O Pioneers! by Willa Cather (ebook reader with internet browser .TXT) 📕

Alexandra felt that he would like to know there had been a man of his kin whom he could admire. She knew that Emil was ashamed of Lou and Oscar, because they were bigoted and self-satisfied. He never said much about them, but she could feel his disgust. His brothers had shown their disapproval of him ever since he first went away to school. The only thing that would have satisfied them would have been his failure at the University. As it was, they resented every change in his speech, in his dress, in his point of view; though the latter they had to conjecture, for Emil avoided talking to them about any but family matters. All his interests they treated as affectations.

Alexandra took up her sewing again. “I can remember father when he was quite a young man. He belonged to some kind of a musical society, a male chorus, in Stockholm. I can remember going with mother to hear them sing. There must have been a hundred of them, and they all wore long black coats and white neckties. I was used to seeing father in a blue coat, a sort of jacket, and when I recognized him on the platform, I was very proud. Do you remember that Swedish song he taught you, about the ship boy?”

“Yes. I used to sing it to the Mexicans. They like anything different.” Emil paused. “Father had a hard fight here, didn’t he?” he added thoughtfully.

“Yes, and he died in a dark time. Still, he had hope. He believed in the land.”

“And in you, I guess,” Emil said to himself. There was another period of silence; that warm, friendly silence, full of perfect understanding, in which Emil and Alexandra had spent many of their happiest half hours.

At last Emil said abruptly, “Lou and Oscar would be better off if they were poor, wouldn’t they?”

Alexandra smiled. “Maybe. But their children wouldn’t. I have great hopes of Milly.”

Emil shivered. “I don’t know. Seems to me it gets worse as it goes on. The worst of the Swedes is that they’re never willing to find out how much they don’t know. It was like that at the University. Always so pleased with themselves! There’s no getting behind that conceited Swedish grin. The Bohemians and Germans were so different.”

“Come, Emil, don’t go back on your own people. Father wasn’t conceited, Uncle Otto wasn’t. Even Lou and Oscar weren’t when they were boys.”

Emil looked incredulous, but he did not dispute the point. He turned on his back and lay still for a long time, his hands locked under his head, looking up at the ceiling. Alexandra knew that he was thinking of many things. She felt no anxiety about Emil. She had always believed in him, as she had believed in the land. He had been more like himself since he got back from Mexico; seemed glad to be at home, and talked to her as he used to do. She had no doubt that his wandering fit was over, and that he would soon be settled in life.

“Alexandra,” said Emil suddenly, “do you remember the wild duck we saw down on the river that time?”

His sister looked up. “I often think of her. It always seems to me she’s there still, just like we saw her.”

“I know. It’s queer what things one remembers and what things one forgets.” Emil yawned and sat up. “Well, it’s time to turn in.” He rose, and going over to Alexandra stooped down and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Good night, sister. I think you did pretty well by us.”

Emil took up his lamp and went upstairs. Alexandra sat finishing his new nightshirt, that must go in the top tray of his trunk.

The next morning Angélique, Amédée’s wife, was in the kitchen baking pies, assisted by old Mrs. Chevalier. Between the mixing board and the stove stood the old cradle that had been Amédée’s, and in it was his black-eyed son. As Angélique, flushed and excited, with flour on her hands, stopped to smile at the baby, Emil Bergson rode up to the kitchen door on his mare and dismounted.

“ ’Médée is out in the field, Emil,” Angélique called as she ran across the kitchen to the oven. “He begins to cut his wheat today; the first wheat ready to cut anywhere about here. He bought a new header, you know, because all the wheat’s so short this year. I hope he can rent it to the neighbors, it cost so much. He and his cousins bought a steam thresher on shares. You ought to go out and see that header work. I watched it an hour this morning, busy as I am with all the men to feed. He has a lot of hands, but he’s the only one that knows how to drive the header or how to run the engine, so he has to be everywhere at once. He’s sick, too, and ought to be in his bed.”

Emil bent over Hector Baptiste, trying to make him blink his round, bead-like black eyes. “Sick? What’s the matter with your daddy, kid? Been making him walk the floor with you?”

Angélique sniffed. “Not much! We don’t have that kind of babies. It was his father that kept Baptiste awake. All night I had to be getting up and making mustard plasters to put on his stomach. He had an awful colic. He said he felt better this morning, but I don’t think he ought to be out in the field, overheating himself.”

Angélique did not speak with much anxiety, not because she was indifferent, but because she felt so secure in their good fortune. Only good things could happen to a rich, energetic, handsome young man like Amédée, with a new baby in the cradle and a new header in the field.

Emil stroked the black fuzz on Baptiste’s head. “I say, Angélique, one of ’Médée’s grandmothers, ’way back, must have been a squaw. This kid looks exactly