Obscure Destinies

 

  A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook

  Title: Obscure Destinies

  Author: Willa Cather

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  Language: English

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  Date first posted: December 2002

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  A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook

  Title: Obscure Destinies

  Author: Willa Cather

  CONTENTS

  1. Neighbour Rosicky

  2. Old Mrs. Harris

  3. Two Friends

  NEIGHBOUR ROSICKY

  I

  When Doctor Burleigh told neighbour Rosicky he had a bad heart,

  Rosicky protested.

  "So? No, I guess my heart was always pretty good. I got a little

  asthma, maybe. Just a awful short breath when I was pitchin' hay

  last summer, dat's all."

  "Well now, Rosicky, if you know more about it than I do, what did

  you come to me for? It's your heart that makes you short of

  breath, I tell you. You're sixty-five years old, and you've always

  worked hard, and your heart's tired. You've got to be careful from

  now on, and you can't do heavy work any more. You've got five boys

  at home to do it for you."

  The old farmer looked up at the Doctor with a gleam of amusement in

  his queer triangular-shaped eyes. His eyes were large and lively,

  but the lids were caught up in the middle in a curious way, so that

  they formed a triangle. He did not look like a sick man. His

  brown face was creased but not wrinkled, he had a ruddy colour in

  his smooth-shaven cheeks and in his lips, under his long brown

  moustache. His hair was thin and ragged around his ears, but very

  little grey. His forehead, naturally high and crossed by deep

  parallel lines, now ran all the way up to his pointed crown.

  Rosicky's face had the habit of looking interested,--suggested a

  contented disposition and a reflective quality that was gay rather

  than grave. This gave him a certain detachment, the easy manner of

  an onlooker and observer.

  "Well, I guess you ain't got no pills fur a bad heart, Doctor Ed.

  I guess the only thing is fur me to git me a new one."

  Doctor Burleigh swung round in his desk-chair and frowned at the

  old farmer. "I think if I were you I'd take a little care of the

  old one, Rosicky."

  Rosicky shrugged. "Maybe I don't know how. I expect you mean fur

  me not to drink my coffee no more."

  "I wouldn't, in your place. But you'll do as you choose about

  that. I've never yet been able to separate a Bohemian from his

  coffee or his pipe. I've quit trying. But the sure thing is

  you've got to cut out farm work. You can feed the stock and do

  chores about the barn, but you can't do anything in the fields that

  makes you short of breath."

  "How about shelling corn?"

  "Of course not!"

  Rosicky considered with puckered brows.

  "I can't make my heart go no longer'n it wants to, can I, Doctor

  Ed?"

  "I think it's good for five or six years yet, maybe more, if you'll

  take the strain off it. Sit around the house and help Mary. If I

  had a good wife like yours, I'd want to stay around the house."

  His patient chuckled. "It ain't no place fur a man. I don't like

  no old man hanging round the kitchen too much. An' my wife, she's

  a awful hard worker her own self."

  "That's it; you can help her a little. My Lord, Rosicky, you are

  one of the few men I know who has a family he can get some comfort

  out of; happy dispositions, never quarrel among themselves, and

  they treat you right. I want to see you live a few years and enjoy

  them."

  "Oh, they're good kids, all right," Rosicky assented.

  The Doctor wrote him a prescription and asked him how his oldest

  son, Rudolph, who had married in the spring, was getting on.

  Rudolph had struck out for himself, on rented land. "And how's

  Polly? I was afraid Mary mightn't like an American daughter-in-

  law, but it seems to be working out all right."

  "Yes, she's a fine girl. Dat widder woman bring her daughters up

  very nice. Polly got lots of spunk, an' she got some style, too.

  Da's nice, for young folks to have some style." Rosicky inclined

  his head gallantly. His voice and his twinkly smile were an

  affectionate compliment to his daughter-in-law.

  "It looks like a storm, and you'd better be getting home before it

  comes. In town in the car?" Doctor Burleigh rose.

  "No, I'm in de wagon. When you got five boys, you ain't got much

  chance to ride round in de Ford. I ain't much for cars, noway."

  "Well, it's a good road out to your place; but I don't want you

  bumping around in a wagon much. And never again on a hay-rake,

  remember!"

  Rosicky placed the Doctor's fee delicately behind the desk-

  telephone, looking the other way, as if this were an absent-minded

  gesture. He put on his plush cap and his corduroy jacket with a

  sheepskin collar, and went out.

  The Doctor picked up his stethoscope and frowned at it as if he

  were seriously annoyed with the instrument. He wished it had been

  telling tales about some other man's heart, some old man who didn't

  look the Doctor in the eye so knowingly, or hold out such a warm

  brown hand when he said good-bye. Doctor Burleigh had been a poor

  boy in the country before he went away to medical school; he had

  known Rosicky almost ever since he could remember, and he had a

  deep affection for Mrs. Rosicky.

  Only last winter he had had such a good breakfast at Rosicky's, and

  that when he needed it. He had been out all night on a long, hard

  confinement case at Tom Marshall's,--a big rich farm where there

  was plenty of stock and plenty of feed and a great deal of

  expensive
farm machinery of the newest model, and no comfort

  whatever. The woman had too many children and too much work, and

  she was no manager. When the baby was born at last, and handed

  over to the assisting neighbour woman, and the mother was properly

  attended to, Burleigh refused any breakfast in that slovenly house,

  and drove his buggy--the snow was too deep for a car--eight miles

  to Anton Rosicky's place. He didn't know another farm-house where

  a man could get such a warm welcome, and such good strong coffee

  with rich cream. No wonder the old chap didn't want to give up his

  coffee!

  He had driven in just when the boys had come back from the barn and

  were washing up for breakfast. The long table, covered with a

  bright oilcloth, was set out with dishes waiting for them, and the

  warm kitchen was full of the smell of coffee and hot biscuit and

  sausage. Five big handsome boys, running from twenty to twelve,

  all with what Burleigh called natural good manners,--they hadn't a

  bit of the painful self-consciousness he himself had to struggle

  with when he was a lad. One ran to put his horse away, another

  helped him off with his fur coat and hung it up, and Josephine, the

  youngest child and the only daughter, quickly set another place

  under her mother's direction.

  With Mary, to feed creatures was the natural expression of

  affection,--her chickens, the calves, her big hungry boys. It was

  a rare pleasure to feed a young man whom she seldom saw and of whom

  she was as proud as if he belonged to her. Some country

  housekeepers would have stopped to spread a white cloth over the

  oilcloth, to change the thick cups and plates for their best china,

  and the wooden-handled knives for plated ones. But not Mary.

  "You must take us as you find us, Doctor Ed. I'd be glad to put

  out my good things for you if you was expected, but I'm glad to get

  you any way at all."

  He knew she was glad,--she threw back her head and spoke out as if

  she were announcing him to the whole prairie. Rosicky hadn't said

  anything at all; he merely smiled his twinkling smile, put some

  more coal on the fire, and went into his own room to pour the

  Doctor a little drink in a medicine glass. When they were all

  seated, he watched his wife's face from his end of the table and

  spoke to her in Czech. Then, with the instinct of politeness which

  seldom failed him, he turned to the Doctor and said slyly; "I was

  just tellin' her not to ask you no questions about Mrs. Marshall

  till you eat some breakfast. My wife, she's terrible fur to ask

  questions."

  The boys laughed, and so did Mary. She watched the Doctor devour

  her biscuit and sausage, too much excited to eat anything herself.

  She drank her coffee and sat taking in everything about her

  visitor. She had known him when he was a poor country boy, and was

  boastfully proud of his success, always saying: "What do people go

  to Omaha for, to see a doctor, when we got the best one in the

  State right here?" If Mary liked people at all, she felt physical

  pleasure in the sight of them, personal exultation in any good

  fortune that came to them. Burleigh didn't know many women like

  that, but he knew she was like that.

  When his hunger was satisfied, he did, of course, have to tell them

  about Mrs. Marshall, and he noticed what a friendly interest the

  boys took in the matter.

  Rudolph, the oldest one (he was still living at home then), said:

  "The last time I was over there, she was lifting them big heavy

  milk-cans, and I knew she oughtn't to be doing it."

  "Yes, Rudolph told me about that when he come home, and I said it

  wasn't right," Mary put in warmly. "It was all right for me to do

  them things up to the last, for I was terrible strong, but that

  woman's weakly. And do you think she'll be able to nurse it, Ed?"

  She sometimes forgot to give him the title she was so proud of.

  "And to think of your being up all night and then not able to get a

  decent breakfast! I don't know what's the matter with such

  people."

  "Why, Mother," said one of the boys, "if Doctor Ed had got

  breakfast there, we wouldn't have him here. So you ought to be

  glad."

  "He knows I'm glad to have him, John, any time. But I'm sorry for

  that poor woman, how bad she'll feel the Doctor had to go away in

  the cold without his breakfast."

  "I wish I'd been in practice when these were getting born." The

  doctor looked down the row of close-clipped heads. "I missed some

  good breakfasts by not being."

  The boys began to laugh at their mother because she flushed so red,

  but she stood her ground and threw up her head. "I don't care, you

  wouldn't have got away from this house without breakfast. No

  doctor ever did. I'd have had something ready fixed that Anton

  could warm up for you."

  The boys laughed harder than ever, and exclaimed at her: "I'll bet

  you would!" "She would, that!"

  "Father, did you get breakfast for the doctor when we were born?"

  "Yes, and he used to bring me my breakfast, too, mighty nice. I

  was always awful hungry!" Mary admitted with a guilty laugh.

  While the boys were getting the Doctor's horse, he went to the

  window to examine the house plants. "What do you do to your

  geraniums to keep them blooming all winter, Mary? I never pass

  this house that from the road I don't see your windows full of

  flowers."

  She snapped off a dark red one, and a ruffled new green leaf, and

  put them in his buttonhole. "There, that looks better. You look

  too solemn for a young man, Ed. Why don't you git married? I'm

  worried about you. Settin' at breakfast, I looked at you real

  hard, and I seen you've got some grey hairs already."

  "Oh, yes! They're coming. Maybe they'd come faster if I married."

  "Don't talk so. You'll ruin your health eating at the hotel. I

  could send your wife a nice loaf of nut bread, if you only had one.

  I don't like to see a young man getting grey. I'll tell you

  something, Ed; you make some strong black tea and keep it handy in

  a bowl, and every morning just brush it into your hair, an' it'll

  keep the grey from showin' much. That's the way I do!"

  Sometimes the Doctor heard the gossipers in the drug-store

  wondering why Rosicky didn't get on faster. He was industrious,

  and so were his boys, but they were rather free and easy, weren't

  pushers, and they didn't always show good judgment. They were

  comfortable, they were out of debt, but they didn't get much ahead.

  Maybe, Doctor Burleigh reflected, people as generous and warm-

  hearted and affectionate as the Rosickys never got ahead much;

  maybe you couldn't enjoy your life and put it into the bank, too.

  II

  When Rosicky left Doctor Burleigh's office he went into the farm-

  implement store to light his pipe and put on his glasses and read

  over the list Mary had given him. Then he went into the general

  merchandise place next door and stood about until the pretty girl

  wit
h the plucked eyebrows, who always waited on him, was free.

  Those eyebrows, two thin India-ink strokes, amused him, because he

  remembered how they used to be. Rosicky always prolonged his

  shopping by a little joking; the girl knew the old fellow admired

  her, and she liked to chaff with him.

  "Seems to me about every other week you buy ticking, Mr. Rosicky,

  and always the best quality," she remarked as she measured off the

  heavy bolt with red stripes.

  "You see, my wife is always makin' goose-fedder pillows, an' de

  thin stuff don't hold in dem little down-fedders."

  "You must have lots of pillows at your house."

  "Sure. She makes quilts of dem, too. We sleeps easy. Now she's

  makin' a fedder quilt for my son's wife. You know Polly, that

  married my Rudolph. How much my bill, Miss Pearl?"

  "Eight eighty-five."

  "Chust make it nine, and put in some candy fur de women."

  "As usual. I never did see a man buy so much candy for his wife.

  First thing you know, she'll be getting too fat."

  "I'd like dat. I ain't much fur all dem slim women like what de

  style is now."

  "That's one for me, I suppose, Mr. Bohunk!" Pearl sniffed and

  elevated her India-ink strokes.

  When Rosicky went out to his wagon, it was beginning to snow,--the

  first snow of the season, and he was glad to see it. He rattled

  out of town and along the highway through a wonderfully rich

  stretch of country, the finest farms in the county. He admired

  this High Prairie, as it was called, and always liked to drive

  through it. His own place lay in a rougher territory, where there

  was some clay in the soil and it was not so productive. When he

  bought his land, he hadn't the money to buy on High Prairie; so he

  told his boys, when they grumbled, that if their land hadn't some

  clay in it, they wouldn't own it at all. All the same, he enjoyed

  looking at these fine farms, as he enjoyed looking at a prize bull.

  After he had gone eight miles, he came to the graveyard, which lay

  just at the edge of his own hay-land. There he stopped his horses

  and sat still on his wagon seat, looking about at the snowfall.

  Over yonder on the hill he could see his own house, crouching low,

  with the clump of orchard behind and the windmill before, and all

  down the gentle hill-slope the rows of pale gold cornstalks stood

  out against the white field. The snow was falling over the

  cornfield and the pasture and the hay-land, steadily, with very

  little wind,--a nice dry snow. The graveyard had only a light wire

  fence about it and was all overgrown with long red grass. The fine

  snow, settling into this red grass and upon the few little

  evergreens and the headstones, looked very pretty.

  It was a nice graveyard, Rosicky reflected, sort of snug and

  homelike, not cramped or mournful,--a big sweep all round it. A

  man could lie down in the long grass and see the complete arch of

  the sky over him, hear the wagons go by; in summer the mowing-

  machine rattled right up to the wire fence. And it was so near

  home. Over there across the cornstalks his own roof and windmill

  looked so good to him that he promised himself to mind the Doctor

  and take care of himself. He was awful fond of his place, he

  admitted. He wasn't anxious to leave it. And it was a comfort to

  think that he would never have to go farther than the edge of his

  own hayfield. The snow, falling over his barnyard and the

  graveyard, seemed to draw things together like. And they were all

  old neighbours in the graveyard, most of them friends; there was

  nothing to feel awkward or embarrassed about. Embarrassment was

  the most disagreeable feeling Rosicky knew. He didn't often have

  it,--only with certain people whom he didn't understand at all.

  Well, it was a nice snowstorm; a fine sight to see the snow falling