THE PRAIREE TRILOGY: O, Pioneers!, The Song of the Lark & My Ántonia. Willa Cather

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СКАЧАТЬ He had even known Jenny Lind. A child with talent had to be kept at the piano; so twice a week in summer and once a week in winter Thea went over the gulch to the Kohlers’, though the Ladies’ Aid Society thought it was not proper for their preacher’s daughter to go “where there was so much drinking.” Not that the Kohler sons ever so much as looked at a glass of beer. They were ashamed of their old folks and got out into the world as fast as possible; had their clothes made by a Denver tailor and their necks shaved up under their hair and forgot the past. Old Fritz and Wunsch, however, indulged in a friendly bottle pretty often. The two men were like comrades; perhaps the bond between them was the glass wherein lost hopes are found; perhaps it was common memories of another country; perhaps it was the grapevine in the garden — knotty, fibrous shrub, full of homesickness and sentiment, which the Germans have carried around the world with them.

      As Thea approached the house she peeped between the pink sprays of the tamarisk hedge and saw the Professor and Mrs. Kohler in the garden, spading and raking. The garden looked like a relief-map now, and gave no indication of what it would be in August; such a jungle! Pole beans and potatoes and corn and leeks and kale and red cabbage — there would even be vegetables for which there is no American name. Mrs. Kohler was always getting by mail packages of seeds from Freeport and from the old country. Then the flowers! There were big sunflowers for the canary bird, tiger lilies and phlox and zinnias and lady’s-slippers and portulaca and hollyhocks, — giant hollyhocks. Beside the fruit trees there was a great umbrella-shaped catalpa, and a balm-of-Gilead, two lindens, and even a ginka, — a rigid, pointed tree with leaves shaped like butterflies, which shivered, but never bent to the wind.

      This morning Thea saw to her delight that the two oleander trees, one white and one red, had been brought up from their winter quarters in the cellar. There is hardly a German family in the most arid parts of Utah, New Mexico, Arizona, but has its oleander trees. However loutish the American-born sons of the family may be, there was never one who refused to give his muscle to the back-breaking task of getting those tubbed trees down into the cellar in the fall and up into the sunlight in the spring. They may strive to avert the day, but they grapple with the tub at last.

      When Thea entered the gate, her professor leaned his spade against the white post that supported the turreted dove-house, and wiped his face with his shirt-sleeve; someway he never managed to have a handkerchief about him. Wunsch was short and stocky, with something rough and bear-like about his shoulders. His face was a dark, bricky red, deeply creased rather than wrinkled, and the skin was like loose leather over his neck band — he wore a brass collar button but no collar. His hair was cropped close; iron-gray bristles on a bullet-like head. His eyes were always suffused and bloodshot. He had a coarse, scornful mouth, and irregular, yellow teeth, much worn at the edges. His hands were square and red, seldom clean, but always alive, impatient, even sympathetic.

      “MORGEN,” he greeted his pupil in a businesslike way, put on a black alpaca coat, and conducted her at once to the piano in Mrs. Kohler’s sitting-room. He twirled the stool to the proper height, pointed to it, and sat down in a wooden chair beside Thea.

      “The scale of B flat major,” he directed, and then fell into an attitude of deep attention. Without a word his pupil set to work.

      To Mrs. Kohler, in the garden, came the cheerful sound of effort, of vigorous striving. Unconsciously she wielded her rake more lightly. Occasionally she heard the teacher’s voice. “Scale of E minor . . . WEITER, WEITER! . . . IMMER I hear the thumb, like a lame foot. WEITER . . . WEITER, once . . . SCHON! The chords, quick!”

      The pupil did not open her mouth until they began the second movement of the Clementi sonata, when she remonstrated in low tones about the way he had marked the fingering of a passage.

      “It makes no matter what you think,” replied her teacher coldly. “There is only one right way. The thumb there. EIN, ZWEI, DREI, VIER,” etc. Then for an hour there was no further interruption.

      At the end of the lesson Thea turned on her stool and leaned her arm on the keyboard. They usually had a little talk after the lesson.

      Herr Wunsch grinned. “How soon is it you are free from school? Then we make ahead faster, eh?”

      “First week in June. Then will you give me the ‘Invitation to the Dance’?”

      He shrugged his shoulders. “It makes no matter. If you want him, you play him out of lesson hours.”

      “All right.” Thea fumbled in her pocket and brought out a crumpled slip of paper. “What does this mean, please? I guess it’s Latin.”

      Wunsch blinked at the line penciled on the paper. “Wherefrom you get this?” he asked gruffly.

      “Out of a book Dr. Archie gave me to read. It’s all English but that. Did you ever see it before?” she asked, watching his face.

      “Yes. A long time ago,” he muttered, scowling. “Ovidius!” He took a stub of lead pencil from his vest pocket, steadied his hand by a visible effort, and under the words:

      “LENTE CURRITE, LENTE CURRITE, NOCTIS EQUI,” he wrote in a clear, elegant Gothic hand, —

      “GO SLOWLY, GO SLOWLY, YE STEEDS OF THE NIGHT.”

      He put the pencil back in his pocket and continued to stare at the Latin. It recalled the poem, which he had read as a student, and thought very fine. There were treasures of memory which no lodging-house keeper could attach. One carried things about in one’s head, long after one’s linen could be smuggled out in a tuning-bag. He handed the paper back to Thea. “There is the English, quite elegant,” he said, rising.

      Mrs. Kohler stuck her head in at the door, and Thea slid off the stool. “Come in, Mrs. Kohler,” she called, “and show me the piece-picture.”

      The old woman laughed, pulled off her big gardening gloves, and pushed Thea to the lounge before the object of her delight. The “piece-picture,” which hung on the wall and nearly covered one whole end of the room, was the handiwork of Fritz Kohler. He had learned his trade under an old-fashioned tailor in Magdeburg who required from each of his apprentices a thesis: that is, before they left his shop, each apprentice had to copy in cloth some well known German painting, stitching bits of colored stuff together on a linen background; a kind of mosaic. The pupil was allowed to select his subject, and Fritz Kohler had chosen a popular painting of Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow. The gloomy Emperor and his staff were represented as crossing a stone bridge, and behind them was the blazing city, the walls and fortresses done in gray cloth with orange tongues of flame darting about the domes and minarets. Napoleon rode his white horse; Murat, in Oriental dress, a bay charger. Thea was never tired of examining this work, of hearing how long it had taken Fritz to make it, how much it had been admired, and what narrow escapes it had had from moths and fire. Silk, Mrs. Kohler explained, would have been much easier to manage than woolen cloth, in which it was often hard to get the right shades. The reins of the horses, the wheels of the spurs, the brooding eyebrows of the Emperor, Murat’s fierce mustaches, the great shakos of the Guard, were all worked out with the minutest fidelity. Thea’s admiration for this picture had endeared her to Mrs. Kohler. It was now many years since she used to point out its wonders to her own little boys. As Mrs. Kohler did not go to church, she never heard any singing, except the songs that floated over from Mexican Town, and Thea often sang for her after the lesson was over. This morning Wunsch pointed to the piano.

      “On Sunday, when I go by the church, I hear you sing something.”

      Thea obediently sat down on the stool again and began, “COME, YE DISCONSOLATE.” Wunsch listened thoughtfully, his hands on his knees. Such a beautiful child’s voice! Old Mrs. Kohler’s face relaxed in a smile of happiness; she half closed СКАЧАТЬ