 CHAPTER VIII of PART I Winter was long and coming that year. Throughout October the days were bathed in sunlight and the air was clear as crystal. The town kept its cheerful summer aspect. The desert glistened with light. The sand hills every day went through magical changes of colour. The scarlet sage bloomed late in the front yards. The cotton wood leaves were bright gold long before they fell, and it was not until November that the green on the tamarisks began to cloud and fade. There was a flurry of snow about thanksgiving, and then December came on warm and clear. Thea had three music-pupils now, little girls whose mothers declared that Professor Wunsch was much too severe. Their lessons were on Saturday, and this of course cut down her time for play. She did not really mind this because she was allowed to use the money—her pupils paid her twenty-five cents a lesson—to fit up a little room for herself upstairs in the half-story. It was the end-room of the wing, and was not plastered, but was snugly lined with soft pine. The ceiling was so low that a grown person could reach it with the palm of the hand, and it sloped down on either side. There was only one window, but it was a double one and went to the floor. In October while the days were still warm, Thea and Tilly papered the room, walls, and ceiling with the same paper, small red and brown roses on a yellowish ground. Thea bought a brown cotton carpet, and her big brother Gus put it down for her one Sunday. She made white cheesecloth curtains, and hung them on a tape. Her mother gave her an old walnut dresser with a broken mirror, and she had her own dumpy walnut single bed, and a blue wash-bowl and pitcher, which she had drawn at a church fair lottery. At the head of her bed she had a tall round wooden hat-crate from the clothing store. This, standing on end and draped with chrytine, made a fairly steady table for her lantern. She was not allowed to take a lamp upstairs, so Ray Kennedy gave her a railroad lantern by which she could read at night. In the winter this loft room of Thea's was bitterly cold, but against her mother's advice and Tilly's she always left her window open a little way. Mrs. Kronberg declared that she had no patience with American physiology, though the lessons about the injurious effects of alcohol and tobacco were well enough for the boys. Thea asked Dr. Archie about the window, and he told her that a girl who sang must always have plenty of fresh air or her body would get husky and that the cold would harden her throat. The important thing, he said, was to keep your feet warm. On very cold nights Thea always put a brick in the oven after supper, and when she went upstairs she wrapped it in an old flannel petticoat and put it in her bed. The boys, who would never heat bricks for themselves, sometimes carried off Thea's and thought it was a good joke to get ahead of her. When Thea first plunged in between her red blankets the cold sometimes kept her awake for a good while, and she comforted herself, remembering all she could of polar explorations, a fat, calf-bound volume her father had bought from a book agent, and by thinking about the members of Greeley's party, how they lay in their frozen sleeping bags each man hoarding the warmth of his own body, and trying to make it last as long as possible against the oncoming cold that would be everlasting. After half an hour or so a warm wave crept over her body and round sturdy legs, she glowed like a little stove with the warmth of her own blood, and the heavy quilts and red blankets grew warm wherever they touched her, though her breath sometimes froze on the cover lid. Before daylight her internal fires went down a little, and she often wakened to find herself drawn up into a tight ball, somewhat stiff in the legs, but that made it all the easier to get up. The acquisition of this room was the beginning of a new era in Thea's life. It was one of the most important things that ever happened to her. Hitherto, except in summer, when she could be out of doors, she had lived in constant turmoil, the family, the day school, the Sunday school, the clamor about her drowned the voice within herself. In the end of the wing, separated from the other upstairs sleeping-rooms by a long, cold, unfinished lumber-room, her mind worked better. She thought things out more clearly. Pleasant plans and ideas occurred to her which had never come before. She had certain thoughts which were like companions, ideas which were like older and wiser friends. She left them there in the morning when she finished dressing in the cold, and at night when she came up with her lantern and shut the door after a busy day she found them waiting for her. There was no possible way of heating the room, but that was fortunate, for otherwise it would have been occupied by one of her older brothers. From the time when she moved up into the wing Thea began to live a double life. During the day, when the hours were full of tasks, she was one of the Kronborg children, but at night she was a different person. On Friday and Saturday nights she always read for a long while after she was in bed. She had no clock, and there was no one to nag her. Ray Kennedy, on his way from the depot to his boarding-house, often looked up and saw Thea's light burning when the rest of the house was dark, and felt cheered as by a friendly greeting. He was a faithful soul, and many disappointments had not changed his nature. He was still at heart the same boy who when he was sixteen had settled down to freeze with his sheep in a Wyoming blizzard and had been rescued only to play the losing game of fidelity to other charges. Ray had no very clear idea of what might be going on in Thea's head, but he knew that something was. He used to remark to Spanish Johnny that girl is developing something fine. Thea was patient with Ray, even in regard to the liberties he took with her name. Outside the family everyone in Moonstone, except Vunch and Dr. Archie, called her Thea. But this seemed cold and distant to Ray, so he called her Thea. Once in a moment of exasperation Thea asked him why he did this, and he explained that he once had a chum Theodore, whose name was always abbreviated thus, and that since he was killed down on the Santa Fe it seemed natural to call somebody Thea. Thea sighed and submitted. She was always helpless before homely sentiment and usually changed the subject. It was the custom for each of the different Sunday schools in Moonstone to give a concert on Christmas Eve. But this year all the churches were to unite and give, as was announced from the pulpits, a semi-sacred concert of picked talent at the opera house. The Moonstone orchestra under the direction of Professor Vunch was to play, and the most talented members of each Sunday school were to take part in the program. Thea was put down by the committee for instrumental. This made her indignant, for the vocal numbers were always more popular. Thea went to the president of the committee and demanded hotly if her rival, Lily Fisher, were going to sing. The president was a big, florid, powdered woman, a fierce W.C.T.U. worker, one of Thea's natural enemies. Her name was Johnson. Her husband kept the livery, so she was called Mrs. Livery Johnson, to distinguish her from other families of the same surname. Mrs. Johnson was a prominent Baptist, and Lily Fisher was the Baptist prodigy. There was not a very Christian rivalry between the Baptist Church and Mr. Kronberg's Church. When Thea asked Mrs. Johnson whether her rival was to be allowed to sing, Mrs. Johnson with an eagerness which told how she waited for this moment, replied that Lily was going to recite to be obliging and to give other children a chance to sing. As she delivered this thrust, her eyes glittered more than the ancient mariners, Thea thought. Mrs. Johnson disapproved of the way in which Thea was being brought up, of a child whose chosen associates were Mexicans and sinners, and who was, as she pointedly put it, bold with men. She so enjoyed an opportunity to rebuke Thea, that tightly corseted as she was, she could scarcely control her breathing, and her lace and her gold watch chain rose and fell with short, uneasy motion. Frowning, Thea turned away and watched slowly homeward. She suspected Guile. Lily Fisher was the most stuck-up doll in the world, and it was certainly not like her to recite to be obliging. Nobody who could sing ever recited, because the warmest applause always went to the singers. However, when the program was printed in the Moonstone Gleam, there it was. Instrumental solo Thea Cromborg, recitation Lily Fisher. Because his orchestra was to play for the concert, Mr. Wunch imagined that he had been put in charge of the music, and he became arrogant. He insisted that Thea should play Balad by Reineke. When Thea consulted her mother, Mrs. Cromborg agreed with her that the Balad would never take with a Moonstone audience. She advised Thea to play something with variations, or at least the invitation to the dance. It makes no matter what they like, Wunch replied to Thea's entreaties. It's time already that they learn something. Mrs. Fighting Powers had been impaired by an ulcerated tooth and consequent loss of sleep, so she gave in. She finally had the molar pulled, though it was a second tooth and should have been saved. The dentist was a clumsy, ignorant country boy, and Mr. Cromborg would not hear of Dr. Archie's taking Thea to a dentist in Denver, though Ray Kennedy had said he could get a pass for her. What with the pain of the tooth, and the family discussions about it, with trying to make Christmas presents and to keep up her schoolwork and practicing, and giving lessons on Saturday, Thea was fairly worn out. On Christmas Eve she was nervous and excited. It was the first time she had ever played in the opera house, and she had never before had to face so many people. Wunch would not let her play with her notes, and she was afraid of forgetting. Before the concert began all the participants had to assemble on the stage and sit there to be looked at. Thea wore her white summer dress and a blue sash, but Lily Fisher had a new pink silk trimmed with white swans down. The hall was packed. It seemed as if everyone in Moonstone was there, even Mrs. Kohler in her hood, and old frits. The seats were wooden kitchen chairs numbered and nailed to long planks which held them together in rows. As the floor was not raised the chairs were all on the same level. The more interested persons in the audience peered over the heads of the people in front of them to get a good view of the stage. From the platform Thea picked out many friendly faces. There was Dr. Archie, who never went to church entertainments. There was the friendly jeweler who had ordered her music for her. He sold accordions and guitars as well as watches. And the drugist who often lent her books, and her favorite teacher from the school. There was Ray Kennedy with a party of freshly barbed railroad men he had brought along with him. There was Mrs. Kroenborg with all the children, even Thor, who had been brought out in a new white plush coat. At the back of the hall sat a little group of Mexicans and among them Thea caught the gleam of Spanish Johnny's white teeth, and of Mrs. Talamantes' lustrous, smoothly coiled black hair. After the orchestra played selections from Ermini, and the Baptist preacher made a long prayer, Tillie Kroenborg came on with a highly colored recitation, the Polish Boy. When it was over everyone breathed more freely. No committee had the courage to leave Tillie off a program. She was accepted as a trying feature of every entertainment. The progressive Euker Club was the only social organization in the town that entirely escaped Tillie. After Tillie sat down, the lady's quartet sang Beloved It is Night, and then it was Thea's turn. The ballad took ten minutes, which was five minutes too long. The audience grew restive and fell to whispering. Thea could hear Mrs. Livery Johnson's bracelets jangling as she fanned herself, and she could hear her father's nervous ministerial cough. Thor behaved better than anyone else. When Thea bowed and returned to her seat at the back of the stage there was the usual applause, but it was more vigorous from the back of the house where the Mexicans sat and from Ray Kennedy's clackers. Anyone could see that a good-natured audience had been bored. Because Mr. Kronborg's sister was on the program it had also been necessary to ask the Baptist preacher's wife's cousin to sing. She was a deep alto from a cook, and she sang Thy Sentinel I Am. After her came Lily Fisher. Thea's rival was also blond, but her hair was much heavier than Thea's and fell in long round curls over her shoulders. She was the angel child of the Baptists and looked exactly like the beautiful children on soap calendars. Her pink and white face, her set smile of innocence were surely born of a color press. She had long, drooping eyelashes, a little pursed up mouth, and narrow, pointed teeth like a squirrel's. Lily began. Rock of ages cleft for me, carelessly the maiden sang. Thea drew a long breath. That was the game. It was a recitation and a song in one. Lily trailed the hymn through half a dozen verses with great effect. The Baptist preacher had announced at the beginning of the concert that, owing to the length of the program there would be no encores. But the applause which followed Lily to her seat was such an unmistakable expression of enthusiasm that Thea had to admit Lily was justified in going back. She was attended this time by Mrs. Leverie Johnson herself, crimson with triumph and gleaming eyed, nervously rolling and unrolling the sheet of music. She took off her bracelets and played Lily's accompaniment. Lily had the effrontery to come out with. She sang the song of home, sweet home, the song that touched my heart. But this did not surprise Thea. As Ray said later in the evening, the cards had been stacked against her from the beginning. The next issue of the gleam correctly stated that unquestionably the honors of the evening must be accorded to Miss Lily Fisher. The Baptists had everything their own way. After the concert Ray Kennedy joined the Cronborg's party and walked home with them. Thea was grateful for his silent sympathy, even while it irritated her. She inwardly vowed that she would never take another lesson from Old Vunch. She wished that her father would not keep cheerfully singing when shepherds watched as he marched ahead carrying Thor. She felt that silence would become the Cronborgs for a while. As a family they somehow seemed a little ridiculous trooping along in the starlight. There were so many of them for one thing. Then Tillie was so absurd. She was giggling and talking to Anna just as if she had not made, as Mrs. Cronborg admitted, an exhibition of herself. When they got home Ray took a box from his overcoat pocket and slipped it into Thea's hand as he said good night. They all hurried in to the glowing stove in the parlour. The sleepy children were sent to bed. Mrs. Cronborg and Anna stayed up to fill the stockings. I guess you're tired, Thea. You needn't stay up. Mrs. Cronborg's clear and seemingly indifferent eye usually measured Thea pretty accurately. Thea hesitated. She glanced at the presents laid out on the dining room table, but they looked unattractive. Even the brown plush monkey she had bought for Thor with such enthusiasm seemed to have lost his wise and humorous expression. She murmured, all right, to her mother, lit her lantern, and went upstairs. Ray's box contained a hand-painted white satin fan with pond lilies, an unfortunate reminder. Thea smiled grimly and tossed it into her upper drawer. She was not to be consoled by toys. She undressed quickly and stood for some time in the cold, frowning in the broken looking-glass at her flaxen pigtails, at her wide neck and arms. Her own, broad, resolute face set its chin at her, her eyes flashed into her own defiantly. Lily Fisher was pretty, and she was willing to be just as big a fool as people wanted her to be. Very well. Thea Cromborg wasn't. She would rather be hated than be stupid any day. She popped into bed and read stubbornly at a queer paperback book the drugstore man had given her because he couldn't sell it. She had trained herself to put her mind on what she was doing, otherwise she would have come to grief with her complicated daily schedule. She read, as intently as if she had not been flushed with anger, the strange musical memories of the reverend H. R. Havice. At last she blew out the lantern and went to sleep. She had many curious dreams that night. In one of them Mrs. Talamantes held her shell to Thea's ear, and she heard the roaring as before, and distant voices calling, Lily Fisher, Lily Fisher. End of chapter 8 of part 1, recorded by Kate Stirner. Chapters 9 and 10 of part 1. The Song of the Lark. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org, recording by Kate Stirner. The Song of the Lark. by Willis Ebert Cather. Chapter 9 of part 1. Mr. Kroenborg considered Thea a remarkable child. But so were all his children remarkable. If one of the businessmen downtown remarked to him that he had a mighty bright little girl there, he admitted it, and at once began to explain what a long head for business his son Gus had, or that Charlie was a natural electrician, and had put in a telephone from the house to the preacher's study behind the church. Mrs. Kroenborg watched her daughter thoughtfully. She found her more interesting than her other children, and she took her more seriously, without thinking much about why she did so. The other children had to be guided, directed, kept from conflicting with one another. Charlie and Gus were likely to want the same thing and to quarrel about it. Anna often demanded unreasonable service from her older brothers, that they should sit up until after midnight to bring her home from parties when she did not like the youth who had offered himself as her escort, or that they should drive twelve miles into the country, on a winter night, to take her to a ranch dance, after they had been working hard all day. Gunner often got bored with his own clothes or stilts or sled and wanted axels. But Thea, from the time she was a little thing, had her own routine. She kept out of every one's way, and was hard to manage only when the other children interfered with her. Then there was trouble indeed, bursts of temper which used to alarm Mrs. Kroenborg. You ought to know well enough to let Thea alone. She lets you alone, she often said to the other children. One may have staunch friends in one's own family, but one seldom has admirers. Thea, however, had one in the person of her adepated aunt, Tilly Kroenborg. In older countries where dress and opinions and manners are not so thoroughly standardized as in our own west, there is a belief that people who are foolish about more obvious things of life are apt to have peculiar insight into what lies beyond the obvious. The old woman who can never learn not to put the kerosene can on the stove may yet be able to tell fortunes, to persuade a backward child to grow, to cure warts, or to tell people what to do with a young girl who has gone melancholy. Tilly's mind was a curious machine. When she was awake it went round like a wheel when the belt has slipped off, and when she was asleep she dreamed follies. But she had intuitions. She knew for instance that Thea was different from the other Kroenborgs, worthy though they all were. Her romantic imagination found possibilities in her niece. When she was sweeping or ironing or turning the ice cream freezer at a furious rate, she often built up brilliant futures for Thea, adapting freely the latest novel she had read. Tilly made enemies for her niece among the church people because at sowing societies and church suppers she sometimes spoke vauntingly with a toss of her head, just as if Thea's wonderfulness were an accepted fact in Moonstone. Like Mrs. Archie's stinginess or Mrs. Leverie Johnson's duplicity, people declared that on this subject Tilly made them tired. Tilly belonged to a dramatic club that once a year performed in the Moonstone opera house such plays as Among the Breakers and The Veteran of 1812. Tilly played character parts, the flirtatious old maid or the spiteful Intrigante. She used to study her parts up in the attic at home. While she was committing the lines, she got Gunnar or Anna to hold the book for her. But when she began to bring out the expression, as she said, she used, very timorously, to ask Thea to hold the book. Thea was usually, not always, agreeable about it. Her mother had told her that, since she had some influence with Tilly, it would be a good thing for them all if she could tone her down a shade and keep her from taking on any worse than need be. Thea would sit on the foot of Tilly's bed, her feet tucked under her, and stare at the silly text. I wouldn't make so much fuss there, Tilly, she would remark occasionally. I don't see the point in it, or what do you pitch your voice so high for? It don't carry half as well. I don't see how it comes Thea is so patient with Tilly, Mrs. Kromborg more than once remarked to her husband. She ain't patient with most people, but it seems like she's got a peculiar patience for Tilly. Tilly always coaxed Thea to go behind the scenes with her when the club presented a play and help her with her make-up. Thea hated it, but she always went. She felt as if she had to do it. There was something in Tilly's adoration of her that compelled her. There was no family impropriety that Thea was so much ashamed of as Tilly's acting, and yet she was always being dragged in to assist her. Tilly simply had her there. She didn't know why, but it was so. There was a string in her somewhere that Tilly could pull, a sense of obligation to Tilly's misguided aspirations. The saloon-keepers had some such feeling of responsibility toward Spanish Johnny. The dramatic club was the pride of Tilly's heart, and her enthusiasm was the principal factor in keeping it together. Sick or well, Tilly always attended rehearsals and was always urging the young people, who took rehearsals lightly, to stop fooling around and begin now. The young men, bank clerks, grocery clerks, insurance agents, played tricks, laughed at Tilly, and put it up on each other about seeing her home, but they often went to tire some rehearsals just to oblige her. They were good-natured young fellows. Their trainer and stage manager was young Upping, the jeweler who ordered Thea's music for her. Though barely thirty, he had followed half a dozen professions, and had once been a violinist in the orchestra of the Andrews Opera Company, then well-known in little towns throughout Colorado and Nebraska. By one amazing indiscretion Tilly very nearly lost her hold upon the Moonstone Drama Club. The club had decided to put on The Drummer Boy of Shiloh, a very ambitious undertaking because of the many supers needed, and the scenic difficulties of the act which took place in Andersonville Prison. The members of the club consulted together in Tilly's absence as to who should play the part of the Drummer Boy. It must be taken by a very young person, and the village boys of that age are self-conscious and are not apt to memorizing. The part was a long one, and clearly it must be given to a girl. Some members of the club suggested Thea Cronborg. Others advocated Lily Fisher. Lily's partisans urged that she was much prettier than Thea and had a much sweeter disposition. Nobody denied these facts, but there was nothing in the least boyish about Lily, and she sang all songs and played all parts alike. Lily's simper was popular, but it seemed not quite the right thing for the heroic Drummer Boy. Upping the trainer, talked to one and another. "'Lily's all right for girls' parts,' he insisted. "'But you've got to get a girl with some ginger in her for this.' Thea's got the voice, too. When she sings just before the battle-mother, she'll bring down the house.' When all the members of the club had been privately consulted, they announced their decision to Tilly at the first regular meeting that was called to cast the parts. They expected Tilly to be overcome with joy, but on the contrary she seemed embarrassed. "'I'm afraid Thea hasn't got time for that,' she said jerkily. She is always so busy with her music. Guess you'll have to find somebody else.' The club lifted its eyebrows. Several of Lily Fisher's friends coughed. Mr. Upping flushed. The stout woman, who always played the injured wife, called Tilly's attention to the fact that this would be a fine opportunity for her niece to show what she could do. Her tone was condescending. Lily threw up her head and laughed. There was something sharp and wild about Tilly's laugh when it was not a giggle. "'Oh, I guess Thea hasn't got time to do any showing off. Her time to show off ain't come yet. I expect she'll make us all sit up when it does. No use asking her to take the part. She'd turn her nose up at it. I guess they'd be glad to get her in the Denver Dramatics if they could.' The company broke up into groups and expressed their amazement. Of course all Swedes were conceited, but they would never have believed that all the conceit of the Swedes put together could reach such a pitch as this. They confided to each other that Tilly was just a little off on the subject of her niece, and agreed that it would be as well not to excite her further. Tilly got a cold reception at rehearsals for a long while afterward, and Thea had a crop of new enemies without even knowing it. CHAPTER X Vunch and Old Fritz and Spanish Johnny celebrated Christmas together so riotously that Vunch was unable to give Thea her lesson the next day. In the middle of the vacation week Thea went to the collars through a soft, beautiful snowstorm. The air was a tender, blue-gray, like the color on the doves that flew in and out of the white dove-house on the post in the collars' garden. The sandhills looked dim and sleepy. The tamarisk hedge was full of snow, like a foam of blossoms drifted over it. When Thea opened the gate, Old Mrs. Collar was just coming in from the chicken-yard, with five fresh eggs in her apron and a pair of old top-boots on her feet. She called Thea to come and look at the bantam-egg, which she held up proudly. Her bantam hens were remiss in zeal, and she was always delighted when they accomplished anything. She took Thea into the sitting-room, very warm and smelling of food, and brought her a plateful of little Christmas cakes, made according to old and hallowed formulae, and put them before her while she warmed her feet. Then she went to the door of the kitchen stairs and called, Herr Wunsch! Herr Wunsch! Wunsch came down wearing an old wadded jacket with a velvet collar. The brown silk was so worn that the wadding stuck out almost everywhere. He avoided Thea's eyes when he came in, knotted without speaking, and pointed directly to the piano's duel. He was not so insistent upon the scales as usual, and throughout the little sonata of Mozart's she was studying he remained languid and absent-minded. His eyes looked very heavy, and he kept wiping them with one of the new silk handkerchiefs Mrs. Kohler had given him for Christmas. When the lesson was over he did not seem inclined to talk. Thea, loitering on the stool, reached for a tattered book she had taken off the music rest when she sat down. It was a very old Leipzig edition of the piano score of Gluck's Orpheus. She turned over the pages curiously. "'Is it nice?' she asked. "'It is the most beautiful opera ever made,' Wunsch declared solemnly. "'You know the story, eh? How when she died Orpheus went down below for his wife.' "'Yes, I know. I didn't know there was an opera about it, though. Do people sing this now?' "'Aber ja, what else? You like to try?' "'See,' he drew her from the stool and sat down at the piano. Turning over the leaves to the third act he handed the score to Thea. "'Listen, I play it through, and you get very rhythmous. "'Ein zwei drei vier.' He played through Orpheus' lament, then pushed back his cuffs with awakening interest and nodded at Thea. "'Now, vom Blatt mit mir!' "'Ach, ich habe sie verloren, all. Mein Gluck ist nun dahin.' Wunsch sang the aria with much feeling. It was evidently one that was very dear to him. "'Noch ein Mal, alone, yourself!' He played the introductory measures, then nodded at her vehemently, and she began. "'Ach, ich habe sie verloren.' When she finished, Wunsch nodded again. "'Schön,' he muttered as he finished the accompaniment softly. He dropped his hands on his knees and looked up at Thea. "'That is very fine, eh? There is no such beautiful melody in the world. You can take the book for one week and learn something, to pass the time. It is good to know, always.' "'Jüredici, jüredici, weh das ich auf Erden bin,' he sang softly, playing the melody with his right hand. Thea, who was turning over the pages of the third act, stopped and scowled at a passage. The old German's blurred eyes watched her curiously. "'For what do you look so, Immer?' puckering up his own face. You see something as little difficult may be, and you make such a face like it was an enemy.' Thea laughed, disconcerted. "'Well, difficult things are enemies, aren't they, when you have to get them?' Wunsch lowered his head and threw it up as if he were butting something. Not at all, by no means.' He took the book from her and looked at it. "'Yes, that is not so easy there. This is an old book. They do not print it so now any more, I think. They leave it out, maybe. Only one woman could sing that good.' Wunsch went on. "'It is written for alto, you see. A woman sings the part, and there was only one to sing that good in there. You understand? Only one.' He glanced at her quickly and lifted his red forefinger upright before her eyes. Thea looked at the finger as if she were hypnotized. "'Only one,' she asked breathlessly. Her hands, hanging at her sides, were opening and shutting rapidly. Wunsch nodded and still held up that compelling finger. When he dropped his hands, there was a look of satisfaction in his face. Was she very great?' Wunsch nodded. "'Was she beautiful?' "'Aberga nicht! Not at all!' she was ugly. Big mouth, big teeth, no figure. Nothing at all, indicating a luxuriant bosom by sweeping his hands over his chests. A pole, a post! But the voice, ah, she had something in there, behind the eyes, tapping his temples.' Thea followed all his gesticulations intently. Was she German?' "'No, Spanish,' he looked down and frowned for a moment. Ah, I tell you, she looked like the Frau Telemante's something. Long face, long chin, and ugly also.' Did she die a while ago?' "'Die?' I think not. I never hear anyhow. I guess she is alive somewhere in the world. Paris may be. But old, of course. I hear her when I was a youth. She is too old to sing now any more.' "'Was she the greatest singer you ever heard?' Wunsch nodded gravely. Quite so. She was the most.' He hunted for an English word, lifted his hand over his head, and snapped his fingers noiselessly in the air, enunciating fiercely. "'Kunstlerisch!' The word seemed to glitter in his uplifted hand. His voice was so full of emotion. Wunsch rose from the stool and began to button his wadded jacket, preparing to return to his half-heated room in the loft. Thea regretfully put on her coat and hood and set out for home. When Wunsch looked for his score late that afternoon, he found that Thea had not forgotten to take it with her. He smiled his loose, sarcastic smile, and thoughtfully rubbed his stubby chin with his red fingers. When Fritz came home in the early blue twilight the snow was flying faster. Mrs. Kohler was cooking hasm-peffer in the oven, and the professor was seated at the piano, playing the glook which he knew by heart. Old Fritz took off his shoes quietly behind the stove and lay down on the lounge before his masterpiece, where the firelight was playing over the walls of Moscow. He listened while the room grew darker, and the windows duller. Wunsch always came back to the same thing. Ach ich habe sie verloren, erh-de-che, erh-de-che. From time to time Fritz sighed softly. He too had lost an erh-de-che. End of Chapter 10, recorded by Kate Sterner. Chapter 11 of Part 1, The Song of the Lark This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org, recording by Kate Sterner. The Song of the Lark by Willa Siebert Cather. Chapter 11 of Part 1 One Saturday, late in June, Thea arrived early for her lesson. She perched herself on the piano stool, a wobbly old-fashioned thing that worked on a creaky screw. She gave Wunsch a side-glance, smiling. You must not be crossed to me to-day. This is my birthday. So he pointed to the keyboard. After the lesson they went out to join Mrs. Kohler, who had asked Thea to come early so that she could stay and smell the linden bloom. It was one of those still days of intense light, when every particle of mica in the soil flashed like a little mirror, and the glare from the plain below seemed more intense than the rays from above. The sand ridges ran glittering gold out to where the mirage picked them up, shining and streaming like a lake in the tropics. The sky looked like blue lava, forever incapable of clouds. A turquoise bowl that was the lid of the desert. And yet within Mrs. Kohler's green patch, the water dripped, the beds had all been hosed, and the air was fresh with rapidly evaporating moisture. The two symmetrical linden trees were the proudest things in the garden. Their sweetness embalmed all the air. At every turn of the paths, whether one went to see the hollyhocks or the bleeding heart, or to look at the purple morning glories that ran over the bean-polls, wherever one went, the sweetness of the lindens struck one afresh and one always came back to them. Under the round leaves, where the wax and yellow blossoms hung, bevvies of wild bees were buzzing. The tamarisks were still pink, and the flower beds were doing their best in honour of the linden festival. The white dove-house was shining with a fresh coat of paint, and the pigeons were crooning contentedly, flying down often to drink at the dip from the water tank. Mrs. Kohler, who was transplanting pansies, came up with her trowel and told Thea it was lucky to have your birthday when the lindens were in bloom, and that she must go and look at the sweet peas. Wunsch accompanied her, and as they walked between the flower beds, he took Thea's hand. Es flustern und sprachen die Blumen, he muttered. You know that von Heine? Im Leuchten den Sommermorgen. He looked down at Thea and softly pressed her hand. No, I don't know it. What does flustern mean? Flustern? To whisper. You must begin to know such things. That is necessary. How many birthdays? Thirteen. I'm in my teens now. But how can I know words like that? I only know what you say at my lessons. They don't teach German at school. How can I learn? It is always possible to learn when one likes, said Wunsch. His words were peremptory, as usual. But his tone was mild, even confidential. There is always a way, and if some day you are going to sing, it is necessary to know well the German language. Thea stooped over to pick a leaf of rosemary. How did Wunsch know that when the very roses on her wallpaper had never heard it? But am I going to? she asked, still stooping. That is for you to say, returned Wunsch coldly. You would bet to marry some Jacob here, and keep the house for him, maybe? That is as one desires. Thea flashed up at him a clear, laughing look. No, I don't want to do that. You know. She brushed his coat sleeve quickly with her yellow head. Only how can I learn anything here? It's so far from Denver. Wunsch's lower lip curled with amusement. Then as if he suddenly remembered something he spoke seriously. Nothing is far and nothing is near, if one desires. The world is little, people are little. Human life is little. There is only one big thing, desire. And before it, when it is big, all is little. It brought Columbus across the sea in a little boat, and so weiter. Wunsch made a grimace, took his people's hand and drew her toward the grape-arbor. Hereafter I will more speak to you in German. Now sit down and I'll teach you for your birthday that little song. Ask me the words you do not know already. Now, im Leuchtenden Sommermorgen. Thea memorized quickly because she had the power of listening intently. In a few moments she could repeat the eight lines for him. Wunsch nodded encouragingly, and they went out of the arbor into the sunlight again. As they went up and down the gravel paths between the flower beds, the white and yellow butterflies kept darting before them, and the pigeons were washing their pink feet at the drip, and crooning in their husky base. Over and over again Wunsch made her say the lines to him. You see it is nothing. If you learn a great many of the leader, you will know the German language already. Later, now, he would incline his head gravely and listen. Im Leuchtenden Sommermorgen. Ge ich im Garten herum. Es flüsten und sprechen die Blumen. Ich aber ich wandte stumm. Es flüsten und sprechen die Blumen. Und schauen mitleidig mich an. Unserer Schwesternicht Bose. Du trauriger Blassermann. In the soft shining summer morning I wandered the garden within. The flowers they whispered and murmured, but I, I wandered dumb. The flowers they whisper and murmur, and me with compassion they scan. O be not harsh to our sister, thou sorrowful death-pale man. Wunsch had noticed before that when his pupil read anything in verse, the character of her voice changed altogether. It was no longer the voice which spoke the speech of Moonstone. It was a soft, rich contralto, and she read quietly. The feeling was in the voice itself, not indicated by emphasis or change of pitch. She repeated the little verses musically like a song, and the entreaty of the flowers was even softer than the rest, as the shy speech of flowers might be, and she ended with the voice suspended, almost with a rising inflection. It was a nature voice, Wunsch told himself, breathed from the creature and apart from language, like the sound of the wind in the trees or the murmur of water. What is it the flowers mean when they ask him not to be harsh to their sister, eh? He asked, looking down at her curiously and wrinkling his dull red forehead. Thea glanced at him in surprise. I suppose they are asking him not to be too harsh to his sweetheart, or some girl they remind him of. And why, trawiger blasermann! They had come back to the grape-arbor, and Thea picked out a sunny place on the bench where a tortoise-shell cat was stretched at full length. She sat down, bending over the cat and teasing his whiskers. Because he had been awake all night thinking about her, wasn't it? Maybe that was why he was up so early. Wunsch shrugged his shoulders. If he think about her all night already, why do you say the flowers remind him? Thea looked up at him in perplexity. A flash of comprehension lit her face and she smiled eagerly. Oh! I didn't mean remind in that way. I didn't mean they brought her to his mind. I meant it was only when he came out in the morning that she seemed to him like that, like one of the flowers. And before he came out, how did she seem? This time it was Thea who shrugged her shoulders. The warm smile left her face. She lifted her eyebrows in annoyance and looked off at the sand-hills. Wunsch persisted. Why you not answer me? Because it would be silly. You were just trying to make me say things. It spoils things to ask questions. Wunsch bowed mockingly. His smile was disagreeable. Suddenly his face grew grave, grew fierce indeed. He pulled himself up from his clumsy stoop and folded his arms. But it is necessary to know if you know some things. Some things cannot be taught if you do not know in the beginning you not know in the end. For a singer there must be something inside from the beginning. I shall not be long in this place, may be. And I like to know. Yes, he ground his heel in the gravel. Yes, when you are barely six you must know that already. That is the beginning of all things. They're geist, de fantasie. It must be in the baby when it makes its first cry. Like derrythmus. Or it is not to be. You have some voice already and if in the beginning when you are with things to play you know that what you will not tell me then you can learn to sing, may be. Wunsch began to pace the arbor, rubbing his hands together. The dark flush of his face had spread up under the iron-grey bristles on his head. He was talking to himself, not to Thea. Insidious power of the linden bloom. Oh, much you can learn. Aber nicht die amerikanischen Fraulein. They have nothing inside them. Striking his chest with both fists. They are like the ones in Martian. A grinning face and hollow in the insides. Something they can learn. Oh, yes, may be. But the secret. What make the rose to red. The sky to blue. The man to love. In der Brust, in der Brust it is. Und ohne diesen geibt es keine Kunst, gibt es keine Kunst. He threw up his square hand and shook it. All the fingers apart and wagging. Purple and breathless. He went out of the arbor into the house without saying good-bye. These outbursts frightened Wunsch. They were always harbingers of ill. Thea got her music book and stole quietly out of the garden. She did not go home but wandered off into the sand dunes where the prickly pear was in blossom, and the green lizards were racing each other in the glittering light. She was shaken by a passionate excitement. She did not altogether understand what Wunsch was talking about, and yet in a way she knew. She knew, of course, that there was something about her that was different. But it was more like a friendly spirit than like anything that was a part of herself. She thought everything to it, and it answered her. Happiness consisted of that backward and forward movement of herself. The something came and went. She never knew how. Sometimes she hunted for it and could not find it. Again she lifted her eyes from a book, or stepped out of doors, or awakened in the morning, and it was there, under her cheek it usually seemed to be, or over her breast, a kind of warm sureness, and when it was there everything was more interesting and beautiful, even people. When this companion was with her she could get the most wonderful things out of Spanish Johnny, or Wunsch, or Dr. Archie. On her thirteenth birthday she wandered for a long while about the sand ridges, picking up crystals and looking into the yellow prickly pear blossoms with their thousand stamens. She looked at the sand hills until she wished she were a sand hill, and yet she knew that she was going to leave them all behind some day. They would be changing all day long, yellow and purple and lavender, and she would not be there. From that day on she felt there was a secret between her and Wunsch. Together they had lifted a lid, pulled out a drawer and looked at something. They hid it away and never spoke of what they had seen, but neither of them forgot it. CHAPTER XII One July night when the moon was full, Dr. Archie was coming up from the depot, restless and discontented, wishing there was something to do. He carried his straw hat in his hand and kept brushing his hair back from his forehead with a purposeless, unsatisfied gesture. After he passed Uncle Billy Beamer's Cottonwood Grove the sidewalk ran out of the shadow into the white moonlight and crossed the sand gully on high posts like a bridge. As the doctor approached this trestle he saw a white figure and recognized Thea Cromborg. He quickened his pace and she came to meet him. What are you doing out so late, my girl? he asked, as he took her hand. Oh, I don't know. What do people go to bed so early for? I'd like to run along before the houses and screech at them. Isn't it glorious out here? The young doctor gave a melancholy laugh and pressed her hand. Think of it, Thea snorted impatiently. Nobody up but us and the rabbits. I've started up half a dozen of them. Look at that little one down there, she stooped and pointed. In the gully below them was indeed a little rabbit with a white spot of a tail, crouching down on the sand, quite motionless. It seemed to be lapping up the moonlight like cream. On the other side of the walk, down in the ditch, there was a patch of tall, rank, sunflowers, their shaggy leaves white with dust. The moon stood over the Cottonwood Grove. There was no wind, and no sound but the wheezing of an engine down on the tracks. Well, we may as well watch the rabbits. Dr. Archie sat down on the sidewalk and let his feet hang over the edge. He pulled out a smooth linen handkerchief that smelled of German cologne water. Well, how goes it, working hard? You must know about all Vunsch can teach you by this time. Thea shook her head. Oh, I don't know, Dr. Archie. He's hard to get at, but he's been a real musician in his time. Mother says she believes he's forgotten more than the music teachers down in Denver ever knew. I'm afraid he won't be around here much longer, said Dr. Archie. He's been making a tank of himself lately. He'll be pulling his freight one of these days. That's the way they do, you know. I'll be sorry on your account. He paused and ran his fresh handkerchief over his face. What the deuce are we all here for anyway, Thea? He said abruptly. On earth you mean, Thea asked, in a low voice. Well, primarily yes, but secondarily why are we in Moonstone? It isn't as if we'd been born here. You were, but Vunsch wasn't and I wasn't. I suppose I'm here because I married as soon as I got out of medical school and had to get a quick practice. If you hurry things you always get left in the end. I don't learn anything here. And as for the people? In my own town in Michigan now there were people who liked me on my father's account, who had even known my grandfather. That meant something. But here it's all like sand. Blows north one day and south the next. We're all a lot of gamblers without much nerve. Playing for small stakes. The road is the real fact in this country. That has to be. The world has to be got back and forth. But the rest of us are here just because it's the end of a run and the engine has to have a drink. Someday I'll get up and find my hair turning gray and I'll have nothing to show for it. Thea slid closer to him and caught his arm. Oh no, I won't let you get gray. You've got to stay young for me. I'm getting young now too. Archie laughed. Getting. Yes. People aren't young when they're children. Look at Thor now. He's just a little old man. But Gus has a sweetheart. And he's young. Something in that. Dr. Archie patted her head and then felt the shape of her skull gently with the tip of his fingers. When you were little, Thea, I used to always be curious about the shape of your head. You seemed to have more inside it than most youngsters. I haven't examined it for a long time. Seems to be the usual shape, but uncommonly hard somehow. What are you going to do with yourself anyway? I don't know. Honest now? He lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. Thea laughed and edged away from him. You've got something up your sleeve, haven't you? Anything you like. Only don't marry and settle down here without giving yourself a chance, will you? Not much. See, there's another rabbit. That's all right about the rabbits, but I don't want you to get tied up. Remember that. Thea nodded. Be nice to Wunch then. I don't know what I'd do if he went away. You've got older friends than Wunch here, Thea. I know. Thea spoke seriously and looked up at the moon, propping her chin on her hand. But Wunch is the only one that could teach me what I want to know. I've got to learn to do something well, and that's the thing I can do best. Do you want to be a music teacher? Maybe, but I want to be a good one. I'd like to go to Germany to study some day. Wunch says that's the best place, the only place you can really learn. Thea hesitated and went on nervously. I've got a book that says so too. It's called My Musical Memories. It made me want to go to Germany even before Wunch said anything. Of course it's a secret. You're the first one I've told. Dr. Archie smiled indulgently. That's a long way off. Is that what you've got in your hard noodle? He put his hand on her hair, but this time she shook him off. No, I don't think much about it. But you talk about going, and a body has to have something to go too. That's so, Dr. Archie sighed. You're lucky if you have. Poor Wunch now. He hasn't. What do such fellows come out here for? He's been asking me about my mining stock, about mining towns. What would he do in a mining town? He wouldn't know a piece of ore if he saw one. He's got nothing to sell that a mining town wants to buy. Why don't those old fellows stay at home? We won't need them for another hundred years. An engine wiper can get a job, but a piano player? Such people can't make good. My grandfather Alstrom was a musician, and he made good. Dr. Archie chuckled. Oh, a swede can make good anywhere, at anything. You've got that in your favor, Miss. Come, you must be getting home. Thea rose. Yes, I used to be ashamed of being a swede, but I'm not any more. Swedes are kind of common, but I think it's better to be something. It surely is. How tall you are getting. You come above my shoulder now. I'll keep on growing, don't you think? I particularly want to be tall. Yes, I guess I must go home. I wish there'd be a fire. A fire? If the firebell would ring and the roundhouse whistle would blow and everybody would come running out, some time I'm going to ring the firebell myself and stir them all up. You'd be arrested? Well, that would be better than going to bed. I'll have to lend you some more books. Thea shook herself impatiently. I can't read every night. Dr. Archie gave one of his low, sympathetic chuckles as he opened the gate for her. You're beginning to grow up. That's what's the matter with you. I have to keep an eye on you. Now you'll have to say good night to the moon. No, I won't. I sleep on the floor now, right in the moonlight. My window comes down to the floor and I can look at the sky all night. She shot round the house to the kitchen door and Dr. Archie watched her disappear with a sigh. He thought of the hard, mean, frizzy little woman who kept his house for him. Once the bell of a Michigan town now dry and withered up at thirty. If I had a daughter like Thea to watch, he reflected. I wouldn't mind anything. I wonder if all my life's going to be a mistake just because I made a big one then. Hardly seems fair. Howard Archie was respected rather than popular in Moonstone. Everyone recognized that he was a good physician and a progressive Western town likes to be able to point to a handsome, well-set-up, well-dressed man among its citizens. But a great many people thought Archie distant and they were right. He had the uneasy manner of a man who is not among his own kind and who has not seen enough of the world to feel that all people are in some sense his own kind. He knew that everyone was curious about his wife that she played a sort of character part in Moonstone and that people made fun of her, not very delicately. Her own friends, most of them women who were distasteful to Archie, liked to ask her to contribute to church charities just to see how mean she could be. The little lopsided cake at the church supper, the cheapest pin cushion, the skimpiest apron at the bazaar were always Mrs. Archie's contribution. All this hurt the doctor's pride. But if there was one thing he had learned, it was that there was no changing Belle's nature. He had married a mean woman and he must accept the consequences. Even in Colorado he would have no pretext for divorce and to do him justice he had never thought of such a thing. The tenets of the Presbyterian church in which he had grown up, though he had long ceased to believe in them, still influenced his conduct and his perception of propriety. To him there was something vulgar about divorce. A divorced man was a disgraced man. At least he had exhibited his hurt and made it a matter of common gossip. Respectability was so necessary to Archie that he was willing to pay a high price for it. As long as he could keep up a decent exterior, he could manage to get on. And if he could have concealed his wife's littleness from all his friends, he would scarcely have complained. He was more afraid of pity than he was of unhappiness. Had there been another woman for whom he cared greatly, he might have had plenty of courage. But he was not likely to meet such a woman in Moonstone. There was a puzzling timidity in Archie's makeup, the thing that held his shoulders stiff, that made him resort to a mirthless little laugh when he was talking to dull people, that made him sometimes stumble over rugs and carpets, had its counterpart in his mind. He had not the courage to be an honest thinker. He could comfort himself by evasions and compromises. He consoled himself for his own marriage by telling himself that other peoples were not much better. In his work he saw pretty deeply intermarital relations in Moonstone, and he could honestly say that there were not many of his friends whom he envied. Their wives seemed to suit them well enough, but they would never have suited him. Although Dr. Archie could not bring himself to regard marriage merely as a social contract, but looked upon it as somehow made sacred by a church in which he did not believe, as a physician he knew that a young man whose marriage is merely nominal must yet go on living his life. When he went to Denver or to Chicago, he drifted about in careless company where gayity and good humour can be bought, not because he had any taste for such society, but because he honestly believed that anything was better than divorce. He often told himself that hanging and whiving go by destiny. If whiving went badly with a man, and it did oftener than not, then he must do the best he could to keep up appearances and help the tradition of domestic happiness along. The Moonstone Gossips, assembled in Mrs. Smiley's millinery and notion store, often discussed Dr. Archie's politeness to his wife and his pleasant manner of speaking about her. Nobody has ever got a thing out of him yet, they agreed, and it was certainly not because no one had ever tried. When he was down in Denver, feeling a little jolly, Archie could forget how unhappy he was at home and could even make himself believe that he missed his wife. He always bought her presents and would have liked to send her flowers if she had not repeatedly told him never to send her anything but balds, which did not appeal to him in his expansive moments. At the Denver Athletic Club banquets or at dinner with his colleagues at the Brown Palace Hotel, he sometimes spoke sentimentally about little Mrs. Archie and he always drank the toast to our wives, God bless them, with gusto. The determining factor about Dr. Archie was that he was romantic. He had married Belle White because he was romantic, too romantic to know anything about women, except that he wished them to be or to repulse a pretty girl who had set her cap for him. At medical school, though he was a rather wild boy in behavior, he had always disliked coarse jokes and vulgar stories. In his old Flint's physiology there was still a poem he had pasted there when he was a student, some verses by Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes about the ideals of the medical profession. After so much and such disillusioning experience with it, he still had a romantic feeling about the human body, a sense that finer things dwelt in it than could be explained by anatomy. He never gested about birth or death or marriage and did not like to hear other doctors do it. He was a good nurse and had a reverence for the bodies of women and children. When he was tending them, one saw him at his best. Then his constraint and self-consciousness fell away from him. He was easy, gentle, competent, master of himself and of other people. Then the idealist in him was not afraid of being discovered and ridiculed. In his tastes, too, the doctor was romantic. Though he read Balzac all the year through, he still enjoyed the waverly novels as much as when he first came upon them in thick leather-bound volumes in his grandfather's library. He nearly always read Scott and Christmas on holidays because it brought back the pleasures of his boyhood so vividly. He liked Scott's women, Constance de Beverly, and the menstrual girl in the fair maid of Perth, not the Duchess de Lange, were his heroines. But better than anything that ever got the heart of a man into Printers' Inc., he loved the poetry of Robert Burns. Death and Dr. Hornbook and The Jolly Beggars. Burns replied to his tailor. He often read aloud to himself in his office, late at night, after a glass of hot toddy. He used to read Tamo Shanter to Thea Kroenburg, and he got her some of the songs set to the old heirs for which they were written. He loved to hear her sing them. Sometimes when she sang, O word though in the cold blast, the doctor and even Mr. Kroenburg joined in. Thea never minded if people could not sing. She directed them with her head and somehow carried them along. When her father got off pitch, she let her own voice out and covered him. End of Chapter 12. Recorded by Kate Stirner. Part 1. Sections 13 and 14 of the Song of the Lark. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Mary. The Song of the Lark. By Willa Cybert Cather. Part 1. 13 and 14. 13. At the beginning of June when school closed, Thea had told Wunch that she didn't know how much practicing she could get in this summer because Thor had his worst teeth still to cut. My God, all last summer he was doing that, Wunch exclaimed furiously. I know, but it takes them two years and Thor is slow, Thea answered reprovingly. The summer went well beyond her hopes however. She told herself that it was the best summer of her life so far. Nobody was sick at home and her lessons were uninterrupted. Now that she had four pupils of her own and made a dollar a week, her practicing was regarded more seriously by the household. Her mother had always arranged things so that she could have the parlour four hours a day in summer. Thor proved a friendly ally. He behaved handsomely about his molars and never objected to being pulled off by the household places in his cart. When Thea dragged him over the hill and made a camp under the shade of a bush or a bank, he would waddle about and play with his blocks or bury his monkey in the sand and dig him up again. Sometimes he got into the cactus and set up a howl. But usually he let his sister read peacefully while he coated his hands and face with an all-day sucker and then with gravel. Life was pleasant and uneventful until the 1st of September when Wunch began to drink so hard that he was unable to appear when Thea went to take her midweek lesson and Mrs. Kohler had to send her home after a tearful apology. On Saturday morning she set out for the Kohlers again but on her way, when she was crossing the ravine she noticed a woman sitting at the bottom of the Gulch under the railroad trestle. She turned from her path and saw that it was Mrs. Telemantas and she seemed to be doing drawn work. Then Thea noticed that there was something beside her covered up with a purple and yellow Mexican blanket. She ran up the Gulch and called to Mrs. Telemantas. The Mexican woman held up a warning finger. Thea glanced at the blanket and recognized a square red hand which protruded. The middle finger twitched slightly. Is he hurt? She gasped. Mrs. Telemantas shook her head. No, very sick. He knows nothing. She said quietly, holding her hands over her drawn work. Thea learned that Wunch had been out all night that this morning Mrs. Kohler had gone to look for him and found him under the trestle covered with dirt and cinders. Probably he had been trying to get home and had lost his way. Mrs. Telemantas was watching beside the unconscious man while Mrs. Kohler and Johnny went to get help. You better go home now, I think, said Mrs. Telemantas in closing her narration. Thea hung her head and looked wistfully toward the blanket. Couldn't I just stay till they come? She asked. I'd like to know if he's very bad. Bad enough, sighed Mrs. Telemantas taking up her work again. Thea sat down under the narrow shade of one of the trestle posts and listened to the locusts rasping in the hot sand while she watched Mrs. Telemantas evenly draw her threads. The blanket looked as if it were over a heap of bricks. I don't see him breathing any, she said anxiously. Yes, he breathes, said Mrs. Telemantas, not lifting her eyes. It seemed to Thea that they waited for hours. At last they heard voices. And a party of men came down the hill and up the gulch. Dr. Archie and Fritz Kohler came first. Behind were Johnny and Ray and several men from the roundhouse. Ray had the canvas litter that was kept at the depot for accidents on the road. Behind them trailed half a dozen boys who had been hanging round the depot. When Ray saw Thea, he dropped his canvas roll and hurried forward. Better run along home, Thea. This is ugly business. Ray was indignant that anybody who gave Thea music lessons should behave in such a manner. Thea resented both his proprietary tone and his superior virtue. I won't. I want to know how bad he is. I'm not a baby, she exclaimed indignantly, stamping her foot into the sand. Dr. Archie, who had been kneeling by the blanket, got up and came toward Thea, dusting his knees. He smiled and nodded confidentially. He'll be all right when we get him home. But he wouldn't want you to see him like this poor old chap. Understand? Now skip. Thea ran down the gulch and looked back only once to see them lifting the canvas litter with wench upon it still covered with the blanket. The men carried wench up the hill and down the road to the collars. Mrs. Collar had gone home and made up a bed in the sitting room as she knew the litter could not be got round the turn in the narrow stairway. Wench was like a dead man. He lay unconscious all day. Ray Kennedy stayed with him till two o'clock in the afternoon when he had to go out on his run. It was the first time he had ever been inside the collars' house and he was so much impressed by Napoleon that the peace picture formed a new bond between him and Thea. Dr. Archie went back at six o'clock and found Mrs. Collar and Spanish Johnny with Wench, who was in a high fever, muttering and groaning. There ought to be someone here to look after him tonight, Mrs. Collar, he said. I'm on a confinement case and I can't be here, but there ought to be somebody. He may get violent. Mrs. Collar insisted that she could always do anything with Wench, but the doctor shook his head and Spanish Johnny grinned. He said he would stay. The doctor laughed at him. Ten fellows like you couldn't hold him, Spanish, if he got obstreperous and Irishman would have his hands full. Guess I'd better put the soft pedal on him. He pulled out his hypodermic. Spanish Johnny stayed, however, and the collars went to bed. At about two o'clock in the morning, Wench rose from his ignominious cot. Johnny, who was dozing on the lounge, awoke to find the Germans standing in the middle of the room in his undershirt and drawers, his arms bare, his heavy body seeming twice its natural girth. His face was snarling and savage and his eyes were crazy. He had risen to avenge himself, to wipe out his shame, to destroy his enemy. One look was enough for Johnny. Wench raised a chair threateningly and Johnny, with the lightness of a picador, darted under the missile and out of the open window. He shot across the gully to get help, meanwhile leaving the collars to their fate. Fritz upstairs heard the chair crash upon the stove. Then he heard doors opening and shutting and someone stumbling about in the shrubbery of the garden. He and Polina sat up in bed and held a consultation. Fritz slipped from under the covers and going cautiously over to the window, poked out his head. Then he rushed to the door and bolted it. My God! Polina he gasped. He has the axe. He will kill us. The dresser, cried Mrs. Kohler, pushed the dresser before the door. Ah! If you had your rabbit gone now! It is in the barn, said Fritz sadly. It would do no good. He would not be afraid of anything now. Stay you in the bed, Polina. The dresser had lost its casters years ago, but he managed to drag it in front of the door. He is in the garden. He makes nothing. He will get sick again. Maybe. Fritz went back to bed and his wife pulled the quilt over him and made him lie down. They heard stumbling in the garden again, then a smash of glass. Ah! Das meets beat, gasped Polina, hearing her hotbed shivered. The poor soul, Fritz, he will cut himself. Ah! What is that? They both sat up in bed. Vader! Ah! What is he doing? The noise came steadily, a sound of chopping. Polina tore off her nightcap. Dibama! Dibama! He is cutting our tree's frits. Before her husband could prevent her, she had sprung from the bed and rushed to the window. Dear tobbingslog! Director Himaly is chopping the dovehouse down! Fritz reached her side before she had got her breath again and poked his head out beside her. There, in the faint starlight, they saw a bulky man barefoot, half dressed, chopping away at the white post that formed the pedestal of the dovehouse. The startled pigeons were croaking and flying about his head, even beating their wings in his face so that he struck at them furiously with the axe. In a few seconds there was a crash and Wunch had actually felled the dovehouse. Oh! If only it is not the tree's next! prayed Polina. The dovehouse you can make new again, but not to bomb! They watched breathlessly. In the garden below, Wunch stood in the attitude of a woodman contemplating the fallen coat. Suddenly he threw the axe over his shoulder and went out of the front gate toward the town. The poor soul, he will meet his death, Mrs. Kohler wailed. She ran back to her feather bed and hid her face in the pillow. Fritz kept watch at the window. No, no, Polina, he called presently. I see lanterns coming. Johnny must have gone for somebody. Yes, four lanterns coming along the gulch. They stop. They must have seen him already. Now they are under the hill and I cannot see them, but I think they have him. They will bring him back. I must dress and go down. He caught his trousers and began pulling them on by the window. Yes, here they come, half a dozen men, and they have tied him with a rope, Polina. Ah, the poor man, to be led like a cow, grown Mrs. Kohler. Oh, it is good that he has no wife. She was reproaching herself for nagging Fritz when he drank himself into foolish pleasantry or mild salts and felt that she had never before appreciated her blessings. Wunsch was in bed for ten days, during which time he was gossiped about and even preached about in Moonstone. The Baptist preacher took a shot at the fallen man from his pulpit. Mrs. Leverie Johnson nodding approvingly from her pew. The mothers of Wunsch's pupils sent him notes informing him that their daughters would discontinue their music lessons. The old maid who had rented him her piano sent the town drave for her contaminated instrument. And ever afterward declared that Wunsch had ruined its tone and scarred its glossy finish. The Kohlers were unremitting in their kindness to their friend. Mrs. Kohler made him soups and broths without stint and Fritz repaired the dovehouse and mounted it on a new post lest it might be a sad reminder. As soon as Wunsch was strong enough to sit about in his slippers and wadded jacket he told Fritz to bring him some stout thread from the shop. When Fritz asked what he was going to sew he produced the tattered score of Orpheus and said he would like to fix it up for a little present. Fritz carried it over to the shop and stitched it into pasteboards covered with dark suiting cloth. Over the stitches he glued a strip of thin red leather which he got from his friend the harness maker. After Paulina had cleaned the pages with fresh bread Wunsch was amazed to see what a fine book he had. It opened stiffly sitting in the arbor one morning under the ripe grapes and the brown curling leaves with a pen and ink on the bench beside him and the glock score on his knee Wunsch pondered for a long while. Several times he dipped the pen in the ink and then put it back again in the cigar box in which Mrs. Kohler kept her writing utensils. His thoughts wandered over wide territory over many countries in many years. There was no order or logical sequence in his ideas. Pictures came and went without reason. Faces, mountains, rivers, autumn days in other vineyards, far away, he thought of a fuzz-ricy that he had made through the mountains in his student days. Of the innkeeper's pretty daughter who had lighted his pipe for him in the garden one summer evening. Of the woods above the spotten haymakers on an island in the river a roundhouse whistle woke him from his revelries. Ah yes, he was in Moonstone, Colorado. He frowned for a moment and looked at the book on his knee. He had thought of a great many things to write in it, but suddenly he rejected all of them, opened the book, and at the top of the much-engraved title page he wrote rapidly in purple ink. Feinste Ovunder A. Wunsch Moonstone, Colorado September 30, 18 Nobody in Moonstone ever found what Wunsch's first name was that A. may have stood for Adam or August or even Amadeus. He got very angry if anyone asked him. He remained A. Wunsch to the end of this chapter there. When he presented the score to Thea he told her that in ten years she would either know what the inscription meant or she would not have the least idea in which case it would not matter. When Wunsch began to pack his trunk both the collars were very unhappy. He said he was coming back some day but that for the present since he had lost all his pupils it would be better for him to try some new town. Mrs. Collar darned and mended all his clothes and gave him two new shirts she had made for Fritz. Fritz made him a new pair of trousers which would have made him an overcoat but for the fact that overcoats were so easy to pawn. Wunsch would not go across the ravine to the town until he went to take the morning train for Denver. He said that after he got to Denver he would look around. He left Moonstone one bright October morning without telling anyone goodbye. He bought his ticket and went directly into the smoking car. When the train was beginning to pull out he heard his name called frantically and looking out of the window he saw Theo Crownborg standing on the siding bare-headed and panting. Some boys had brought word to school that they saw Wunsch's trunk going over to the station and Theo had run away from school. She was at the end of the station platform her hair in tube grades her blue gingham dress wet to the knees because she had run across lots through the weeds. It had rained during the night and the tall sunflowers behind her were fresh and shining. Good-bye, hair Wunsch, good-bye! She called, waving to him. He thrust his head out at the car window and called back, Leave and see Vol, leave and see Vol, my kind. He watched her until the train swept around the curve beyond the roundhouse and then sank back into his seat muttering. She had been running. Ah, she will run a long way. They cannot stop her. What was it about the child that Wunsch believed in? Was it her dogged industry, so unusual in this free and easy country? Was it her imagination? More likely it was because she had both imagination and a stubborn will, curiously balancing and interpenetrating each other. There was something unconscious and unwakened about her that tempted curiosity. She had a kind of seriousness that he had not met with in a pupil before. She hated difficult things and yet she could never pass one by. They seemed to challenge her. She had no peace until she mastered them. She had the power to make a great effort to lift a weight heavier than herself. Wunsch hoped he would always remember her as she stood by the track, looking up at him, her broad, eager face so fair in color with its high cheekbones, yellow eyebrows, and greenish hazel eyes. It was a face full of light and energy of the unquestioning hopefulness of first youth. Yes, she was like a flower full of sun, but not the soft German flowers of his childhood. He had it now, the comparison he absently reached for before. She was like the yellow prickly pear blossoms that opened there in the desert, thornier and sturdier than the maiden flowers he remembered. Not so sweet, but wonderful. That night Mrs. Kohler brushed away many a tear as she got supper and set the table for two. When they sat down, Fritz was more silent than usual. People who have lived long together need a third at table. They know each other's thoughts so well that they have nothing left to say. Mrs. Kohler stirred and stirred her coffee and clattered the spoon, but she had no heart for her supper. She felt, for the first time in years, that she was tired of her own cooking. She looked across the glass lamp at her husband and asked him if the butcher liked his new overcoat and whether he had got the shoulders right in a ready-made suit he was patching over for Ray Kennedy. After supper, Fritz offered to wipe the dishes for her, but she told him to go about his business and not to act as if she were sick or getting helpless. When her work in the kitchen was all done, she went out to cover the Olyanders against frost and to take a last look at her chickens. As she came back from the henhouse, she stopped by one of the linden trees and stood resting her hand on the trunk. He would never come back. The poor man, she knew that. He would drift on from Newtown to Newtown from catastrophe to catastrophe. They find a good home for himself again. He would die at last in some rough place and be buried in the desert or on the wild prairie far enough from any linden tree. Fritz, smoking his pipe on the kitchen doorstep, watched his Paulina and guest her thoughts. He, too, was sorry to lose his friend. But Fritz was getting old. He had lived a long while and had learned to lose without struggle. End of 13 14 Mother, said Peter Cronborg to his wife one morning about two weeks after Wynch's departure, how would you like to drive out to Copper Hole with me today? Mrs. Cronborg said she thought she would enjoy the drive. She put on her gray cashmere dress and wore her old watch and chain as befitted a minister's wife. And while her husband was dressing, she packed a black oilcloth satchel with such clothing as she and Thor would need overnight. Copper Hole was a settlement 15 miles northwest of Moonstone, where Mr. Cronborg preached every Friday evening. There was a big spring there and a creek and a few irrigating ditches. It was a community of discouraged agricultureists who had disastrously experimented with dry farming. Mr. Cronborg always drove out one day and back the next, spending the night with one of his parishioners. Often, when the weather was fine, his wife accompanied him. Today they set out from home after the midday meal, leaving Tilly in charge of the house. Mrs. Cronborg's maternal feeling was always garnered up in the baby, whoever the baby happened to be. If she had the baby with her, the others could look out for themselves. Thor, of course, was not accurately speaking a baby any longer. In the matter of nourishment, he was quite independent of his mother, though this independence had not been won without a struggle. Thor was conservative in all things and the whole family had anguished with him while he was being weaned. Being the youngest, he was still the baby. For Mrs. Cronborg, though he was nearly four years old and sat up boldly on her lap this afternoon, holding on to the ends of the lines and shouting, "'Mup! Mup! Horsey!' His father watched him affectionately and hummed him tunes in the jovial way to sometimes such a trial to Thea. Mrs. Cronborg was enjoying the sunshine and the brilliant sky and all the faintly marked features of the dazzling monotonous landscape. She had a rather unusual capacity for getting the flavor of places and of people. Although she was so enmeshed in family cares most of the time, she could emerge the reen when she was away from them. For a mother of seven, she had a singularly unprejudiced point of view. She was, moreover, a fatalist, and as she did not attempt to direct things beyond her control, she found a good deal of time to enjoy the ways of man and nature. When they were well upon their road out where the first lean pasture lands began and the sandgrass made of faint showing between the sagebrushes, Mr. Cronborg dropped his tune and turned to his wife. "'Mother, I've been thinking about something.' "'I guessed you had. What is it?' She shifted Thor to her left knee where he would be more out of the way. "'Well, it's about Thea.' Mr. Fulens became to my study at the church the other day and said they would like to have their two girls take lessons of Thea. Then I sounded Miss Myers. Miss Myers was the organist in Mr. Cronborg's church. And she said there was a good deal of talk about whether Thea wouldn't take over Winch's pupils. She said if Thea stopped school, she wouldn't wonder if she could get pretty much all Winch's class. People think Thea knows about all Winch could teach. Mrs. Cronborg looked thoughtful. "'Do you think we ought to take her out of school so young?' She is young, but next year would be her last year anyway. She's far along for her age. And she can't learn much under the principle we've got now, can she?' "'No, I'm afraid she can't,' his wife admitted. She frets a good deal and says that man always has to look in the back of the book for the answers. She hates all that diagramming they have to do. And I think myself it's a waste of time.' Mr. Cronborg settled himself back into the seat and slowed the mare to a walk. "'You see, it occurs to me that we might raise Thea's prices so it would be worth her while. 75 cents for our lessons, 50 cents for half-hour lessons. If she got, say, two-thirds of Winch's class, that would bring her in upwards of $10 a week. Better pay than teaching a country school. And there would be more work in vacation than in winter. Steady work, 12 months in the year. That's an advantage. And she'd be living at home with no expenses. "'There'd be talk if you raised her prices,' said Mrs. Cronborg dubiously. At first there would. But Thea is so much the best musician in town that they'd all come into line after a while. A good many people in Moonstone have been making money lately and have bought new pianos. There were ten new pianos shipped in here from Denver in the last year. People ain't going to let them stand idle. Too much money invested. I believe Thea can have as many scholars as she can handle. If we set her up a little. "'How set her up, do you mean?' Mrs. Cronborg felt a certain reluctance about accepting this plan, although she had not yet had time to think out her reasons. "'Well, I've been thinking for some time we could make good use of another room. We couldn't give up the parlor to her all the time. If we build another room on the L and put the piano in there, she could give lessons all day long and it wouldn't bother us. We could build a close press in it and put in a bed lounge and a dresser and let Anna have it for her sleeping room. She needs a place of her own now that she's beginning to be dressy. "'Seems like Thea ought to have the choice of the room herself,' said Mrs. Cronborg. "'But my dear, she don't want it, won't have it. I sounded her coming home from church on Sunday. Asked her if she would like to sleep in a new room if we build on. She fired up like a little wildcat and said she'd made her own room all herself and she didn't think anybody ought to take it away from her. "'She don't mean to be impertinent, father.' "'She's made decided that way like my father,' Mrs. Cronborg spoke warmly. "'I never have any trouble with the child. I remember my father's ways and go at her carefully. Thea's all right.' Mr. Cronborg laughed indulgently and pinched Thor's full cheek. "'Oh, I didn't mean anything against your girl, mother. She's all right, but she's a little wildcat just the same.' I think Ray Kennedy's planning to spoil a born old maid. "'She'll get something a good sight better than Ray Kennedy, you see. Thea's an awful smart girl. I've seen a good many girls take music lessons in my time, but I ain't seen one that took to it so. Winch said so, too. She's got the making of something in her.' "'I don't deny that, and the sooner she gets at it in a business-like way, the better. She's the kind that takes responsibility, and it'll be good for her.'" Mrs. Cronborg was thoughtful. "'In some ways it will, maybe. But there's a good deal of strain about teaching youngsters, and she's always worked so hard with the scholars she has. I've often listened to her pounding it into him. I don't want to work her too hard. She's so serious that she's never had what you might call any real childhood. Seems like she ought to have the next few years sort of free and easy. She'll be tied down with responsibility soon enough.'" Mr. Cronborg patted his wife's arm. "'Don't you believe it, mother? Thea is not the marrying kind. I've watched him. Anna will marry before long and make a good wife, but I don't see Thea bringing up a family. She's got a good deal of her mother in her, but she hasn't got all. She's too peppery and too fond of having her own way. Then she's always got to be ahead in everything. That kind make good church workers and missionaries and school teachers, but they don't make good wives. They fret all their energy away, like coals, and get cut on the wire.'" Mrs. Cronborg laughed. "'Give me the graham crackers I put in your pocket for Thor. He's hungry. You're a funny man, Peter. A body wouldn't think to hear you. You was talking about your own daughters. I guess you see through him. Still, even if Thea ain't apt to have children of her own, I don't know if that's a good reason why she should wear herself out on other peoples. That's just the point, mother. A girl with all that energy has got to do something, same as a boy, to keep her out of mischief. If you don't want her to marry Ray, let her do something to make herself independent. Well, I'm not against it. It might be the best thing for her. I wish I felt sure she wouldn't worry. She takes things hard. She nearly cried herself sick about winches going away. She's the smartest child of them all, Peter, by a long ways." Peter Kromburg smiled. There you go, Anna. That's you all over again. Now, I have no favorites. They all have their good points. But you, with a twinkle, always did go in for brains. Mrs. Kromburg chuckled as she wiped the cracker crumbs from Thor's chin and fists. Well, you're mighty conceited, Peter. But I don't know, as I ever regretted it. I prefer having a family of my own to fussing with other folks's children. That's the truth. Before the Kromburgs reached proper whole, Thea's destiny was pretty well mapped out for her. Mr. Kromburg was always delighted to have an excuse for enlarging the house. Mrs. Kromburg was quite right in her conjecture that there would be unfriendly comment in Moonstone when Thea raised her prices for music lessons. People said she was getting too conceited for anything. Mrs. Leverie Johnson put on a new bonnet and paid up all her back calls to have the pleasure of announcing in each parlor she entered that her daughters, at least, would never pay professional prices to Thea Kromburg. Thea raised no objection to quitting school. She was now in the high room, as it was called in the next to the highest class. And was studying geometry and beginning Caesar. She no longer recited her lessons to the teachers she liked, but to the principal, a man who belonged, like Mrs. Leverie Johnson, to the camp of Thea's natural enemies. He taught school because he was too lazy to work among the grown-up people, and he made an easy job of it. He got out of real work by inventing useless activities for his pupils. Such as the tree-diagramming system. Thea had spent hours making trees out of Thanatopsis, Hamlet's soliloquy, Cato on immortality. She agonized under this waste of time, and was only too glad to accept her father's offer of liberty. So, Thea left school the 1st of November. By the 1st of January, she had eight one-hour pupils and ten half-hour pupils, and there would be more in the summer. She spent her earnings generously. She bought a new Brussels carpet for the parlor, and a rifle for gunner and axle, and an imitation tiger-skin coat and cap for Thor. She enjoyed being able to add to the family possessions and thought Thor looked quite as handsome in his spots as the rich children she had seen in Denver. Thor was most complacent in his conspicuous apparel. He could walk anywhere by this time, though he always preferred to sit or to be pulled in his cart. He was a blissfully lazy child, and he had a number of long, dull plays such as making nests for his china duck and waiting for her to lay him an egg. Thea bought him very intelligent, and she was proud that he was so big and burly. She found him restful, loved to hear him call her sitter, and really liked his companionship, especially when she was tired. On Saturday, for instance, when she taught from nine in the morning until five in the afternoon, she liked to get off in a corner with Thor after supper, away from all the bathing and dressing and joking and talking that went on in the house, and ask him about his duck or hear him tell one of his rambling stories.