My Ántonia

MY ÁNTONIA

Willa Cather

Copyright

William Collins

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Version: 2019-08-12

Dedication

TO CARRIE AND IRENE MINER

In memory of affections old and true

Optima dies … prima fugit VIRGIL

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

History of William Collins

Life and Times

Introduction

Book I. The Shimerdas

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

Book II. The Hired Girls

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

Book III. Lena Lingard

I

II

III

IV

Book IV. The Pioneer Woman’s Story

I

II

III

IV

Book V. Cuzak’s Boys

I

II

III

Classic Literature: Words and Phrases

About the Publisher

History of William Collins

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Life and Times

‘The fields below us were dark, the sky was growing pale, and that forgotten plough had sunk back to its own littleness somewhere on the prairie.’ These words close a famous passage from My Ántonia, in which two characters see a plough on the field as the sun sets behind it. The plough casts a long shadow, leading them to momentarily believe it is a person, only to realize it’s a simple farming tool. Within this image is contained the essence of Willa Cather’s writing – her quintessential rural landscapes, the nod to her classicist influences such as Virgil, the clean, incisive language, the imagery of empire-building in America and the sense of ultimately being dwarfed, like the plough, by the awesome power of the natural world. Her ability to build layers of meaning into her stories has made her one of the classic American authors, whose shadow grows ever longer over the canon of American literature.

Early years

Willa Cather was born in 1873, on a small farm in rural Virginia. Although she is most often associated with the wide, open plains of the frontier, her roots were firmly in the antebellum South where she lived until she was nine years old. In 1882, fleeing from an outbreak of tuberculosis in Virginia, Cather’s family moved to Nebraska, where her father first tried his hand at farming, then eventually moved the family to the frontier town of Red Cloud to open an insurance office. At the time, Nebraska was made up of mostly unsettled land, and at first the wild and open landscape awed and frightened the young Cather. We see this experience mirrored in the characters of her novels, such as Jim Burden in My Ántonia, who describes his first encounter with the great expanse of Nebraska as ‘feeling that the world was left behind, that we had got over the edge of it, and were outside man’s jurisdiction’. Despite this early reticence, Cather grew to love her home in Nebraska, where she received her early education from local shop-owners and other adults in her small town, many of them immigrants from a variety of backgrounds who provided the basis for her expansive worldview.

‘New Woman’ – education and success

Despite a childhood determination to become a physician, Cather eventually took up writing during her studies at the University of Nebraska. This was one of the first universities to admit female students, and so Cather was among the first generation of women to go to college in America. She was an active participant in university life, editing the student newspaper, The Hesperian, and writing continuously. After graduating with a Bachelor’s degree in English in 1894, she continued her career as a journalist, writing for various publications in Pittsburgh and supplementing her income with teaching. Only after a decade of establishing herself as a journalist did she begin to steer her work towards creative writing, publishing a short story collection called The Troll Garden in 1905. By 1912, the former southern farmgirl was living in New York City and working as an editor at the prestigious magazine, McClure’s. In 1912, she also published her first novel, Alexander’s Bridge. Despite the slow start to her creative writing career, she went on to publish a total of four novels within that decade. She showed no signs of slowing down, going on to win the Pulitzer Prize in 1923 for her novel, One of Ours. She continued writing well into the 1930s, by which time, however, the critical focus had shifted, and her novels were viewed in a less favorable light by her contemporaries, who often commented on her subject matter, which they considered too sentimental and lacking in contemporary relevance. Although she continued writing even into the 1940s, her final works in progress were destroyed at her request, and she passed away in her Manhattan home in 1947.

In the pantheon of ‘Great American Writers’

Despite the growing reluctance in the 1930s to take Cather’s writing seriously, critics today have once again embraced her. She is credited with shifting the roots of early American writing from the New England of Nathaniel Hawthorne and the transcendentalists, and opening it up to the wild plains of the Midwest. Yet her writing differs from traditional ‘frontier literature’ in the sense that she engages with the land itself, the Native Americans who lived there and the immigrant experience. Therefore, her works never quite fit into the ‘manifest destiny’ ideal of American literature, despite many of them being set amongst the frontier towns that drove the ideal of American expansion. Her writing would go on to bear a great influence on later authors such as Cormac McCarthy, and his novel Blood Meridien, and continues to engage literary critics today.

My Ántonia

Cather published her most recognizable work, My Ántonia, in 1918, as a conclusion to her ‘Prairie Trilogy’, which included O, Pioneers! and The Song of the Lark. Many elements of Cather’s life made their way into My Ántonia: her early encounters with the Nebraskan landscape and frontier life; the American immigrant experience; and the rich interior life of her heroines’ later years in life. Although her narrator, Jim Burden, feels a keen nostalgia for his childhood spent in the countryside with his friend, it is in the tender descriptions of Ántonia as an adult that we see Cather’s true strength as a novelist. Cather’s focus on the middle-aged woman, and the reluctance to have the story driven solely by romantic relationships – as exemplified by Ántonia, but also appearing repeatedly throughout her oeuvre – is completely unique, not only among her American contemporaries, but among her fellow novelists of the Western tradition. It is no wonder that Virginia Woolf admired Cather’s work, and that generations of readers have continued to return to My Ántonia.

Sources

Parrish, T. (2012). Introduction. In T. Parrish (Ed.), The Cambridge Companion to American Novelists (Cambridge Companions to Literature, pp. Xvii-Xxxiv).

Lindemann, M. (2005). Introduction. In M. Lindemann (Ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Willa Cather (Cambridge Companions to Literature, pp. 1-16).

Goldman, A. (2005). Rereading My Ántonia. In M. Lindemann (Ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Willa Cather (Cambridge Companions to Literature, pp. 159-174).

Reynolds, G. (2005). Willa Cather as progressive. In M. Lindemann (Ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Willa Cather (Cambridge Companions to Literature, pp. 19-34). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

INTRODUCTION

Last summer I happened to be crossing the plains of Iowa in a season of intense heat, and it was my good fortune to have for a traveling companion James Quayle Burden—Jim Burden, as we still call him in the West. He and I are old friends—we grew up together in the same Nebraska town—and we had much to say to each other. While the train flashed through never-ending miles of ripe wheat, by country towns and bright-flowered pastures and oak groves wilting in the sun, we sat in the observation car, where the woodwork was hot to the touch and red dust lay deep over everything. The dust and heat, the burning wind, reminded us of many things. We were talking about what it is like to spend one’s childhood in little towns like these, buried in wheat and corn, under stimulating extremes of climate: burning summers when the world lies green and billowy beneath a brilliant sky, when one is fairly stifled in vegetation, in the color and smell of strong weeds and heavy harvests; blustery winters with little snow, when the whole country is stripped bare and gray as sheet-iron. We agreed that no one who had not grown up in a little prairie town could know anything about it. It was a kind of freemasonry, we said.

Although Jim Burden and I both live in New York, and are old friends, I do not see much of him there. He is legal counsel for one of the great Western railways, and is sometimes away from his New York office for weeks together. That is one reason why we do not often meet. Another is that I do not like his wife.

When Jim was still an obscure young lawyer, struggling to make his way in New York, his career was suddenly advanced by a brilliant marriage. Genevieve Whitney was the only daughter of a distinguished man. Her marriage with young Burden was the subject of sharp comment at the time. It was said she had been brutally jilted by her cousin, Rutland Whitney, and that she married this unknown man from the West out of bravado. She was a restless, headstrong girl, even then, who liked to astonish her friends. Later, when I knew her, she was always doing something unexpected. She gave one of her town houses for a Suffrage headquarters, produced one of her own plays at the Princess Theater, was arrested for picketing during a garment-makers’ strike, etc. I am never able to believe that she has much feeling for the causes to which she lends her name and her fleeting interest. She is handsome, energetic, executive, but to me she seems unimpressionable and temperamentally incapable of enthusiasm. Her husband’s quiet tastes irritate her, I think, and she finds it worth while to play the patroness to a group of young poets and painters of advanced ideas and mediocre ability. She has her own fortune and lives her own life. For some reason, she wishes to remain Mrs. James Burden.

As for Jim, no disappointments have been severe enough to chill his naturally romantic and ardent disposition. This disposition, though it often made him seem very funny when he was a boy, has been one of the strongest elements in his success. He loves with a personal passion the great country through which his railway runs and branches. His faith in it and his knowledge of it have played an important part in its development. He is always able to raise capital for new enterprises in Wyoming or Montana, and has helped young men out there to do remarkable things in mines and timber and oil. If a young man with an idea can once get Jim Burden’s attention, can manage to accompany him when he goes off into the wilds hunting for lost parks or exploring new canyons, then the money which means action is usually forthcoming. Jim is still able to lose himself in those big Western dreams. Though he is over forty now, he meets new people and new enterprises with the impulsiveness by which his boyhood friends remember him. He never seems to me to grow older. His fresh color and sandy hair and quick-changing blue eyes are those of a young man, and his sympathetic, solicitous interest in women is as youthful as it is Western and American.

During that burning day when we were crossing Iowa, our talk kept returning to a central figure, a Bohemian girl whom we had known long ago and whom both of us admired. More than any other person we remembered, this girl seemed to mean to us the country, the conditions, the whole adventure of our childhood. To speak her name was to call up pictures of people and places, to set a quiet drama going in one’s brain. I had lost sight of her altogether, but Jim had found her again after long years, had renewed a friendship that meant a great deal to him, and out of his busy life had set apart time enough to enjoy that friendship. His mind was full of her that day. He made me see her again, feel her presence, revived all my old affection for her.

‘I can’t see,’ he said impetuously, ‘why you have never written anything about Ántonia.’

I told him I had always felt that other people—he himself, for one knew her much better than I. I was ready, however, to make an agreement with him; I would set down on paper all that I remembered of Ántonia if he would do the same. We might, in this way, get a picture of her.

He rumpled his hair with a quick, excited gesture, which with him often announces a new determination, and I could see that my suggestion took hold of him. ‘Maybe I will, maybe I will!’ he declared. He stared out of the window for a few moments, and when he turned to me again his eyes had the sudden clearness that comes from something the mind itself sees. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I should have to do it in a direct way, and say a great deal about myself. It’s through myself that I knew and felt her, and I’ve had no practice in any other form of presentation.’

I told him that how he knew her and felt her was exactly what I most wanted to know about Ántonia. He had had opportunities that I, as a little girl who watched her come and go, had not.

Months afterward Jim Burden arrived at my apartment one stormy winter afternoon, with a bulging legal portfolio sheltered under his fur overcoat. He brought it into the sitting-room with him and tapped it with some pride as he stood warming his hands.

‘I finished it last night—the thing about Ántonia,’ he said. ‘Now, what about yours?’

I had to confess that mine had not gone beyond a few straggling notes.

‘Notes? I didn’t make any.’ He drank his tea all at once and put down the cup. ‘I didn’t arrange or rearrange. I simply wrote down what of herself and myself and other people Ántonia’s name recalls to me. I suppose it hasn’t any form. It hasn’t any title, either.’ He went into the next room, sat down at my desk and wrote on the pinkish face of the portfolio the word, ‘Ántonia.’ He frowned at this a moment, then prefixed another word, making it ‘My Ántonia.’ That seemed to satisfy him.

‘Read it as soon as you can,’ he said, rising, ‘but don’t let it influence your own story.’

My own story was never written, but the following narrative is Jim’s manuscript, substantially as he brought it to me.

NOTE: The Bohemian name Ántonia is strongly accented on the first syllable, like the English name Anthony, and the “i” is, of course, given the sound of long “e”. The name is pronounced An’-ton-ee-ah.

BOOK I. THE SHIMERDAS

I

I first heard of Ántonia on what seemed to me an interminable journey across the great midland plain of North America. I was ten years old then; I had lost both my father and mother within a year, and my Virginia relatives were sending me out to my grandparents, who lived in Nebraska. I travelled in the care of a mountain boy, Jake Marpole, one of the “hands” on my father’s old farm under the Blue Ridge, who was now going West to work for my grandfather. Jake’s experience of the world was not much wider than mine. He had never been in a railway train until the morning when we set out together to try our fortunes in a new world.

We went all the way in day-coaches, becoming more sticky and grimy with each stage of the journey. Jake bought everything the newsboys offered him: candy, oranges, brass collar buttons, a watch-charm, and for me a “Life of Jesse James”, which I remember as one of the most satisfactory books I have ever read. Beyond Chicago we were under the protection of a friendly passenger conductor, who knew all about the country to which we were going and gave us a great deal of advice in exchange for our confidence. He seemed to us an experienced and worldly man who had been almost everywhere; in his conversation he threw out lightly the names of distant states and cities. He wore the rings and pins and badges of different fraternal orders to which he belonged. Even his cuff-buttons were engraved with hieroglyphics, and he was more inscribed than an Egyptian obelisk.

Once when he sat down to chat, he told us that in the immigrant car ahead there was a family from “across the water” whose destination was the same as ours.

“They can’t any of them speak English, except one little girl, and all she can say is ‘We go Black Hawk, Nebraska.’ She’s not much older than you, twelve or thirteen, maybe, and she’s as bright as a new dollar. Don’t you want to go ahead and see her, Jimmy? She’s got the pretty brown eyes, too!”

This last remark made me bashful, and I shook my head and settled down to “Jesse James”. Jake nodded at me approvingly and said you were likely to get diseases from foreigners.

I do not remember crossing the Missouri River, or anything about the long day’s journey through Nebraska. Probably by that time I had crossed so many rivers that I was dull to them. The only thing very noticeable about Nebraska was that it was still, all day long, Nebraska.

I had been sleeping, curled up in a red plush seat, for a long while when we reached Black Hawk. Jake roused me and took me by the hand. We stumbled down from the train to a wooden siding, where men were running about with lanterns. I couldn’t see any town, or even distant lights; we were surrounded by utter darkness. The engine was panting heavily after its long run. In the red glow from the fire-box, a group of people stood huddled together on the platform, encumbered by bundles and boxes. I knew this must be the immigrant family the conductor had told us about. The woman wore a fringed shawl tied over her head, and she carried a little tin trunk in her arms, hugging it as if it were a baby. There was an old man, tall and stooped. Two half-grown boys and a girl stood holding oilcloth bundles, and a little girl clung to her mother’s skirts. Presently a man with a lantern approached them and began to talk, shouting and exclaiming. I pricked up my ears, for it was positively the first time I had ever heard a foreign tongue.

Another lantern came along. A bantering voice called out: “Hello, are you Mr. Burden’s folks? If you are, it’s me you’re looking for. I’m Otto Fuchs. I’m Mr. Burden’s hired man, and I’m to drive you out. Hello, Jimmy, ain’t you scared to come so far west?”

I looked up with interest at the new face in the lantern-light. He might have stepped out of the pages of “Jesse James”. He wore a sombrero hat, with a wide leather band and a bright buckle, and the ends of his moustache were twisted up stiffly, like little horns. He looked lively and ferocious, I thought, and as if he had a history. A long scar ran across one cheek and drew the corner of his mouth up in a sinister curl. The top of his left ear was gone, and his skin was brown as an Indian’s. Surely this was the face of a desperado. As he walked about the platform in his high-heeled boots, looking for our trunks, I saw that he was a rather slight man, quick and wiry, and light on his feet. He told us we had a long night drive ahead of us, and had better be on the hike. He led us to a hitching-bar where two farm-wagons were tied, and I saw the foreign family crowding into one of them. The other was for us. Jake got on the front seat with Otto Fuchs, and I rode on the straw in the bottom of the wagon-box, covered up with a buffalo hide. The immigrants rumbled off into the empty darkness, and we followed them.