountain ridge against it. But this was the complete
    dome of heaven, all there was of it. I did not believe that my
    dead father and mother were watching me from up there; they would
    still be looking for me at the sheep-fold down by the creek,
    or along the white road that led to the mountain pastures.
    I had left even their spirits behind me. The wagon jolted on,
    carrying me I knew not whither. I don't think I was homesick.
    If we never arrived anywhere, it did not matter.
    Between that earth and that sky I felt erased, blotted out.
    I did not say my prayers that night: here, I felt, what would
    be would be.
    
    
    II
    
    
11. I DO NOT REMEMBER our arrival at my grandfather's farm sometime
    before daybreak, after a drive of nearly twenty miles with heavy
    work-horses. When I awoke, it was afternoon. I was lying
    in a little room, scarcely larger than the bed that held me,
    and the window-shade at my head was flapping softly in a warm wind.
    A tall woman, with wrinkled brown skin and black hair,
    stood looking down at me; I knew that she must be my grandmother.
    She had been crying, I could see, but when I opened my eyes
    she smiled, peered at me anxiously, and sat down on the foot
    of my bed.
12. `Had a good sleep, Jimmy?' she asked briskly. Then in a very different
    tone she said, as if to herself, `My, how you do look like your father!'
    I remembered that my father had been her little boy; she must often have come
    to wake him like this when he overslept. `Here are your clean clothes,'
    she went on, stroking my coverlid with her brown hand as she talked.
    `But first you come down to the kitchen with me, and have a nice warm
    bath behind the stove. Bring your things; there's nobody about.'
13. `Down to the kitchen' struck me as curious; it was always `out
    in the kitchen' at home. I picked up my shoes and stockings
    and followed her through the living-room and down a flight
    of stairs into a basement. This basement was divided into a
    dining-room at the right of the stairs and a kitchen at the left.
    Both rooms were plastered and whitewashed--the plaster laid
    directly upon the earth walls, as it used to be in dugouts.
    The floor was of hard cement. Up under the wooden ceiling
    there were little half-windows with white curtains, and pots
    of geraniums and wandering Jew in the deep sills. As I entered
    the kitchen, I sniffed a pleasant smell of gingerbread baking.
    The stove was very large, with bright nickel trimmings,
    and behind it there was a long wooden bench against the wall,
    and a tin washtub, into which grandmother poured hot and cold water.
    When she brought the soap and towels, I told her that I was used
    to taking my bath without help. `Can you do your ears, Jimmy?
    Are you sure? Well, now, I call you a right smart little boy.'
14. It was pleasant there in the kitchen. The sun shone into my
    bath-water through the west half-window, and a big Maltese cat came
    up and rubbed himself against the tub, watching me curiously.
    While I scrubbed, my grandmother busied herself in the dining-room until
    I called anxiously, `Grandmother, I'm afraid the cakes are burning!'
    Then she came laughing, waving her apron before her as if she
    were shooing chickens.
15. She was a spare, tall woman, a little stooped, and she was apt
    to carry her head thrust forward in an attitude of attention,
    as if she were looking at something, or listening to something,
    far away. As I grew older, I came to believe that it was only
    because she was so often thinking of things that were far away.
    She was quick-footed and energetic in all her movements.
    Her voice was high and rather shrill, and she often spoke
    with an anxious inflection, for she was exceedingly desirous
    that everything should go with due order and decorum.
    Her laugh, too, was high, and perhaps a little strident,
    but there was a lively intelligence in it. She was then
    fifty-five years old, a strong woman, of unusual endurance.
16. After I was dressed, I explored the long cellar next the kitchen.
    It was dug out under the wing of the house, was plastered and cemented,
    with a stairway and an outside door by which the men came and went.
    Under one of the windows there was a place for them to wash when they
    came in from work.
17. While my grandmother was busy about supper, I settled myself on
    the wooden bench behind the stove and got acquainted with the cat--
    he caught not only rats and mice, but gophers, I was told.
    The patch of yellow sunlight on the floor travelled back toward
    the stairway, and grandmother and I talked about my journey,
    and about the arrival of the new Bohemian family; she said
    they were to be our nearest neighbours. We did not talk about
    the farm in Virginia, which had been her home for so many years.
    But after the men came in from the fields, and we were all
    seated at the supper table, then she asked Jake about the old
    place and about our friends and neighbours there.
18. My grandfather said little. When he first came in he kissed
    me and spoke kindly to me, but he was not demonstrative.
    I felt at once his deliberateness and personal dignity,
    and was a little in awe of him. The thing one immediately
    noticed about him was his beautiful, crinkly, snow-white beard.
    I once heard a missionary say it was like the beard of an
    Arabian sheik. His bald crown only made it more impressive.
19. Grandfather's eyes were not at all like those of an old man;
    they were bright blue, and had a fresh, frosty sparkle.
    His teeth were white and regular--so sound that he had never
    been to a dentist in his life. He had a delicate skin,
    easily roughened by sun and wind. When he was a young man
    his hair and beard were red; his eyebrows were still coppery.
20. As we sat at the table, Otto Fuchs and I kept stealing covert glances
    at each other. Grandmother had told me while she was getting supper
    that he was an Austrian who came to this country a young boy and had led
    an adventurous life in the Far West among mining-camps and cow outfits.
    His iron constitution was somewhat broken by mountain pneumonia,
    and he had drifted back to live in a milder country for a while.
    He had relatives in Bismarck, a German settlement to the north of us,
    but for a year now he had been working for grandfather.
21. The minute supper was over, Otto took me into the kitchen to whisper to me
    about a pony down in the barn that had been bought for me at a sale;
    he had been riding him to find out whether he had any bad tricks,
    but he was a `perfect gentleman,' and his name was Dude. Fuchs told
    me everything I wanted to know: how he had lost his ear in a Wyoming
    blizzard when he was a stage-driver, and how to throw a lasso.
    He promised to rope a steer for me before sundown next day.
    He got out his `chaps' and silver spurs to show them to Jake and me,
    and his best cowboy boots, with tops stitched in bold design--
    roses, and true-lover's knots, and undraped female figures.
    These, he solemnly explained, were angels.
22. Before we went to bed, Jake and Otto were called up to the
    living-room for prayers. Grandfather put on silver-rimmed
    spectacles and read several Psalms. His voice was so
    sympathetic and he read so interestingly that I wished he had
    chosen one of my favourite chapters in the Book of Kings.
    I was awed by his intonation of the word `Selah.' `He shall
    choose our inheritance for us, the excellency of Jacob whom
    He loved. Selah.' I had no idea what the word meant;
    perhaps he had not. But, as he uttered it, it became oracular,
    the most sacred of words.
23. Early the next morning I ran out-of-doors to look about me.
    I had been told that ours was the only wooden house west
    of Black Hawk--until you came to the Norwegian settlement,
    where there were several. Our neighbours lived in sod
    houses and dugouts--comfortable, but not very roomy.
    Our white frame house, with a storey and half-storey above
    the basement, stood at the east end of what I might call
    the farmyard, with the windmill close by the kitchen door.
    From the windmill the ground sloped westward, down to the barns
    and granaries and pig-yards. This slope was trampled hard
    and bare, and washed out in winding gullies by the rain.
    Beyond the corncribs, at the bottom of the shallow draw,
    was a muddy little pond, with rusty willow bushes growing about it.
    The road from the post-office came directly by our door,
    crossed the farmyard, and curved round this little pond,
    beyond which it began to climb the gentle swell of unbroken
    prairie to the west. There, along the western sky-line it skirted
    a great cornfield, much larger than any field I had ever seen.
    This cornfield, and the sorghum patch behind the barn,
    were the only broken land in sight. Everywhere, as far as the eye
    could reach, there was nothing but rough, shaggy, red grass,
    most of it as tall as I.
24. North of the house, inside the ploughed fire-breaks, grew a thick-set strip
    of box-elder trees, low and bushy, their leaves already turning yellow.
    This hedge was nearly a quarter of a mile long, but I had to look very hard
    to see it at all. The little trees were insignificant against the grass.
    It seemed as if the grass were about to run over them, and over the plum-patch
    behind the sod chicken-house.
25. As I looked about me I felt that the grass was the country, as the water
    is the sea. The red of the grass made all the great prairie the colour
    of winestains, or of certain seaweeds when they are first washed up.
    And there was so much motion in it; the whole country seemed, somehow,
    to be running.
26. I had almost forgotten that I had a grandmother, when she came out,
    her sunbonnet on her head, a grain-sack in her hand, and asked me if I
    did not want to go to the garden with her to dig potatoes for dinner.
27. The garden, curiously enough, was a quarter of a mile from the house,
    and the way to it led up a shallow draw past the cattle corral.
    Grandmother called my attention to a stout hickory cane,
    tipped with copper, which hung by a leather thong from
    her belt. This, she said, was her rattlesnake cane.
    I must never go to the garden without a heavy stick or a corn-knife;
    she had killed a good many rattlers on her way back and forth.
    A little girl who lived on the Black Hawk road was bitten
    on the ankle and had been sick all summer.
28. I can remember exactly how the country looked to me as I walked beside my
    grandmother along the faint wagon-tracks on that early September morning.
    Perhaps the glide of long railway travel was still with me, for more
    than anything else I felt motion in the landscape; in the fresh,
    easy-blowing morning wind, and in the earth itself, as if the shaggy
    grass were a sort of loose hide, and underneath it herds of wild buffalo
    were galloping, galloping ...
29. Alone, I should never have found the garden--except, perhaps,
    for the big yellow pumpkins that lay about unprotected by their
    withering vines--and I felt very little interest in it when I
    got there. I wanted to walk straight on through the red grass
    and over the edge of the world, which could not be very far away.
    The light air about me told me that the world ended here:
    only the ground and sun and sky were left, and if one
    went a little farther there would be only sun and sky,
    and one would float off into them, like the tawny hawks
    which sailed over our heads making slow shadows on the grass.
    While grandmother took the pitchfork we found standing
    in one of the rows and dug potatoes, while I picked them
    up out of the soft brown earth and put them into the bag,
    I kept looking up at the hawks that were doing what I might
    so easily do.
30. When grandmother was ready to go, I said I would like to stay up there
    in the garden awhile.
31. She peered down at me from under her sunbonnet.
    `Aren't you afraid of snakes?'
32. `A little,' I admitted, `but I'd like to stay, anyhow.'
33. `Well, if you see one, don't have anything to do with him.
    The big yellow and brown ones won't hurt you; they're bull-snakes
    and help to keep the gophers down. Don't be scared if you
    see anything look out of that hole in the bank over there.
    That's a badger hole. He's about as big as a big 'possum,
    and his face is striped, black and white. He takes a
    chicken once in a while, but I won't let the men harm him.
    In a new country a body feels friendly to the animals.
    I like to have him come out and watch me when I'm at work.'
34. Grandmother swung the bag of potatoes over her shoulder
    and went down the path, leaning forward a little.
    The road followed the windings of the draw; when she came
    to the first bend, she waved at me and disappeared.
    I was left alone with this new feeling of lightness and content.
35. I sat down in the middle of the garden, where snakes could scarcely
    approach unseen, and leaned my back against a warm yellow pumpkin.
    There were some ground-cherry bushes growing along the furrows,
    full of fruit. I turned back the papery triangular sheaths that protected
    the berries and ate a few. All about me giant grasshoppers, twice as big
    as any I had ever seen, were doing acrobatic feats among the dried vines.
    The gophers scurried up and down the ploughed ground. There in the sheltered
    draw-bottom the wind did not blow very hard, but I could hear it singing
    its humming tune up on the level, and I could see the tall grasses wave.
    The earth was warm under me, and warm as I crumbled it through my fingers.
    Queer little red bugs came out and moved in slow squadrons around me.
    Their backs were polished vermilion, with black spots. I kept as still
    as I could. Nothing happened. I did not expect anything to happen.
    I was something that lay under the sun and felt it, like the pumpkins,
    and I did not want to be anything more. I was entirely happy.
    Perhaps we feel like that when we die and become a part of something entire,
    whether it is sun and air, or goodness and knowledge. At any rate,
    that is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great.
    When it comes to one, it comes as naturally as sleep.
    
    
    III
    
    
36. ON SUNDAY MORNING Otto Fuchs was to drive us over to make the
    acquaintance of our new Bohemian neighbours. We were taking them
    some provisions, as they had come to live on a wild place where there
    was no garden or chicken-house, and very little broken land.
    Fuchs brought up a sack of potatoes and a piece of cured pork from
    the cellar, and grandmother packed some loaves of Saturday's bread,
    a jar of butter, and several pumpkin pies in the straw of the wagon-box.
    We clambered up to the front seat and jolted off past the little
    pond and along the road that climbed to the big cornfield.
37. I could hardly wait to see what lay beyond that cornfield;
    but there was only red grass like ours, and nothing else,
    though from the high wagon-seat one could look off a long way.
    The road ran about like a wild thing, avoiding the deep draws,
    crossing them where they were wide and shallow.
    And all along it, wherever it looped or ran, the sunflowers grew;
    some of them were as big as little trees, with great rough
    leaves and many branches which bore dozens of blossoms.
    They made a gold ribbon across the prairie. Occasionally one
    of the horses would tear off with his teeth a plant full
    of blossoms, and walk along munching it, the flowers nodding
    in time to his bites as he ate down toward them.
38. The Bohemian family, grandmother told me as we drove along,
    had bought the homestead of a fellow countryman, Peter Krajiek,
    and had paid him more than it was worth. Their agreement with him
    was made before they left the old country, through a cousin of his,
    who was also a relative of Mrs. Shimerda. The Shimerdas were
    the first Bohemian family to come to this part of the county.
    Krajiek was their only interpreter, and could tell them anything
    he chose. They could not speak enough English to ask for advice,
    or even to make their most pressing wants known. One son,
    Fuchs said, was well-grown, and strong enough to work the land;
    but the father was old and frail and knew nothing about farming.
    He was a weaver by trade; had been a skilled workman on tapestries
    and upholstery materials. He had brought his fiddle with him,
    which wouldn't be of much use here, though he used to pick up money
    by it at home.
39. `If they're nice people, I hate to think of them spending
    the winter in that cave of Krajiek's,' said grandmother.
    `It's no better than a badger hole; no proper dugout at all.
    And I hear he's made them pay twenty dollars for his old
    cookstove that ain't worth ten.'
40. `Yes'm,' said Otto; `and he's sold 'em his oxen and his
    two bony old horses for the price of good workteams.
    I'd have interfered about the horses--the old man can understand
    some German--if I'd I a' thought it would do any good.
    But Bohemians has a natural distrust of Austrians.'
41. Grandmother looked interested. `Now, why is that, Otto?'
42. Fuchs wrinkled his brow and nose. `Well, ma'm, it's politics.
    It would take me a long while to explain.'
43. The land was growing rougher; I was told that we were approaching
    Squaw Creek, which cut up the west half of the Shimerdas'
    place and made the land of little value for farming.
    Soon we could see the broken, grassy clay cliffs which
    indicated the windings of the stream, and the glittering tops
    of the cottonwoods and ash trees that grew down in the ravine.
    Some of the cottonwoods had already turned, and the yellow
    leaves and shining white bark made them look like the gold
    and silver trees in fairy tales.
44. As we approached the Shimerdas' dwelling, I could still see
    nothing but rough red hillocks, and draws with shelving banks
    and long roots hanging out where the earth had crumbled away.
    Presently, against one of those banks, I saw a sort of shed,
    thatched with the same wine-coloured grass that grew everywhere.
    Near it tilted a shattered windmill frame, that had no wheel.
    We drove up to this skeleton to tie our horses, and then I saw
    a door and window sunk deep in the drawbank. The door stood open,
    and a woman and a girl of fourteen ran out and looked up
    at us hopefully. A little girl trailed along behind them.
    The woman had on her head the same embroidered shawl with silk fringes
    that she wore when she had alighted from the train at Black Hawk.