My Antonia

  XII

  ON CHRISTMAS MORNING, when I got down to the kitchen, the men were justcoming in from their morning chores--the horses and pigs always hadtheir breakfast before we did. Jake and Otto shouted 'Merry Christmas!'to me, and winked at each other when they saw the waffle-irons on thestove. Grandfather came down, wearing a white shirt and his Sunday coat.Morning prayers were longer than usual. He read the chapters from SaintMatthew about the birth of Christ, and as we listened, it all seemedlike something that had happened lately, and near at hand. In his prayerhe thanked the Lord for the first Christmas, and for all that it hadmeant to the world ever since. He gave thanks for our food and comfort,and prayed for the poor and destitute in great cities, where thestruggle for life was harder than it was here with us. Grandfather'sprayers were often very interesting. He had the gift of simple andmoving expression. Because he talked so little, his words had a peculiarforce; they were not worn dull from constant use. His prayers reflectedwhat he was thinking about at the time, and it was chiefly through themthat we got to know his feelings and his views about things.

  After we sat down to our waffles and sausage, Jake told us how pleasedthe Shimerdas had been with their presents; even Ambrosch was friendlyand went to the creek with him to cut the Christmas tree. It was asoft grey day outside, with heavy clouds working across the sky, andoccasional squalls of snow. There were always odd jobs to be done aboutthe barn on holidays, and the men were busy until afternoon. ThenJake and I played dominoes, while Otto wrote a long letter home to hismother. He always wrote to her on Christmas Day, he said, no matterwhere he was, and no matter how long it had been since his last letter.All afternoon he sat in the dining-room. He would write for a while,then sit idle, his clenched fist lying on the table, his eyes followingthe pattern of the oilcloth. He spoke and wrote his own language soseldom that it came to him awkwardly. His effort to remember entirelyabsorbed him.

  At about four o'clock a visitor appeared: Mr. Shimerda, wearing hisrabbit-skin cap and collar, and new mittens his wife had knitted. He hadcome to thank us for the presents, and for all grandmother's kindness tohis family. Jake and Otto joined us from the basement and we sat aboutthe stove, enjoying the deepening grey of the winter afternoon andthe atmosphere of comfort and security in my grandfather's house. Thisfeeling seemed completely to take possession of Mr. Shimerda. I suppose,in the crowded clutter of their cave, the old man had come to believethat peace and order had vanished from the earth, or existed only in theold world he had left so far behind. He sat still and passive, his headresting against the back of the wooden rocking-chair, his hands relaxedupon the arms. His face had a look of weariness and pleasure, like thatof sick people when they feel relief from pain. Grandmother insisted onhis drinking a glass of Virginia apple-brandy after his long walk in thecold, and when a faint flush came up in his cheeks, his features mighthave been cut out of a shell, they were so transparent. He said almostnothing, and smiled rarely; but as he rested there we all had a sense ofhis utter content.

  As it grew dark, I asked whether I might light the Christmas tree beforethe lamp was brought. When the candle-ends sent up their conical yellowflames, all the coloured figures from Austria stood out clear and fullof meaning against the green boughs. Mr. Shimerda rose, crossed himself,and quietly knelt down before the tree, his head sunk forward. Hislong body formed a letter 'S.' I saw grandmother look apprehensively atgrandfather. He was rather narrow in religious matters, and sometimesspoke out and hurt people's feelings. There had been nothing strangeabout the tree before, but now, with some one kneeling beforeit--images, candles... Grandfather merely put his finger-tips to hisbrow and bowed his venerable head, thus Protestantizing the atmosphere.

  We persuaded our guest to stay for supper with us. He needed littleurging. As we sat down to the table, it occurred to me that he likedto look at us, and that our faces were open books to him. When hisdeep-seeing eyes rested on me, I felt as if he were looking far aheadinto the future for me, down the road I would have to travel.

  At nine o'clock Mr. Shimerda lighted one of our lanterns and put on hisovercoat and fur collar. He stood in the little entry hall, the lanternand his fur cap under his arm, shaking hands with us. When he tookgrandmother's hand, he bent over it as he always did, and said slowly,'Good woman!' He made the sign of the cross over me, put on his cap andwent off in the dark. As we turned back to the sitting-room, grandfatherlooked at me searchingly. 'The prayers of all good people are good,' hesaid quietly.