Chương Chương 21 · Chapter II

Grandmother often said that if she had to live in town, she thanked God

she lived next the Harlings. They had been farming people, like

ourselves, and their place was like a little farm, with a big barn and

a garden, and an orchard and grazing lots—even a windmill. The Harlings

were Norwegians, and Mrs. Harling had lived in Christiania until she

was ten years old. Her husband was born in Minnesota. He was a grain

merchant and cattle-buyer, and was generally considered the most

enterprising business man in our county. He controlled a line of grain

elevators in the little towns along the railroad to the west of us, and

was away from home a great deal. In his absence his wife was the head

of the household.

Mrs. Harling was short and square and sturdy-looking, like her house.

Every inch of her was charged with an energy that made itself felt the

moment she entered a room. Her face was rosy and solid, with bright,

twinkling eyes and a stubborn little chin. She was quick to anger,

quick to laughter, and jolly from the depths of her soul. How well I

remember her laugh; it had in it the same sudden recognition that

flashed into her eyes, was a burst of humour, short and intelligent.

Her rapid footsteps shook her own floors, and she routed lassitude and

indifference wherever she came. She could not be negative or

perfunctory about anything. Her enthusiasm, and her violent likes and

dislikes, asserted themselves in all the everyday occupations of life.

Wash-day was interesting, never dreary, at the Harlings’.

Preserving-time was a prolonged festival, and house-cleaning was like a

revolution. When Mrs. Harling made garden that spring, we could feel

the stir of her undertaking through the willow hedge that separated our

place from hers.

Three of the Harling children were near me in age. Charley, the only

son—they had lost an older boy—was sixteen; Julia, who was known as the

musical one, was fourteen when I was; and Sally, the tomboy with short

hair, was a year younger. She was nearly as strong as I, and uncannily

clever at all boys’ sports. Sally was a wild thing, with sunburned

yellow hair, bobbed about her ears, and a brown skin, for she never

wore a hat. She raced all over town on one roller skate, often cheated

at ‘keeps,’ but was such a quick shot one couldn’t catch her at it.

The grown-up daughter, Frances, was a very important person in our

world. She was her father’s chief clerk, and virtually managed his

Black Hawk office during his frequent absences. Because of her unusual

business ability, he was stern and exacting with her. He paid her a

good salary, but she had few holidays and never got away from her

responsibilities. Even on Sundays she went to the office to open the

mail and read the markets. With Charley, who was not interested in

business, but was already preparing for Annapolis, Mr. Harling was very

indulgent; bought him guns and tools and electric batteries, and never

asked what he did with them.

Frances was dark, like her father, and quite as tall. In winter she

wore a sealskin coat and cap, and she and Mr. Harling used to walk home

together in the evening, talking about grain-cars and cattle, like two

men. Sometimes she came over to see grandfather after supper, and her

visits flattered him. More than once they put their wits together to

rescue some unfortunate farmer from the clutches of Wick Cutter, the

Black Hawk money-lender. Grandfather said Frances Harling was as good a

judge of credits as any banker in the county. The two or three men who

had tried to take advantage of her in a deal acquired celebrity by

their defeat. She knew every farmer for miles about: how much land he

had under cultivation, how many cattle he was feeding, what his

liabilities were. Her interest in these people was more than a business

interest. She carried them all in her mind as if they were characters

in a book or a play.

When Frances drove out into the country on business, she would go miles

out of her way to call on some of the old people, or to see the women

who seldom got to town. She was quick at understanding the grandmothers

who spoke no English, and the most reticent and distrustful of them

would tell her their story without realizing they were doing so. She

went to country funerals and weddings in all weathers. A farmer’s

daughter who was to be married could count on a wedding present from

Frances Harling.

In August the Harlings’ Danish cook had to leave them. Grandmother

entreated them to try Ántonia. She cornered Ambrosch the next time he

came to town, and pointed out to him that any connection with Christian

Harling would strengthen his credit and be of advantage to him. One

Sunday Mrs. Harling took the long ride out to the Shimerdas’ with

Frances. She said she wanted to see ‘what the girl came from’ and to

have a clear understanding with her mother. I was in our yard when they

came driving home, just before sunset. They laughed and waved to me as

they passed, and I could see they were in great good humour. After

supper, when grandfather set off to church, grandmother and I took my

short cut through the willow hedge and went over to hear about the

visit to the Shimerdas’.

We found Mrs. Harling with Charley and Sally on the front porch,

resting after her hard drive. Julia was in the hammock—she was fond of

repose—and Frances was at the piano, playing without a light and

talking to her mother through the open window.

Mrs. Harling laughed when she saw us coming. ‘I expect you left your

dishes on the table tonight, Mrs. Burden,’ she called. Frances shut the

piano and came out to join us.

They had liked Ántonia from their first glimpse of her; felt they knew

exactly what kind of girl she was. As for Mrs. Shimerda, they found her

very amusing. Mrs. Harling chuckled whenever she spoke of her. ‘I

expect I am more at home with that sort of bird than you are, Mrs.

Burden. They’re a pair, Ambrosch and that old woman!’

They had had a long argument with Ambrosch about Ántonia’s allowance

for clothes and pocket-money. It was his plan that every cent of his

sister’s wages should be paid over to him each month, and he would

provide her with such clothing as he thought necessary. When Mrs.

Harling told him firmly that she would keep fifty dollars a year for

Ántonia’s own use, he declared they wanted to take his sister to town

and dress her up and make a fool of her. Mrs. Harling gave us a lively

account of Ambrosch’s behaviour throughout the interview; how he kept

jumping up and putting on his cap as if he were through with the whole

business, and how his mother tweaked his coat-tail and prompted him in

Bohemian. Mrs. Harling finally agreed to pay three dollars a week for

Ántonia’s services—good wages in those days—and to keep her in shoes.

There had been hot dispute about the shoes, Mrs. Shimerda finally

saying persuasively that she would send Mrs. Harling three fat geese

every year to ‘make even.’ Ambrosch was to bring his sister to town

next Saturday.

‘She’ll be awkward and rough at first, like enough,’ grandmother said

anxiously, ‘but unless she’s been spoiled by the hard life she’s led,

she has it in her to be a real helpful girl.’

Mrs. Harling laughed her quick, decided laugh. ‘Oh, I’m not worrying,

Mrs. Burden! I can bring something out of that girl. She’s barely

seventeen, not too old to learn new ways. She’s good-looking, too!’ she

added warmly.

Frances turned to grandmother. ‘Oh, yes, Mrs. Burden, you didn’t tell

us that! She was working in the garden when we got there, barefoot and

ragged. But she has such fine brown legs and arms, and splendid colour

in her cheeks—like those big dark red plums.’

We were pleased at this praise. Grandmother spoke feelingly. ‘When she

first came to this country, Frances, and had that genteel old man to

watch over her, she was as pretty a girl as ever I saw. But, dear me,

what a life she’s led, out in the fields with those rough threshers!

Things would have been very different with poor Ántonia if her father

had lived.’

The Harlings begged us to tell them about Mr. Shimerda’s death and the

big snowstorm. By the time we saw grandfather coming home from church,

we had told them pretty much all we knew of the Shimerdas.

‘The girl will be happy here, and she’ll forget those things,’ said

Mrs. Harling confidently, as we rose to take our leave.